Booked For Murder Read online

  Booked For Murder

  CeeCee James

  Contents

  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

  Copyright © 2017 by CeeCee James*

  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 in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  ~For my family. You guys are the best. I’ll say it in every book I write. <3

  Chapter 1

  My name is Louisa May Marigold Swenson, Maisie for short. How in the world my parents got Maisie out of Louisa May or Marigold, I’ll never know. It’s my theory that my Momma wanted to name me Maisie to begin with, but with a Grandma named Louisa May, and a father whose favorite flower was of the many-petaled orange variety, she just had to sneak it in any old way she could.

  Momma has called me Maisie for all of my life, only trotting out my full name when calling me home for dinner, or when she’d discovered the cookie jar was empty, or the dog had been given a haircut—although to be fair, I was five at the time. Still, I can hear her voice ring out over the air, especially at twilight on a summer’s eve.

  And not just because it’s a childhood memory. No, Momma lives with me, along with her basset hound, Bingo. That dog is something else. The story that Momma tried to spin was that she got him for my birthday—my thirty-fourth birthday, mind you. Momma expected me to go ga-ga over the floppy-eared pup like I was still in pigtails unwrapping gifts under the Christmas tree.

  Well, I did go ga-ga. I can’t lie. Who could resist a basset hound puppy with those giant crocodile feet to match dark brown eyes?

  Bingo adores me. I’d love to say that’s unique but, truth be told, he adores anyone with food. I’ve always said he’d betray our whole family for a French fry, which makes Momma frown. Although he loves all people, the dog is especially bonded to Momma, I think half because she’s always here with him and the other half because she keeps a box of Nabisco vanilla wafers nearby that she insists are to aid with her digestion. Kind of supports my theory, because I have a good feeling they help Bingo’s digestion pretty well, too.

  I’m originally from Angel Lake, a gorgeous little town in Tennessee, but I recently scored my dream job down here in Starke Springs, Florida as a manager at the Oceanside Hotel, complete with a complimentary suite on the bottom floor. It’s only two blocks from the beach and near the most amazing amusement park. Not the iconic one with ear hats. We have a squirrel on ours. That’s just our thing, and we do treasure it.

  Technically, I applied for the hotel manager’s job and moved down here from Tennessee to look after Momma. I wouldn’t tell her that, though. She’s apt to pull out a darning needle and threaten to chase me with it. Not that she could chase very far, but I’d rather not get her riled up.

  Momma believes I moved here for the job, and because I’m desperate for her help in finding a man. “Maisie, you keep going like you are, and you’re going to be living in Spinsterville,” she likes to warn me. Her not-so-subtle hints let me know she secretly feels like she’s my last hope to find me a good match, and actually believes she’s the one taking care of me.

  Truth be told, I haven’t been having a lot of luck in the man department, so I can use all the help I can get. Or not get. Some days, I am completely okay with living the single life. Other days are so lonely even Bingo’s sad eyes can’t capture what I feel inside.

  Anyhow, they say the strangest things happen in hotels, and I’m here to say they’re right. Let me tell you what happened when we had only been living at the Oceanside Hotel for two weeks. It started like this.

  It was lunchtime, and I headed home to the suite. My stomach made a loud unladylike noise, picturing the meal Momma had prepared. She could cook the meanest roast beef, butternut squash, and French-cut green beans that you’ve ever seen. That was one of the many good things about moving in together.

  Opening the door, I took a big sniff. Immediately, I started coughing. What the heck was that smell? A cross between hellfire and burnt broccoli.

  “Momma?” I yelled, slightly horrified to see smoke hanging in thick swirls near the ceiling. I rushed through the suite and opened the sliding glass door. Spotting a towel, I grabbed it and started waving. “Momma? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  First to greet me was Bingo, the Basset. He meandered over, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

  Momma walked in next, shuffling in slippers and a pink housecoat and carrying a bag of microwaved popcorn. Her hair was a brassy red—she called it strawberry blonde—and came from the salon down the street by a hairdresser named Genessa. Momma liked to say that Genessa was a far better listener than her own daughter and would make her a grandma before I do. I never knew what Momma was saying with that statement; was she threatening to adopt Genessa and replace me? Or was it just digging at the fact that I didn’t have a husband or even a prospect on the horizon yet?

  Momma grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bag and put a kernel in her mouth. Half the bag sported black scorch marks.

  “What on earth is going on here?” I started out slow, still waving my towel.

  “I made myself a snack to eat while I watch my stories.”

  Stories was what Momma called her soaps since I was a little girl. There was a wide-eyed innocent look in her eye. I didn’t fall for it.

  “You’re just eating popcorn? I thought you were making lunch?” My stomach rumbled to underline that thought.

  “Darlin’, I’m on a diet. Swimsuit season is coming up in just a few more weeks.” She shuffled back into the living room with her charred bag.

  Bingo quickly passed me when he realized the food had left the room. How can she eat that? I followed them, confused.

  “Why on earth is the popcorn bag black on one side?” I asked, almost scared to hear the answer.

  “I saw this lovely craft on Pinterest I was going to make for the hotel convention tomorrow. Earn me some pocket money. But something’s wrong with your microwave,” she answered with a dismissive wave. She popped another piece into her mouth, her eyes glued to the TV set.

  Inwardly, I groaned as I headed back into the kitchen. Visions of a plate of roast beef, gravy and potatoes disappeared before my eyes as I saw the disaster awaiting me. What on earth has she done?

  Dirty measuring cups and bowls towered in the sink. I felt something crunch under my foot and glanced to see sugar sprinkled about like deranged fairy-dust. On the counter were two empty bottles of Elmer’s Glue, bits of leaves and flowers, and one of her recipe cards. I picked it up and read the recipe, smiling a bit at the smudged fingerprint.

  Homemade Fake-Acrylic Pendants.

  Looking farther down the counter, there were several used spoons, three dirty towels, and a frying pan. I had to admit, the pan alarmed me. What did a pan have to do with necklace pendants?

  First things first. I shook my head and mentally girded my loins as I opened the microwave. Still, as prepared as I was, I gasped.

  Baked-
on streaks and splatters covered the interior. I covered my eyes, trying to figure out what she could have done to have caused this mess. How long had she melted the glue? To lava temperatures? I peeked through my hand. And then she microwaved the popcorn on the mess left behind.

  I was more than a little worried. Momma was a character, but she generally didn’t do things this nutty. I grabbed my cell and quickly dialed my closest friend in the area, Ruby.

  I’d met Ruby in junior high, during those awkward years when braces and zits defined me. She’d traveled from Florida to Tennessee that year for a summer camp, and we’d hit it right off. We’d joined the camp’s fast-pitch team and played baseball with the other camps in the area. The next few summers we continued to meet up. Even in high school, we managed to work together as camp counselors. And, I have to admit, I became a champion pitcher.

  Ruby answered on the third ring. “Hey, lady. What’s cooking?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I reached for a sponge to scrub out the microwave. “Right now, I’m cleaning Momma’s attempt at making diamonds in the microwave.”

  Ruby clucked her tongue. “That bad, huh? What was she doing?”

  “I think she may have had it in mind that she would be the great bling proprietor for the Comic Convention tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s funny. You should have taken her up on it.” Then, hearing my frustrated huff, she quickly changed the subject. “Have you ever overseen anything like a Comic-Con before? Are you nervous?”

  “No, and no.” My phone vibrated softly, alerting me to a message. “Hey, I better get going. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “You better believe it! I want to hear all about it!”

  I pushed the end button and squinted to see the text on the screen.

  Inside the little green bubble were the words—What are you wearing?

  A groan wrenched out of me. The text came from my boss, the owner of the Oceanside Hotel, Mr. Timothy Phillips. Despite the dubious wording, he was asking if I was planning to wear a costume to the convention tomorrow.

  My answer was—Not a costume.

  I rolled my eyes and walked into my room. There was my dress suit, pressed and hanging in the closet. I sure hoped tomorrow wouldn’t be too weird.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, I shifted in my dress suit and wondered how much I’d stick out like a sore thumb today. Even though I’d never overseen a convention of this sort, or any sort really, it only took a bit of searching on the internet to see what the expectations were about costumes. The pictures were bizarre. I saw costumes from Ursula in the Little Mermaid, to Jack from the Nightmare Before Christmas, and everything in between.

  My only goal was to make sure my first convention would go smoothly. There were a couple new employees at the hotel, besides me, and I needed to make sure we all ran things like a well-oiled machine. And so, at six in the morning, I was at the front desk double-checking every last detail. I was in the process of printing out a few more welcome brochures when the printer jammed up again and suggested I check the ink cartridge. Which I already had, many times, along with a few smacks of the palm of my hand. As the light blinked at me, I silently groaned and dropped down to my knees one more time.

  “Good morning, Ms. Swenson,” a deep male voice said. I jumped and peeked out from under the check-in counter. Mr Phillips! Where on earth did he come from?

  A younger man stood next to my boss looking at me quizzically. My mouth went dry at the sight of him. Whereas my slightly overweight employer was wearing a polo shirt and shorts, the other man was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that clung to his arm muscles. His dark hair was coiffed to the side, and his green eyes twinkled with faint amusement. It was apparent he was from old money and high class. Definitely far out of my league.

  I tried not to blush as I stood up and brushed down the front of my skirt. A piece of hair escaped my bun and fell in front of my eyes.

  “Hi there, Mr. Phillips,” I said and casually tucked the hair behind my ear. I gave my boss my most confident nod.

  His tiny eyes looked me over in doubt. “I’m just on my way to a golf tournament and thought I’d stop by. You ready for the Comic-Con today?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” I nodded again.

  The other man lifted a thick eyebrow as he glanced at my knee. My cheeks filled with heat. Do.Not.Blush. Taking command, I cleared my throat and continued, “The booths are all ready and are just starting to fill with vendors as we speak. It’s going to be a great event, sir.”

  Mr. Phillips nodded. “I don’t want anything running sloppy. Keep a close eye on things and make sure everything goes smoothly. The hotel’s needed something like this for a while—youthful energy, a full conference area. It’s definitely a direction we need to keep going in.”

  I nodded, still distracted by the man in the suit. Why was he staring at my leg? He caught me noticing and the corner of his mouth quirked up. Annoyance began to bubble inside of me. I don’t like that look, like I’m ridiculous or something.

  Mr. Phillips glanced between us, seeming to notice the stare going on between his partner and me. His ruddy cheeks creased with a frown, as he offered an explanation with a haphazard wave of his hand. “This is my brother, Jake.”

  Brother?

  Jake held out his hand in a way that spoke of doing it of politeness. “Very nice to meet you.”

  I shook it and tried to warm up. “Nice to meet you, too. Are you in the hotel business as well?”

  The younger man’s gaze flicked to my face with a slight smile before turning his head towards the overhead chandelier. Two thousand hand-hewn crystals hung from that chandelier; the hotel’s pride and joy. “No. I sold my part in this a long time ago.”

  “Jake is a sommelier for a nice, local restaurant.” Mr. Phillips volunteered with a hint of pride.

  Jake dipped his head in a humble acknowledgement as his brother clapped him on the back.

  “Wow. That’s very impressive,” I coolly said, not wanting to gush too much after his sardonic stare earlier.

  “So, you’ve got this, then?” Mr. Phillips asked one more time.

  “Absolutely, sir. Nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s going to be amazing.”

  He slapped the counter in a quick beat and then nodded. “Let’s head out then,” he said to his brother before turning towards the door.

  Jake raised his hand in goodbye and followed him out.

  I moved back to the printer. As I stooped down, my knee showed from under my dress. I gasped in horror. It was completely covered in blue ink.

  Apparently, the printer hadn’t been misfiring when warning me about the ink cartridge. My stomach squeezed at the sight of the puddle that had leaked out on the floor. I cringed, my hand finding its way back to my hair tucked behind my ear. Oh, no! The movement made me freeze. Had I just put ink on my face too? Was that what Jake had been staring at? With a quick glance at the time and a groan, I quickly mopped it with paper towels, and then headed back to my suite to clean up.

  Okay, take two.

  Feeling fresh and inkless, I headed back to the front desk. It was here that my expectations for the day shot out the window.

  There was a line already nearly to the door, and Clarissa, the other hotel clerk, was barely keeping it together. “Where were you?” she hissed, passing a room key to the guest in front of her.

  I looked at the guest and swallowed.

  My earlier research had already prepared me that superheroes and villains were par for the course with this sort of thing.

  But, what I hadn't expected was the fact that they would already be in costume when they came to check into their rooms. Normally, we don’t offer early morning check in, but that was one of the stipulations the convention had required before booking, and Mr. Phillips had agreed to it immediately.

  I’d just assumed, since it was so early, that the guests would be dressed in regular street clothes and, later, prepare in their rooms.


  But that wasn’t the case. Cartoon characters, super heroes, people carrying swords or in full body makeup of brilliant greens and purples—one by one, they lined up in front of the counter.

  I braced myself for the over five-hundred expected guests.

  It was halfway through the morning before I realized I should worry about the wrinkles my perpetually arched brow was causing. Breathe. Forcing myself to relax as the images of a deeply fissured forehead flashed into my mind, I checked the computer to confirm the name of the male creature in front of me. Again, I asked myself, how was I supposed to match names and IDs when most of them were wearing more makeup and formed foam facial appliques than a horror movie monster?

  “Is this your first stay with us, Mr. James?” I asked, keeping my voice professional.

  “Yeah.”

  Behind him, the line was growing with more superhero characters. Clarissa had to run to the bathroom for an emergency, leaving me here alone. The crowd looked a bit unruly at the longer than average wait. My stomach tightened even more with anxiety. Do not arch your brows. Calm, cool, and collected.

  “And your date of birth?” I asked, after bringing up his reservation.

  “It's on my license. Right under Caleb James.”

  “Yes, but your license doesn't have yellow cat eyes and ram horns.” I tried keeping my smile polite, using more strength than any Pilates session I had ever done to keep the sides of my lips from curling into a sarcastic grin.

  “November 23, 1989. Can I have my room key now or do you want a blood sample too?”

  The sarcasm was not unnoticed. Oh, it was going to be such a long day. I normally wouldn’t be doing this job, but it was an ‘all hands on deck’ type of event.

  With the number carefully penned on the empty line below his name, I placed the plastic keycard into the slot of the pamphlet, folded it closed, and slid it across the lacquered walnut desk to the fur covered fingers tapping out their impatience.