The Pajama Murder: Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files, #9

By Frankie Bow

Local businessman Buford Fontleroy Deale III is found shot dead in front of Harriet's Books in downtown Sinful. A blood-soaked pajama top is tied around his chest. And he's wearing only one shoe. 

The sheriff wants to talk to Harriet. Sinful's beloved bookseller was one of the last people to see Deale alive. Fortune, Ida Belle, Gertie, and Mary-Alice need to get to Harriet before the sheriff does. They want to clear Harriet's name, and stop whoever was behind the bizarre murder. 

Except no one can find Harriet... 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J&R Fan Fiction
• Release date: Aug 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386327950

Frankie Bow

Frankie Bow teaches at a public university and writes two mystery series: The Professor Molly Mysteries, and licensed works in the Miss Fortune World. Unlike Professor Molly, Frankie is blessed with delightful students, sane colleagues, and a perfectly nice office chair. She thinks if life can’t be fair, at least it can be entertaining. From the author: Thank you for taking the time to read this book. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends and posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Sign up for Island Confidential, Frankie's mystery newsletter, at subscribepage.com/ProfessorMolly

Book preview

Chapter One

BUFORD FONTLEROY DEALE III, president and owner of Deale Properties, Inc., was scheduled to meet the private investigators at nine o’clock. This was a happy coincidence, at least for Deale. He had been stewing over his humiliation of the previous afternoon, and it had occurred to him that morning that the Sinful Ladies’ Detective Agency could help him exact his revenge. He wouldn’t even have to get his hands dirty.

The other matter could wait.

The investigators arrived five minutes early. A less worldly man might not have been impressed at the sight of them—a gangly girl and three old ladies. But Deale liked what he saw. Old ladies were nosy and unthreatening—a perfect combination for someone whose job was to poke around and dig up (or plant) dirt on people. The girl, he assumed, must be their assistant.

He was surprised when the girl stepped forward, reached across his desk, and dealt him a crushing handshake.

I’m Fortune Morrow. She had the charmless, hard-edged diction of a Northerner. You can call me Fortune. These are my associates Ida Belle, Gertie, and Mary-Alice.

Fortune wasted no time on small talk. Once they were all seated (and Gertie had managed to tuck her enormous purse out of the way) she produced a manila folder and slapped it on Deale’s desk.

Florentin Blaise Menard has been employed as bookkeeper for Deale Properties for twenty-three years, Fortune said. He worked for your father, and when you inherited the company nine years ago you kept him on.

That’s correct. Deal felt a prickle of irritation at the reminder. Although it had been his grandfather who had started the business, Deale liked to think of himself as a self-made man. He believed his success was due to his own talent and hard work. (Just as his setbacks were entirely the fault of his enemies and detractors.)

We believe your suspicions about Menard are worth following up, Fortune said. His expenditures are way out of line with a bookkeeper’s salary. He’s made improvements on his house in the last five years that have doubled its value. And his automobile—

Yes, yes, we’ll discuss that another time. Deale waved his hand dismissively and leaned back in his leatherette chair. Something else has come up. Something much more important. Let’s put aside Menard for now.  In fact, Florentin Menard can help us.

Deale picked up the phone on his desk, summoning a small, middle-aged brunette.

Regina, get Menard in here, he ordered.

"Yes, Mr. Deale. Right away, Mr. Deale."

Regina flashed a brief, unconvincing smile and stomped off.

Florentin Menard entered Deale’s office with an innocent smile on his round face. If he had overheard any of the discussion about him, he didn’t show it. He looked like a man who spent his life indoors, as pale and plump as a grub.  With no chairs available in the crowded office, Menard stood and awaited further instruction. Florentin Menard seemed accustomed to standing in his boss’s presence.

Menard, Deale boomed, These are some friends of mine. Miss Mary-Alice, Miss Ida Belle, Miss Gertie, and Miss Fortune.

Deale could tell the women were impressed that he had remembered their names. He always made a point of memorizing names, and he was good at it. He knew this skill would serve him later in life, when he would (he was sure) be called to run for public office.

Florentin Menard opened his mouth to greet the visitors, but Deale cut him off.

Now, I understand we’ve had some unusual expenses recently.

There have been repairs associated with the recent hurricane damage, Mr. Deale. Florentin Menard’s tone was soothing, and his face remained as impassive as a cue ball. We’ve lost several tenants to the new mall, as you know. We have been doing whatever we can to keep the ones we have happy. Admittedly it’s a tough market right now, but  we’ll survive if we attend to our customer relationships. 

I’ve had a look at some of the repair bills myself. Deale leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. They look high to me.

Menard swallowed, but maintained his serene expression.

I appreciate your attention to these details, Mr. Deale. You must understand that taken in context—

And I believe I know exactly where the fault lies.

Menard gulped.

Mr. Deale, I assure you—

Harriet Hamilton.

Menard’s nervousness turned to astonishment.

Harriet?

Yes.

Harriet of Harriet’s Books?

The women stirred, apparently surprised by this development. Well, Deale prided himself on his unpredictability. It was how he kept his enemies off-balance.

Harriet has been defrauding us, Deale declared.

But—

I want you to help these ladies gather the evidence against her. I know she’s guilty. It’s just a matter of getting proof.

Florentin Menard opened his mouth and closed it again. He reminded Deale of a beached bluegill.

Fortune, the young, skinny one, stood up.

We’re not interested in taking this case, she said crisply. We were led to believe we were here for something else entirely. Thank you for your time, Mr. Deale. Mr. Menard.

Florentin Menard nodded and scuttled out of the office.

Mary-Alice and Ida Belle stood to follow Fortune out. Gertie leaned over and tugged at her bag, which was stuck underneath her chair. She tugged again, but still the bag didn’t budge.

Then she gave a mighty pull, and her overstuffed purse exploded.

A small, pink bottle flew up in a parabolic arc and smashed to bits against the wall, filling the room with a solvent stench. Ninja stars, brushes, books, and small firearms flew in all directions. Something that looked like a stick of dynamite skittered across the floor.

Gertie held up her purse and looked through it. Through the blown-out bottom, she met Deale’s gaze. Deale scowled back at her. This was not at all how he had hoped this meeting would turn out.

Ida Belle was holding a goo-filled baggie between her thumb and forefinger.

Gertie, do you even know what this is? Ida Belle demanded.

It’s my egg salad sandwich.