The Lush Life (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 8) (18 page)

Chapter 2

We’ve Got Personality, Personality...

Let me explain some history.

I’m Samantha, an author, whose blonde, tousled hair,
apparently from being chloroformed and abducted
, was trying to wiggle free from a very hands-on Tony. Being on the thin side, the cold cement floor was affecting me, too, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of playing ‘the helpless female’ role. I’ve been through much worse.

It seems I fall into the most unusual mysteries that have made me semi-famous for solving then writing about them. I first met my crew, Clay, Martha, Hazel and Betty, when I got involved in my first mystery concerning my husband, Stephen and his suspicious death. With their help I finally solved it. Since then we ended up being a close-knit team.

Now, Tony was another matter completely. He popped up two mysteries ago and latched onto us by helping solve my last one,
The Lush Life
. He was
connected
with links I didn’t rest easy associating with, but when someone helps save my life, I develop a soft spot for them.

Even bad-boy Tony.

If I recalled correctly, hiring Tony began when my senior sleuthing trio, Martha, Hazel and Betty, approached me about
Tony’s
assets and why he’d be a perfect addition to our crime-solving team. I think his hunky, good looks may have played a tipping hand in their assessment. No discrimination there. According to those three, a man was a man, regardless of age.

Being in their seventies, my older friends have proven their remarkable skills. Martha has cropped,
spikey
white hair, is thin, and sports a very flashy in-your-face nature. She challenges me every step of the way. Hazel is short and on the plump side with curly gray hair, while Betty is reed thin, taller and wears her hair tightly pulled back in a bun. Those last two are lady-like, librarian types, but willing to take risks, while still maintaining their polar-opposite status to their long-time brash and colorful friend, Martha.

All three are a constant worry and ever-challenging, but compliment our sleuthing team. I have to admit their mental acuity is never hampered by their age. I swear, sometimes I can hardly keep up with them.

Trust me, a few of their antics even shocked me.

Tony on the other hand, is a slippery con that proved his skills could be useful in the past, but there’s often reserved skepticism on my part. He’s a ‘Jersey guy’ with attitude, knows what he wants and goes for it in a not-so-scrupulous fashion. Always armed and usually dangerous, Tony can be trusted
on occasion
to our advantage.

My chiseled and hunky Clay is my
personal
undercover
PI. Our semi-permanent relationship left us both wondering how we’ve lasted so long with our two personalities butting heads on occasion,
okay, on many occasions
. It’s always surprising when we finally manage to be in the same place at the same time.

But when we do, those sparks do fly...

We were all a mix of personalities, but complimented each other with varied skills: some legal, some not so legal.

Hey, solving mysteries has fuzzy edges.

One must be willing to stretch them now and then. It’s the end result that mattered. And as long as no jail time is involved, it worked for me and the rest of us.

What didn’t work for me was being hogtied to someone who had dreams of overstepping Clay in the romance-Samantha department. Although I’m quite flattered, it ruffles feathers on Clay’s end. But I’ve convinced myself I can handle both of these fine-looking characters, while solving cases with our multi-talented and diversely-skilled team.

Sometimes I have to overlook their missteps for the greater good of solving a particular mystery. I’ve become proficient at balancing Clay’s numerous disappearances and
Tony’s
numerous advances. So there was nothing to worry about. And for the thousandth time, I’m asking myself another often-repeated question.

Who was I kidding?

Chapter 3

Déjà vu All Over Again, Mystery Wise

It all began when I started my physical therapy sessions locally in New Hope. Boredom is a dangerous thing for me to latch onto. When you’re used to being busy, after five weeks of being confined to a wheelchair due to my fall in my last mystery, rehab looked good, my ticket to recovery.

After the whole crutch program of having to learn to walk again, the doctor then ordered physical therapy, where I was put through exercises I swear had me considering a real murder of my own. But like the therapist said, “These exercises will hurt, but you must work through the pain.”

I told him he seemed to be enjoying putting me through those painful workouts way too much and maybe that’s why he chose this profession. Okay, so maybe I exaggerate, not about my therapist’s dedication, that was genuine, but about him enjoying my pain. But after several weeks of agonizing stretches and exercises, I was finally able to wear sneakers and move about quite well. I had to admit my therapist knew what he was talking about. No pain, no gain.

Eventually, you can’t help but notice your neighbors on the other therapy tables. They began talking to me briefly and waving hello and goodbye. All of us were a wide assortment of shoulder, knee, ankle, and hip injuries, even joint replacements, many of which were sports-related.

I was in therapy from snooping
alone
where I shouldn’t have on my last mystery, sneaking up one-hundred-fifty-year-old stairs then being pushed hard while descending, fracturing and breaking my right ankle. My sleuthing injury was quite a novelty to all the other patients in rehab.

I don’t think they considered sleuthing a sport.

I described the mug given to me sitting on my desk:

‘Watch what you say. You may end up in my next novel.’

I got mixed reviews and stares on that one too.

And as usual, my ego came into play after an unfamiliar rehab patient whispered, “With your sleuthing skills in writing mysteries, you’re just the person I need to talk to.”

Of course my ears perked up at being recognized and a potential case falling onto my exercise table, so to speak, recalling my mantra...
well, actually, one of many.

‘Always expect the unexpected.’

So while still pacing through my exercise routine and not missing a beat, I whispered back to her, “Why don’t we meet for coffee and you can tell me all about it, okay?”

Later at Duck Soup, a local bistro, I watched as Marilyn silently stirred sugar in her coffee mug. Thirtyish, like me, she had short brown hair with several freckles sprinkled across her petite nose, complimenting her fair complexion. Overall, she had well-proportioned features. Not exactly beautiful, but pretty. As she glanced up at me, the worry lines edging her eyes deepened. Instead of speaking, I waited. Most people were uncomfortable with stretches of silence.

They usually felt a need to fill the void. So I waited.

“I know you must be busy writing, but I think that fate has played a hand in bringing us together here,” she said.

I tried to get a bead on her, but was disappointed in my feelings one way or the other. I wasn’t getting the slightest inkling on my part regarding dishonesty at her end, but then again, she hadn’t said much yet, had she? And as usual, I was jumping the gun again, always guessing intent.

She nervously swiped at a wisp of hair that had fallen in her eyes. “I’ve read and loved all of your mysteries and figured you’re the perfect person to help me.”

Although flattered, that didn’t clarify why she was there.

What was she proposing?

Then she fell silent once again, so
I took the lead.

“Did you hear any details about my injury?” I asked.

“No, just that you hurt your ankle on some steps.”

So I briefly described falling down those old steps while trying to solve my eighth mystery.

“Mine involved steps, too, but my injury resulted in a bad sprain, not a broken ankle like yours.”

“I’ve heard a sprain is sometimes more painful then a break, but not in my case,” I said. “I’ve taken my fair share of pain pills from my break and fracture.”

Then she whispered, “If I screw this up, I might not get another chance. I refuse to give up. I’m committed.”

“And I’m not going back to my wheelchair,” I added.

“Sounds like we’re both determined to see this through.”

I found myself saying, “Did you know I was pushed?”

“What a coincidence,” she said to my surprise. “So was I!”

“I found out the painful way,” I added. “Someone had an agenda: stealing a pricey antique book worth millions. I was a nuisance, stepping in their path to get it first.”

“I had no idea your mysteries could get so dangerous.”

As I’d hoped, she looked reassured and relaxed.

Good, hopefully, we made a connection of trust.

I felt being direct was the best route to take with her, so I plunged ahead, trying to get more information as to why she sought me out. Marilyn sounded like she might need help, but was hesitant to elaborate, which in itself was intriguing. I had to keep her talking.

“Do you mind me asking,
who
pushed you?”

Chapter 4

Blindsided

Marilyn anxiously glanced around the small bistro.

Was she fearful someone might overhear her?

“Although pushed, I didn’t actually see who. They were behind me and caught me by surprise like you and...and...”

“And you were busy falling and hurting to glance back to pay attention as to who was pushing you, right?” I asked.

All I got in return was a silent stare.

Why the hesitation?
She
had approached me. I kept talking.

“I went through the same scenario myself. When you’re seeing stars and in excruciating pain, you don’t have the presence of mind for details. You shut down, praying the pain away. It takes over your whole thought process. I totally get where you’re coming from.”

“...That’s right,” she finally said, nodding in agreement.

I had to ask. “Who do you
think
might’ve pushed you?”

Her eyes honed in on something beyond me. Or was it a someone? “...Oh!” she said, startled.

Why was she acting so edgy?

I turned to look, curious as to what caught her eye.

She was staring out a window, but no one was standing there or walking by outside the just-filled parking lot.

I felt her grab my arm, and quickly turned back to her.

She whispered, “I need your help, the sooner the better.”

I found myself whispering back. “For what?”

“I need you to find out about someone for me. A man.”

I needed more than that.

Was it a boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband?

“Why?” I asked.

“I need to make sure of something first.”

Not satisfied with that, I added another, “Why?”

She waved that one off. “Not important right now.”

Figuring she’d give me the specifics later, I grabbed my phone to take down his name and description.

“His name?” I asked.

“He goes by the name of Tony G.”

My fingers froze in place.

Now, what were the odds? My Tony G? No way!

“...Does this Tony G. have a last name?” I asked warily.

Folding her arms and leaning back, she said, “I know this sounds made up, and it probably is, but he said it was Giuseppe. Tony Giuseppe.”

There was an uncomfortable gap of silence,
mine.

“It’s just like the name of that pizza place,” she said.

Exactly like the name of the pizza place.

I looked down at my coffee. I needed something much stronger. I’m still shocked by the unexpected. And this certainly qualified.

Marilyn’s eyes briefly darted about then she slipped her hand inside her purse, dug out her phone, and glanced at it.

I hadn’t heard anything. Had someone just texted her?

A slight tremor in her hand drew my attention.

This was a small bistro. I spotted several other patients from rehab. They all seemed friendly enough and looked quite harmless, as they waved to me in recognition then returned to their coffee and conversations. But Marilyn’s distracted and anxious behavior was unsettling.

“Got a description?” I asked, wanting to be absolutely sure we were talking about the same person, Tony.

She glanced away briefly then sighed. A trace of a smile curved her lips upward. I knew that familiar swoon from all the females who met Tony G.

“Good-looking, well over six-foot, muscular, dark hair scraping the collar of his designer shirts and suits. Plus his
Ferrigamo
shoes and those stylish Louis
Vuitton
ties...”

Should I reveal I knew exactly who he was?

I didn’t think so. I don’t know why, but instinct told me to keep quiet. I was having second thoughts on this whole pitch of hers. Why had she really approached me with this off-the-wall story involving Tony?

Was Tony capable of pushing her? Possible, but still...

Was this woman legitimate or was she setting me up? Crazy, I know, but that’s the way my cynical mind worked. It strayed off the charts of normal thinking. I have learned in the past, that nothing, and I mean nothing, surprised me when it came to a con.

So I constantly second-guessed what people said, weighed their words guardedly, while doubt hovered on the periphery. Was I dealing with a con setup? Something felt off. Was this whole thing legitimate?

One way to find out. Go to the source, Tony G. himself.