Crooked Paths: A Chautauqua Murder Mystery: Mimi Goldman Chautauqua Mysteries, #7

By Deb Pines

Crooked Paths is the seventh book in Deb Pines' traditional whodunit Chautauqua Mysteries featuring the wise and witty reporter sleuth of a certain age Mimi Goldman.
 
"An Agatha Christie for the text-message age," IndieReader calls the series.
 
When thrice-married socialite Connie dePalma sashays into Chautauqua in 2019, a neighbor says, "Here comes trouble." And, boy, was he right.
 
In less than a week Connie is found dead in a nearby gorge.
 
Many stand to benefit from Connie's demise. But that doesn't mean there was foul play, say the police.
 
So reporter and relentless snoop Mimi Goldman, with help from her computer-savvy son Jake and 94-year-old sidekick (and wheelman) Sylvia Pritchard, digs in -- following clues to more clues to dead ends and a threat on Mimi's life.
 
Recovering, Mimi re-questions everything and everyone including Connie's new husband, her apparently saintly sister, a boy-toy assistant, Connie's daughter and new beau, plus the nudists and homeless she finds at the gorge.
 
In the end, Mimi tries a long-shot hunch, hoping it reveals the killer lurking among Chautauqua's charming cottages, leafy streets and high-minded events -- in time for her to enjoy a visit from her new grandson.
 
Fans of Agatha Christie and Louise Penny and "Only Murders in the Building" will enjoy this twist-filled mystery Kirkus Reviews calls, "An entertaining addition to a reliable beach-read series." 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deb Pines
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201995669

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

HERE COMES TROUBLE.

The pronouncement by Bill Johnson, Mimi Goldman’s next-door neighbor, at Bill’s annual Chautauqua preseason party in 2019, stuck with Mimi long after.

Mimi had heard what Bill heard, a car screeching to a stop nearby. But she didn’t have Bill’s view out his front screen door.

So, ignoring her husband Walt’s headshakes, Mimi opened the heavy drapes on the closest window to peek out.

As the day’s last sunshine poured into the Johnsons’ narrow Victorian cottage, a crowd drew near.

Well, I’ll be, said Chet Johnson, Bill’s older brother, a retired English teacher, standing next to Mimi.

Haven’t seen her in years, Bill added.

Well, I’ll be, Chet repeated.

Mimi had never seen the tall, curvy redhead emerging from a metallic-blue Porsche parked one door north of Bill’s cottage and two doors north of Mimi and Walt’s on Miller Park.

But she was pretty sure she was Connie de Palma.

Connie’s sister, Marie Attenborough, a preschool teacher in the off-season, co-owned her place with Connie. And Mimi had heard Connie described as a stunning, (√) red-haired (√) socialite (√) who had just married Rich Older Husband No. 3 (not immediately verifiable) and liked to flaunt her wealth (√).

The socialite label, when Mimi had heard it, seemed passé, conjuring images of long-deceased grand dames like Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt.

But this woman’s bearing and clothes (a leopard-print wrap dress, high-heeled sandals and oversized, green-tinted mirrored sunglasses), especially in Chautauqua where people live in T-shirts and shorts, made her look like their heir.

In no hurry, she watched a flock of cawing birds disappear over the Bell Tower and darkening lake.

Did she know she was being watched?

Probably.

She took her time, heading toward the back of her sports car. She popped the trunk and, with some effort, hoisted out a large, black rolling suitcase.

Hey, Connie, need a hand with that? Bill yelled.

Stepping closer, she peered over her glasses until her face broke into a big smile.

Bill? That you?

Yes, ma’am.

Got a house full of Johnsons over there? How have you been?

As Bill, a well-built, white-haired, retired principal and daily golfer, approached Connie, their conversation got tougher to hear.

Speak up, Mimi wanted to yell.

But, showing some restraint, she didn’t.

Most of the other guests drifted off. Back to their own conversations. Or to the great food on a living room table surrounded by what Mimi called Chautchotchkes—mini Bell Towers, Chautauqua postcards and collectible spoons—plus toy soldiers, porcelain dogs and Teddy Roosevelt memorabilia.

Mimi stayed put.

She always marveled at women like Connie who looked way more put-together after a long drive than Mimi would. Or, truth be told, way more put-together than Mimi would before a long drive.

As Connie dragged her suitcase toward her pink-and-white cottage, the dumpiest on the block, Bill, an old-fashioned gentleman, looked pained.

He must have offered to help again. Shaking her head, Connie rolled her bag past him, up her rickety cottage steps.

You don’t want me to grab what’s left in the trunk? Bill yelled.

Before Connie could answer, the Porsche’s front passenger-side door swung open.

Out stepped a young man nearly as beautiful as Connie, pocketing his phone.

Tall and slim with tousled blond hair, he wore tight, straight-legged jeans, colorful sneakers, a button-down shirt and silver-tinted sunglasses.

At the trunk, he effortlessly strapped two bags across his chest and grabbed two more by the handles.

When he slammed the trunk, Connie yelled, I’ll be fine. Thanks.

CHAPTER TWO

YOU DIDN’T WANT to introduce me?

Jonas Carrington, after unpacking his few things upstairs, found Connie downstairs in the living room, making martinis.

She had changed into another over-the-top outfit: a low-cut, gold-trimmed sundress and gold sandals. She’d even switched out her jewelry, adding diamond stud earrings to match the rock he hadn’t expected on her left hand.

Absorbed, Connie didn’t answer. So, Jonas plopped himself down on the dustier of two matching floral-print couches. And he imagined he was where he thought he would be: in some classy beach resort. Not a run-down, swelteringly-hot cottage that smelled like wet dog.

Cold is key, Connie instructed, while filling two martini glasses with ice water from a pitcher. And great gin.

She added a gin brand called Botanist and ice to a stainless-steel cocktail shaker. Smiling, she jiggled the shaker left, then right, before dumping out the martini glasses and spraying them with a mini-spritzer that looked like it held mouthwash.

What’s that?

Vermouth. Don’t overdo. You just want to spray or rinse the cups.

Jonas nodded as she filled his glass to the top, hers halfway.

Olive or twist? she asked.

Smiling, he shrugged.

Then olive it is for both of us.

From the kitchen, Jonas heard the refrigerator door open and close. Connie returned with a jar of olives and spooned one into each glass.

Spanish queens, she said. Not easy to find. But they are exquisite. The best for martinis. I brought my own.

She put a napkin under Jonas’ glass. Leaning over, she delivered his drink with an eyeful of cleavage before stretching out on the other couch.

Jonas, after a slow sip, felt better.

This was luxury.

The top-shelf liquor. Crazy olives. Martini glasses that were, no joke, fucking works of art: heavy, ruby-colored, triangular cups on clear, curvy stems.

So what were you asking? Connie said.

I asked why you didn’t just introduce me to the neighbors out there who—

Can talk all they want, Connie said, giggling. I forgot what a small town this is. How everyone’s in everyone’s business. We were here what, one minute, before it was big news? All of Chautauqua was checking us out through their windows. Now I wouldn’t be surprised if they were on their phones, clucking and judging. Why do you care?

Hmm.

Why did he care?

For one thing, Jonas didn’t want to attract attention. Not with the neighbors. And definitely not with Connie’s new husband, Eddie McCarthy, a former college football player who, in pictures online, still looked like a big, scary dude.

Also Jonas, a 26-year-old college dropout, was never relaxed around people with money and education. Especially when he felt like a fraud.

A few more sips helped. And reminded him to stick with the game plan: smile, suck up, act interested in other people’s bullshit.

Cheers, he said, smiling and waving his glass at Connie.

Cheers, she answered, waving back.

Just half a glass for you?

Pacing myself, Connie said. Have a chance to look around?

A little. And, no offense, it looks like a really big job.

No offense taken. The place was always called rustic. But it’s way worse than the last time I was here. My sister and brother-in-law? She shook her head. Unfuckingbelievable.

Jonas nodded sympathetically.

But he could barely believe it himself. His interview for the handyman/assistant gig was at a high-end Buffalo club with white tablecloths and fresh flowers. He had to wear a sport coat and tie. Connie wore what looked like a ball gown.

So, he expected to be fixing up a mansion. Not this.

The outside paint job was fine and Jonas liked the cool double-decker porches with carved railings and wicker furniture.

But the railings and furniture were rotting. Inside, almost everything was falling apart: furniture, wallpaper, window coverings, appliances. There were four tiny bedrooms and, in theory, one and a half bathrooms. But the half-bath downstairs was busted. There was no AC, just ceiling fans.

It was 8 P.M. and Jonas was sweating through his best shirt.

Still think the place could sell for close to a million? he asked, trying to sound less skeptical.

If I played the long game and was patient, Connie said. Unloading it in a hurry? I don’t know. The smartest real estate person in town is coming over next Wednesday. Casey Martin. She has a half hour to check things out and give her view.

In six days? Jonas asked.

Yes, Connie said. I’m not expecting miracles. We fix what we can. Maybe the downstairs bath, if it’s easy. We can definitely paint. Re-cover the couches. Buff the floors. Add pillows. Throw out junk. Cosmetic stuff.

Jonas, sipping his martini, retreated into his own thoughts until something occurred to him.

Hey, are we even supposed to be drinking here?

Connie raised an eyebrow.

Didn’t you say on the drive here this place is dry?

"Was dry. Originally. Way back in 18-something when the Methodists came to train Sunday school teachers. They lived in tents, banned all alcohol. Maybe, now that booze is legit, they’re turning in their graves."

Cheers to that, Jonas said, raising his glass and taking another sip.

’Cause you like to follow the rules? Connie, smiling, held his gaze.

Not always. He smiled back.

If Jonas had to flirt, he’d flirt. It wasn’t tough. He just had to be careful.

Connie, playing her own game, had kicked off her sandals. Massaging her right foot, she showed off her shapely leg and sexy red toenails. Briefly, she offered a bonus flash of thigh and lace panties before readjusting her dress.

Jonas looked. Then he looked away.

Why don’t we start putting together a to-do list? she said. Think about what we can do ourselves. And what needs to be hired out.

Jonas, trying to stay sharp, gave his martini a rest.

I don’t know how quickly we can hire people. And what can be done once the season’s underway, Connie said. I’ll go grab a pen and paper.

Of course as soon as Connie left for the kitchen, her phone rang on the coffee table.

Your phone, Jonas yelled.

Can you see who’s calling?

Jonas stared at the screen.

Marie, he yelled. Is that your sister?

Yes.

When Connie hurried back and grabbed the phone, Jonas had two thoughts: Uh-oh! and This could be interesting.

CHAPTER THREE

CIAO, MARIE SAID. How are you, baby?

Marie, in her kitchen in Wahmeda, five minutes from the Chautauqua cottage, winced at her own delivery. Five maybe on a scale of one to ten.

Marie’s aim was to sound cool and nonchalant. Instead, she sounded like someone aiming to sound cool and nonchalant.

She consoled herself with a handful of chips, followed by two sips of Chardonnay, followed by another handful of chips. Diet be damned.

I’m good, Connie said. Given the circumstances.

Meaning?

Connie, true to form, sighed heavily. And Marie, true to form, jabbered on, trying to make peace with her drama-queen kid sister.

Wasn’t the trip okay? You flew didn’t you?

Flew to Buffalo and rented this amazing Porsche Panamera. You’ve gotta see it. It’s a sedan. But Eddie says it can go 200 miles per hour. Pulled up to the gate and you can imagine the stares.

Car name-dropping was wasted on Marie who was still driving her 10-year-old Honda Accord. She fussed for Connie’s sake.

Sounds expensive, Marie said.

Just rented it. But it’s truly exquisite.

Marie again swallowed her true opinion.

Was there anything more ridiculous than having a 200-mph car in Chautauqua, a mostly car-free, gated community with a speed limit of 12 mph?

Were the roads torn up? Marie asked. That’s been a lot of construction on 90.

No, 90 was clear and I got off where I usually do in Fredonia to take the back roads through Stockton.

Think it’s faster?

Maybe saves ten minutes. Maybe not. I like seeing the cute towns and Amish buggies. And everything in Mayville. The diner and—

Frank and I still go to the diner. And the gorge? Remember the gorge?

Of course.

We went last week with Matilda, our new dog. Maybe you saw the photos online?

Maybe.

Anyway, she loved splashing around there.

If I have time, I’d love to get back. Maybe with Eddie.

Waiting for Connie to get to the point was excruciating. And, yeah, fattening.

Marie ate another handful of chips. Then just one more. And one more after that.

To get the chips away from herself, Marie took the bowl into the living room and set it in front of her niece Lennie and Frank, who were absorbed in their favorite British baking show.

Okay, enough, Marie said, returning to the kitchen. What’s bothering you? Showing up out of the blue the weekend Frank and I usually set up the cottage for the Hallorans? And sounding beyond pissed? As if we did something wrong?

"As if?"

Yes, as if. Want to say what’s up?

So is this how you’re going to play this?

Play what?

Okay, I’m beyond pissed because I just realized that Frank’s been scamming me. For more than a year.

What are you talking about? Marie asked.

Frank sent my accountant the usual Chautauqua bills for my share of the taxes, Institution fees, repairs, everything. Twice. And the accountant paid them twice before she—

Twice?

Yeah, she didn’t notice. She paid Frank double and maybe wouldn’t have noticed anything if he hadn’t gotten greedy. And asked for another $18,000 for painting the exterior. Plus $4,000 for new air conditioners.

For painting and air conditioners?

Marie, thoroughly confused, couldn’t stop repeating things.

Yes, Connie said. Frank said it was going to be an extra hot summer. So he wanted ACs in every room. Five. So what did I do?

Marie didn’t answer.

I said yes, Connie continued. The accountant sent Frank another round of checks. And I don’t need to tell you the rest, do I? No paint job. No ACs. It feels like a fucking sauna here.

Another glance at her apparently oblivious husband, dressed in his usual ratty jeans and Buffalo Bills cap and T-shirt, made Marie even more confused. If Frank was raking in cash, it wasn’t obvious.

I think there must be some mistake, Marie said.

"Mistake?"

Maybe the offices billed Frank twice and, without thinking, he passed the bills on to you. These things happen.

At three or four different offices? The school district, Town of Chautauqua, and whoever bills for garbage?

Not likely, Marie had to agree. But stranger things have happened.

Why don’t I call the offices tomorrow and see what’s what? she said.

Are you fucking kidding me? Why don’t you ask your damn husband? And if you want to waste your time, call the offices, too. I’m getting ready to put the house on the market and—

Hey, Marie said. Hey. Stop right there. What are you talking about?

Selling the house.

The house isn’t yours to sell and—

Oh, please, Connie said. The thieves are lecturing me about right and wrong? Maybe I should call the cops on you, too. And let them sort this out and—

Not funny, Marie said. We’re family. Give me a chance to get to the bottom of things and get back to you. Hopefully tomorrow.

Silence.

Connie, are you high or something?

I resent that. I really do.

Then what’s your big rush? You drive in today, drop a bombshell and can’t even give me a day to sort things out?

When Connie still said nothing, Marie exploded.

Are you listening to me? You can’t just keep threatening people and expect to get away with it.

CHAPTER FOUR

LENNIE, STARING IN the mirror, couldn’t deny what everyone thought: She looked very much like her mom. Same thick red hair, refrigerator-white skin, green eyes and crowd-stopping body.

To change things up, she’d cut her hair into an asymmetrical lob, shorter in the back, longer on the right and front. Tiny gold hoops now ringed each earlobe. She added a diamond nose stud and sleeve of tattoos on her right arm.

Carving out her own life was harder. Lennie had made the big move, leaving SUNY-Fredonia. While deciding what’s next, she was crashing on her aunt and uncle’s couch and waitressing at the Athenaeum.

From the bathroom, she could hear the TV blaring in the living-room. And some of her aunt’s phone call. It was definitely a fight with Connie, Lennie’s mom. Thankfully, not about Lennie, it seemed. Or about Lennie ignoring her mom’s text proposing they meet when she came to Chautauqua.

Trying to ignore the fight, too, Lennie refocused on beautifying.

She darkened her red-blond lashes with mascara. Then she added more drama: thick eyeliner and some sparkle above her eyes and in her cleavage.

Leaning forward, she took a few sexy selfies in the mirror. Then she retook them, looking less smiley, more gangster.

Lennie picked a favorite shot. She cropped, filtered and posted it to Insta with a caption:

#alldressedupwithnoplacetogo

Maybe that would do it.

After waitressing all morning and napping all afternoon, she was definitely ready to go out. And not spend the night watching TV with her uncle.

She sprayed on her aunt’s almond body oil and returned to the living room and the baking show.

Think it’s fair?

Frank’s question got a yip from Matilda.

Not talking to you, Frank said, patting the dog. I was asking Lennie.

Her uncle, a school bus driver during the school year and Chautauqua bus driver in the summer, looked eager for Lennie’s opinion. As if her job serving food at a fancy restaurant made her some kind of expert.

Len? he repeated. Ya hear me?

Think what is fair?

That Natasha got eliminated and not Stuart.

IDK, she said.

What?

"I don’t