Death Over Easy

  Death Over Easy

  Copyright © 2016 by Tawdra Kandle

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design: Meg Murrey

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ISBN: 9781682307595

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Death Over Easy Play List

  Special Extra Scenes!

  Other Books

  About the Author

  To all my Indie BookFest 2016 authors and readers . . .

  Thank you for rolling with it this year in the face of Hurricane Matthew.

  You rock. I hope you all come back next year so we can do it again, even better.

  Grab a cup of coffee and a diner breakfast. It’s time to return to Palm Dunes.

  An epic showdown with a tremendous force of evil is looming on the horizon. Jackie and Lucas, along with their small band of friends and fellow Carruthers Institute agents, are on edge as they all await the opening blows in this battle to keep the dreaded Hive from making their terrifying plans for world domination a reality.

  But meanwhile, life goes on in Golden Rays, the Florida retirement community within Palm Dunes, Florida where Jackie and Lucas are the youngest honorary residents. Jackie, who’s still getting used to her new life as both a restaurant-owner and secret agent, is also now dealing with a prickly young sous-chef who needs her guidance and help. Lucas is confronted with a series of mysterious deaths with no apparent motive. Even his role of Death Broker can’t help him find the killer.

  And their friend and neighbor Mrs. Mac, busy competing in the Ms. Florida Senior Living pageant, just may be the next victim.

  End of the world? Who has time?

  “THERE’S ANOTHER one, over on Crepe Myrtle Street.”

  Mrs. Mac made this announcement as she stomped into my kitchen, letting the door slam behind her. I glanced up from the thick volume I was reading, frowning at my next door neighbor and friend.

  “Another one what?”

  She tossed up one hand, as if exasperated by my cluelessness. “Another house for sale. Another resident put her house on the market. Geez, Jackie, pay attention.”

  I wanted to say that when she walked into my house and started that conversation somewhere in the middle instead of at the logical beginning, it was kind of hard to follow along. But I didn’t. Mrs. Mac had her quirks and faults, for sure, but she was a good and loyal friend. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world.

  “Okay. So another house has a for sale sign. What’s the problem?”

  She leaned down until she was peering into my face. She didn’t have to lean that far, even considering that I was sitting down and she was standing. She’d lost quite a bit of height in her old age, and she’d never been a tall woman to begin with.

  “That’s the sixth one this week. Six! In one week. I’m telling you, something fishy’s going on.”

  If something fishy were going on every time Mrs. Mac proclaimed it, we’d be living in the middle of seafood paradise. She tended to see conspiracy under every bush, and with her ear to the ground for gossip as it was—and believe you me, secrets and innuendo flew fast and furious in this kind of community and were the commodity of trade—she usually didn’t have far to look.

  “Uh, Mrs. Mac, I hate to point out the obvious, but we live in an over-55 community. Most of the residents remember Eisenhower’s inauguration. It’s not so unusual that there would be a pretty brisk turnover of houses since people are either relocating to have more help as they get old—well, older—or they’re . . .” I wrinkled my nose, giving her my best regret face, hoping she didn’t make me say the words. How could I put this delicately?

  “Square dancing with Saint Peter?” She hauled out a chair from under the kitchen table and plopped down into it.

  Okay, maybe that was as delicate as it got. “Sure. That works.” I reached across to pat her hand. “So was it someone you know? I mean, whose house is up for sale?”

  “No, he hasn’t gotten to this part of the neighborhood yet.” Mrs. Mac leaned her chin into her hand, staring down morosely.

  “He? Who’s ‘he’?” I nudged the book away a little, hoping she was too distracted to ask me what I was reading. It wasn’t anything I cared to explain to my elderly neighbor.

  “That real estate guy. The one who’s selling all the houses.” She spoke as though she’d told me this a million times, and I just hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe I hadn’t been.

  “Who is it?” I was vaguely familiar with most of the real estate offices in the area. I couldn’t think of any sign I’d seen more than others lately.

  “New guy. His name is Augustus Row, and his stupid picture is all over the for sale signs.” Mrs. Mac sighed heavily. “By the way, I’m finally going to be a beauty queen.”

  I’d thought I was used to my friend’s abrupt changes of subject and non-sequiturs, but this one struck me mute for a minute. I waited to see if she was going to clarify, but she didn’t, and I felt obligated to respond in some way.

  “Uh . . . what?” In the back of my mind, I was wondering if it was time to gently suggest she needed a check-up. What were the signs for dementia, again?

  “Beauty queen. They’re insisting. No matter how many times I’ve told them no, the committee refuses to accept it, so I finally said what the hell and gave in.” She shrugged. “You know, the Ms. Florida Senior Living Pageant is huge now. Tickets are going to sell fast. You better get one for you and one for your love muffin as soon as they go on sale.”

  I was still trying to wrap my mind around this concept. “You’re going to be in a beauty pageant.”

  She nodded. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Oh, I doubt that. I bit my lip to keep from speaking out loud.

  “You’re thinking that surely this isn’t going to be my first pageant.”

  I smiled weakly. “You got me. Exactly what I was going to say.”

  “I know. Hard to believe, but my pop was completely anti-pageant when I was younger, and I just couldn’t find it in my heart to go against his wishes. You understand.”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  “But with my talent, you better believe they were knocking down the door.”

  “Your talent?” I tried to think what that might be. Mrs. Mac was a fair bridge player. She was a loyal friend, and of course she was a brilliant conversationalist, as was clear from our current exchange. But she didn’t play any instruments, I didn’t think she could dance, and—

  “Of course. My singing.” She smiled serenely. “I don’t make a big deal of it, because it’s not very nice to boast.”

  “No, you’re right.” Although w
hat Mrs. Mac had to boast about in the singing department was lost on me. I’d heard her in the garden sometimes, and let’s just say that whenever she hit a high note, my pup Makani lifted his nose and howled. I didn’t think he was trying to make it a duet. “When is the pageant, exactly?”

  “Two weeks. They don’t like to let these things drag on, in case any of the contestants ups and dies. Once the poster is printed, you are committed, come hell or high water.”

  I briefly considered asking Mrs. Mac what happened if one of the would-be Ms. Florida Senior Living Queens had the audacity to kick off after the poster was printed, but then I thought better of it.

  “Well, I can’t wait to see you compete, Mrs. Mac. You know you’ll have my vote. And Lucas will vote for you, too.”

  Her brow wrinkled . . . more, if that was possible. “You don’t vote, Jackie. This isn’t America’s Got Idle Voices or anything, you know. They’ve got judges, and they’re the ones who decide. They choose the winner.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I patted her arm. “Even so, we’ll be there for you, cheering you on.”

  “I should hope so. After all, you’re the closest thing I have to family, you know.” She frowned, glancing around the kitchen. “Where’s Lucas, anyway? Isn’t he usually here this time of day, scarfing up whatever breakfast you’ve made?”

  Ignoring the undercurrent of resentment I detected in her voice—whether she was more jealous of my time, my attention or my food, I couldn’t be sure—I shook my head. “He’s at his house writing today. He had an early breakfast.” I closed the book and pushed it off to the side of the table, careful to keep the spine facing me, not Mrs. Mac. The title had the potential to provoke a whole new topic of discussion I wasn’t ready to tackle this morning.

  “Are you going into the diner?” She crossed her arms, leaning heavily on them. “Because I could eat, if you were. Plus, I’m thinking I need to make sure my constituency sees me out and about. It’s important that they know I’m one of them, you know?”

  “Mrs. Mac, dear, I’m pretty sure constituency only refers to elected, political positions, you know? Like senators or congressman, or the President.”

  “I told you, I’m going to be elected by judges.” She quirked a brow at me. “Didn’t we have a president who came to office that way?”

  “No comment.” Florida, in addition to being what Lucas sometimes referred to as God’s waiting room, was also a hotbed of political divisiveness. It had a good bit of old-fashioned Southern conservatism from those born and raised here, mixed in with some of the New York liberalism from the transplants. I never mentioned politics, because it was too dangerous to walk that path, not knowing where the landmines might be. “But you can ride into the diner with me, if you like. I’m meeting with Mary and then I’m coming right home. I have a lot of work this afternoon.”

  “What kind of work?” She eyed me suspiciously. “You own a diner, and you’re not even there that much. How can you be working at the diner from home?”

  “I don’t own the diner. I run the diner.” It was a fine difference. Yes, I hoped that one day the diner would be mine in reality, but I was still paying off the loan to the previous owner’s family. Until that was finished, I refused to claim real ownership. “If you remember, I also write cookbooks. And . . .” I paused, wondering if I should divulge this last bit of information. “I’ve decided to expand into catering, so I’m setting up menus and updating the website and so on. I’m also including my tea blends there, so those can become part of what I offer. All of this is stuff I have to do at home, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.” She shrugged. “Better enjoy your home now before Augustus comes and chases you out.”

  I’d nearly forgotten about the beginning of our conversation, since it had taken so many twists and turns since then. “I hardly think he’s going to chase me out. I own this house. And I have no interest in selling to anyone.”

  “That’s what they all say in the beginning, but then he manages to sweet-talk them. At least, that’s what I hear.”

  “Who’s buying the houses this dude lists?” I’d learned over the years that while Mrs. Mac had her fair share of paranoid alarmism, she was actually right more often than not. “I don’t get what his angle is, unless the properties sell. He’s not buying them himself if the for sale signs are going up.”

  “He’s not, but someone is.” She gave one quick, sage nod. “I don’t know who, and I can’t get a clear answer on that. All he does is put them up on the market. Talks the owners into selling. But.” She held up a finger and gave me wide, earnest eyes. “But I will say that I’ve never seen anyone move into the houses that have supposedly been sold. They’re not turning over. Something else is going on. Something evil.”

  A chill ran down my spine, and I wanted to laugh or cry. I wasn’t sure which. Mrs. Mac was closer to the truth than she could have guessed; something evil was going on, but it didn’t have anything to do with ambitious real estate agents or whoever was buying those houses. No, the evil I was investigating was ancient and cunning, able to shimmy and shift away from us just when we thought we’d gotten a handle on exactly what was happening.

  “Don’t you think you might be exaggerating just a little?” I put on a bright tone, trying not to think about what was happening with my friends up at Carruthers Initiative Institute, the front lines for this fast-approaching battle. “I’m not saying you’re wrong—it is a little odd. But it could be coincidence. Maybe he’s just a new real estate agent who’s trying to make a name for himself. And honestly, I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”

  “I think you and Lucas should look into it. You two do all that detective work now, and Lucas knows so much about death.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Um, what? What’re you talking about, Mrs. Mac?” We were so careful not to raise any suspicions among our friends about my boyfriend’s unusual extracurricular activities, but sometimes, I was afraid my neighbor suspected that there was more to him than met the eye.

  “Oh, you know. All that fuss with Crissy Darwin’s band when that psycho was killing them off. You were both right in the middle of it. And Lucas is writing a book about death, isn’t he? Which sounds about right, since he seems to pop up whenever someone dies. Like an undertaker.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I spoke a little sharper than I intended. “The thing with Crissy was just coincidence, and . . . why do you think he’s writing a book about death?”

  “He told me he was. That night I brought over the homemade wine from my nephew up in New York, remember? And I asked him if his book had any hanky-panky in it, because I like a book with a little bit of sexy time fun, you know? And he said it didn’t. He said it was all about death. He told me that all his work was about death, which was a little weird, but then, some guys get all moody when they . . .” She made a drinking motion with one hand to her lips. “You know. Tipple.”

  I bit the side of my lip. “Yeah, I remember that night.” That wasn’t completely true; I remembered bits and pieces of that night. Mrs. Mac’s nephew was an amateur winemaker, and what he’d sent his favorite aunt had been stronger than any of us had expected. It took a lot of alcohol to make Lucas even the tiniest bit tipsy; he thought it was something to do with his vampire nature, although it might have been connected to his role of death broker, too. Who knew which part of him was associated with what? We were still figuring out all of it.

  But for whatever reason, that night Lucas had gotten drunk. At least, I thought he had; both Mrs. Mac and I had been more a little worse for drink as well, although apparently she had been sharp enough to remember what Lucas had said. All that stuck out to me was the massive hangover I’d had the following day.

  “Well, yeah.” I nodded. “It’s a . . . murder mystery. I think. You know he doesn’t let me see any of it. He’s very private about this book. I guess we’ll all just have to wait and see.”

  “There are ways, you know.” Mrs. Mac waggled he
r eyebrows at me. “You could persuade him. Shut down shop, if you know what I mean. When men stop getting the nookie, they’ll do just about anything to get it back. Trust me.”

  Why and how I was supposed to take relationship advice from a woman who’d only been married for six months before her young husband’s death and who hadn’t been any luckier in love over the six decades that followed that sad occurrence was beyond me. But sometimes with Mrs. Mac, the best response was a nod and smile. And changing the subject seemed like a very good idea, too.

  “You know, come to think of it, maybe we should go over to the diner now, instead of waiting until this afternoon. Why don’t you go grab your purse, and I’ll—”

  The kitchen door swung open, and we both turned just as Lucas stepped inside. His eyes darted to our neighbor and then back to me, widening just a little.

  “Hey. Uh, sorry, am I interrupting something?” His jaw was tense, and his mouth clamped together.

  “No.” A sense of foreboding filled me. Lucas had been summoned—called to a death, where he had to send the dearly departed on to either paradise or the other place—earlier that morning. It wasn’t unusual at all, and I hadn’t been worried until now, when I’d seen his face. But given everything we were experiencing and learning about, expecting the worst didn’t seem unreasonable anymore. “Do you need me?”

  “I need to talk to you. If you have a minute.” He smiled, but I knew it was forced. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mac. Can I borrow Jackie for just a little while?”

  My friend was usually a rational woman—well, maybe usually was being generous. Still, she never did anything to come between Lucas and me. But I could see that she wasn’t at all happy about this suggestion. “We were just about to leave for the diner. Can’t it wait? I’m starving.”

  “Just a few minutes.” Lucas shot her the charming smile that turned most women to babbling piles of mush. “She’ll be right back. I promise.”