Deviled!: Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2 Read online

  Deviled!

  Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2

  Maureen K. Howard

  Contents

  Copyright

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Untitled

  About the Author

  DEVILED!

  A Lake Erie Mysteries Novel

  First Edition

  Kindle edition November 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2015 by Maureen K. Howard

  Cover Art by Levi Perkins

  Edited by Susan Hughes

  characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used factiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Related subjects include: cozy mysteries, women sleuths, murder mystery series, whodunit mysteries (whodunit), humorous murder mysteries, book club recommendations, private investigator mystery series, amateur sleuth books.

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-944248-14-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

  The Tempest

  1

  and now for our feature presentation

  pretty girls all in a row

  it’s almost time for the final show

  walls of water floors of sand

  drumroll please strike up the band

  the time has come; put out the light

  and soon two wrongs will make it right

  goodbye my dears farewell adieu

  the devil’s bed is made for you

  2

  He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf,

  a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath.

  King Lear

  I had just enough time to shriek and suck a huge gulp of air into my lungs before plunging to my certain death. My eyes were scrunched closed, yet tears of terror still managed to leak out and down my cheeks. My sweaty hands were losing their tenuous grip on the metal rail that was the only thing between me and the expanse of oppressive midsummer air beneath my feet.

  I hadn’t ridden a roller coaster in at least ten years, and of course, my best friend, June, insisted we sit in the first seat of the front car. Every time. Even though we’d spent most of the morning riding every coaster in the amusement park, I still couldn’t get past the feeling of impending death that clutched at my chest, threatening to stop my heart from beating. Less than a minute later, it was all over. I was still alive.

  Back on terra firma, I took a moment, concentrating on calming my wobbly knees before I checked my watch. “June, our room has got to be ready by now. Let’s check in with the guys at the dock and then head over to the hotel to register.”

  “Sure, Francie. That was the last coaster in the park anyway. I was starting to get bored.”

  “Seriously?” Before she could rethink and drag me off for round two, I headed off in the direction of the marina located at the edge of the giant amusement park. Both the park and the marina were part of the world-famous Devil’s Island Resort, the five-star complex on the shore of Lake Erie located just across Sandusky Bay from our own home port, Beacon Pointe.

  It was the second day of July, and my husband, Hammond, and I had skimmed across the bay in our forty-foot sedan cruiser in anticipation of a fun-filled getaway. Our new friend, Detective Jack Morgan, and my longtime best friend, June, were our companions for the long weekend. Jack and June had been involved in a romantic relationship of sorts for the past month. He had come into our lives over the recent Memorial Day weekend on Kelleys Island when, thanks to the detective’s expert skills, June and I narrowly escaped death by drowning at the hands of a psychotic killer. How romantic is that?

  Nothing quite so dramatic was on tap for our July Fourth celebration. Our plan for this weekend was simple. I was registered for the three-day Drama Divas Workshop and Seminar taking place from July second through the fourth at the exclusive Devil’s Island Resort Hotel. It would be a fun way to earn enough credits to keep my licensure up to date. The beauty of heading up the drama department at the local college was that I had my summers free to pursue other interests such as boating, shopping, and spending time at our summer condo. The irony of the conference title was not lost on any of us, since each of us wished for nothing more than a drama-free weekend. Our last holiday boat excursion had turned into the exact opposite of relaxing when we were drawn right into the middle of an arson and murder investigation.

  June would be attending the conference as my guest. She could throw a little work into the mix too. As a freelance journalist, she always had a story percolating for one of the numerous magazines she wrote for. As a former investigative reporter, she kept her eyes and ears open for possible ne’er-do-wells trying to stir up trouble. Meanwhile, Jack had invited Hammond to be his golf partner at the annual Lake Erie Commerce Association’s golf tournament taking place over the same three days. The guys planned to embark early in the morning for Sunset Marina, just up the coast, where they would enjoy three days of manly golf fun. We would all reconnect on the evening of the final day of the seminar, Independence Day. According to the itinerary, the conference would wind up with a no-holds-barred mystery dinner theater featuring group participation and promises of noteworthy special effects. After dinner, we would kick back, have a cocktail or two and enjoy the resort’s grand fireworks display from the back of our boat. At least that was the plan.

  * * *

  I punched in the four-digit code to open the iron security gate at the entrance to our assigned dock at Devil’s Island Marina. I expected to find Hamm and Jack sitting on the dock debating the finer points of domestic versus foreign cigars and beer—a topic that never seemed to get old for them; but instead, the knot of people clogging the walkway blocked all view of our boat slip. Squeezing and shimmying our way through the crowd caused my adrenaline to surge like I was dangling over the monstrous hill of the Daredevil once again.

  “What the heck is going on, Francie? Did someone fall off a boat?”

  “I have no clue. I can’t see anything. Where did all these people come from?”

  We managed to break free of the throng and found ourselves in the center of a captive audience. I expected to see blood or dismembered body parts or at least someone being held at gunpoint. I wasn
’t surprised, however, when I recognized Bob at the eye of the storm.

  Bob was the resort’s marina manager. He had been there for as long as anyone could remember and had been disliked by everyone he came in contact with for just as long. Bob was standing on the dock next to our boat, Lucky Enough, with his hands folded over the protruding beer belly that his dingy, tank-style T-shirt could barely contain. His feet were bare, his cut-off jeans were riding dangerously low, and a tattered captain’s hat was perched atop his bald head. None of this was out of the ordinary except for the sight of our friend Barb, who was standing on the deck of our boat screeching at the top of her lungs and clutching her little shih tzu, Monster. The sound of her squeals rivaled the monthly tornado siren test that still managed to take me by surprise on the first Tuesday of every month. I looked from my husband to Jack and then to June, hoping to telepathically figure out what was going on. When my psychic attempt at communication failed, I stepped onto the boat, grabbed Barb by the shoulders, and yelled, “Shut up!”

  The ensuing silence was deafening. Barb stood there, mouth still open in mid-screech, but everything was quiet. Now was my chance to get a word in.

  “What in the name of Shakespeare’s ghost is going on here?”

  Just as quickly as Barb had quieted, she began her tirade again. Thankfully it was a few decibels lower and almost coherent this time.

  “My babies! He tried to kill my babies.”

  As if on cue, Monster let out a squeak. Then from beside me, a double-bass woof reverberated through the cockpit. I hadn’t noticed Barb’s other baby, Ogre, the St. Bernard, lying under the table. For a 200-pound dog, Ogre could make himself unobtrusive and could fit into a space better suited for a chihuahua.

  Upon hearing Ogre’s booming greeting, June leapt onto the boat and landed in a crouch next to her canine friend. She has always had a weakness for big, drooling, goofy animals. Her fondness, however, did not extend to big, drooling, goofy men. After inspecting her furry friend for evidence of harm, she faced off with Bob and demanded to know what he had done.

  Bob stood on the dock chewing on an unlit cigar with a look of utter boredom on his face. When it was apparent that he was not going to answer, Barb began her story from the beginning.

  “This man is the devil. I left my boat for just over an hour so I could run into the park to buy some souvenirs for my grandkids, and Bob tried to kill my babies.”

  “What did he do, Barb? They look fine to me.”

  “He unplugged my electrical cord so he could suck up to some fancy speedboat owner who had a crew of barely dressed bimbos on board. He put them in the slip beside my boat and then gave them my outlet, since they have two air conditioners on board and apparently needed my power and theirs to keep themselves comfortable. It’s almost 100 degrees today, and the dogs were left to cook in the cabin with no air-conditioning. If Hamm and Jack hadn’t heard them barking and rescued them, they would’ve died.”

  “Is this true, Bob?” June was now back on the dock and so close to the repulsive man that his slobbery cigar stub was the only thing separating their faces.

  “What’s the big deal? They didn’t die, did they? This broad is just hysterical. Maybe it’s that time of the month.”

  There was no more discussion. I knew what the look on June’s face meant. Like a panther pouncing on some prey, June lunged forward, hooked her leg around Bob’s right knee, and with just the slightest shove sent him plunging into the water. His captain’s hat and soggy cigar floated to the surface first. Then the rest of Bob surfaced like so much scum from a slimy pond. Green algae dripped from his bald head as he got his feet under him and stood armpit-deep in the shallow water. A feeble cheer went up from the thinning crowd, but no one made a move to assist him. The excitement had come to an end, and the audience moved on to find other ways to pass the time.

  “Are you nuts, woman? You could have killed me!”

  “What’s the big deal? You didn’t die, did you? I think you’re just being hysterical.”

  With that said, June came back aboard and settled into the corner of the bench seat to watch as Bob struggled to disentangle himself from his seaweed net and get back to dry land. Monster took a flying leap out of Barb’s vice-like grip, landing comfortably in June’s lap, while Ogre readjusted his head to place it on her feet. Juniper Julia Augusta, defender of dogs, held court over her new loyal subjects.

  3

  If after every tempest come such calms, /

  May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

  Othello

  The sky had a purplish tinge to it and was darker than usual for this time of year. I made a mental note to check the weather report. Summer storms had a way of popping up on the lake with almost no warning. Hamm beat me to it.

  “According to NOAA, there’s a chance of a pop-up storm tonight, but the radar isn’t showing anything ominous for the next few hours. I think we have time for some chips and a beer before we leave you two ladies to your weekend of fun.”

  Barb gathered up her doggie duo and headed back to her own boat, satisfied that Bob was no longer a threat. I uncapped three Corona Lights and a Bud Lite—Jack refused to drink beer that required the addition of fruit—and passed them all around. We raised our bottles and toasted June for finally giving Bob a taste of his own medicine. Even Hamm, who usually disapproved of June’s outrageous outbursts, couldn’t hide the smile of approval that tugged at the corners of his lips for her handling of the situation.

  “For once, I can completely relate, June. That guy has no redeeming qualities. Last August, I was trying to dock here on a windy day. Francie was on the bow ready to toss him a line, and do you know what that jerk did? Nothing. He stood on the dock with his hands in his pockets. Francie nearly fell off the boat, and the hull got a nice dent where it hit the dock post.”

  “I remember that,” I said. “He said something like ‘Be sure to stop in the office to pay for dockage as soon as you get your lines tied.’ I couldn’t believe his nerve. He just strolled down the dock and didn’t offer us any help at all. What an ass.”

  We shared our most memorable “Why we hate Bob” stories while we finished up our drinks, but the moment the last chip was out of the bowl, both June and Hamm jumped up and began to move things along. The only thing my husband and my best friend have in common is the inability to sit still for an extended period of time. Before I got to the lime at the bottom of my beer bottle, I was kissing my husband goodbye and being dragged toward the resort by June.

  Since we’d had the good sense to have the men deliver our suitcases to the resort earlier, we were able to go straight to the convention registration and reception without the burden of luggage. A quick stop in the elegantly appointed ladies’ restroom to freshen up our lipstick and fluff our hair took all of five minutes. The remainder of the registration process was a bit more complicated.

  “Just choose one, June. It’s not like this is a matter of life and death.”

  “I know, but I love dressing up, so “Theatrical Makeup Design and Application” sounds really fun. On the other hand, “Improvisation: Comedy on the Fly” is right up my alley. Why do we have to choose only one?”

  “Unless you can find a workshop on cloning yourself, you have to choose just one. They’re both scheduled at the same time. How about we go with set design? It might be fun to spend some time in the theater. I hear it’s quite impressive.”

  “Okay, that sounds good. I’m already quite talented at makeup and cracking jokes, so it couldn’t hurt to learn a new skill. Why didn’t you just say that from the beginning? We’re missing out on free drinks. Come on.”

  My eye roll went unnoticed by June, but it did make me feel a little better. I signed us up for the 9:20-12:00 set design workshop that included scale renderings and let myself be dragged along to the bar. Our lanyard-style name badges included four free-drink tickets to be used throughout the weekend. I handed over ticket number one to the bartender-mime, who wi
th an exaggerated bow and a flourish, exchanged it for a glass of red wine.

  We found a high-top table where we could set our glasses down, soak up the atmosphere, and people-watch. I recognized an acquaintance or two from different conventions I’d attended over the years, as well as several drama-department heads from neighboring universities with whom I occasionally work. We exchanged friendly nods and waves as they made their way across the room, everyone trying to impress, network, and make new connections. I was more interested in the tall blond woman who was working the room, stopping at each table for a moment or two.

  “Do you recognize that woman, June? She looks like she might be an actress.”

  “Whoa, she looks like Angelina Jolie but with blond hair. I don’t think it’s her, but I sure wouldn’t mind if Brad dropped in for a guest appearance.”

  “Good day, ladies. You’ve got the Angelina part right, but the last name is DeVille. I couldn’t help overhearing your comment and I’m flattered. My name is Angelina DeVille, and I’m the manager of Devil’s Island Resort and Conference Center.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you. I thought for sure you were a famous surprise guest.” My flattery didn’t seem to faze her or cause her to conjure up a fake emergency to escape our close scrutiny. She simply gestured to the nearest waiter who rushed to our table, slid three glasses of rose champagne in front of us without spilling a drop, and silently melted back into the sea of socializing guests.

  Ms. DeVille lifted her glass and waited for both of us to select an elegant, pale-pink-bubble-filled flute. “I would like to propose a toast. It’s more of an apology, actually. I heard the two of you had an ugly run-in with my brother-in-law, Bob, this afternoon. On behalf of the resort, I would like to sincerely apologize for his behavior and assure you that it is my main objective for the two of you to have a memorable time for the rest of your stay here on our island.”