Prepped to Kill (Ricky Steele Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Prepped to Kill

  by

  M. Lee Prescott

  Published by Quicksand Chronicles

  Copyright 2013, Mary Lee Prescott-Griffin

  Cover design by Ashley Lopez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted (auditory, graphic, mechanical or electronic) without the express written permission of the author, except in the case or brief quotations or excerpts used in critical reviews and articles. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people (alive or deceased), locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  To the “girls” for keeping me sane then and now.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wednesday, the turning point. My weeks begin with such promise—dreams of selling a novel or short story, fantasies of the Globe calling to offer me a regular column, hopes of breaking two hundred in tips in one night of waitressing or getting a call for a huge glass commission. Tuesday, the dream is fading. By Wednesday, reality settles in, it’s a week like all the others—too many odd jobs, too little money and too many bills cascading through the mail slot. At a time when many people my age—fifty-eight—were retiring, I was still living from paycheck to paycheck, job to job. Retirement for me would be keeling over in the middle of a project without so much as a “bye, bye life.”

  The phone’s ring sucked me from the bog of self-pity. I considered not answering. No doubt it was a collection agency. I’m on a first name basis with several of their agents. On the fifth ring, curiosity won out. “Ricky Steele.”

  “Dorothy, is that you, dear?”

  No one calls me Dorothy, at least no one expecting a response, and they certainly don’t follow it with “dear.” The voice was eerily familiar.

  “This is Ricky.”

  “This is Muriel Petty, dear.”

  Muriel Petty, Muriel Petty… I knew the name and the association was not pleasant. A crazed dentist? The fascist kennel owner who lectures me about my cat’s flea infestations prior to charging me two nights’ tips to exterminate them?

  “Your headmistress, dear, from Miss Whitley’s?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Petty, what a surprise.” Any more surprised and I’d have swallowed my tongue. Sixteen again, I bowed in her presence, feeling her beady eyes boring into me as she harangued me concerning some harmless prank. Muriel never saw my tears, her continual threats of expulsion bouncing off of me like ping-pong balls. I longed to be expelled and she knew it.

  “How are you, Dorothy?” The sickeningly sweet voice, its cadences usually followed by a lightning bolt of reprobation.

  Only five days into my stay at Miss Whitley’s School for Girls, Muriel had summoned me to her office and demanded that I “shape up.” She was not about to let “one wayward, motherless girl incite the other girls to disobedience.”

  What could the old bat want? Hadn’t I read a few years or decades ago that she’d retired? She must be about two hundred by now.

  “Dorothy? Are you still there? I asked how you are, dear.”

  I shook myself. Could I be hallucinating after too much junk food and not enough sleep? “Fine,” I croaked.

  “Reunion Weekend is coming up. Are we going to see you?”

  Not unless I’m bound and gagged and dragged there in a drunken stupor. “Gee, I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Oh, I was hoping. It being your fortieth and all.”

  “Well, I’ve kind of lost touch.”

  “Let me be frank, dear. I have another reason for calling.”

  “Oh?” That was a big surprise.

  “I’d like to hire you.”

  Did they need a waitress? Was there some last minute touch-up painting needed in the Green Room? Did they need a snappy paragraph or two for the reunion brochure? And why in the world would she think of me? As a major Whitley donor, my father often attended reunion functions, but somehow, I couldn’t imagine him recommending the services of his estranged daughter.

  “For what?”

  “We need a private investigator. Someone who knows the school and will be discreet.”

  Me, a private investigator? Now I knew I was hallucinating. Then, with sickening clarity, I remembered my teeny, tiny practical joke at Whitley School’s expense—the notes for the alumni bulletin. Several months ago, having just finished reading the latest Sara Paretsky, I had assumed the role of V.I. Warshawski, or was it Sue Grafton and Kinsey Millhone? Whatever my wicked, perverse mood and persona, I had gleefully filled in my “class news card,” describing my life as a PI. It was all a big yuk, to give our class agent, Bitsy Wedgehammer, a little laugh. And, Bitsy, the ditz, must’ve printed it.

  I rifled through months of mail in a basket by the phone and extracted the Whitley Wheel. There it was in the “Class of 1968 News,” one of only three entries. “Dorothy Steele writes from Fall River, Mass. that her private investigating company is thriving. The intrepid sleuth takes only the most difficult cases involving murder and mayhem, so watch out bad guys!”

  “But, Mrs. Petty,” I sputtered, picturing my hands tightening round Bitsy’s scrawny little neck. “It was a joke.”

  “I can assure you, my dear, this is no joke.”

  Uh-oh, she’s pissed. I remembered a time freshman year when we’d leaned out our third-floor dorm window and sprinkled talcum powder—our idea of a snowstorm in September—on Muriel’s best coat as she swished through the front portico to attend a Board meeting. Spider Man in high gear couldn’t have taken the stairs faster than Muriel.

  “No, Mrs. Petty, not you. You see, I assumed Bitsy, Elizabeth, would catch my entry and edit it out. I never expected. Well, I just didn’t think. Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, dear. I haven’t time.”

  What was I, fifty-eight or fifteen? Hadn’t I just explained away this misunderstanding? “I’m not being silly. It’s just—”

  “We want to hire you, dear. I understand from your father that you’re between jobs.”

  So, Dad had gotten into the act, although I could not imagine him lying on my behalf, especially about my being a private eye.

  “He’s speaking at Saturday’s Luncheon, you know.”

  “You mean to tell me that my father recommended me for this job?”

  “Oh, heavens no. But, when we chatted a few months ago he told me you were looking for work. Is that wise at your age, not to have a steady income? Then, when I read about you in the Wheel, I put two and two together and thought you’d be perfect for our little problem. And, Dorothy, dear, we are counting on your discretion. Please keep this conversation private, even from your dear father. No one knows about any of this except myself and Dinny, I mean Donald, Mr. Petty, our current Head.”

  Dinny, now there was a blast from the past. The name conjured up adolescent fantasies about the tall, handsome English teacher, fresh out of college, with whom we’d all been madly in love. Ah, Dinny—the ideal of male perfection, his only flaw his unfortunate connection to Aunt Muriel.

  “What am I supposed to be discreet about?”

  “We’ve had some unpleasantness. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Petty. I don’t think I’m the woman for this job. What about a local person? Isn’t there someone up there in Westfield who could—”

  “Oh, good heavens, no! For obvious reasons, we don’t want to use anyone f
rom the community.”

  “What’re we talking about here?”

  “Does this mean you’ll take the job?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d rather not say. Too bad, though. When a donor offered to pay a five-thousand-dollar retainer for a week’s work, I thought you’d jump at the chance, you being out of work and all.”

  “Five thousand dollars?” I could feel her smirk.

  “That’s right. Please reconsider, Dorothy. Whitley needs you.”

  “Well, I…”

  “We just want you to take a quiet look around. Help us put a stop to some shenanigans.”

  “Like?”

  “Some minor acts of vandalism, a few thefts, some nasty mail, that sort of thing. And then this morning, we’ve had a student run off.”

  “Have you phoned the police?”

  “Not yet. We can’t have a swarm of police milling around during Reunion Weekend. Why, we’ve just gotten rid of them after the unpleasantness last week.”

  “Oh? And what was that?”

  “A very sad business, really. One of our teachers took her own life. She was extremely popular, so it’s been very hard on the students. We’ve had counselors on campus all week. We don’t need another upset right now. Besides, Missy Franklin’s a bit of a wild child. Not unlike yourself at that age. No doubt she’s run off to spite her parents. As I recall, you made a few escapes yourself.”

  Was the woman actually trying to be chummy, making light of my many acts of rebellion and insubordination? Giving my head a shake, I pushed the reasons behind my many escapes to the far recesses of my mind. “This really does sound like something the police should be handling.”

  “Just a week. That’s all we ask. Come to the reunion, enjoy your chums and take a look around. You always were a devious girl. I should think you’d jump at the chance.”

  Stifling a flippant remark, my brain chanting its new mantra—“five thousand dollars”—I said, “Sure, why not?”

  “Delightful! When can you be here?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Oh, Dorothy, you are a lifesaver. I’ll call Dinny right now. He’ll be delighted.”

  We made arrangements for me to call when I got into Westfield and I rang off. “Dinny,” I murmured, wondering if I could diet away twenty pounds in twenty-four hours.

  Muriel Petty enlisting my help? Stranger things have probably happened, but certainly not to me.

  CHAPTER 2

  Half an hour later, I came to my senses and dialed information for Westfield, Massachusetts. As the phone rang, I flipped through the assortment of junk mail and stack of bills heralding my descent into debtors’ hell. The recorded message came on asking “what city, what listing?” and I hung up. I had no choice. I would have to play private eye. I’ve read hundreds of mysteries. I know how V.I. does it. I know how Spencer does it. How hard could it be to pretend for one week?

  Instead of calling Muriel Petty, I phoned Bunny Stark, my childhood friend, travel agent and realtor extraordinaire. She answered on the first ring with a cheery, “Stark and Company, Bunny speaking.”

  “Hey, Bun.”

  “Ricky, where you been, girl? I’ve been tryin’ to get you all week. Wanna join me at Aquinessett for dinner tomorrow? Gotta use up the monthly assessment.”

  “You know I hate the Club. Take one of your clients and let’s you and me go to the Rainbow. In fact, I was thinking of dragging Vinnie there tonight. Wanna meet us? Chorizo rolls dripping with grease?”

  “Yuck, Ricky—think of your arteries. We’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  “So, do you wanna join us? We’ll start the healthy living program tomorrow.”

  “No can do. Got a date.”

  “With Mr. Wonderful?”

  “No, Chad the Charmer flew the coop two weeks ago. This is a client, Devon Greenlaw, just moved into town. I helped him find a rental and he’s taking me to dinner as a thank-you.”

  “And?”

  “He’s pretty cute, but who knows. After Chad, I’m ready for a breather. What ‘bout you? Seeing anyone?”

  “Not unless you count Vinnie and Cal, the plumber. Cal and I have become bosom buddies since my cesspool backed up.”

  “You should put in a septic system. Really helps with resale. Want me to see if Devon has a friend?”

  Just what I needed. Devon was probably fifteen—Bunny likes ‘em young—and his friend covered with peach fuzz and acne. “Thanks, Bun, maybe another time.” I filled her in about my Whitley trip.

  After telling me I was crazy and a host of other unflattering things, she agreed to look into accommodations in the Westfield area and get back to me. Next, I rang my neighbor, Vinnie Silvia, leaving a message on his machine about dinner. Then, I called the Lizzie’s, the restaurant where I work in Fall River. It’s named for Lizzie Borden, the alleged ax murderess, one of the city’s major claims to fame. My boss, Leo, was none too happy to hear I needed a week off, but what could he say? It wasn’t like he had to pay me while I was gone and, since I’m “one of his most reliable girls,” he has to be nice to me.

  Having frittered away a good chunk of the day, I got down to work. I have a number of part-time jobs—waitressing, house painting, writing short pieces for the local rag, and stained glass work. The latter two occupied the rest of my day. I had five book reviews to finish for the Grove Gazette, and two leaded glass window repairs for the Catholic Church.

  It was unusual for the Catholic Church to hire me. I’ve done lots of work for the Protestants and Episcopalians, but the Catholics take their leaded glass seriously and usually contract out to the big firms in Boston. These two small panels were probably a test. I hate repairs—they’re a pain in the butt—but I needed the money so I knuckled down and completed the work.

  Vinnie called at five thirty saying he would stop by in an hour. “Dinner’s on me, Rick, no bullshitting.” No argument here. After cleaning up, I set the two panels inside the garage door, ready for the church sexton to pick up in the morning. Then I faxed my reviews to the Gazette and showered. As I stood at my open closet, contemplating my private eye wardrobe, Vinnie knocked at the front door.

  “Rick, you back there?” Vinnie’s voice is like rich, deep velvet, one notch above a growl. If I was curvier, sexier, younger, and crazier, I’d be trying to lure him into my bed. As it was I had watched too many women—girls, let’s be honest—parade in and out of his house to ever hitch my wagon to his smoldering star. Vinnie is in his late fifties, same as me, but he looks thirty with the body of a mini Arnold Schwarzenegger in his heyday. Working out is a religion for Vinnie and he spends three or four hours of every day at the local gym. He says that gym time is business, and I don’t ask questions.

  Grabbing my sweatshirt and patting Beaky, my miniature tabby cat, I ran out, joining Vinnie for the short walk to the Rainbow. Vinnie and I live in Ocean Grove, a tiny beachfront community of ticky-tacky beachfront houses with postage stamp yards. I met Vinnie the day I moved into the “fixer-upper” Bunny sold me for “such a deal.” With Vinnie’s help I reroofed, painted and reshingled the entire house. Without his help, I’d still be up on the roof trying not to fall off or swallow a mouthful of roofing nails.

  Along with every other woman in the place, I watched Vinnie’s catlike sidle from bar to table. My height, Vinnie is twice as wide, his long, dark hair brushed back. It’s the kind of thick, wavy hair women love to run their fingers through, before moving on to other parts of his anatomy. His coal-black bedroom eyes sparkled with mischief as he winked at a blonde at the next table. Sliding in beside me, he plunked two Buzzards Bay drafts in front of me. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. How ‘bout you?” I moved my chair to block his view of the blonde.

  He laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Rick, you kill me.” With a final wink to Blondie, he leaned forward, directing his attention my way. “How’s the love life? You still screwin’ around with that online shit?”

&nbs
p; “None of your business.”

  “No luck, I’m guessin.’ Want me to set you up? I know a couple of guys.”

  “Who will not be my type.”

  “More your type than that last loser, what was his name?”

  “Richard.” My hand shot up. “Let’s not talk about Richard, okay?”

  “Well, first off, he was about a hundred”

  “Sixty-eight. And that’s talking about him.”

  “That’s twenty years too old for you, Rick. You need a young guy. Somebody fun, who’ll treat you right. Not some old crotchety drunk who’s cryin’ in his beer for his dead wife.”

  “It was Manhattans, thank you, and I think we’ve said enough about Richard.”

  “Not to mention that other twit. Kevin, wasn’t it? What a self-absorbed little prick. What’d you ever see in him, anyway?”

  “Who knows?” How had we gotten on this depressing subject? It couldn’t all be the men’s fault. Truth was, I wasn’t very good at relationships.

  “You ever see the little perv nowadays?”

  “He wasn’t a perv.”

  “Okay, how about a close-minded, lying, cheating little bigot?”

  “Vinnie—enough!”

  “So, am I wrong? What did I say that wasn’t true?”

  “Nothing, except for the perv part.”

  “So, is he still harassing you?”

  “No. I run into his sister sometimes. Apparently, he’s dating a twenty-year-old massage therapist.”

  “Exactly.”

  I decided not to ask what he meant by “exactly.” “New subject. What’s next week like for you? You here or on the road?”

  “I’ll be around. What’dya need?”

  “Beaky needs you. I have to go away.” I gave him a brief rundown of my plans.

  “You, a private eye? Wait’ll I tell the guys at the gym. They love hearin’ about all the crazy shit you get into, but this tops everything. Gotta hand it to you, babe.”

  Nobody except Vinnie gets to call me “babe.” “It is pretty ballsy, isn’t it?”