Halloween hue dunit, p.1
Halloween Hue-Dunit, page 1
Halloween Hue-Dunit
Paula Darnell
Campbell and Rogers Press
Books by Paula Darnell
DIY Diva Mystery Series
Death by Association
Death by Design
Death by Proxy
Fine Art Mystery Series
Artistic License to Kill
Vanished into Plein Air
Hemlock for the Holidays
Killer Art in the Park
Halloween Hue-Dunit
Historical Mystery
The Six-Week Solution
CR
Campbell and Rogers Press
Copyright © 2024 by Paula Darnell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. For permission to use material from the book, other than for reviews, please contact campbellandrogerspress@gmail.com.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, events, places, incidents, business establishments, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN: 978-1-887402-41-5 (ebook)
Cover design by Molly Burton with Cozy Cover Designs
First Edition
Published by Campbell and Rogers Press
https://www.campbellandrogerspress.com
Dedicated, with love,
to my family –
Gary, Andrea and Dan, Sara and Jason,
George and Gerianne
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Chapter 37
Thanksgiving Dinner Sub Sandwich
Artichoke Quiche with Sun-Dried Tomatoes
Crunchy Sweet Potato and Pomegranate Casserole
Pumpkin Pancakes with Cream Cheese Syrup
About the Author
Chapter one
“Dahlings, I’m ba-a-ack!” announced the blonde woman in a throaty voice.
When she appeared, Pamela, the director of the Roadrunner, our co-op art gallery, had just called our semi-annual meeting to order.
As the member artists turned toward the door of our meeting room to see who had spoken, Frank, one of our board members, rushed to her and gave her a big hug. By the time they’d untangled, every other man in the room had gathered around her to make the same move.
It didn’t escape my notice that none of the women had done the same. In fact, many of them had distinctly sour expressions on their faces. Obviously, they knew who she was, but I didn’t have a clue. I’d joined the Roadrunner about a year and a half earlier, shortly after I’d moved to Lonesome Valley to pursue a career as a full-time artist after my husband had divorced me so that he’d be free to marry a young woman barely older than our college-age daughter Emma, so our visitor must have been from before my time.
I turned to my friend Susan, who was sitting at the table next to me.
“Who is she?”
“Monique d’Albert. She used to be a member here. When she married, she moved to Palm Springs, and, as far as I know, nobody here has heard from her since, until today. Maybe she’s visiting. I sure hope she’s not moving back.”
Susan glanced at the interloper with distaste.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, just look. Every man she comes into contact with goes ga-ga, and she plays it to the hilt. Evidently, no man is immune to her charms. That’s how she wound up married to a ninety-year-old multi-millionaire.”
“A gold-digger, huh?”
“Exactly. I will give her this, though. She’s an excellent artist. In fact, she’s fairly well known for her pastels.”
“Members! Please! Let’s come to order now and get down to business,” Pamela said, banging her gavel for emphasis. “We have a short list of agenda items, which won’t take long to cover.”
By this point, Frank had found Monique a chair in the front of the room. Solicitously, he pulled it out from beneath a table and made sure that she was seated comfortably.
Pamela glanced pointedly at Frank.
“Go ahead, Pamela. Don’t mind me. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee for Monique.”
He headed for the back of the room, where a large coffee urn had been set up. His actions earned him a glare from his wife Valerie, and when he returned to his seat next to her after delivering a Styrofoam cup of coffee to Monique, Valerie turned her back on him. Considering the couple had been married only a few months, although they’d known each other for years, I wasn’t too surprised by Valerie’s reaction.
In the meantime, Pamela ignored his suggestion, waiting until Frank was seated before she began. By this time, everyone had quieted down, and she didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard.
“Before we get to our first order of business, I’d like to welcome our former member back to the Roadrunner. Are you in town visiting, Monique?”
“Oh, no! I’m back to stay. Unfortunately, my husband passed away last month, and I just couldn’t bear to stay in our home in Palm Springs without him.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Monique,” Pamela said pensively. I knew she was thinking about her own husband who’d died three months earlier. It was bad enough that Pamela had lost Rich, but the way she’d lost him was horrible, too. He’d been murdered, and now his killer was awaiting trial in the county jail.
Carrie, the red-haired jewelry artist who was sitting next to Monique, leaned over and whispered something to her. Monique nodded.
“Thank you, Pamela,” she said simply, “and I’m awfully sorry to hear about Rich. He was such a nice guy.”
When a shadow passed over Pamela’s face, I surmised that Monique had probably flirted with Rich when she’d been a member of the Roadrunner previously. Although our gallery director probably didn’t especially appreciate Monique’s comment, she politely acknowledged it before Monique piped up again.
“Since I’ll be moving back here to Lonesome Valley, I’d like to renew my membership in the Roadrunner.”
“Yes, of course, since you were a member in good standing when you left, reinstatement is automatic, but I’m afraid we don’t have space in the gallery right now.”
“She can have mine,” Chip immediately volunteered. “I’ll be working on some murals for the Downtown Merchants’ Association for the next few months, anyway.”
I had a feeling that if Chip hadn’t offered to give up his space, one of the other men would have. Although Susan’s nephew Chip was a talented artist, he didn’t seem to be able to find a path forward in his art career, perhaps because he often lacked follow-through and he worked at his father’s pizza parlor to make ends meet. Giving up his wall space probably wasn’t as big a deal for him as it would have been for some of the other artists because he often didn’t fill his space, anyway.
Well aware of Chip’s propensities, Pamela agreed to the arrangement and then began to talk about the first agenda item, a Saturday class in pumpkin painting for elementary school students. Although I had no teaching experience whatsoever, I’d agreed to help with the class. I understood that I’d be giving a short demo and then circulating to help any kids who had questions, so it wasn’t as though I’d really be teaching. Valerie and Frank, both high school art teachers, would be leading the class. Despite that, I felt a bit nervous about my demo, probably because the idea of public speaking had always terrified me.
As Pamela continued to tick off items on the meeting agenda, Chip caught Monique’s eye and winked at her. She smiled at him, and, encouraged, he proceeded to wiggle his eyebrows and cross his eyes, eliciting giggles from Monique and a frown from Pamela.
After that, Chip grabbed his copy of the agenda and didn’t look back up until Pamela declared the meeting adjourned. Instead of rushing to Monique as the rest of the men did, Chip hung back and spoke to Pamela. They were friends, and I suspected he regretted his actions if they’d caused Pamela any grief, although what he did was entirely in character for him since he was quite the flirt himself, as Pamela well knew from past experience.
Susan and I followed the other members into the gallery, where Monique was holding court with the men. When Valerie tugged at her husband’s elbow in an effort to get his attention, he barely glanced at her before turning back to Monique.
Valerie tapped Frank’s arm once more and announced that she was leaving, and he could find his own way home. That got his attention, but Valerie was already out the
Meanwhile, Pamela had emerged from the meeting room.
“Monique, let’s go back to my office, and we can get your paperwork filled out now.”
“Great!” Monique turned to her fans and said, “Au revoir, mes amis.”
“Huh? What did she just say?” Lonnie asked.
“Did you forget your high school French?” Heather, his wife, asked.
“I never learned it in the first place. I flunked French, remember?”
Heather just laughed. It was pretty clear that she did remember.
“She said ‘goodbye, my friends.’”
“Oh, OK. How come she didn’t say it in English?”
“She comes from the French aristocracy, doesn’t she?” Frank asked. “I think she may be a duchess or something.”
Susan smirked at this assertion. “Sure she is,” she whispered to me, “and I’m the queen of England.”
The crowd began to disperse, although a few members hung around for a while, chatting.
Pamela and Monique came back into the gallery about five minutes later. The contrast between the two women couldn’t have been more noticeable. Tiny Pamela stood less than five feet tall, and she wore a beige pantsuit that was a bit too loose on her. I’d never understood why she preferred to wear beige, tan, or brown because those hues weren’t very flattering on her. Monique, on the other hand, was probably at least eight inches taller than Pamela, and she stood out in a Chanel suit, the latest from Paris, if I didn’t miss my guess. I was sure I’d seen the exact same black and white tweed suit in the September issue of Vogue. My dear friend and next-door neighbor Belle had a subscription, and the current issue was always sitting on her coffee table. Besides her designer suit, Monique carried a burgundy Lady Dior handbag and sported a large pink topaz ring, set in white gold or perhaps platinum, on her right hand, but her left hand was devoid of jewelry with no wedding or engagement ring in sight. Her ensemble had obviously cost a small fortune, but that shouldn’t have come as a surprise since her husband had been quite wealthy. Now, I supposed, Monique was the wealthy one.
“Why do you think Monique wants to come back to the Roadrunner?” I asked Susan. “She’s definitely no starving artist.”
“I don’t know. It does seem a little odd. To tell you the truth, she seemed to be really happy to be leaving Lonesome Valley two years ago. I remember that, at the time, one of the members told her she’d have to be sure to come back to see us sometime, and she said she didn’t think that was ever going to happen.”
A tapping at the Roadrunner’s front door caught our attention. The gallery closed at five, but since all the lights were on, it was obvious that people were inside. The gray-haired woman outside continued to knock on the door, even after Frank shook his head and mouthed “we’re closed.” Finally, Chip opened the door a crack to give her the message up close and personal, but when she stuck her foot in the door, Chip stepped back and she barged into the gallery.
Her unexpected move had caught Chip off guard, and he stared at her in surprise.
“Sorry about that, son,” she said.
Now that I could see her more clearly, her wrinkled face made me think that she was probably in her late sixties, perhaps older.
“I’m looking for Monique Dee Albert,” she announced.
“It’s pronounced Doll Bear,” Monique, who’d just come back into the gallery with Pamela, informed her. “Monique Doll Bear,” she repeated.
“Whatever,” the woman said dismissively. “I’m an investigator, and I have some questions for you.”
“Let’s see some identification,” Frank demanded.
The woman pulled a wallet out of the pocket of her jeans jacket as Frank approached her. When he came closer, she snatched it away. “No you don’t,” she told him. “I’ll show it to Ms. Dee Albert.”
“Doll Bear,” Monique corrected with a sigh. She peered at the identification card and burst out laughing.
“You’re not a detective!”
“Never said I was. I’m a private investigator.”
“I have no intention of talking to you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to clear your name?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, honey, and pretty soon all these good people will know, too.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Just stating a fact, Ms. Dee Albert.”
“I think it’s time you left,” Frank said, unsuccessfully attempting to take the PI’s arm so that he could guide her to the door.
“You heard the man,” Chip said. “Get lost!”
“OK, OK. I’m going, but you haven’t heard the last of me, Ms. Dee Albert. I’ll be watching your every move.” With that, she turned and exited the Roadrunner.
Frank and Chip immediately rushed to Monique, but she assured them that she was fine. Nobody dared ask her what the private investigator had been referring to.
“I think I’ll be getting back to my cousin’s house now. She’ll be expecting me,” Monique said.
“Let me drive you,” Chip offered.
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you, Chip, but I have my ride here,” she said, reaching into her designer bag and plucking out her keys.
“Well, the least I can do is walk you to your car, then.” Chip offered her his arm, and she clung to it as they left the gallery.
“Wait up!” Frank called. “I’ll come with you.”
Chapter two
I headed home to less drama. My golden retriever Laddie was waiting for me by the kitchen door, and Mona Lisa, my persnickety calico cat, even showed up to welcome me home. While Laddie bounced up and down, his tail twirling in the air, Mona Lisa executed a figure eight by winding around my ankles. Laddie didn’t leave my side as I deposited my keys in the little china bowl on the kitchen counter, but Mona Lisa scampered off to lie beside my daughter Emma, who was sitting on the couch reading a textbook.
My six-hundred-square-foot house was small, but cozy. Emma was staying with me since she’d transferred from college in California to Northern Arizona University. With two people and two pets, it could be a tight fit at times, but we managed.
It helped that my attached art studio was the same size as the house, so I had plenty of room there for my paintings, and since it had a separate outside door, the space worked perfectly as a stop on Lonesome Valley’s weekly studio tour, which took place every Friday, except for a couple of months in the winter.
“Hi, Mom, how was the meeting?” Emma asked, setting her book aside.
“Livelier than usual.” I told Emma about Monique’s arrival, how all the men had reacted to her, and that Valerie had left Frank to find his own way home.
“I don’t blame her,” Emma said. “If Matt ever pulled something like that, I’d be furious, too.”
Emma had been dating her boyfriend Matt for several months now. They’d met at the feed store where Matt was assistant manager. Belle’s husband Dennis managed the store, and it was thanks to him that Emma had been able to work there part-time whenever she had a break from college. Now that she’d transferred to NAU, she worked in the store twenty or thirty hours a week, but Matt, who was also attending NAU, continued to work full-time, putting in forty or fifty hours most weeks.
“You’re not going out with Matt tonight?”
“No, I have to study for a history test.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Emma had always been serious about her studies, and she was a good student.
“I hope so. I’ll be glad when it’s over, anyway.”
Leaving Emma to her studies, I went outside with Laddie and stood on the patio while he wandered around the backyard for a while, and then we went to bed.
It seemed as though I’d just fallen asleep when my affable retriever began nudging my arm with his nose. I glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was already six o’clock. Laddie wanted to go for his morning walk.
