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Death Among the Stars

07 Sunday Nov 2021

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Bartender protagonist, bartenders guide to murder, Female protagonist, Fiction, Hollywood, Mystery, sharon linnea, Uncategorized

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Adirondack fiction, Baratender's Guide to Murder, bartender sleuth, cocktail recipes, female sleuth, film festival, Lake Placid, movie star, Mystery, sharon linnea

IN THE ADIRONDACKS

One more piece. Or seven.

The young man took a sip of Malbec and fitted the puzzle piece shaped like a fish into the larger work that created a sitting fox. A fox with a strange, knowing grin on his face. It was a long time since he’d done a jigsaw puzzle. The rental cabin had a stack of them, all wooden, with shaped pieces. This one was close to complete.

Rise was grateful to his manager for renting this Adirondack cabin. He’d flown across country from Los Angeles three days early, to rest, re-center and dismiss any jet lag. In Los Angeles there was a pile of scripts on his desk—he’d only brought the three most promising along to read—constant calls and texts, a demanding personal trainer, and, oh yeah, four stalkers, two of whom required restraining orders.

Ah, the life of a star.

Except he wasn’t a star, only a guy who’d grown up on television in three different series. Enough folks were so comfortable with him in their living rooms they figured they should be married. To him. And became violent when he didn’t agree.

It had been a wonderful couple of days. His assistant, Con Allred, had laid in supplies, his favorite food, and he’d been able to cook for himself. Con had then gone ahead to join Rise’s agent, manager and publicity crew to lay the groundwork for the premiere of his new feature film.

A car would be sent for Rise in the morning, his hiatus over.

The tall actor ran a hand through his golden blonde hair, snapped another piece into the puzzle and groaned. Two pieces were missing. Why would you rent a cabin and offer your guests puzzles with missing pieces?

He took another large sip of wine. The fire was burning down, a bed of orange embers lined the fireplace floor. Add another log, or let it go out?

If he wanted to be fresh and rested for the film festival, he should probably take some melatonin and read awhile, then get some sleep.

Rise drained the wine glass, washed it out and put it to dry by the sink. The cabin was made of wood with antlers everywhere. He stepped outside onto the small porch, then sat in a dark-green Adirondack chair. Rushing water of the nearby Ausable River spoke of recent rain; the piquant, calming scent of pine melded with the loam of the earth. He breathed deeply.

Back in Los Angeles, his house was a fortress, alarms everywhere. Even so, one enterprising woman, a teacher for god’s sake, had left a note on his bed when he was away filming. His agent had gotten a letter from another of his stalkers, a psychologist, explaining they were uniquely psychologically suited for each other. Therefore, if she couldn’t have Rise, she’d have to hurt him. A young man had stopped his mother in the grocery store and introduced himself as Rise’s fiancé. Someone had followed and confronted his mom. His mom!

Rise hated being on guard all the time. Which was why he was sorry to leave the solitude of the cabin to rejoin the world in the morning. It was rented under his manager’s brother’s secretary’s son’s name. No one knew he was here.

The actor stood and stretched, then went back inside, and locked the door. He headed into the bedroom where he pulled on pajama pants and a t-shirt. He scrubbed his face in the master bath and popped two melatonin gummies.

The queen-sized bed had a quilt with an Adirondack design featuring bears dancing around a campfire. Rise picked up a script from the bedside table at random, put on his glasses, and began to read. Within ten minutes, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

It was all he could do to turn off the light before falling into a dreamless sleep.

His phone rang at seven the next morning.

“The car’s on its way. It’ll be outside in twenty,” said Isobel, his agent. “See you at the hotel for breakfast.”

“Roger. Wilco,” said Rise.

He wiped sleep from his eyes and went to shower and dress. He was already packed. It wasn’t long before the crunch of tires arrived outside the cabin. A glance out the bathroom window showed it to be a Range Rover driven by Castor, Isobel’s favorite driver. Rise was grateful she hadn’t sent the stretch.

Castor knocked on the door and Rise came through the room, pulling his suitcase. The shorter, stockier man gave Rise a friendly nod and took the bag. Rise walked around the living room, doing one last visual check. The puzzle. Should he rebox?

He stood in front of the table. And stared.

Castor was saying something, but Rise didn’t hear him.

The puzzle was complete. All the pieces were locked in. None missing.

The paper towel next to the puzzle, which had a small rim of Malbec from Rise’s glass the night before on it, now also had a tiny heart, drawn by pen. Filled in with lipstick.

Castor came and stood next to him, looking at the puzzle and the paper towel. A knowing smile crossed his face. “Fun night?” he asked. “Come on, we’ve got to go, or Isobel will have our heads.”

Rise grabbed the paper towel and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

It was only when he got into the car that he began to tremble.

1
EVENING’S END

Tranquility, New York, held a new spark of energy. I felt it as I walked the nearly-empty sidewalks at 11:30 p.m. on that clear September Tuesday evening. A brisk chill seasoned the air around old-fashioned streetlights whose bulbs flickered merrily as if the lamplighter had recently come by. The shops of Main Street also spoke of an earlier day. They were brick or clapboard, one story or two, although the Adirondack Adventure Hotel had dared climb to four floors, the village’s version of a skyscraper.

The Tranquility Film Festival was opening that weekend and I was looking forward to it. First, because I had friends whose documentary was certain to create a stir. Second, with the first festival screening on Thursday, actors, directors, publicists, and journalists were beginning to descend in their limos and fancy rental cars. Their imminent arrival excited the locals, even those who claimed disinterest, and the crowd at the pub I manage and bartend was buzzing with anticipation. Food, drinks, and high spirits flowed freely all evening.

MacTavish’s, the Scottish-style inn that housed that pub—formally named That Ship Has Sailed, but universally called the Battened Hatch—was on the south end of Main, while my cottage was nestled in a hidden glade called Mill Pond off the northern end. I’d decided to walk to work that afternoon, in the late-summer heat with the teasing hint of autumn leaves. Tonight, the mountains that rimmed town loomed as a backdrop, purple and protective. We’d closed the bar at 11. My barback, Marta, and I took some extra time swapping out the next day’s drink specials in the holders on each table. Marta then hurried off on her bike, and I headed home, savoring the pre-festival calm by strolling the walkways of my adopted home.

Most businesses, including restaurants, were closed, their nighttime illumination offering a soft glow over wares displayed in shop windows. There was one notable exception: the Orpheum Theater, where the festival was soon to begin. Outdoor lights shone and the marquee was aglow.

I paused to study the listing of films with the dates and times of their screenings. Salty Sally and Pepper: Truth Be Told, the documentary featuring as yet unknown stories about two screen idols of Hollywood’s Golden Age who’d lived in Tranquility, would show on Saturday afternoon, a prime slot.

Glancing inside the hall that led to the lobby, I saw posters for the festival’s other films lining the walls. It was kind of odd that the lobby doors were still open. Surely the night’s final screenings of regular movies were done by now? As I entered to study a poster for an independent feature, Kyle, the lanky teenager who ran concessions during the week and usually closed up, walked into the lobby. He saw me and waved. I waved back.

“Just perusing,” I said, signaling my willingness to leave.

He joined me in the outer hall. “You work around here, right?”

“Yes, I’m Avalon. Nash. I bartend at the Battened Hatch. In MacTavish’s.”

“Could you help me for a minute?” He looked nervous.

“What is it?”

“The last movie’s over. I need to close up. But some girl fell asleep in the theater.”

“You can’t wake her up?”

“I tried saying, ‘wake up,’ but it didn’t work.”

“If she slept through an action movie, I’m not surprised. Did you try shaking her shoulder?”

Kyle looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to touch her or anything. We’ve had harassment training.”

“Okay.” How could I not help such a well-meaning kid?

The Orpheum was a grand movie palace back in the day. Now it was carved into three theaters, the largest of which was downstairs, in the footprint of the original. The once-commanding balcony was split in half to create two smaller screening spaces, but each remained large and raked with the original stairs going down each outside wall.

The sleeper was in theater three, upstairs. I trotted up the carpeted steps behind Kyle, who was obviously eager to get on with things.

All the theater lights were on, including the harsh work lights, which took away any golden veneer of the magic of storytelling. I headed down to where the young woman was seated, fifth row center, and walked across row four to be squarely in front of her.

The movie-goer was petite, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with the carefree good looks of youth, wearing a form-fitting white cashmere sweater that showed off her flawless tan skin, and jeggings. Her small popcorn was settled into the seat beside her. She hadn’t enjoyed much of it before dozing off.

“Excuse me,” I said. No reply.

“Miss?” I put my knee onto the folded seat bottom in front of me and leaned forward, reaching out and shaking the young woman’s leg. I shook harder. Her naturally curly brown hair jostled, but she didn’t move. “Hello?”

I glanced up at Kyle, who shrugged, see what I mean?

Willing myself not to think the worst, or even the second-worst, I walked back a row and across it. I put a hand firmly on the girl’s shoulder and shook her. “The movie’s over.”

She fell forward.

Her popcorn spilled over her seat and onto the floor.

That’s when I thought the worst.

EVENING’S END

Ingredients

Fresh whole orange (peeled and pulled apart, save peel)

1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric 

2 oz honey (preferably local)

2 cups of water

1 1/2 oz Bourbon/Whiskey of your choice 

Method

In medium saucepan add water, turmeric, one large piece of orange peel and honey.  Let simmer for about 10 minutes and stir occasionally.  In large mug add Bourbon or Whiskey and then add a ladle or two of hot toddy mixture.  

Relax, sip and enjoy going into dreamland.

Click here to download and keep reading! https://www.amazon.com/Death-Gravity-Sharon-Linnea-ebook/dp/B08NHNPRS7/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=death+by+gravity&qid=1606579922&sr=8-1

Click here to support independent bookstores and order from Bookstore Plus in Lake Placid! https://thebookstoreplus.com/item/QrrayqqaJB2nPiZl-akpqA

Explore the Bartender’s Guide to Murder website for fun recipes!

Sharon Linnéa is the bestselling author of the Eden Thrillers (Chasing Eden, Beyond Eden, Treasure of Eden & Plagues of Eden) with co-author B.K. Sherer, following the adventures of Army chaplain Jaime Richards. She is also the author of the Movie Murder Mystery These Violent Delights, and the YA spy thriller Domino 29 (as Axel Avian). Sharon wrote the Carter Woodson Award-winning biography, Princess Ka’iulani: Hope of a Nation, Heart of a People, and Raoul Wallenberg: The Man Who Stopped Death. She began working on The Bartender’s Guide to Murder mysteries after a catastrophic house fire made her decide to do something a bit more fun for a while. She enjoys visiting book clubs virtually and in person. Sharon@SharonLinnea.com

Visit Her Author Website  SharonLinnea.com

In medium saucepan add water, turmeric, one large piece of orange peel and honey.  Let simmer for about 10 minutes and stir occasionally.  In large mug add Bourbon or Whiskey and then add a ladle or two of hot toddy mixture.  

Relax, sip and enjoy going into dreamland.

Death by Gravity

28 Saturday Nov 2020

Posted by Book Lover in Action Adventure, Bartender protagonist, bartenders guide to murder, Female protagonist, Fiction, Mystery, sharon linnea, Suspense, Uncategorized

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bartender sleuth, bartenders guide to murder, Female protagonist, Mystery, Olympics, recipes included, sharon linnea

Seven-year-old Davy Edison awoke alone in the dark. He had a moment of frightened confusion before he was able to orient himself. He was in a tent that he and his older sister, Misty, had concocted out of sheets and chairs downstairs in the television room.

Davy loved it when their parents went out and Misty babysat. They always thought of fun trouble to get into—like building a fort out of blankets, eating barbecue wings, and watching shows of which their parents didn’t approve.

However, the television was now off and the sleeping bag next to
him was empty. Misty must have gone up to bed. Davy briefly considered going back to sleep, but he had to pee, and his real bed was more comfortable, anyway. He used the downstairs bathroom and walked through silent halls to the staircase in the bedroom wing. To his right at the first landing, the door to the staircase that led to his parents’ floor was closed, which meant they’d come home.

He padded down the long hall toward his room. When he passed Misty’s room, he was surprised to find the door slightly ajar. He pushed against it silently and opened it a few inches to see if she was still awake.

Her bed hadn’t been slept in. One of the French doors to her balcony was open.

“Mist?” he whispered, as he stepped into the room.

The sheer curtain by the outside deck fluttered, and he stopped. He could see shapes outside. More than one. This threw him enough that he didn’t hear the person who stepped up behind him until the man grabbed him firmly with one hand and planted his other hand over Davy’s mouth. Davy heard him kick the hall door closed behind them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” asked an angry whisper.

Davy did the first thing he thought of: he chomped down on the
top of the hand over his mouth.

“Where’s my sister?” he hissed.

“You are in so much trouble, you little freak. You’ve got two choices. You shut up, now, right now, and you stay silent, silent, till morning, or your sister and your parents all die. We have your sister already. I can shoot your parents before they even wake up!”

Davy was thinking fast. He’d heard about kids who were kidnapped and their siblings keeping quiet way too long because they were scared. That wasn’t him. He had to pretend to go along. He nodded his head. When the man took his hand away a few millimeters, he said, “Okay. Okay! I’ll be quiet. Just don’t hurt her! Put me down. Let me go to my room!”

“Fat chance, idiot kid,” said the voice. It sounded rusty, like it had to bounce over lots of nails to get from the voice box to the air.

“Put me down,” he said, with a bravado he didn’t feel.

The man put him down, but awkwardly, so he landed on the dude’s shoe and lost his balance. The kidnapper was suddenly furious. His other hand grabbed something, and suddenly there was steel against the boy’s throat.

“No!” Davy cried.

“First you, then her,” came the raspy reply.

And everything went black.

❖

Davy woke up in Misty’s bed while it was still dark outside. Her balcony door was closed. She was gone. He knew he had to sound the alarm as soon as possible, no matter what the kidnapper had threatened, but his arms were bound behind him and he had duct tape over his mouth. It hurt to have his arms pulled back that way. His shoulders were burning, but there was nothing he could do. The tape over his mouth was sticky, and it smelled like oil. He couldn’t move his lips or open his mouth or swallow his saliva properly.

Worst was that he couldn’t get anyone’s attention. He couldn’t save Misty.

Warm tears traced his cheeks and moistened Misty’s pillow.

By morning, when his parents finally found him, she was long gone.

CHAPTER 1 TORTURING THE NEWBIES

It was the first Saturday night in June. Tranquility, New York, is far enough north that the warm evening breezes over the lake still felt new and intoxicating. Why folks needed further intoxication I do not know, but the Battened Hatch was hopping. Everyone was in high spirits.

Shortly after 8 p.m., Brent Davis and his wife, Susan, took seats at the beautifully carved wooden bar. “Hey, Avalon,” Brent said. He was of British heritage and wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, the quintessential newspaper editor. His beard was trimmed and comfortably
salt-and-pepper, his glasses wire-rimmed. “Throw me a Stella and a white wine for the wife.”

I smiled at Susan. “Chardonnay?” I asked.

“Perfect.” She nodded.

“When did you get back from LA?” I queried Brent as I poured. “How’s the film shaping up?”

“Got home a few hours ago,” he responded, a spark behind his eyes. He was producing a documentary on the town’s golden-era movie stars, Pepper Porter and Sally Allison, which had some unexpected new plot twists, due to a recent murder investigation. It now looked to be a humdinger, as Pepper might have said. “It’ll be a challenge to finish it in time for the Tranquility Film Festival in August.”

“Can’t wait to see it!” I responded truthfully. Sally Allison was one of my favorite movie stars of all time. Not to mention, my current landlord.

“Thanks for your help,” Brent added, lifting his glass.

“Hope there are no upcoming giant news stories to split your attention.”
Brent was also the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper.

“It’s Tranquility. I think we’re safe,” he said.

The ding of new drink orders came to the bar from the POS on the restaurant floor. I exchanged an eyeroll with Marta, my teal-haired bartender-in-waiting, as the paper continued to scroll. Our new waiter, Davros, shrugged at us from the mid-floor machine.

Olympic medalist Brian Eddings was holding court tonight, and the liquor was flowing. Brian wasn’t the only Olympian who frequented the Battened Hatch. Gillian Petrakov, a former bronze medalist in figure skating, sat at the bar even now, her blonde hair in a bun, fitted pink sweater set embracing her still-taut figure, next to her partner, Callie (non-skater, brown hair, ran a nonprofit).

“Brian is torturing the Newbies again.” Gillian smiled.

Tranquility is one of two places in the United States where athletes can train for winter sports year-round. Brian lived locally. I met him when he turned up here at the Scottish tavern shortly after I came to town. You knew when he was in the room—as did everyone in town, apparently—and they started arriving in groups to join his instant party.

“The Newbies?” I asked.

“Bobsledding is a unique sport,” Gillian said. “Take figure skating—you have to train for decades. But bobsledders—all you have to be is strong, fast, and able to jump. Every year, Olympic scouts head for colleges to entice track stars and even shot-putters to come and try out for Olympic bobsled team.”

“Really?” I asked, wiping down the bar. “Does it ever work out?”

“Yep, there have been times when a college kid shows up in June and has competed in the next Winter Olympics!”

As she said that, a tall man walked into the bar from the door to MacTavish’s Seaside Cottage, the hotel that housed us. It was a sprawling, hundred-year-old establishment that was not seaside (though lakeside) and had no cottages. There was, however, a MacTavish.

The newcomer was European-American, maybe six feet, short brown hair, trim, and wearing a gray polo tucked into gray slacks. His eyes scanned the place and he smiled, as if entertaining memories from his past. I turned, ready to ask if he wanted to be seated, when he saw the group at the back of the room. His smile vanished. He turned on his heel and walked out.

Alrighty, then. I turned my attention back to Gillian. “So how does Brian torture them?”

“He’s not their coach, obviously. He competed in luge. But he can’t resist so many freaked-out, naïve athletes. They’ve been living like monks in Olympic housing for the past three weeks. As soon as they’re allowed out, he brings them here and buys them beer. They—and their coaches—won’t be happy tomorrow morning.”

“So why do they keep letting him do it?”

“Good question.” Gillian sipped her drink. “The truth is monks don’t make very good bobsledders, but the coaches can’t be seen to be condoning this behavior. But—whew—the kids gotta get this energy out somehow! Brian’s like a father figure… but father figures aren’t always the best influences!”

“Tell me about it.”

A huge whoop went up. I looked up—to find the previously full tables suddenly emptied of athletes and their adult beverages.

“What the… ?”

The door to the smoker’s porch was open. Another group cry went up, followed by a loud splash.

Marta followed me to the open door. And there, on the smoker’s porch, Brian Eddings had built himself a luge. He’d put two square tables together with another four-top on it. He’d added a sturdy wooden chair with arms on top of that table. He’d appropriated all my tablecloth clips to attach a long tablecloth to the wooden chair, again to the lower table, and then to the front of the lower level to jerry-rig a mini-luge run. Seriously.

One prospective Olympian stood on the top table, holding the chair solid while two others held the cloth taut lower down. Two young men had already careened down and off into the lake. Another was climbing the rickety contraption even now, holding a bussing tray to ride on his journey.
“Baron McNulty for the win!” crowed the young man, throwing
himself onto the slanted tablecloth, sliding off the porch and into
the lake.

“Dear God, Brian, what are you doing?” I asked. “MacTavish’s insurance does not cover reckless porch slides!”

“Aw, lassie,” he said, in an affected voice purposely reminiscent of Glenn, the owner of MacTavish’s.

The next young man at the top of the climb pushed off, and hurled down into the lake.

“Back inside! Everyone!” I instructed. “Free buffalo wings. On the house.”

That did it. A different kind of whoop and the portion of young men who had little interest in killing themselves jumping off metal chairs headed back in.

Marta and I dismantled the furniture sculpture and stood for a moment. I have no doubt she was joining me to silently pay respects to my predecessor who had died on this very porch.

The rest of the night slid past quickly, as busy pub nights do. At midnight, a minibus pulled up to return Olympic hopefuls to their apartments at the training facility. Shortly thereafter, a trio of young women left, helping their friend walk between them. They’d each had one drink, and I wondered if their affected friend had an intolerance or allergy. Or if she’d simply downed all three drinks herself.

Brian Eddings stayed to help Manuela, the bus-person, clear, as his group’s tables were in shambles. Brian’s face and chin were square, with an indent in the bulb of his nose, as if someone has pressed a fingerprint to it. His hair was blond and close-cropped, although Olympic photos of him showed it longer and unruly. His eyes were alert, brimming with intelligence and mischief. Living in Tranquility, you hear pretty quickly that life after being an Olympian—medalist or not—is rough going for many athletes. I appreciated that Brian was willing to be a bit wild but truly thoughtful at the same time.

I closed out the POS and came back as Manuela and Brian finished separating the now-cleaned tables.

“Thanks, Manuela,” I said.

“Good night,” she replied and headed out.

“Sorry if we made more work,” said Brian, eyes flashing. “But it’s a rip.”

“A rip?”

“Rip-roaring time!”

He was so pleased as he said it, I couldn’t help but laugh. At least no one had broken their neck on his jerry-rigged luge. As we worked together, I noticed that he wasn’t inebriated in the least. He said he didn’t drink, and he stuck to it.

“Good night,” he said. As he passed, he crushed a bill into my hand. “For the extra trouble,” he said. “And the wings.”

I’d comped the wings, figuring they’d be cheaper for MacTavish’s than the bad publicity of a future Olympian breaking his neck luging off the smoker’s porch.

“Night,” I replied, following, turning out the lights. As I locked the door behind him, I glanced at the tip. It was a one-hundred-dollar bill.

That was, allegedly, the last time anyone saw Brian Eddings alive.

TORTURING THE NEWBIES
Ingredients
Sour mix
Seltzer
Lime
Method
Add 2 ounces of sour mix to a glass with ice.
Top with seltzer.
Add lime for garnish.
Sip all night and be proud of yourself in the morning.

Click here to download and keep reading! https://www.amazon.com/Death-Gravity-Sharon-Linnea-ebook/dp/B08NHNPRS7/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=death+by+gravity&qid=1606579922&sr=8-1

Click here to support The Bookstore Plus in Lake Placid and order a signed copy of the trade paperback! https://www.thebookstoreplus.com/adirondack-fiction

Explore the Bartender’s Guide to Murder website for fun recipes!

Sharon Linnéa is the bestselling author of the Eden Thrillers (Chasing Eden, Beyond Eden, Treasure of Eden & Plagues of Eden) with co-author B.K. Sherer, following the adventures of Army chaplain Jaime Richards. She is also the author of the Movie Murder Mystery These Violent Delights, and the YA spy thriller Domino 29 (as Axel Avian). Sharon wrote the Carter Woodson Award-winning biography, Princess Ka’iulani: Hope of a Nation, Heart of a People, and Raoul Wallenberg: The Man Who Stopped Death. She began working on The Bartender’s Guide to Murder mysteries after a catastrophic house fire made her decide to do something a bit more fun for a while. She enjoys visiting book clubs virtually and in person. Sharon@SharonLinnea.com

Visit Her Author Website  SharonLinnea.com

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