Old Fashioned Murder (A Ryli Sinclair Cozy Mystery Book 3) Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  OLD FASHIONED MURDER

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  Old Fashioned

  Murder

  A Ryli Sinclair Mystery

  Book 3

  Jenna St. James

  Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

  Author’s Note: On the next page, you’ll find out how to access all of my books easily, as well as locate books by best-selling author, Summer Prescott. I’d love to hear your thoughts on my books, the storylines, and anything else that you’d like to comment on – reader feedback is very important to me. Please see the following page for my publisher’s contact information. If you’d like to be on her list of “folks to contact” with updates, release and sales notifications, etc…just shoot her an email and let her know. Thanks for reading!

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  DEDICATION

  * * *

  To my family…thank you for your unending support.

  To Whitney and Megan…I hope I did your friendship justice. Drinks at my house!

  And to my cousin, Thomas Shifflett. Thanks for being such a good sport.

  OLD FASHIONED

  MURDER

  A Ryli Sinclair Mystery: Book 3

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Aunt Shirley crossed her arms over her sagging chest and scowled at me. “I’m telling you it’s a story.”

  “And I’m telling you a couple residents at Oak Grove Manor talking about a missing box in the pantry is not a story.” I slammed my desk drawer shut and wondered again for the thousandth time why my boss, Hank Perkins, had hired my crazy Great-Aunt Shirley last month to work for the town paper.

  I know why I worked for The Granville Gazette, the one and only newspaper in Granville, Missouri. Six years ago I graduated college with a major in journalism and a minor in photography. Soon after, I needed to pay back student loans and this was the only job I could find. I stay at the Gazette because I need to make enough money to pay my brother, Matt, rent on the one-bedroom, eight hundred square foot cottage he lets me rent from him.

  Aunt Shirley’s only claim to fame was the fact she used to be a private investigator out in California in the sixties and seventies. That’s it. She has no background in anything other than stakeouts and telling whoppers about how she used to date and sleep with all the hottest Hollywood male stars back in the day.

  “And I’m telling you you’re wrong,” Aunt Shirley insisted. “Not only have recently shipped boxes gone missing from the pantry, but Old Man Jenkins told me his bottle of Viagra was stolen out of his room last week. It seems we have some sticky fingers at the Manor.”

  I shuddered at the thought that Old Man Jenkins needed Viagra pills and that my Aunt Shirley had a first-hand account of that information.

  Aunt Shirley rolled her eyes at my reaction. “You’re such a child.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. That doesn’t qualify me as a child.”

  “A prude then.”

  “I have work to do. Could you please be quiet and let me think?”

  Aunt Shirley went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “I think we have a burglary ring, and I think the ring leader is Sheri Daniels, the Coordinator at the Manor.”

  I sighed. If I didn’t humor her a little bit, she’d never let it go. “Why do you think this Sheri Daniels is the ring leader?”

  “She’s constantly threatening to kick me out. I think she’s threatened by the fact I’m a private investigator. She knows it’s only a matter of time before I sniff out her burglary ring and she and her minions go down.”

  “First off, you’re a former private investigator. And secondly, who are these minions?” I asked.

  Aunt Shirley scowled at me. “I’m not sure who else she has working for her, but I bet if we put our heads together, we could solve this case. Then think of the story we could write for the Gazette.”

  “There is no case, and there is no story.”

  “Those old people would think we were the bee’s knees.”

  I politely refrained from reminding her that she was one of those “old” people that lived at Oak Grove Manor. The Manor isn’t a traditional nursing home. It’s an assisted living facility for the elderly. My Aunt Shirley was put there over a year ago by both my mom and Police Chief Garrett Kimble—who also happens to be my boyfriend. It seems nearly burning your house down when raking leaves, going into town without pants on, and attacking and beating up the chief of police—although he’d deny it now—will get you a life sentence in an assisted living facility. Mom sold Aunt Shirley’s house and the proceeds from the sale keep her living at the Manor.

  “If you don’t want to run with the stolen goods,” Aunt Shirley sulked, “what else we got?”

  “We don’t have anything. I’m trying to brainstorm ideas if you’d stop yammering away in my ear.”

  Ever since I helped capture two different killers in three months, Hank has pretty much let me take on a bigger role at the newspaper. Last week he told me I could have the front-page spot for Valentine’s Day if I could pitch him a worthwhile story, and I didn’t want to let him down.

  My boss, Hank, is a retired Marine who still walks the walk and talks the talk. A “Kill ‘Em All, Let God Sort ‘Em Out” kinda guy. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Oorah! He is fifty-two years old, mean as the day was long, and doesn’t give a hoot about anything except his wife and his newspaper.

  Mindy, on the other hand, is his opposite in every way. She is as gentle and kind as he is mean. She has platinum blonde hair that is teased for miles, and she wears skin-tight Capri pants and neon colored off-the-shoulder shirts or sweaters. And no matter what the Missouri weather was outside, she always wears designer high-heeled shoes.

  I heard the click-click of Mindy’s shoes before I saw her. “Now, now girls,” she said kindly as she set a cup of herbal tea down in front of me. “Let’s not fight today.”

  I wanted to tell Mindy that Aunt Shirley had started it, but I took the hi
gh road and refrained.

  “Ryli started it,” Aunt Shirley said.

  I threw down my pen, plunked my head on the desk, and cursed Hank for the thousandth and one time that day for hiring my aunt. I knew he hired her because it doubled his chances of getting a good story—Aunt Shirley and I are notorious at being magnets for disaster.

  Mindy chuckled. “Let me see what you’ve come up with and see if I can help.” She picked up my scratch paper and began reading.

  “Personally,” Aunt Shirley piped up, “I think there’s a story with the stolen goods at the Manor, but Lois Lane here doesn’t want to hear it.”

  I closed my eyes and waited for Mindy to say something. “I kind of like this idea of love in different stages of life. Of course, I’m partial to love stories because I married my one true love.”

  Aunt Shirley made a gagging sound.

  “It’s true,” Mindy argued. “Maybe you could do a ‘love through the ages’ sort of story. Think about it. You have young love with Matt and Paige, seeing as how they’ve only been married a little over a month. You could interview them. Then maybe find another couple that’s been married for fifty years. Maybe even do an interview with a widow or widower and talk about the struggle of going on without your true love.”

  “That’s a great idea!” I said.

  Hank’s office door flew open. He leaned against the doorjamb and yanked the unlit cigar out of his mouth. “Hey, Shirley Temples…instead of sitting here on your butts all day, how about you get out there and do what I pay you to do. I just received word there’s a fire on Fifth Street.”

  I jumped up from my desk and scowled at him. I hated it when he called Aunt Shirley and me Shirley Temples. It was insulting—to us, and the sickening-sweet-no-punch-to-it drink he liked to think we were.

  Aunt Shirley hooted and grabbed her camo parka. “You heard the man, Lois Lane. Let’s roll.”

  I sighed and grabbed my coat and camera. They should call me Rodney Dangerfield because I get no respect.

  I opened the door of my 1965 turquoise Ford Falcon and turned over the engine. It’s really Aunt Shirley’s car, but since she’s no longer allowed to legally drive, it’s mine now. I’d coveted this car since I was a little girl. Under the hood was a stock 302 with an Edelbrock fuel injection. The interior was just as sweet. The barely-there dashboard was done in the same turquoise color, and the bucket seats in the front and bench seat in the back were pristine white with turquoise stitching.

  I pulled out of the parking lot of the newspaper office and slowly headed toward Fifth Street. There was still snow on the ground from the snowstorm we’d had last week.

  Granville has a population of just over ten thousand, and is made up of two main streets, Elm and Pike. They meet in the heart of downtown at a four-way stop. On the downtown square, we have the courthouse, a couple banks, a sub shop, two café-type restaurants, and a handful of antiques stores. It’s also where Legends Salon and Nails is located, but it’s recently been under new ownership since the previous owner, Iris Newman, went and got herself murdered a couple months back.

  On the outskirts of town going west, we have a Burger Barn, the elementary, middle, and high schools, along with a small hospital. On the east side of town we have a small family-run grocery store, the police station, and the newspaper building where I work.

  Fifth Street is lined with rows of houses that pretty much all look alike. Most were small, run-down, two-story dwellings that still had asbestos siding on them. There were a handful of neighbors huddled together on the sidewalk speculating on what was going on. I didn’t see any flames, so I figured it wasn’t much of a house fire.

  I pulled up about four car lengths behind the fire truck, and Aunt Shirley and I made our way toward the firemen and Garrett. I took a couple pictures with my camera while Aunt Shirley took a selfie of herself with the fire trucks in the background. Aunt Shirley was in charge of all the social media accounts the Granville Gazette had. She’d do a teaser online and I’d write a story for the paper.

  “Hi. Ryli Sinclair, reporter for the Granville Gazette,” I said flirtatiously to Garrett. “Can I get a quote about what’s happened here?”

  Garrett Kimble is ten years older than me, with jet-black hair styled short from his military days, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s been the Chief now for a year and a half. After leaving active duty, he worked for the Kansas City Police Department until my brother, Matt, talked him into applying for the job opening in Granville. He and Matt met when they were both serving in the military.

  Aunt Shirley snorted behind me. “Stop flirting and let him get to the good stuff. What’s the scoop here, Ace?”

  Garrett’s jaw clenched but let the name-calling slide. “Nothing to tell. Seems the owner just forgot about some bacon in the oven. The grease had fallen onto the oven burners and black smoke was rolling. When the homeowner opened the oven door to get the bacon out, the smoke filled the kitchen, and she opened a window. Unfortunately her neighbor happened to be outside and thought there was a fire.”

  “Well, now that’s disappointing,” Aunt Shirley pouted. “Not that I want anyone hurt, but I guess the only story here is that someone can’t cook.”

  “Hey,” I interjected, “accidents happen. I wouldn’t say it means she doesn’t know how to cook!”

  Aunt Shirley snorted. “Says the broad who doesn’t know the difference between cream of tartar and tartar sauce.”

  Again, I get no respect.

  Garrett reached over and gave me a one-arm hug. “I wouldn’t poke too much fun. I seem to remember someone setting her own place on fire after raking leaves naked.”

  Okay, maybe I get a little respect.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  “Not that I wanted it to be a house fire,” I sighed, kicking snow off my shoes before getting in the Falcon, “but we really need a story.” I turned over the Falcon and headed toward Oak Grove Manor on Cherry Street to drop Aunt Shirley off. It was four o’clock, and I was ready to put my feet up and have a glass of wine.

  “Phew, you stink like burnt bacon,” Aunt Shirley complained.

  I lifted up my sweater and sniffed. She was right. I did stink. And if there was one smell I knew, it was burnt food smell. I definitely needed a shower and large glass of wine. I was due at Mom’s for dinner around seven.

  “I’ll just drop you off and see you tomorrow.” I pulled into the circle drive and idled the car. Oak Grove Manor was an old, rundown, three-story brick building with patches of ivy clinging to the exterior. While the groundskeepers obviously tried keeping the outside up, there was no denying the dilapidated feel of the Manor. The only saving grace of the place was the fact a few of the apartments had tiny balconies that looked like one person could squeeze onto them.

  “No can do, Missy. I need you to come upstairs and move something for me,” Aunt Shirley said. “Park over in the visitor area and come on up.”

  I didn’t want to go up to Aunt Shirley’s apartment because I was afraid she’d keep me there. I understand she’s lonely sometimes, but she lives in a huge building full of people she could make friends with if she just tried.

  “What on Earth could you have to move? You don’t have anything in that sparse apartment.”

  When she first moved in, Aunt Shirley refused to decorate the place, claiming she wasn’t going to be there for more than a few months, so why waste the energy. She was now going on a year and a half at the Manor. A year and a half with no major furniture or decorations, and really no friends to speak of.

  I let Aunt Shirley out at the front doors, then sighed and parked the Falcon. I zipped up my coat and jogged to the glass double doors. The inside of the Manor opens to a massive lobby complete with an information desk, three couches, a big screen wall-mounted TV, a reading nook by a fireplace, and a checkers table in front of a large bay window overlooking a small pond in the back of the Manor. Off to the side of the pond was a courtyard and greenhouse.


  A row of windows separated the lobby from the cafeteria. Already I could see a few folks eating at the tables. Must be the early, early-bird special.

  I waved to a couple residents I recognized and even a few of the orderlies. I’d been around long enough to be familiar with the ins and outs of the Manor.

  I saw Old Man Jenkins playing checkers with another elderly man in front of the window and made my way over to say hello. Old Man Jenkins was ninety if he was a day, short, bald, and was built like a strong wind would knock him over. Why in the world he was attracted to Aunt Shirley, I had no idea. She towered over him by a foot, outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, and had a mouth on her a sailor would envy.

  Mr. Jenkins smiled when I stopped at his table. “Ryli Sinclair, I swear you look more and more like your aunt every day.”

  I shuddered at the thought but forced a smile at him and his checkers partner.

  “Hello, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “This here is Andy Jackson. He’s a terrible checkers player but one of my oldest friends.”

  Mr. Jackson stuck his wrinkled hand out to me. I clasped it, careful not to squeeze too hard. They both looked like they could break in half at any time.

  “Anything new going on today?” I asked.

  “Well, did you hear about my bottle of Viagra getting stolen?”

  Oh boy!

  I was saved from a reply when he leaned in and whispered, “whole lot more than Viagra getting stolen around here lately, too.”

  My ears perked up. Could Aunt Shirley really be on to something? “Like what? I know Aunt Shirley said some boxes in the pantry were stolen, and your…pills. What else?”

  Mr. Jackson leaned forward. “Quite a few things actually, my dear.”

  Old Man Jenkins nodded in agreement. “According to my sources, personal jewelry, money out of wallets, medications. Things like that.”