A Thrift Shop Murder (Cats, Ghosts and Avocado Toast #1)
N.M. Howell, L.C. Hibbett
Chapter One
One, two, three. I counted slowly as I inhaled and exhaled. Peace and Zen, I chanted internally. Peace and Zen. Keep it together, Price. You are a calm, confident woman who can master life’s curve balls.
“Stuff your pie holes, you saggy old bats!”
I raised a hand to my mouth and squeezed my lips together to muffle my snort of nervous laughter as the old woman to my left began a fresh tirade of abuse. The surrounding mourners did not even glance over their shoulders as the woman muttered about wrinkly fartbags and hairy chins. Obviously, angry-shouting-lady was a neighborhood regular; trust me to stand next to the loopiest person at the memorial service.
The wind chilled my skin and I tugged my cardigan tighter around myself; my wardrobe choice was ill-planned for an outdoor event so early in the spring. Not that I had planned to be standing in the middle of a public park attending a stranger’s funeral, mind you. No, my plan had been to dump my bags in my new apartment, soak in a hot bath while I downed a bottle of Salem’s finest organic red wine, and sleep for four solid days until starting my new job. Clearly, fate had other plans. Stupid fate. Stupid life.
Please proceed to the memorial in the park by the river for further instruction.
I read the note I had found pinned to the door of my new apartment for the tenth time and scanned the small gathering for any sign of my new landlord. I had only ever spoken to the woman on the phone, and briefly at that, so all I knew was that I was looking for an older lady.
Standing on my tip toes, I peered over the heads of those in front of me, searching for any sign of my new landlord and boss. A small man in black robes and a white collar teetered on top of a milk crate as he read the eulogy from what appeared to be the back of a shopping receipt. He raised his voice to be heard over the sound of two old women squabbling like demonic school girls in the front row. Maybe one of the ladies was who I was looking for? I crossed my fingers and hoped it was the woman with the laughter lines around her eyes, not the one who looked like she was sucking on a whole bag of lemons.
“New in town?” A voice called from behind me, the words muffled by the wind. I dropped back down on my heels and turned toward the source of the greeting, grateful for a distraction from the bizarre ceremony. I stepped back from the crowd, turning toward the stranger. The woman wore a knitted hat and a thick winter jacket with a white lab coat peeking out the bottom. She was tall and her hair was cropped short around her face to reveal high cheekbones. She gave me a warm smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, not from around here?”
“That obvious?” I asked. The woman laughed. “Yeah, I just moved here from Portland. It’s my first day in town, actually.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “And you ended up at a memorial? Yikes. Did you know the deceased?”
“No, I didn’t.” I grimaced. “It’s a bit awkward actually, I’m just picking up the keys to my new place and I was told to come here. I’m assuming my landlord is around here somewhere, but I haven’t found her yet.” I looked around at the strange assortment of mourners, ranging from elegant women with silver hair to a stunning young man wearing a pink fedora and a lime green skirt. There were no photographs beside the coffin to give any indication of who had died. “Lots of people paying their respects this afternoon; seems like a pretty tight-knit community?”
“Oh yeah, you bet it is.” The woman chuckled softly. “Welcome to Salem, by the way. You’ll just love it here; it’s a great place to live.” She held out a slim hand. “My name is Tracy. I’m sorry your introduction to our neighborhood had to be this… grim.”
“Price Jones, pleased to meet you.” I returned her handshake with a smile. “And trust me, a funeral is one of the nicer ways I’ve spent my time lately.”
Tracy grimaced. “That doesn’t sound great.” She nodded at the bright green trees and the sparkling water. “Well, I hope you enjoy living in Salem; it’s a little different from Portland.”
“Different is exactly what I want right now,” I said.
Tracy opened her mouth to respond but was distracted by an outburst from the top of the crowd. It was the lemon-sucking old lady. “Oh, please. What a load of claptrap; she didn’t even like children. She called them hairless monkeys.”
The tall, slim woman’s words carried over the crowd as though she was standing on a stage. The plump, pretty lady next to her wrung her hands together and began to whisper something, but the flustered-looking priest shushed the two old women, clearly aggrieved by the interruption to his praise of the deceased’s kindness to the local children. The taller woman dismissed him with a wave of her hand and continued to bicker with her companion. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dot. You know she thought they were filthy and smelly.”
I tried to focus on the eulogy, but the sheer disregard of the old women and for the nature of the event made for compelling viewing. You didn’t see old women placing bets and throwing insults at the funerals in Hillsdale. Unfortunately.
“Boo hoo! As if you two have ever done anything decent, you withered old prunes.” Oh, man. The raised voices had provoked the tiny old woman to my left again, and she fumed as she glared at the chattering ladies, her eyes wild and her expression somewhere between menacing and hysterical. She turned to me and huffed. “Can you believe those cows? What utter witches. A pair of scagbags, that’s what they are.”
Don’t laugh, Price. It’s a funeral and these are your new neighbors. I offered the woman an apologetic grimace and sucked in a slow breath. Deep breath in. Hold for three seconds. Slow and steady breath out. I was a major self-help geek and had learned the calming technique from one of my favorite holistic wellness podcasts created by my idol, Dr. Lee. I had found myself practicing it at least a dozen times a day over the past weeks, but not usually to stop me from collapsing into hysterical laughter. That was a first.
Tracy leaned closer to me as if sensing my discomfort. She nodded toward where lemon-sucker and her friend were engaging in a full-blown argument. “Don’t worry, not everyone in Salem is that crazy. I promise.”
My lips curved as I looked at the two old women. The priest's face was a deep shade of purple as he glared at them over his crumpled piece of paper and it looked as though he was on the verge of an aneurysm, but the ladies didn’t appear to be planning to relent any time soon.
“Who are those two women?” I asked, turning my back to the grumbling lady beside me.
“Dot Murphy and Bianca D’Arcy,” Tracy said. “Local celebrities in their own right, or so they’d have you believe. You’ll be seeing a lot of them in town. Dot is pretty sweet, but Bianca is something entirely different, I’m afraid. That woman has a core of steel and a tongue like a whip.”
“As I was saying…” The priest cleared his throat and began shouting at the top of his lungs, his cheeks flushed and his voice hoarse. “The deceased…”
“So, Price?” Tracy’s voice pulled my attention away from the increasingly high-pitched man. “Who did you say your landlord was?”
As if on cue, both the priest and I spoke in unison, “Agatha Bentley.”
I blanched and stared at the priest. After a long moment, and with a dry mouth, I managed to whisper, “What did he just say?”