Death of a Diamond Lady: A Robbie Raines Mystery

By Kara L. Amis

Robbie Raines is a budding young detective-in-the-making. When a famous singer, known for her jewelry collection, is found dead, rumors swirl that her death was actually murder. Robbie is determined to find out who did it.

After befriending the late woman’s family, Robbie discovers the singer’s most valuable gems are hidden and can only be found by solving two mysterious riddles. Using her love of history, and secret visions of famous people who appear to her with clues, Robbie unravels the riddles even as she confronts a frightening “ghost” and sabotage from her school rival.

With assistance from her best pal Stacie, Detective Granger, and even her Aunt Enna, Robbie dodges danger and her parents’ fears to uncover the truth about the death of a dazzling former star.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665707039

Kara L. Amis

Kara L. Amis is a television producer and writer living in Brooklyn, New York. With a BA in communications from the University of Notre Dame and a Master’s in journalism from New York University, she has produced numerous news, lifestyle, and entertainment programs, most recently focusing on true crime. Her love of history and mysteries led her to create the Robbie Raines series. The first book in that series is The Secret of the Stairs: A Robbie Raines Mystery.

Book preview

DEATH

OF A

DIAMOND

LADY

A ROBBIE RAINES MYSTERY

KARA L. AMIS

63626.png

Copyright © 2021 Kara L. Amis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or

by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the

author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0702-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-0703-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021909829

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/17/2021

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

To everyone with big dreams, but dashed hopes—

keep believing.

And to young readers like Alex

Amis and Amélie Ellerbe:

You inspire me, so I hope this inspires you.

Special thanks to:

Kira Freed

Helen Blaylock

Cover photo courtesy:

Vanessa Velez DeGarcia – Photography

Julissa Lopez – Makeup

ONE

I t’s the eyes that freak me out the most. Even though they don’t blink, they glitter in the light. They’re deep round pools of darkness that stare at me with a dangerous look.

The fur around them is short and matted, thick and rusty-brown. And they’re perched on either side of a huge head with a long snout. Even though I’ve seen pictures of them before, I never thought I’d be standing face-to-face with one of these things. I feel a quivering in my knees. I reach down and give them both a quick slap to quiet them.

What’s the matter, Robbie? my Aunt Enna asks.

Nuh—nothing, I answer as I try to force my voice to sound calm and steady.

Guess you’ve never seen one of these before, huh? she chuckles.

Nope.

Don’t let it scare you, hon, it’s dead, Mom says with a grin. It’s just your Uncle Billy’s old stuffed boar’s head. I don’t know why he dragged that thing up here.

Remember how he wanted to hang it in his room when he was a kid, but Ma refused, Aunt Enna recalls. So he brought it up here and swore he’d hang it in his own place as soon as he moved out. That was decades ago, and it’s been gathering dust ever since.

She looks around the attic, her dark, almond-shaped eyes squinting. She shakes her thin hands, then runs one of them across the top of her forehead, brushing a sweep of mixed gray hair off to the side of her long, oval face.

Diane, don’t you think we oughta wait for Billy to come help us out?

We could wait till summer, and he’ll still find some excuse to keep from cleaning out this place with us, Mom replies, shaking her head. Sure he’s on his winter break now. But once he gets home, he’ll suddenly be drowning in work, or his back will give out. You know he’ll come up with something.

She’s right. You’d never catch Uncle Billy up here, sorting through all this old junk. Mom says he has an allergy to physical labor. And it has been a ton of work pulling out boxes, rummaging through trunks, and dragging out things that have piled up for years along the walls of this stuffy space. But now that Aunt Enna’s house is being renovated, she wants the worthless stuff gone, the valuable things accounted for, and everything else properly organized.

I didn’t even know there was an attic in her house. I guess that’s because the only way up here is by those little pull-down stairs that are hidden behind a panel in the hallway ceiling. How weird that I spent all last summer hanging around this place and never discovered this attic.

After this, we’re heading downstairs to clear out Aunt Enna’s basement—her famous basement where Red Walker died. Can it really be five months since I solved that case? I wonder how Red’s killer is doing. And what’s prison really like anyway? I heard Dad say once that it’s amazing no one from our family ever went there, since so many families have someone inside. That really made me think. And now I’ve helped put someone inside. I also heard Dad say several of the guys he grew up with ended up there, and it’s a miracle he didn’t. What did he mean by that?

Robbie, quit daydreaming and help me with this, Mom says. She’s tugging on one end of a rolled-up rug. Her dark curls are bundled under a headscarf and her round honey-colored face is sporting little drops of sweat at the temples. I go over, grab the other end of the rug, and together we lug it toward the middle of the room. Suddenly, a big black bug skitters across the floor right in front of my feet, almost touching my yellow sneakers! I let out a yelp and drop my end. A puff of dust flies up. Mom looks startled. I rake my hands through the drooping locks of my hair, and wave them in front of my face to swat away the swirl of dirt circling in front of me.

This place will need an airing out as well as a cleanup. But it’s a bit too cold to open up the windows, Aunt Enna notes. She’s right. It’s early January and it’s freezing outside, even though Mom is sweating.

I’ll get the dust mop and the vacuum, Aunt Enna says as she heads toward the attic stairs.

And some bug spray too, Mom calls out. You have to expect a few would be running around up here, she says to me.

I guess. But you know how much I hate things that crawl on the ground. I’m not one of those kids who’s into bugs and snakes and pet mice and stuff. That’s for those geeked-out, science-loving, wannabe-vet types. I’m the geeked-out history-loving wannabe-professor or lawyer or detective type.

Glad to know you’ve narrowed down your career list. Mom grins.

Minty is the only thing with more than two legs that I’m into, I state proudly, grinning at the thought of my new cat.

You’re lucky. My brothers used every opportunity to torture me with creatures sporting more than two legs. That’s why there’s only one thing that truly scares me.

It’s fire, right?

Sure is, Mom answers. Even though I love being in a kitchen, I’m always nervous around open flames. I burned myself once as a kid and that’s all it took. She gives a little shudder.

Just imagine burning to death in a fire, like what they used to do to witches, I say in a hushed tone.

Oh, Robbie! Why must your mind jump to something gruesome like that? Mom makes a horrified face.

Maybe ’cause I did that thing about witches being burned at the stake for history class.

I pause to remember that A-plus I got back in October for my report on Janet Horne, the last woman in Britain who was burned alive as a witch. It was a really spooky story that was perfect for extra credit—and for scaring the kids in my class something fierce. But the story was so awful it haunted me for days. It still does. I see a pile of plastic bags filled with old clothes stacked in a heap in the corner. What if that was a pile of wood for witch burning? Then suddenly, out of the blue, I feel it start to happen—the familiar whirling in front of my eyes, my mind rushing around inside my head. It’s one of my weird secret visions coming on.

I close my eyes a moment. Then I open them and yes, the clothes pile is now made of sticks. And it’s on fire! The attic has disappeared, and I’m standing outside somewhere. A crowd of people is standing around me, strangely dressed, and talking in weird accents—Scottish accents. Suddenly two men escort a white-haired woman toward the flames. She’s old, barefoot, and—oh my God! She’s got no clothes on, but she’s covered in patches of something black and furry. This has to be poor old Janet Horne. I read that she was stripped naked, then covered in tar and feathers. All because the people in her town in 1727 thought she was a witch. But she wasn’t. She just had—what’s it called? Dementia. Yes, that’s it, that disease when a person’s mind stops working like it should.

I can see poor Janet looking around at the crowd. She’s smiling. She has no idea what’s about to happen to her. The people around me are hissing and yelling and pushing forward to get a closer look. But Janet doesn’t seem to hear them. Instead she goes right up to the fire that soon will kill her! She leans over, a few silvery strands of her hair falling forward around her face. She puts her white, wrinkled hands right up to the fire and says, Oh, what a bonny blaze!

I gasp ’cause I know that’s Scottish for Oh, what a beautiful fire! Then I hear a ringing sound—a bell. A bell? Maybe it’s the church bell in the town square? No, it’s not. It sounds like a phone. A phone?

Oh, it’s Aunt Enna’s phone downstairs. My mind snaps back into the present. I can hear my aunt’s muffled voice on a call. I look around and see Mom sitting on a small cushion sorting through some framed pictures. I’m back in the attic, thank God! My vision ended just in time, so I won’t have to see poor Janet get burned alive. But then I hear Aunt Enna yelling.

Diane, come down here quick! You won’t believe it. I can’t believe it! Diamond Davis is dead!

64616.png

Imm-possible! They’re caught again! I pull at the tights behind my knees and manage to free them from the prickly edge of the wooden pew that’s been snagging them for the last hour. I squirm a bit more as the organ music swells and the choir sings. I’ve never been to a memorial service before. I guess it’s different from a funeral since, as Dad explained, Ms. Davis’s coffin isn’t here. I’m really glad of that.

I had no idea old Ms. Davis was some kind of celebrity; to me she was just one of the ladies in our church who always wore big hats and fancy clothes. She also had a reputation for sporting lots of expensive jewelry—that’s why her nickname was Diamond.

A couple of the people who got up and spoke about her said she’d loved jewelry her whole life. My best friend Stacie would have liked hearing that. I wish she was here. I know I’m supposed to sit quietly in this itchy wool dress and listen to all the nice things people are saying about old Ms. Davis, and not pick at my tights, which are squeezing the blood out of my legs. But I’m kind of bored. It’s Saturday and there are at least three other places I’d rather be.

Still, it was interesting to learn that Ms. Davis was a singer when she was young. I did know that she owned a nightclub once. But I didn’t know she was originally from Millstead—Mom and Aunt Enna’s tiny hometown. That’s why Aunt Enna’s here today, since she never comes to our church. I also didn’t know that Ms. Davis married two brothers—or rather she married a guy, then after he died, married his brother. That’s crazy-strange. But it’s crazy-cool that her daughter was in the military and is a pilot. She stood up and spoke a short time ago. I wouldn’t mind meeting her.

The music ends. I give my tights one last tug to make sure they’re free of the pew and jump to my feet, eager to make a quick exit. Suddenly I realize I need to make what Dad often calls a pit stop. I know there’s a restroom just off to the side of the sanctuary.

Mom, I’ll be back, I say as I wiggle past her.

We’ll meet you outside, she tells me.

I weave my way through a crowd of people who are milling around the large photo of Ms. Davis propped up just in front of the altar. She was rather pretty when she was younger, with shoulder length waves of hair, chiseled cheekbones, and a hazelnut face, which in the picture, is bordered by white fur and is perched atop a red-nailed hand, displaying a huge diamond ring. I get jostled and bumped by the thickening pack of people who linger in front of Diamond’s picture. Oops! I drop my paper program as someone bumps into me. I reach down to pick it up. As I do, I see something shiny on the red church carpet. I grab it before several large feet can trample it, and me as well.

It’s a ring—a thick, square-shaped gold ring with some sort of flower carving on it and two small capital-letter Ds on either side. It feels a bit heavy, but it’s also very pretty. I turn it round and round to see it from all sides.

Thanks. I’ll take that, a voice says. I look up and see a handsome man with a golden-amber face smiling warmly at me. His eyes look friendly, and his smile is wide and dimply, displaying rows of pearly white teeth. He holds out his hand.

Is this yours? I ask.

Well, not really no. But I’ll take it, he answers. Hmm, I frown.

If it’s not yours, then I should find out who owns it and give it back, I tell him.

You don’t have to worry about that.

Do you know who it belongs to?

Yes, I do.

Okay, good, I sigh. Then you’ll return it, right?

Actually, I can’t really do that. Well, I could in a way, but … no, actually I can’t.

Why not? I frown again. This guy is making no sense.

’Cause it belongs to her, he says, pointing to the oversized photo. I gulp.

You mean, Ms. Davis?

He nods. I feel my knees knock together as I quickly dump my little find into his outstretched palm. Oh my God! I’ve just been holding the ring of a dead woman!

64601.png

Now I’m truly ready to go home. I’m standing outside the church fidgeting as Mom and Dad chat with the people we normally see only on