Olive and Let Die Read online

  Last Ride

  “Damn. That’s the last one, isn’t it?” Melanie said.

  “That’s the last water taxi ride.” I offered to call Liza at the Spa and have her send a boat. “Wait, I have a better idea.” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and speed-dialed a number.

  He answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you’d call,” he said. A thrill raced through me as I heard his voice. I got up from the table and walked a few steps away. “Did the restaurant close early? Am I gonna get lucky tonight?”

  I sucked in a breath. Getting lucky with Jack would be better than catching a thousand leprechauns, superior to an infinite number of rabbits’ feet. Not that it had happened yet. “Maybe,” I teased. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Is it that kind of favor? The kind where I do something for you, then you do something for me?”

  “Sounds like a win-win to me.” I grinned stupidly. “Listen, I have a friend here who needs a ride out to Liza’s. Are you busy?”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Where are you?”

  “I’m out in back of Spiro and Inky’s new place. See you then.”

  When I returned to the table, Melanie was gone. I squinted in the darkness and made out a humanoid shape over by the small toolshed where the lawnmower and gardening equipment were kept. “Melanie,” I said. “Don’t go over there in those shoes. You’re liable to step on a nail . . .”

  I heard a gasp and saw the shadow of her arm fly to her mouth. I ran over, nearly gagging as a smell intensified. An odd braided rope—was it made of plastic wrap?—lay on the ground. And crumpled between a pile of two-by-fours and some sheets of insulation lay a body.

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Susannah Hardy

  FETA ATTRACTION

  OLIVE AND LET DIE

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  OLIVE AND LET DIE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Jane Haertel.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14009-7

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2015

  Cover illustration by Bill Bruning.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  To Mom and Dad,

  for always believing in me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my mom, sisters, and aunts, thanks for being my biggest cheerleaders.

  To my editor, Michelle Vega, and the rest of the amazing team at Berkley Prime Crime, and to my agent, John Talbot, thanks for helping me bring Georgie and the rest of the Bonaparte Bay gang to life.

  To my friends and colleagues at the Connecticut Chapter of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime New England, thanks for being the best support system, professional and personal, a writer could ask for.

  And, as always, to Mike and Will. For everything.

  CONTENTS

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Susannah Hardy

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Author’s Note

  Recipes

  Hope of ill gain is the beginning of loss.

  —EPICURUS, ANCIENT GREEK PHILOSOPHER, 341 B.C.–271 B.C.

  ONE

  It’s not every day a celebrity walks into your restaurant. Oh, there’ve been a few over the years, mostly old-time entertainers whose careers have been reduced to telling jokes or singing in the lounges of the quiet resorts on either end of downtown Bonaparte Bay, New York. Mickey Rooney. Dick Van Dyke. Once I saw Gordon Lightfoot walking down Theresa Street, but he didn’t stop in.

  So when Rhonda Allen, my best server, burst into the kitchen that September evening as I was just sitting down to a plate of souvlaki wrapped in a soft warm pita—my five-minute dinner break—I knew somebody interesting had come in.

  Actually, my life had gotten a lot more interesting lately. A few weeks earlier I had solved a couple of mysteries—helped bring a murderer to justice, and found some priceless items hidden right upstairs where I lived with my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law, Sophie. My friendly divorce would be final in a few weeks, and I had a developing relationship with a gorgeous Coast Guard officer. There were some details to be worked out, but life was looking pretty good for Georgie Nikolopatos.

  “Come on, Georgie!” Rhonda grabbed my arm and pulled me along. “You’re not going to believe who’s in the top dining room!”

  “Okay,” I said, laughing. “Who is it? Daniel Craig? Johnny Depp?” I felt a little panicky thrill. What if it really were Daniel Craig or Johnny Depp? I straightened my skirt and ran my fingers through my hair, doing my best to fluff it and wishing I’d made time to go to the salon to have my roots touched up.

  “You’ll see!” I followed Rhonda past my office and toward the open pocket doors leading into the largest of the dining rooms. There were a satisfying number of customers, not so many that we were crazy busy, but enough that we’d make a nice profit tonight. No disgruntled faces. In fact, there was a low, excited buzz, and eyes seemed to be turning periodically toward the front window overlooking the main drag of Bonaparte Bay.

  A woman with teased-out platinum hair and a scarlet tank top ablaze with sequins sat in profile to me. Her matching red linen jacket was draped casually over the back of her chair. She extended a hand, ropy with blue veins and sporting an enormous diamond cocktail ring and a set of lethal-looking bloodred nails, toward her dini
ng companion, a youngish woman with dark hair and glasses. The younger woman was typing furiously into her phone, as though she were taking dictation.

  There was something familiar about the other woman, who was clearly in charge. I couldn’t quite place her.

  Rhonda tugged at my sleeve. “You know who that is, right?” The air practically vibrated with Rhonda’s excitement.

  I glanced over again, doing my best not to stare while still getting a better look at my guest. Nope, recognition still eluded me. “Okay, you’d better tell me.”

  “I can’t believe it! It’s Melanie Ashley!” she stage-whispered.

  Melanie Ashley. Of course. The grande dame royal witch of daytime television’s most popular soap opera, The Desperate and the Defiant. She’d been on the show for twenty years and had been married and divorced a dozen times, half of those to the same man. At least the writers had finally stopped giving her pregnancy story lines, since she had to be pushing sixty.

  “Go get Sophie, will you? She wouldn’t want to miss this.” Sophie was a huge fan of the show, which she watched during her afternoon break while she pretended to be sleeping.

  I busied myself by greeting the diners at table eight, then moved counterclockwise around the room, making stops along the way. I wondered how quickly I could get the lone reporter from the Bonaparte Bay Blurb over here for a photo op and some free advertising. Sophie appeared in the doorway, rolling her lips together. She had just applied a new layer of “Passionate Coral” lipstick, a color (according to her) she’d been wearing since the early nineteen sixties. I never had figured out where she bought the stuff. She barreled over to the table, heedless of me, and I hurried to catch up with her.

  “Why you divorce that beautiful man? Again?” Sophie demanded, her Greek accent thick and her little fists balled up onto her scrawny hips. Heads whipped around to watch. Melanie turned toward Sophie, and barely had to look up to meet her eyes.

  Damage control time. “It’s lovely to have you here at the Bonaparte House,” I interrupted. “This is the owner, Sophie Nikolopatos, and I’m her daughter-in-law, Georgie.” Melanie stared at me, her glossy red lips slightly parted to reveal brilliant white teeth, and I felt a strange flicker of . . . something. Recognition? Well, of course I recognized her, I thought, surreptitiously studying the artificial tightness of Melanie’s expertly made-up face and looking for suture lines. I’d seen her on television and in the tabloids often enough. “We’d like to offer you and your guest a complimentary bottle of wine, or a dessert, if you’d prefer.”

  “No, we don’t like,” Sophie fumed. “That beautiful man. How could you leave him for that, that, Toy-Boy?”

  I took Sophie’s arm. “Sophie, it’s just a television show. Ms. Ashley is an actor. You know that, right?”

  “I know she’s one of those, those, tiger women!”

  “You mean ‘cougar.’ I smiled apologetically at Melanie, who continued to stare at me. It was getting a bit uncomfortable, actually, and I still had that nagging feeling. Her assistant glanced up occasionally from her smartphone but seemed to decide the situation did not warrant her interference.

  Melanie shook her head slightly, as though to break some spell, and turned to Sophie. She apparently understood that no amount of explanation would change Sophie’s mind. She leaned toward my mother-in-law and whispered, “I’m just trying to make Vincent jealous. I’m not planning to go through with the divorce this time.” Her voice, low and with a throaty rasp, sent another tendril of recognition twining up my spine. I sucked in a breath.

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed. She pursed up her orangey lips and seemed to think for a moment. “Give her a drink,” she ordered me, then turned on the heel of her white walking shoes and left the dining room.

  I’d never done this to a customer in my life, but I pulled out an empty chair at Melanie’s table and sat down. Hard. I searched Melanie’s face. She’d had a lot of work done, between face-lifts, brow lifts, and Botox and collagen injections. Her hair was different. Her nose was narrower. She’d had her boobs enhanced. Her voice was different, perhaps from years of smoking or because of a voice coach. But up close, I knew this woman. The last time I’d seen her, I was eighteen years old, had just graduated high school, and was about to start my first job waitressing here at the Bonaparte House. She kissed me on the cheek, got on the back of a Harley behind a Hell’s Angel, and roared off toward Route 81.

  A whole range of emotions surged through me in rapid succession: joy, relief, and disbelief, before I finally settled on something that felt just right. Anger.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Shirley?” I hissed. I couldn’t bring myself to call her “Mom.”

  TWO

  “No need to get nasty, Georgie.”

  Really? I had eighteen years of pent-up resentment and I definitely felt the need to be nasty.

  “Couldn’t you have given me some warning before you just showed up here? Maybe an e-mail? A phone call?”

  “And don’t call me Shirley,” she said, her voice low, as she cut her eyes to the other patrons in the restaurant. She smiled and wiggled her fingers at one table.

  Great. Now she was a comedian as well as an actor.

  “Fine, Melanie. Why are you here?”

  Melanie turned to her assistant, who was watching our exchange with interest. “Be a good girl and run over to the drugstore. I need a Kit-Kat.”

  “But you haven’t even had dinner yet,” the young woman pointed out.

  “Last time I checked, Caitlyn,” she said frostily, “I sign your paychecks. Or at least my accountant signs your paychecks. I want a Kit-Kat now.” Caitlyn dropped her phone into her oversized bag and walked away, leaving her salad untouched.

  Was that display of power intended for me? I was unimpressed.

  “You have a nice little place here,” Melanie said. “Do you own it?” She looked at her fingernails and frowned. I followed her eyes to a small chip in the polish on her ring finger.

  I gritted my teeth. She’d hit a nerve, almost certainly intentionally. If she’d had the resources to find me, not that that would have been difficult, she would have easily learned that I only managed this place. The historic Bonaparte House was owned by my mother-in-law, Sophie. Now that my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Spiro, had moved out to be with his true love, the guy who ran the tattoo shop down the street, I was in a tenuous situation. Sophie loved me, and I loved her back, but this arrangement couldn’t go on forever. Especially now that Jack Conway had entered my life. I was doing my best to convince Sophie to sell me the building and the business, but so far she hadn’t budged.

  “Well, gosh, no I don’t. I work and live here with the woman who took me in after I was abandoned by my mother.”

  Melanie winced, just a little, then shot back. “Don’t you have a husband? A daughter?”

  I was done. “You know what?” I whispered. “My life stopped being your business twenty years ago. Just tell me why you’re here so I can get on with it.”

  At that moment Caitlyn came back and set half a dozen candy bars on the table, then plunked herself down in her chair. Melanie should have sent her on a longer unnecessary errand than just across the street. Caitlyn started in on her salad, which was now soggy from having sat for too long in the dressing. She forked up a limp piece of lettuce and frowned. I signaled for Rhonda to come over. “Bring a couple of fresh salads, please, and tell Dolly to hold up these dinners for a few minutes.” She nodded and whisked away the plates.

  “Well?” I glared at Melanie.

  She made an attempt to raise an eyebrow at me, but she appeared to be too Botoxed to be able to accomplish that maneuver anymore. She gave an almost imperceptible nod to Caitlyn, who had pulled out her phone and was again typing furiously into it, oblivious. Later, she mouthed. Her mouth didn’t seem to work quite right either.

  Fine. I mouthed back. “Where
are you staying?” I asked aloud.

  “We’re staying at the Spa. On Valentine Island.”

  My friend Liza ran an exclusive spa on an island just a short boat ride from the mainland, catering to the very rich and very famous. Sometimes in the early spring, when we had not yet opened for the season, or in the late fall, when we closed for the winter, Liza would treat me to a world-class pampering session. Right about now I longed for a hot stone massage and a soak in one of her special relaxation tubs. I could almost smell the fragrant herbs sprinkled on the warm water. Valentine Island, take me away.

  “And how long will you be here?” I tried to keep my tone neutral.

  “I’m booked at the Spa for a week, perhaps two.” Two fresh salads appeared, and she forked up some greens, wrapping her unnaturally plump lips around the utensil carefully so as not to smudge her lipstick. “The boat is coming at eight o’clock. I’m going to send Caitlyn on ahead to make sure the rooms are satisfactory.” The assistant nodded. “I believe I’ll look around the shops until the next boat comes at nine o’clock,” she said, looking pointedly at me.

  I nodded to show I understood, then got up. “Enjoy your dinners. They should be out shortly. By the way, there’s a jewelry shop just down the street you might want to check out.” I don’t know why I played along with her little game. It wasn’t like I owed her anything. But she owed me, at the very least, an explanation, and I didn’t want to alienate her before I had a chance to confront her. After I had my answers, well, she was fair game.

  A woman from table six made a beeline for Melanie. She held out a pen and a piece of cloth—one of my table napkins—and asked Melanie for her autograph.

  It was a short walk out of the dining room and down the hall to my office. I closed the heavy wooden door, none too gently, and unlocked the deep bottom drawer of my desk. I pulled out a plastic cup and a bottle of expensive Merlot purloined from the wine cellar, and poured myself a couple of swallows. I rummaged around in the drawer and came up with a bar of dark chocolate, peeled back the foil, and broke off a big square, which melted deliciously on my tongue. A few deep breaths, and my mood improved somewhat.