Mascara and Murder (Murder In Style Book 3) Read online

  Special Thanks:

  To Alex and Leo—from LA to MN. я тебя люблю!

  To my parents—and your AOL account!

  To Kristi—welcome back!

  To Meg—the one and only madcap Meg.

  To Stacia—who loves Jenna more than anyone.

  To my family, friends, and LaManna’s Ladies, thank YOU for making this book possible!

  Mascara and Murder

  Murder in Style, Volume 3

  Gina LaManna

  Published by LaManna Books, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MASCARA AND MURDER

  First edition. November 20, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Gina LaManna.

  Written by Gina LaManna.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  EPILOGUE

  To my family, friends, and readers :)

  Synopsis

  Jenna McGovern is back... under the Hollywood lights. The newest resident of Blueberry Lake is finding it hard to escape her past as it follows her home. When a movie production begins filming on Main Street, Jenna is more than a little disgruntled to find her ex-boyfriend is the producer behind it. But she’s even more disgruntled to find he’s the primary suspect in an attempted murder case.

  Jenna’s got a host of other problems to worry about, like making her first trip to the Mall of America and getting her grandmother’s derelict greenhouse up and running, but when her ex-boyfriend begs her for help, she can’t seem to stay away from the case. After all, there’s a murderer running loose in Blueberry Lake, and if Jenna doesn’t call cut fast enough, she could be next.

  Chapter 1

  “What are you wearing?”

  “I thought that would be obvious,” I said, sliding under Matt’s arm as I eased into his house. I gave a sniff. “Do I smell coffee?”

  Matt didn’t bother answering, which was in line with our usual song and dance. See, I’ve been sneaking over to Matt’s house for months now to steal his coffee. While I’m happy to announce that I have, in fact, mastered the art of brewing my own cup of joe in my Gran’s old coffeepot, I must admit that it’s much more fun to pretend I’m still incapable of caffeinating myself in order to continue my morning conversations with my next door neighbor.

  Not only because my coffee tastes like compost, but because my house is a little too quiet when I’m home alone. And, while I’m not willing to dive into a relationship with my neighbor, I don’t mind the good conversation. Or the good company. Or the fact that he is pretty easy on the eyes.

  I felt Matt’s gaze follow me as I kicked off a pair of fuzzy flip-flops on his entry rug and delicately placed them to the side. I’d found these bad boys at an online sale last month for a major steal. They’d still cost me one hundred and four dollars and ninety-nine cents. My mother had reminded me that I could buy groceries for a week with that. But as I’d reminded my mother, they were over three hundred dollars new. Like I said, a steal.

  As I meandered toward the kitchen, I quickly realized that Matt wasn’t following me. He stood frozen in the doorway. His eyes were glued on my shoes. “What are those?”

  “Shoes,” I said. “Or, more accurately, flip-flops.”

  “They look a bit like...”

  “Yes?” I asked pointedly.

  “Sort of like you’re wearing rabbits on your feet,” Matt suggested, adding a kind smile to soften the blow. “Pink rabbits.”

  “I’ll have you know, it’s very difficult to find flip-flops this fluffy. These are a once-in-a-lifetime sort of find.”

  “Yes,” Matt murmured, biting his lip. “I believe it.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree about the rarity of these sandals,” I said, tilting my nose up graciously. “About this coffee...”

  “Sure,” Matt said, though he sounded anything but sure.

  I finished the trek into Matt’s kitchen and helped myself to a mug that read Blueberry Lake Fire Department on one side. I poured myself a cup up to the very tip-top, then grabbed another mug that said Guns vs Hoses Champion 2016 across the front. I filled it, slid it across the counter into Matt’s waiting hand. Only after I situated myself on a stool and reached for one of the piping-hot scones from the waiting tray did I hesitate.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’m serving myself in your kitchen,” I said. “For that matter, I hope you don’t mind I’m serving you in your kitchen.”

  Matt grinned. “I knew what I was getting into the first time I made you coffee.”

  “I’m going to owe you a lot of coffees,” I mused. “I can’t exactly write this off as you being nice to your new neighbor anymore. Maybe I should just start buying you beans.”

  “I think we’re past keeping score.”

  I looked down at my coffee and tugged my mug closer to me. He had a point. Despite my relatively short time living in Blueberry Lake, Matt and I had grown quite close. Partly because of the circumstances that had forced us to work together and partly because we just clicked.

  When I’d been accused of murder my first week here, Matt had stood by my side for no apparent reason. Therefore, when he was framed for his ex-girlfriend’s murder, I’d returned the favor and helped clear his name. Hopefully we could focus on the friendship part of our relationship from here on out, instead of the fighting-murder-charges-for-one-another part of our relationship.

  Matt cleared his throat. “You never did say what it is you’re wearing.”

  “This?” I gestured to the bikini I wore. Well, technically I wore a cute knit cover-up that had a bikini beneath it. But seeing as there were lots of holes in it, I could see how poor Matt was a bit confused. Men just didn’t understand fashion. “It’s summer. I’m dressing accordingly.”

  Matt just stared at me. “And?”

  “This is what I wear in summer.”

  “You’re aware that it is sixty-two degrees out and cloudy, right? I know that here in Minnesota we tend to be optimistic, but it’s not exactly pool weather.”

  “I’m thinking uber-optimistically. I figure if I dress the part, eventually the stupid weather will catch up.”

  “What are your plans for the day?” Matt asked. “Dressed like that, I mean?”

  “I hear the local pool is open,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go lie out, read a book. Try to hoard some of those rays and get a tan.”

  “Did you hear me say that it was sixty-two and cloudy?”

  “Like I said, I’m thinking optimistically. Plus, I plan on bringing a thermos of hot chocolate and a very good book. And by book, I mean a very good edition of Cosmo. Anyway, I only have a few hours before I have to get to the shop for a shift.”

  “Look, I’m not complaining about your outfit.” Matt raised his hands in surrender. “You look great in a bathing suit. I was just curious.”

  There was an awkward
silence in which I gulped far too much hot coffee and was forced to spit it back into the mug. Matt handed me a paper towel. I dabbed at my lips, trying to maintain what little dignity I had left.

  Thankfully, my phone rang, and I was saved by the bell from responding. I looked down, surprised to see a Los Angeles area code, and I answered the call with a note of curiosity in my greeting.

  “Are you ready?” A light, bouncy, valley-girl type of voice bounded across the line. “It’s been forever, hasn’t it, Jenna? How are you, girl? I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Cassidy?”

  “Duh! Who else?”

  I had a lot of responses for that. My mother. Allie. My cousin, May. Cooper Dear. Matt Bridges. None of them involved Cassidy’s name. The last time I’d heard from Cassidy Blake had been on a job out in Los Angeles.

  “I’m great,” I said. Then I added, “You do know that I don’t live in Los Angeles anymore, right?”

  “That’s actually why I’m calling,” she said. “Are you interested in coming back?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You live in Michigan, right?” Cassidy dodged my question. “That’s where you moved when you left? Poor thing, I still can’t believe Ryan dumped you like that.”

  “Minnesota,” I corrected. “A common mistake. That “m” sound can really getcha.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Cassidy said briskly. “The one with the Mall of America, right?”

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “That’s all that’s really there, I’ve heard. You’re probably dying to come back. I know I would be, you poor thing.”

  A few months ago, I would have echoed Cassidy’s sentiment. No Starbucks within walking distance? The nearest Target over half an hour away? What a catastrophe. But now I found myself glancing up at Matt and having to search hard—really, really hard—for any touch of desire to return to California.

  “There’s plenty to do here,” I said finally. “Anyway, what’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner while I was in town for the shoot.”

  I closed my eyes. “Oh, um, sure. When are you arriving?”

  “Well, I’m at LAX right now,” she said. “So how long is the flight?”

  “You want to get dinner tonight?”

  “Tomorrow,” she clarified. “I have a hotel for tonight, but I was thinking maybe you could meet me at the mall tomorrow, and we can do a girls’ day like old times, and then you can just bring me to your place. You live right there, don’t you?”

  If by right there Cassidy meant an hour or more outside of the Cities, then she’d be right. I hedged. “That sounds like a very chic plan. I can’t exactly pass up a trip to the Mall of America. Plus, it’ll be nice to have a visitor from...” I was about to say from back home, but I realized that I didn’t consider California home anymore. I had a new home in Blueberry Lake now. I was happy in Gran’s old place—a home I was beginning to make my own.

  “Perfect. So we’ll meet around eleven or so?” Cassidy said. “We can do lunch and then spend the day shopping. They don’t need me on set the first day.”

  “Actually, that sounds fabulous,” I said, thinking it would be great to spend as much time away from the set as possible. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Change of plans?” Matt wondered once I got off the phone. “Or should I say, new plans?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “You know that whole movie shoot that’s coming to Blueberry Lake?”

  “The one you’ve been ignoring for weeks?”

  “Yeah, that one,” I said. “Well, apparently a girl I know is working on it as the makeup artist. She’s great, really great. Anyway, we’re getting lunch and shopping at the mall tomorrow.”

  Matt gave me an interested look. “Any chance you agreed to that because you don’t want to be around here when the rest of the crew is filming?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “Interesting.”

  I grumbled. “Don’t read too deeply into it.”

  “What’s got you so bothered?” Matt asked. “Everyone else is losing their minds with excitement over it. Hollywood is coming to Blueberry Lake.”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem,” I said. “I left to escape Hollywood. And here it is, following me around. Anyway, I should be going. Now that I know I’m going shopping tomorrow, I have a lot to do.”

  Matt looked seriously confused. “A lot to do? For what?”

  “A day at the Mall of America requires some serious planning—I need a shopping outfit, shopping shoes, shopping snacks. Then car snacks, a map to plan our route...”

  “Have fun,” Matt said, pushing a scone toward me as I stood, still mumbling. “And maybe try out a pair of sneakers? Those flip-flops would be murder on your feet.”

  “I think I can handle a bit of murder,” I said, then frowned. “Unfortunately.”

  Matt’s lips flashed in a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. We both let the comment hang there since it hit a little too close to home.

  “You know,” I said finally, “I only said that last part because I styled Danny Sloan for three seasons on NCIS.”

  “Of course,” Matt said kindly. “We all know that, Jenna. Just be careful tomorrow. The mall is a big place.”

  “I can handle big and scary,” I said, waving the scone as I slipped into my flip-flops. “Especially when it comes to shopping. Nothing—and I mean nothing—will come between me and a bargain. I can promise you that.”

  Chapter 2

  As I walked down Main Street of Blueberry Lake, something was different. There was a hush in the air and a trembling of excitement, all in one. All of the storefronts had opened early this morning in anticipation, though there seemed to be a suspicious lack of business happening inside them as morning progressed toward noon. Rather, there were small clusters of people bouncing from one store to the next, then gathering together and whispering as they peered out the window.

  I realized the source of their excitement a few minutes later when I looked to one end of Main Street and saw orange and white cones going up, blocking off traffic to one end of the street. One or two security guards stood around, their chests puffed out with importance.

  I turned away from the commotion and entered my mother’s shop—a kitschy thrift store aptly named Something Old. It was located on Main Street across from a knitting store and down the street from a coffee shop. It was as cute and quaint as it sounded.

  She’d created the sign out front from a makeshift collection of big letters and little letters and letters of all shapes and colors that had been commandeered from a variety of other signs she’d adopted over the years. The sign was as haphazard as the store itself—and so was my mother.

  Bea McGovern, my mother, is originally from Blueberry Lake, though she moved out to California after my father passed away when I was four years old. She recently moved back after finding love again with her current husband, Sid. I’m proud to say they are now happily married. Almost too happily, if you ask me. Nobody wants to see their mother making out with her new husband over the pancakes on Sunday morning.

  “Good morning!” I called. “Mom?”

  I glanced around the interior of my mother’s store, a space that greatly resembled a somewhat organized attic. Everything from broken, ancient clocks to gently used, brand-name clothes had homes in various nooks and crannies, on racks and shelves, and in cubbies. I spotted my mother’s lopsided ponytail bobbing around in the shoe section. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear and was perusing the new inventory with a frown on her face.

  The pencil behind my mother’s ear was likely there because she’d forgotten about it. Also because that’s what my mom uses to write her receipts. In the age of electric cars and digitized computer clouds, my mother remains one of the tiny percentile of Americans to still use a clunky, old calculator and an old receipt booklet on which to scribble her transactions. She says it fits the ambiance of
her store. I say she’s just resistant to change. We agreed to disagree.

  Behind the calculator, and next to an ancient cash register—one that was more for looks than functionality—sat Allie. She waved over at me, beckoning me to her before I could swing by my mother’s side and check out what was new in the shoe section.

  “Guess what,” Allie said before I could even offer a greeting. She set down the pair of binoculars she’d been using to spy out the window. “Okay, we don’t have time for you to guess. I’ll just tell you. You’ve got a client. That’s the only reason I’m sitting back here and don’t have my nose pressed to the glass waiting for a glimpse of the A-list stars.”

  “A client? Why wasn’t it on the schedule?”

  “I told you,” Allie said emphatically. “Your mom refuses to adopt Google calendar. She doesn’t even have a working email address.”

  “How am I supposed to know when I have to be at the store if we don’t have some sort of digital calendar?” I muttered. “Please get my mother to join modern civilization.”

  “You do have a calendar.”

  “That’s new to me.”

  Allie grinned. “It’s better than digital.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s called living in a small town,” she said. “I bet you ten bucks that your neighbor could’ve told you that you had an appointment this morning.”

  “Angela Dewey has better things to do than keep track of my schedule.”

  Allie winced. “I’m not sure that’s true. Ever since the bridge club got fined and disbanded for illegal use of narcotics—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Elvira James smoked a cigarette in the bingo hall,” Allie whispered under her breath. “It was all the ladies could talk about for weeks.”

  “I see.”

  “Ever since then, I bet you that Angela Dewey has nothing to do with her mornings. But that’s not all that important anyway. What’s important is that your appointment is waiting in the back.”