Wicked Schemes: A Chautauqua Murder Mystery: Mimi Goldman Chautauqua Mysteries, #9

By Deb Pines

Wicked Schemes is the ninth book in Deb Pines' traditional whodunit Chautauqua Mysteries featuring the wise and witty reporter/grandma sleuth Mimi Goldman. "An Agatha Christie for the text-message age," IndieReader calls the top-selling series set in Chautauqua, New York.

 

When a local online message-board post says, "A Murder is Announced," all are welcome, on July 18, 2021, at 9:15 p.m. at Merrill Manor, Chautauqua is abuzz.

 

Many show up expecting a harmless murder-mystery game.

 

But then the lights go out. An intruder yells, "Stick 'em up." Three shots are fired. And, by the door, lies . . . the body of the intruder, in costume.

 

Was it a botched robbery? Or something else?

 

In this page-turning riff on an Agatha Christie classic, the police, of course, are no help. So reporter and relentless snoop Mimi Goldman (aka Chautauqua's Miss Marple) and her fearless 90-year-old sidekick Sylvia tackle their ninth and trickiest whodunit yet.

 

Fans of Agatha Christie and Louise Penny and "Only Murders in the Building" will enjoy this intricately plotted whodunit that's been called a "rollicking homage to the Queen of Mystery."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deb Pines
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201922863

Book preview

1

YIKES, A MURDER!

It was an ordinary Chautauqua Sunday, most people thought, until they went online.

The sky was gray-blue. The lake was bathtub-calm. Birds chitter-chattered in the sugar maples. The Bell Tower did its thing, chiming every quarter hour.

Early-bird Chautauquans were out enjoying a walk, a round of golf, reading, jogging and the like, relieved that the in-person 2021 summer season hadn’t been, like 2020’s, canceled due to COVID. And that it was shaping up to be enjoyable. And uplifting. And a little different, but not too different, from prior years at the 147-year-old quirky, churchy, Victorian cottage-filled summer arts community in far western New York.

Matilda Willoughby, unable to sleep, reached for her phone and reading glasses. After checking her email, she did what many Chautauquans do first thing. She browsed the Grapevine.

Someone was looking for a ride to the Buffalo airport for their niece. Someone else was looking for a reliable plumber. Someone else was giving away a red tricycle. Someone else was selling a kayak. Someone else wanted a strong young person to help unload their car at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.

The next post said:

A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED

Matilda stared. Confused, she moved on to the details:

All vaccinated Chautauquans are welcome!

When: Sunday, July 18 at 9:15 PM (After the Sacred Song Service)

Where: Merrill Manor, 6 Root Ave., ground floor

Masks optional

My goodness, Matilda thought. What nonsense.

Evelyn Willoughby, Matilda’s very elderly mother, was snoring under an Amish quilt in the single bed next to Matilda’s. She needed her rest. So Matilda let her be.

Still, the item was upsetting.

Sunday, July 18 th, was that very day. Merrill Manor was where they were staying, in the same room her mom had rented for 32 summers.

When the Manor sold in May, the new owner, Betsy Kowalski, a Wall Street big shot, let Evelyn stay. The sale, nonetheless, was upsetting. And now this, Matilda thought.

She took a screenshot and sent it to Betsy, adding:

See this on the Grapevine? Is it some kind of joke?

Across the street, a few doors down, Agnes Hammerle was pouring coffee for her husband, Jeremiah, a retired judge.

Jeremiah enjoyed reading an actual physical newspaper while Agnes, his third wife, bustled about in her leopard-print robe and slippers.

Between bites of bacon, eggs and toast, Jeremiah flipped through his two-day-old New York Times.

Agnes stirred whole milk into his coffee. Frothed nutpods, a non-dairy diet substitute, went in hers. Seated across from the judge, she browsed her email and then the Grapevine.

OMG, she said. Listen to this, hon.

Jeremiah kept reading.

Hon, she repeated. Did you hear me?

What? he asked in a bored tone.

"It’s a weird item in the Grapevine that . . ."

"I don’t read The Daily anymore. It never tells you the real news and—"

"Hon, I’m not talking about The Daily. It’s–"

Symphony cuts? COVID outbreaks? He paused. Crickets. Just rah-rah cheerleading and—

"Jeremiah, it’s not in The Daily, she said. Would you just hush? For one sec? It’s the Grapevine."

When the information finally sunk in, he nodded smugly. Garbage, too.

Let me finish, Agnes said. The heading on this is . . . A Murder Is Announced.

A what?

A murder, she repeated. A murder. Should we call the police? You must know who to call.

He chuckled at his adorably naïve wife.

Is that all it says?

No, darlin’, wait for the rest.

In a quivering voice, she continued. "All vaccinated Chautauquans are welcome! When: Sunday, July 18 at 9:15 PM (After the Sacred Song Service) Where: Merrill Manor, 6 Root Ave., ground floor. Masks optional."

Her husband returned to his reading.

Did you hear me? she said. "A murder. On this block. Tonight after the Sunday service. A murder!"

Oh, hon, he said, finally lowering the paper. Relax. It’s just a game. A silly whodunit game. Maybe they’ve hired actors for the main parts: killer, victim, detective. Or maybe all of the guests play detective.

Are you sure?

Of course I’m sure, he said, patting her hand. You can order these games online. With scripts. Some even have sound effects. It’s all in fun. If you like that sort of thing.

She sipped her coffee, weighing his answer, until she seemed convinced.

You know so much, she cooed. So should we go?

Of course not, he said. Whoever put this in the paper—

"The Grapevine."

"The paper. The Grapevine. Whatever. They have no sense announcing it the day of. How do they know we’re not busy?"

"We’re not busy, she said. And dinner tonight’s no big production. Just bang-bang shrimp."

He stared blankly.

Bang-bang shrimp, she repeated. You loved it. Real mayo for you. Yogurt for—

How much longer will you be on this insane diet?

I don’t really mind it, she said. I don’t. The price of vanity.

The price, the judge knew, was much higher. A quick survey of Agnes’ shape, lingering on her chest, though, shut him up.

Back to tonight, Agnes said. Why don’t we go?

Jeremiah shook out his paper and disappeared behind it.

I’m curious, Agnes said. I want to see what this is about. You’d be great at this kind of game. And it’s so close.

Hmmm.

Just hmmm?

The judge said nothing more.

Darlin’, Agnes said, "I’m going to take that as a yes."

2

CLUELESS

Merrill Manor, a three-story, beige-and-brown Victorian cottage with two wrap-around porches and spectacular flower boxes, was like many older Chautauqua houses.

It opened in the early 1900s as a boarding house, built on the footprint of the tents that housed the first Chautauquans, who came, starting in 1874, for two-week retreats for Methodist Sunday school teachers.

In the 1990s, it became a single-family home owned by various Merrills who, depending on their financial states, rented out the whole place, or a few rooms, for what had evolved into a nine-week summer season.

The Manor’s location made it different, too. The only house on the ravine side of Root Avenue, surrounded by overgrown trees and brush, it felt way more isolated than the other closely packed old homes.

When Betsy, a Chautauqua newbie, bought the place in May, the neighborhood was abuzz. She enjoyed calls and visits from well-wishers and nosy parkers.

A new round of attention Sunday grew tiresome fast. People kept asking the same two things: Had Betsy seen the Grapevine item? And what did it mean?

No idea, she told a neighbor, Bridget Gallagher, the latest to ask, via Merrill Manor’s land line. I don’t know who posted it or why.

When she finally hung up, Betsy sighed and rejoined her childhood friend Kitty Nowak for their daily 5 p.m. glass of Chardonnay.

And you asked Frank about the notice? Kitty asked from one of the two turquoise-colored couches Betsy had added to the sitting room’s old junk.

I did, Betsy said.

And?

He swore up and down he had nothing to do with it.

Kitty sighed.

I hate to speak ill of your relations, she said. But I don’t believe him for one minute. Lying is his job.

"Acting, Betsy corrected. Not lying."

Same thing, isn’t it?

Betsy laughed.

And a prank like this? Goodness gracious. It’s so like him. Remember when he claimed we won a luxury cruise?

Down the Nile, Betsy said. You were so excited.

Of course, Kitty said. I haven’t traveled the world like the rest of you. And if you hadn’t been so kind, inviting me to—

Enough, Kitty. You are a comfort to me. And you help me run this place.

Kitty looked dubious.

She also looked, Betsy thought (and immediately felt guilty for thinking it), like the Manor—in need of a makeover.

Kitty’s hair was too red, her lips too rouged, her clothes (sweatpants and a pink Chautauqua T-shirt) too youthful.

Still, Betsy was genuinely grateful for Kitty’s company, especially over their evening wine.

That Egypt trip prank? Kitty resumed. Cruel. And this one? Not funny. She shook her head. Not at all funny. And how many people are going to show up?

Betsy laughed.

Everyone under this roof, I imagine, she said. And maybe a few neighbors. I pulled out some chairs. And put in the extra leaves.

The mahogany table was the one decent thing in the room besides her couches, Betsy thought. One day she’d refinish it. And scrap everything else, especially the fading wallpaper, the old rug and unfortunate mishmash of chairs: wooden folding chairs, a La-Z-Boy recliner, three stiff-backed dining room chairs and two wingback Queen Annes.

Ernestine’s staying late to throw together some food, Betsy said. And drinks. And—

And she’s not happy about it, Ernestine Davis said, sneaking up on them, through the kitchen door, with a tray of cheese and crackers and serving utensils. My time should be my time. Especially on a Sunday, Ms. K. I was going to get your dinner served, clean up and go. Now I have a giant party to plan for and—

An exaggeration, Ernestine, Betsy interjected. "It is extra work. Maybe an hour or two. I said I’d pay you overtime. And you agreed to do it."

Ernestine sighed. "Did I have a real choice? she asked. No, I did not. The Merrills never had me work late. And—"

Goodness gracious, Kitty interjected, practically in tears. "Ernestine, not today. You didn’t put that item in the Grapevine to torment us, did you?"

"Me?"

Yes.

Of course not, she said, stomping back to the kitchen and slamming the door.

Why you put up with that, I don’t—

She’s a great cook, Betsy said. And reliable. Not easy to find around here. So the rest of it? She waved her hand, dismissively.

Especially today, Kitty said. You’re nervous, too. Even if you’re trying to hide it. I know better and—

Oh, stop.

When Kitty inhaled the rich, buttery scent of Ernestine’s baking, she started to relax.

Then the phone rang.

Goodness gracious, Kitty wailed. Won’t people stop?

3

CHAUTAUQUA’S MISS MARPLE ARRIVES

Frank Paddington, Betsy’s 35-year-old actor nephew, after agreeing to listen for the doorbell, checked himself out in the mirror above the fireplace.

Not bad.

He spiked his hair higher. Even better, he thought. Especially with his outfit: a linen blazer with skinny jeans, loafers and the pale blue button-down that highlighted his eyes.

Would more hair paste be better still? That’s what Frank was wondering when the bell rang at 8:45 p.m.

Just a sec, he yelled, hurrying over and dragging open the heavy front door.

We’re not too early, are we?

Bridget Gallagher, a retired teacher, stood there with her son Eric Gallagher, a recent college grad. The rumpled redheads looked flushed with excitement.

No, Frank said, ushering them in. Not too early.

And not too late? Bridget asked.

Not too late either, he said.

I don’t think the Sacred Song is over, Bridget said. I heard a few chords. And the announcement said the murd . . . or whatever this is, wasn’t starting until after the service so we—

Should drink, chimed in Amanda, Frank’s sister. I’m taking orders.

Before Amanda could list the options, the doorbell rang again.

Hello, y’all.

More neighbors: Agnes Hammerle, a busty blonde, and her husband, the pompous judge.

No one’s been killed yet, have they? Agnes asked.

No, no, Amanda said, laughing. Nothing’s happened yet. C’mon in. I was just offering drinks. Red or white wine? She tapped out the options on her left hand. Beer? Seltzer? Or LaCroix.

Sounds French and fancy, Agnes said, giggling, as they entered. What is it?

Just flavored seltzer water, Amanda said. I’m not even sure it’s really French. We have lemon and lime. Probably plain. And Pamplemousse.

"Pamplewhat?" Agnes was giggling again.

French for grapefruit, Eric said.

Languages, Bridget said. My son’s got a gift. But does he have a job?

"I have a job, Eric protested. I’m writing a book."

Is that a real job? his mother asked, appealing to the group. Is it? Why not get a teaching certificate? I keep asking him. Don’t you agree, Amanda?

Amanda, a 33-year-old teacher rethinking her profession, shrugged. Not getting involved, she said. So what’ll it be?

Plain water for me, darlin’, Agnes said.

I’ll try the Pamplemousse, Bridget said.

A beer please, Eric said.

Judge? Amanda asked.

White wine, please. Especially if you have anything Old World. Meaning from somewhere that was a birthplace of wine: France, Italy, Spain, Germ—

Gotcha, Amanda said.

So not California, the judge continued. Or South America. Or New Zealand. The main difference is the terroir. Old World wines are also less fruity, with more minerality and—

Sorry to interrupt, Frank said. While Amanda’s taking orders, I’m collecting cell phones.

He waved a wicker basket with a sign that said, Cell phones, please.

I do this for any get-together lately, he explained. Don’t know what’s up for tonight. But I’d hate for everyone to miss it, staring at their screens.

Eric and the Hammerles tossed in their phones as the door opened again.

In walked Sandy Bianchi, the beautiful Chautauqua gardener who rented the tiny ground-floor room behind the kitchen. Dressed in muddy coveralls, she froze at the sight of the guests.

Is there some kind of party? she asked.

Do you live under a rock? Amanda said.

Sandy kept eying the crowd.

"Don’t you read the Grapevine?" Amanda said.

Not every minute, Sandy said. I got back from Erie tonight around dinnertime, then went to a job. What’s up?

Amanda showed Sandy the Murder Is Announced item on her phone.

Sandy’s eyes widened. What is it?

No idea, Frank said. In the meantime, ladies?

He waved his bin and Amanda and Sandy added their phones.

Mrs. Gallagher? Frank said.

Me, too? she asked, red-faced and flustered.

"Everyone," Frank said.

Let me see, Bridget said. I thought I had it in my purse. Maybe not. Eric, did I leave my phone at home?

How would I know? Eric said.

Bridget, after rummaging twice through her purse and its compartments, found her phone in a sweater pocket and tossed it in the bin, too.

Heading downstairs, Betsy Kowalski felt a twinge of nerves.

Deep breaths helped. So did slow, even steps. And, at the bottom, so did the admiring looks from her guests. From even the snobbiest snobs who would call caring about one’s appearance frivolous—preferring, of course, the life of the mind.

Betsy had painted her nails red. She’d blow-dried her chin-length gray hair. She’d taken extra pains with her outfit: black linen pants, a crisp white blouse and a favorite scarf, black silk with a swirling white-black-and-maroon pattern.

After a few quick hellos, she headed straight for the gladiolus.

And you still don’t know what this nonsense is about? Matilda Willoughby asked, coming up behind her.

I don’t, Betsy said, while snipping stems to even out the bouquet.

Really? That is very hard to—

"Really."

Beautiful glads, by the way, Matilda said.

Amanda got them for me this morning at the Farmers’ Market. The one by the fire station.

What a sweetheart, Matilda said. She’s your niece, right?

She and Frank call me Aunt Betsy. But they’re really cousins, young cousins.

First cousins? Matilda said.

No, no. My grandmother and their mother’s grandmother were sisters. So . . .

They’re once removed, maybe?

"Maybe. Anyway when their mother heard I’d be here and Frank got the theater job, she asked if