Secrets, Lies, and Crawfish Pies Read online

  The Romaine Wilder Mystery Series

  by Abby Vandiver

  SECRETS, LIES, & CRAWFISH PIES (#1)

  LOVE, HOPES, & MARRIAGE TROPES (#2)

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  Copyright

  SECRETS, LIES, & CRAWFISH PIES

  A Romaine Wilder Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | June 2018

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2018 by Abby L. Vandiver

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-346-4

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-347-1

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-348-8

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-349-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my sister, Robbie,

  who I recently lost and who was always on my side.

  I’m happy you got the chance to know that

  this writing endeavor was a tribute to your only son.

  And to her son, my nephew,

  Romain Wilder Ramsey, who we lost a long time ago.

  I love you both to the end of time.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I want to thank my mother because I love her and because she made me who I am. She encourages me still and makes me want to be a better person even though the only place she can now be found is in my heart.

  I want to thank Erin George, who got me started on this road, her guidance and encouragement is what made me want to make this a reality. Thanks to everyone at Henery Press who took to my idea for this cozy mystery and gave me a chance.

  I also want to say thank you to Kathryn Dionne, my soul sister, and Laurie Kincer, Specialist extraordinare of Cuyahoga County’s Public Library’s Writers’ Center. Both women are especially important to me in my writing endeavors and have been an inspiration and sounding board in my many, many moments of despair—thank you!

  And last, but certainly not least, my grandchildren from whom all my love springs from.

  Chapter One

  “I talk to dead people.”

  I heard my auntie’s voice. Although I couldn’t see her, I’d know that drawl anywhere. The voice came from the middle of a small cluster of people at my “Here’s-To-The-Next-Chapter-in-My-Life” soiree. The group’s attention seemingly rapt with what the dear old woman had to say.

  But my spry eighty-two-year-old auntie was anything but a “dear old woman.” Her voice, loud enough to carry across the room, had alerted me to her disastrous intentions. I knew I needed to get to her before she got to the next line of her signature icebreaker.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” I huffed under my breath. I wasn’t too keen on letting my small-town roots be extorted, especially since everyone in the room thought I was from a culturally inclined, arts laden, big city haven–I had told them I was from Houston.

  Gossip, I knew, traveled just as fast among Chicago’s upper crust as it did in my actual hometown of Roble in East Texas, one hundred seventy miles from Houston. Current population nine hundred and eighty-three. I rested assured, as I flipped my long, straight as a bone, black hair, that the population would soon be back to nine hundred and eighty-four, because I was, without a doubt, sending my auntie back posthaste.

  Anxiety simmering, embarrassment teetering, I clutched my highball glass tightly in hand, gave a tug on my mini, off-the-shoulder Tadashi Shoji blush-colored cocktail dress, and headed off on my mission. I wended my way through the small dining area of my Sheridan Park apartment packed with doctors, lawyers, and judges, all my closest friends, to stop that party wrecker before she uttered another word.

  My auntie had positioned herself at the far end of the living room and I could just picture her, the words tumbling out of her mouth with ease, a spark of mystery in her eyes as they met with those of each person in her audience, pausing to make sure they heard every word she said. She always planted a pause between the opener and the clincher of her two-liner. I had come to believe that she had it timed for maximum effect. I could almost hear her count between beats. I knew I didn’t have much time.

  In my rush, I bumped past one guest, nearly making her spill her glass of red wine. I spun around and, holding my glass up in the air, I was able to steady her hand before it splattered onto the newly shampooed Exotic Sands-colored carpet. That would be all I needed, an extra expense to have it cleaned again before I moved out in three days. But in saving it, I backed into a short man who stood eye level with the double-D bosom of a woman in a low-cut dress he’d been ogling all night, driving him, nose first, right into them. Although I don’t believe I’d have been remiss if I said that he may have added a little momentum to the push I gave him.

  A flash of red swam up the busty woman’s face starting from her bejeweled neckline. Eyes bugged, she screeched out her disdain. His eyes just as wide, but it was a cheesy grin that curled around the edge of his mouth as he let out a satisfied sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed and saluted her with my whisky tumbler as I backed away, only nanoseconds left to get to Auntie. Whirling around, I landed at my destination, blew out a pent-up breath and reached an arm out to grab her.

  Too late.

  “But not to worry,” Auntie was saying. She wiggled a finger. “Because they talk back to me.”

  A collective gasp spewed forth and everyone turned to look at me.

  “She owns a funeral home,” I said with a nippy grin and transitory chortle, as if that could explain the lunacy that came out of her.

  Dressed in a satin, cream-colored blouse and a black taffeta skirt with a crinoline slip, Auntie sashayed away from her spectators, my hand gently grasping her thin arm. The fullness of her skirt made a swishing sound with each step she took, announcing our hasty getaway. I guided her over into an unoccupied corner, away from the prying eyes of my guests to try out Plan A: Reasoning with her.

  Born Suzanne Arelia Sophie Babet St. Romain, she married and became a Derbinay, a name she still wore proudly nearly fifty years after becoming a widow. She was the woman who raised me from age twelve after my parents died. “Auntie Zanne” to me, short for Suzanne, “Babet” to everyone else. Tonight, however, I was being reminded of who she truly was–a little troublemaker.

  Five-foot three, short-cropped white hair–tapered in the back and puffed high on top–she was loaded down with bangles and bobbles and a smile just as fake as a pair of Louboutin’s sold online from China. Auntie Zanne’s distinguished, Louisiana mixed-race French Creole beginnings had morphed into Big Texas attitude and small-town intrusiveness over the last fifty years.

  “Auntie,” I said once I had her quarantined. “You have been at it all night. You’ve been like a little bee.” I let my fingers flutter in front of her fa
ce. “Buzzing around, causing a commotion. People will think I come from craziness.”

  “I’ve been up to what?” she asked, her forehead crinkled, her accent exaggerated. “I have been doing no such thing. I’ve just been trying to help you entertain your guests.”

  “Trying to ruin my reputation. That’s what you’ve been doing,” I said. “And you know it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d mapped out your entire foray into dismantling my life at the same time I was mailing out the guest list.”

  “Pfft.” She waved her hand. “I did not.” She tried to look as if she didn’t know what I meant, but I knew that it was all an act.

  “You know I have a different kind of life up here,” I said, my eyes darting around the room to make sure no one was listening. “I’ll never get the job I want in this city if one word gets out about you!”

  “You won’t have to worry about that,” she said matter-of-factly. “You won’t be around them–or here–much longer. Mark my words.”

  Mark my words.

  I flinched as that phrase leapt from her frosted, rose-colored lips. I didn’t know why she thought I wasn’t going to be around much longer, but I did know whenever she made such a pronouncement, somehow, whatever she was referring to eerily came true.

  “I just bet,” I said, nervously shaking off her warning. I licked my lips and tried to muster back up a little bluster. “I saw you talking to the Chief of Staff over there-”

  She cut me off. “Is that his name?” Nose scrunched, she acted as if she smelled something bad. “Chief-of-Staff?”

  “No.” My words came out in a puff. “You know it isn’t.”

  “How am I supposed to know that?” she said. “That’s all you call him every time you talk about him.”

  I blew out a breath. “Dr. Hale,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Alexander Hale.” Her eyebrow arched higher. “Alex,” I surrendered, lowering my voice. “I need a recommendation from him–from Alex, if I want to get a prominent position in another hospital. He has connections. I hope you haven’t ruined that for me.”

  At forty-ish, I didn’t want to start all over in my career.

  “I don’t think I have,” she said measuredly. “I think you’ll be fine.” She patted me on my arm and turned to step away.

  I pulled her back. “What did you say to him?”

  She turned her head up to me, pulled me in close like she had a juicy secret, and nodded knowingly as she spoke. “I prepared a truth serum.”

  A sickly moan bubbled up out of my throat, and my eyelids went aflutter. I let my head roll back and stared at the ceiling, my imagination conjuring all the things she could have had him drink unwittingly.

  I just hoped she hadn’t given him anything that would kill him.

  I rubbed my temple, giving myself a circular massage, and shifted my weight from one sore, high-heel clad foot to the other. “Did you really put something in his drink?” I looked into her eyes trying–hoping to detect a lie. “Please, Auntie. Please! Don’t tell me you’re going around pretending you are capable of some kind of magical hocus pocus. Telling people you have powers. You promised, Auntie.”

  “Why would I tell him that if I wanted him to drink a little brew I’d made?” She frowned at me, her voice loud enough to draw attention. “That would defeat the purpose. You know, the element of surprise.”

  “Oh, goodness, Auntie!” I swiped my hand across my forehead. Tears of frustration and disquiet stung as they welled up in my eyes. I fanned them with my hands hoping the tears wouldn’t spill onto my perfectly MAC made-up face. “I need that man,” I said earnestly.

  “You ain’t said nothing but a word,” she said. “And from what I gather, that need goes much deeper than you getting a reference for a job.”

  That caught me by surprise. I stood up straight and swept the hair off my face.

  How could she know?

  She didn’t know.

  She couldn’t know.

  “He didn’t tell you that.” It came out more like a question than a statement.

  She raised an eyebrow and gave me a look that said she knew whatever it was the two of us were trying to hide.

  “You don’t have any truth serum, Auntie Zanne. There is no such thing.” I took a big gulp of my drink, trying to calm myself, and dabbed the liquid from the corner of my mouth with the tip of my finger. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this to you, but...” I made my voice even lower and sidled up next to her ear. “He’s married,” I admitted. “But he’s separated, and we are keeping our relationship quiet. No one knows about it. I know, emphasis on that word ‘know,’ Auntie Zanne, he wouldn’t ever tell anyone about us. Especially someone whom he doesn’t know.” I widened my eyes at her to make my point. “I don’t care what you think you gave him.”

  “He didn’t tell me. I only spoke to him because I wanted to see what kind of man he is,” Auntie said. “The truth serum was for you.” She tapped the edge of my glass. “Seems like it worked.” She gave me the eye. “Wanna tell me, Miss Romaine Wilder, why you’re dating a married man? That’s not the kind of girl I raised. Or maybe I’ll give Mr. Chief-of-Staff over there some of my potion and see what he can tell me.”

  I threw up a hand in surrender.

  There was no stopping her.

  On to Plan B.

  Without saying another word, I took her by the hand and led her into the cluttered, left-over-food-filled kitchen. “Can you just stay in here?” I tried to put a little niceness in my voice, but it probably just came out whiny. “Just until everyone leaves?”

  Of course, asking her to stay put was like asking the sun not to shine, but my plan was meant to appeal to her idiosyncrasies.

  Auntie Zanne had a phobia about clutter. “A place for everything, and everything in its place” was built into the very fiber of her being. Disarray was one of the many things she couldn’t “abide by.” I knew she wouldn’t leave that room until everything was cleaned well enough to sparkle.

  And I was going to do my part to help her stay put by making sure a steady stream of dirty dishes found their way to her–no one was going to use the same glass, plate, or spoon twice.

  I dumped the rest of my drink in the sink and set the glass on the counter, nodding at it with my head, setting her to her task. Before pushing my way through the kitchen door and back to my party, I turned and, tilting my head, I pointed a finger at her, silently telling her to behave.

  That, I knew, really would take some magic.

  Chapter Two

  I stood in the entryway of my apartment with the door to the coat closet open and stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. All my things packed in boxes and being loaded onto the moving van, a storage facility their new home. I was going home with Auntie Zanne.

  I looked like a little lost child.

  Hands at my sides, shoulders slumped, just two days after my happiness-infused get-together, I could feel the life I’d so meticulously built for myself slithering away from me.

  “Just for a little while,” I told the mirror image of me. I ran my fingers through my long hair, then down the front of my size six frame. “You’ll be back with a job, back to the big city in no time at all.” I leaned in close and tugged at the corners of my cocoa-colored eyes, then ran my fingers along my cheek, smoothing out the thin lines that had started to crease into my creamy-colored skin.

  My lone suitcase and duffle bag, brimming over with the things I’d need for what I hoped to be a short stay, waited patiently for me in the corner by the front door.

  In an abrupt downsizing, it had been nearly two months since my government job gave me notice, my subsequent job search not even garnering a callback from any of my inquiries. And, I found none of the multitude of those I called my “closest” friends could help. Then came time to renew my lease, a year’s commitment with no hope of havin
g a way to pay.

  And to make matters worse, it was then that the new man in my life for the past three months, Alex Hale, prominent physician and apparent concealer of truth, told me that legally he wasn’t available to make any promises to me. That truth was a harder pill to swallow than being unemployed and homeless.

  I wish my auntie really did have some kind of truth potion, I thought. Then I could see what else he was keeping from me.

  Without an idea of what to do after my world crashed in on me, my auntie showed up out of nowhere as if she knew my life had hit a snag.

  Still, Alex made a good show of caring about me and I certainly liked him. A lot. He was handsome, enjoyed wining and dining me, and had a reputation as a skilled doctor with an affable bedside manner. He had taken time to help me pack, took me out for my last evening in Uptown to a blues club, and had even stopped by on his way to the hospital to assure me that he loved me and would help find me a job in Chicago. By then, he promised, he would be in a position to make a commitment to me and we’d be together.

  His words sent my eavesdropping auntie into a coughing fit, but I held on tight to every one of them. I had to. It was the only thread of happiness I had left to cling to in what had become my unraveling life.

  “Hey kiddo,” my auntie said, walking back inside the apartment. I shut the closet door, giving her a weak smile, and tried to put my mind back on the task at hand.

  “Are the movers almost finished?” I asked.

  She had been following the movers in and out with every load–supervising, fussing, and generally getting in their way.

  “I’ve never seen such healthy grown men move so slowly,” she said. “I’ve got things to do back home, and I don’t want to miss my train. You know I just can’t abide being late. I’ve had to watch them like a hawk.”