Play That Funky Music White Koi

George

Excerpt

Holy Hannah… But that’s not what killed her, is it?

Could a Taser kill you? I guess it could if used improperly. This definitely called for a Google search.

No. Word is she died—

Officer Newton?

I cringed at the sound of Justice’s voice. Just as things were heating up, I’d been foiled again.

Don’t you have a shift starting?

Cory straightened then, his spine stiff, his face serious as beads of sweat popped out along his forehead. Yes, sir.

As Justice sauntered up to us, his stride confident and long, I let the air out of my lungs and tried not to look guilty even though I was dying to know what the word about Abby’s death was and if this was going to end up labeled a murder.

The hot sun beat down on Justice’s head, making his chestnut-colored hair gleam. He looked to Cory, his jaw tight. I don’t suppose our Lemon was grilling you on the Hoffer case, was she?

I gave his pec a sharp poke. Hey! I said I was going to stay out of it and I’m going to stay out of it.

Justice peered down at me, his flawless tanned skin glowing from the heat as he gave me the not buying it look. Baloney.

I planted my hands on my hips and wrinkled my nose at him. Call it whatever deli meat you’d like, I’m doing exactly what I said I was going to do.

Sort of…

She’s telling the truth, sir. She didn’t ask me a single question. Cory defended my honor, making me smile.

Justice crossed his arms over his broad chest and popped his lips with skepticism. The question is, did she weasel something outta you without you even realizing you were telling her information vital to the case? Because she does that to those who aren’t seasoned veterans to her ways.

My ways? Please. Sometimes I asked questions. As outlined in the case of my mother’s ex-boyfriend, Myron, I wasn’t exactly a genius at it.

Cory went green, leaving me to assume the Taser information was confidential and he’d made a rookie mistake. So I covered for him. He did not. We were just passing the time as he was on his way into work. So there, Justice. And if you don’t quit being so quick to call me a meddler, I won’t tell you what I learned this morning, seasoned vet.

Justice hitched his jaw toward the precinct, the tic in it pulsing. You’re dismissed, Newton. Head on in for your shift.

Cory gave me another quick hug and mouthed a thank you to me. Good seeing you, Lemon.

I patted his back and smiled. Good seeing you in a uniform instead of from behind some cell bars, you babysitter’s nightmare, I teased with a wink. Proud of you, kiddo.

He laughed before turning away from Justice’s stern gaze and headed through the crowd into the station.

Justice narrowed his eyes at me then. So, for someone who isn’t snooping, what has Lemon Layne snooped today?

I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek and crossed my arms over my chest, mirroring him. Ask nicely and make sure you say please.

He cracked an almost-smile before he grew serious again. If you’re withholding information that could impede our investigation, I can lock you up, Lemon.

I cocked a jaunty eyebrow at him. Do you guys serve lunch in cellblock H? Because I’m starving.

Nope, but I can serve you twenty-four hours of cell time with old man Sweeney. He tied a pretty good one on last night and Deloris kicked him out. He was making a ruckus over at the frozen yogurt stand this morning, so we brought him in to give him a place to sober up. I hear he’s got the pukes, though. So you’d better bring a HAZMAT suit…

I rolled my eyes at him. Okay, fine. You win. I went to find Cappie earlier to stop him from starting rumors about vampires and garlic crosses, and there was a crowd gathered in honor of Abby Hoffer at her storefront.

I saw that. I’m guessing you went crowd surfing for information?

I tried not to take a defensive stance and remain as casual as possible. Not intentionally. I was looking for Cappie before he stirs everyone up. He made a real mess of stuff last time with Myron’s murder. I can’t afford attention drawn away from brisket and focused on murders in my backyard, Justice. We need this season to be a profitable one, not a sensationalistic one.

Okay. That’s fair. So what happened?

As people milled about us in the bright sunshine, I parsed my words carefully. I got to talking with Abby’s friends a little. They all attended her meetings once a week—mostly because they’re all old college friends, but the one friend, Thea was her name, told me she and Abby and the others were all out in the woods last night doing some kind of release of energy ritual. Which is an explanation for why she was near my house.

Justice frowned, planting his hands on his hips. Release of energy? Is that some sort of holistic thing?

Apparently, it’s how they send a soul off into the afterlife so they’re not left floating around here with us, all fractured—or something. I know it sounds a little crazy and unconventional, but Abby believed in all sorts of things, if you ask her friend Thea, including the paranormal and the afterlife.

Now his eyebrow arched. Just one, mind you. Which meant he was interested. And exactly who were they releasing?

Another college friend who died just the week before Abby. Josiah Kent, married to Rupert George.

Oh, yep. I know him, Justice remarked. Rupert’s the guy who owns the art gallery. Super refined, very cultured. Wears expensive clothes and really shiny shoes.

"You’ve been to the art gallery?" I’d always thought I knew Justice pretty well, and I was sure he was a football/beer/chicken wings kind of guy. That he’d even stepped foot into the art gallery shocked and amused me.

Play That Funky Music White Koi

A Lemon Layne Mystery, Book 2

Dakota Cassidy

Published 2017 by Book Boutiques.

ISBN: 978-1-944003-82-1

Copyright © 2017, Dakota Cassidy.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

Manufactured in the USA.

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Blurb

My tiny town of Fig Harbor's just recovering from our last tango with murder, only to be faced with yet another—and this time, it sure looks an awful lot like a vampire's on the loose in the Pacific Northwest.

Vampires are just Twilight fiction, right?

I'm not so sure after a murder victim is found in my koi pond right next to my favorite fish, Koi George, (not good!) with bite marks on her neck, and a gothic antique chalice next to her body with what sure looks like blood residue.

By now, everyone knows I can't keep my nose out of a good mystery. But when I literally try to stay out of the fray while our town conspiracy theorist is yelling vampires have invaded our beloved Fig Harbor, I have no choice but to gather up all the garlic I can buy and put my sleuthing shoes back on!

Author Note:

Hello, all, and welcome to my fictional town of Fig Harbor, Washington, where, despite how quaint and utterly charming the backdrop of mountains and ocean can be in this small burg, dead bodies keep showing up!

First, some of you Washingtonians might find many similarities to your beloved Gig Harbor, WA, but you’ll also likely find some vast differences, too. I fell in love with the pictures of Gig Harbor, but I’ve never visited (yet!). However, I couldn’t resist the charm and vividness of the town’s spirit. Thus, Fig Harbor was born. So please note, I’ve tweaked the amazing aspects to suit my fictional needs as warranted and created a very (read: very!) loose representation of the original.

Second, thank you so much for joining Lemon Layne and her whacky gang of mystery-solving friends. I hope we’ll enjoy many murders…er, I mean mysteries to come!

Dakota XXOO

Chapter 1

"Is that the music from Dateline I hear in the background, Lemon?" my BFF Coco Belinski asked, her tone rife with accusation.

I clicked the television off in guilt. Don’t be silly, Coco. I was just getting ready for bed. You know too much stimulation is a sure trigger for my insomnia.

"I do. That’s why I bought you that MP3 of a bunch of monks chanting. To help you sleep. That’s also why Dateline and all other murder mysteries, either real or even the tamest of strains known as Murder She Wrote, should not be a part of your daily diet anymore, Detective Layne. We’ve discussed this, haven’t we? This is your mental health calling and it likes status quo."

I snorted at her favorite endearment as of late as I made my way to my bathroom to brush my teeth. I was no more a detective than she was a sheep herder.

It’s been almost three months since Coco and I were a given a bird’s-eye view of a real-life murder investigation, involving my mother’s ex-boyfriend, Myron Fairbanks. An investigation that brought up tons of unresolved issues, for me in particular. Issues from my past…

An investigation that also reminded me, solving a crime on a television show is decidedly different than solving one in real life.

Coco’s overprotective nature is the reason she’s calling me just before bedtime, and has every night since that chaos all went down—because she knows me well enough to know I’ve been having a bout with insomnia.

Though, my insomnia doesn’t all surround the murder of Myron, mind you. But I admit, there are nights when the vision of him in our gas station bathroom with a hole cut out of the back of his head does still haunt me.

So when given too much time on my hands, like when I can’t sleep, I inevitably turn to any sort of mystery I can get my greedy hands on. That’s always been my way.

It doesn’t have to be a murder mystery. It could be something as uncomplicated as the case of the missing thumbtack, and I’m britches deep, all on board to solve the case. My problem is the total immersion that occurs when I sink my teeth into any kind of puzzle.

The bigger problem? I can’t let go. I jump in both feet to the exclusion of all else until I figure it out.

Now, you’d think after the last mess I’d ended up in—which, by the by, included the invasion of a zombie hunting club in our small town of Fig Harbor, WA, mass hysteria over government conspiracies, a killer with his gun pointed at both Coco and I, and a brush with death—my mystery-solving days would be over.

Nope. In fact, that very encounter is what continues to fuel my passion—because I wasn’t nearly as good at solving a crime as I’d once thought. I’d missed things. Important things. There were clues I didn’t investigate thoroughly or look more deeply into because quite frankly, I’m an armchair sleuth at best.

And that bugged me no end. My mother’s innocence had been in question for a moment or two during the investigation, and I’d fumbled the ball. It left me kicking myself, mostly late at night when the shadows of the trees in our backyard made black-talon silhouettes out of their limbs on my walls.

Lemon? You still there?

I sighed as I squeezed minty toothpaste onto my toothbrush. There was no lying to Coco. She could see right through me. I’d been caught.

Looking away from my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I confessed as such. "Okay. Confession. I watched Dateline. Guilty. But The Bachelor’s on hiatus and there was nothing else on. Anyway, it’s over now and I’m going to bed. Promise."

She yawned into the phone. Give JF a big smooch from me and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. Now get some sleep, fledgling detective. When I walk into the store tomorrow, I don’t want to see those unbecoming shadows under your eyes. Sweet dreams.

I clicked off the phone and brushed my teeth, yawning, too. I thought about the irony of my yawn as I turned off the light. Sure, I was yawning now—before I got into bed. Once I got there, all snug under my favorite comforter, my mind whirled like a dervish.

But I prepared for another sleepless night anyway by scooping up my rescue spider monkey, Jessica Fletcher, from her fake tree limb perch in my room and dropping a kiss on her mischievous head from Auntie Coco. She gave me a sleepy coo and snuggled against my chest before I deposited her in her cage and tucked her favorite stuffed unicorn against her cheek.

I set about brushing my unruly, shoulder-length hair, a fruitless act for sure. No matter how many fancy highlights I got in burnt umber slathered all over my muddy brown hair, no matter how much product I used, it would always be too kinky-curly and uncontrollable to do much with but put in a ponytail.

Dabbing moisturizer beneath my eyes, I had to admit if I had nothing else, I had clear, bright eyes and decent skin. I’d acquired a light tan from the occasional outing to the docks in town for lunch or drinks with Coco, giving me a healthy glow and naturally blushed cheeks.

Unfortunately, that’s sort of all I have going for me. I’m pretty short, and while I’m wiry and in decent enough shape, I’m not exactly bodaciously gifted, if you know what I mean. Sighing, I set the moisturizer down and put my brush away, dreading this time of night.

And then I turned and looked at my bed in all its big, beautiful king-size glory, with plump pillows in ivory and periwinkle blue, the matching fluffy comforter with eyelet trim, and sighed again. Lately, my bed had become my torture chamber, but I was trying to do what the doctor in town told me to do after I’d finally seen him about my insomnia—keep a regular schedule for sleep. No coffee after three in the afternoon, go to bed at the same time every day, rise and shine at the same time every day, exercise, eat well, blah, blah, blah.

Throwing my bathrobe over the end of the bed and turning off the soft-blue glass lamp on my nightstand, I did the same thing I’d done for the last three months—got in, flipped on my monk chants on my phone and waited for my thoughts to spin out of control.

As I hunkered under the covers, forcing myself to think about the coming of spring and all the things I wanted to do with my koi pond out back, I found a rather pleasant spot in my brain where tulips and daffodils swayed gracefully in the breeze amongst the rocks surrounding my fish. While I imagined the wind, warm and filled with the tang of the ocean, ruffling my mop of unruly hair, I closed my eyes.

A sudden banging from somewhere far away startled me to an upright position. I bolted forward, pulling the comforter from around my midsection, and blinked at the sun streaming across the bottom of my bed.

Glancing at the clock, I noted it was seven in the morning.

Holy cats, I’d slept for seven uninterrupted hours until that incessant banging. Seven lovely hours without dreams of zombies and brains, dead men and detached limbs, walloping me over the head.

Pushing my way from the bed, I grabbed my robe and stuck my arms in, pulling it around my body as I slid into my slippers and peeked out the window of my bedroom—the one overlooking the front of the house. Leon was supposed to open our family-owned convenience store/barbecue, the Smoke and Petrol today.

My mother May and I own and operate the store, but we have occasional help, even in the off season. Fig is a tourist town, set amongst the trees, mountains and water of the Pacific Northwest, and just a quick ferry ride from Seattle. Leon’s our most reliable part-timer, a high school kid who often opens for us before he goes to his classes.

But why would he be banging on something? Leon was astute, responsible, and quiet. But all that banging sounded like he was in the process of rebuilding Rome.

I left Jessica in her cage and flew down the stairs, hoping to avoid waking my mother. She’s seventy now, and about as easy to keep track of as a herd of greased cats. But even greased cats need their rest when they play as hard as Mom does, and she’d had a late night last evening at her current obsession, hot yoga.

As I plowed down our wood and wrought iron spiral staircase to the front door, I realized the banging came from someone rapping on the door. I hesitated, and if you remember what happened to me a few months ago, you’ll understand why I’ve had a new security system installed, complete with intercom.

Pressing the button on the intercom, installed right next to our beautiful wood door with the stained-glass cutout in bright blues and oranges, I asked, Who is it?

There was a shuffling noise, as though someone were trying to get their footing, or maybe even rearrange the porch furniture for all I knew, and then I heard, Who’s there?

I tilted my head. Maybe it was because I was awakened from a very sound sleep, but I didn’t recognize the gruff voice. "I don’t know. You rang my doorbell. Who the heck are you?"

Lemon-Meringue? Is that you? someone crooned with a croak. Or is it just somebody who sounds like Lemon? Like a pod Lemon who invaded the real Lemon’s body?

Sighing, I realized I didn’t need to look out the window to see who it was. Only Waylan Caprice—or Cappie, as he’s known to us Figgers—could think I’d been abducted by alien body snatchers. But I wanted to be sure.

Is that you, Cappie?

"Yeah, it’s me. Question is, is that really you, Lemon?"

I was still a little ticked at Cappie after all the trouble he’d stirred up by broadcasting one of his crazy conspiracy theories when Myron was killed. The unusual circumstances of Myron’s death had turned into a sensationalistic nightmare after Cappie got on his YouTube channel and told his bananapants followers Myron had been killed by a governmentally engineered zombie (you know, because of the hole in his head and the piece of his brain missing).

All hell had broken loose in Fig because of him. People insane enough to believe that theory had shown up with signs and zombie-killing weapons, hoping to see and maybe even capture a real zombie. They’d camped out in the woods and all over the docks in town, creating havoc everywhere they went, and the only thing they’d ended up catching was the flu and the poor mayor, who’d been out fishing. But that’s another story for another time.

Suffice to say, I’m still a little chuffed with our local doomsday prepper/conspiracy theorist. Yes, it’s me, Cappie, I said, typing in the security code and flinging the door open.

Cappie hopped back into the sunlight, his customary clogged feet doing a nervous jig. He looked up toward the bright blue, almost cloudless sky and squinted as though he’d actually find aliens commandeering the Enterprise or something.

"How do I know it’s really you, Lemon? Where’d that voice come from? Was it generated by the mother ship somewhere up there in the big blue beyond?"

Cappie?

He rocked back on his heels, his skinny legs poking out of a pair of scruffy knee-length shorts as he tugged at his peace sign T-shirt and gave me a suspicious glance from his glazed eyes. What?

It’s Lemon. Really and truly. The one and only Lemon Layne.

Prove it! he yelped and took another cautious step backward.

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and tried to smile reassuringly at him, even though without my glasses, he was sort of blurry.

"You rang my doorbell, Waylan Caprice. Maybe you should be doing the proving. How do I know you’re the real Cappie and not some governmentally engineered decoy of Cappie?" I teased.