How to Solve a Murder with a One Night Stand (EBOOK)

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Prologue
Mia

I have a few secrets.
Well, more than a few if I’m being honest, but two big ones that sometimes feel like they’re going to crush me if I don’t tell someone soon.
The first one? I’ve never been kissed.
Not really.
Unless you count Jeffrey, my imaginary boyfriend through high school. (Which obviously doesn’t count, but sometimes late at night when I’m doing the books, I pretend it does.)
Jeffrey was perfect. All golden hair that caught the sunlight just right, and tattoos that told mystery-filled stories up his muscular arms. He was exactly the kind of guy who never gave me a second glance in high school. Or college. Or, well, ever.
But in my daydreams?
Those imaginary kisses were something else. The way he’d cup my face so tenderly, his thumb brushing my cheek his fathomless blue eyes gazing into mine. Sometimes I imagined it happening at sunset by the lake, where the fading light would make his hair look like spun gold. He’d wrap those strong tattooed arms around me, lower his face toward mine. We’d be millimeters away, his peppermint breath mingling with mine, his soft lips so close, almost brushing mine, and then... well, you get the idea.
Sheesh, that’s embarrassing to admit. Even to myself.
I drum my fingers on Dad’s old mahogany desk, staring at the spreadsheet that represents my second secret. The one that’s actually important. The one that keeps me up at night with real worries, not just imaginary kisses.
Lakeside Inn is in trouble.
The kind of trouble that makes my stomach twist every time I look at these numbers. And I’m good with numbers. Always have been, even if I learned to hide it after Tommy Jenkins called me “Calculator Brain” in fourth grade. The numbers don’t lie though, and these particular numbers are screaming that we need help.
The roof in the east wing is leaking. Again. Three rooms need complete renovations after that pipe burst last month. The staff deserves raises. Samantha, the assistant manager, is practically working here as a favor, though she doesn’t complain. Sol, our handyman, calls it his retirement job, and what would he do with his spare time anyway? And, then there’s Ellie, our fabulous chef, who deserves double what she’s paid. And don’t get me started on our outdated booking system.
A proper business person would look at these books and say sell. But selling would crush Dad, and after his heart attack ten years ago...
I don’t want the stress of the failing business to cause another one.
I can’t be the reason for another one.
I close my eyes, trying to center myself. When I open them, the appointment notification pops up on my computer screen: “Meeting with Ms. Beatrice Butt--2pm.”
My stomach drops. I know exactly what this meeting is about. She’s been dropping hints for months now, every time she stays with us. Always the same routine. Complimenting the “quaint charm” while pointing out every little thing that needs updating. Like she’s making a shopping list.
Or an acquisition list.
The grandfather clock in the lobby chimes twice, and I straighten my sweater. Time to face the music. Or in this case, face Beatrice Butt and whatever barely-veiled offer she’s bringing to the table today.
I really hope Dad and Mom are having fun in Florida right now. Because this? This is exactly the kind of stress they don’t need to deal with.
Taking one last look at the books, I shut down my computer and head for the parlor. Time to protect the family legacy, even if I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to do it.

***

Ms. Beatrice Butt sits perched on our Victorian settee like she owns it already, her perfectly coiffed platinum hair makes a statement in and of itself. Her designer purse rests beside her like a loyal pet, and that signature pearl necklace gleams at her throat.
“Darling!” she trills, extending her hand as if expecting me to kiss it. I settle for a brief handshake instead.
I try to calm my nerves by making a mental list as I settle into the armchair across from her. You know, the usual stuff: don’t fidget with my hands like I always do when I’m anxious, try to maintain eye contact even though it’s intimidating, channel Dad’s confident energy from his business days. And definitely try not to stare at her forehead, which honestly looks like it hasn’t moved since the Reagan administration.
“Tea?” I offer, though I already know the answer.
“Oh no, dear. Let’s not waste time with pleasantries.” She leans forward, her ice-blue eyes boring into mine. “I’ve been thinking about our little chats, and I believe I have the perfect solution to your... situation.”
My stomach clenches. How does she know about our situation?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, proud that my voice stays steady.
She waves her hand dismissively, her B.B. monogrammed silk scarf fluttering with the movement. “Now, now. We’re both intelligent women here. Though some of us are more... experienced in business matters.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The Inn needs significant updating. The roof, the rooms, the staff...”
Each word hits like a punch to the gut. How does she know all this?
“Ms. Butt—”
“Please, call me Beatrice.”
“Ms. Butt,” I repeat firmly, “our business operations are private.”
She laughs, a tinkling sound that somehow manages to be condescending. “Nothing stays private in small towns, dear. Especially not when you have that sweet but chatty handyman working for you.”
Sol. Of course.
Note to self: have a chat with our handyman about discretion. Though I’m pretty sure this snake sitting across from me, masquerading as an elite socialite of some kind, managed to squeeze the information with her venomous words. Sol, a nice, tenderhearted man, wouldn’t even know she was getting information from him.
“I’m prepared to make you a very generous offer,” she continues, reaching for her designer purse. “One that would solve all your problems. Your parents could truly enjoy their retirement in Florida, and you...” She pauses, examining me like I’m a math problem she’s trying to solve. “Well, you could finally start living your own life. Haven’t you sacrificed enough for this place?”
The words sting because they hit too close to home. But something in her tone – that fake concern masking ruthless ambition – makes my spine stiffen.
“The Inn isn’t for sale,” I say. Sure, we have problems, big ones, but we’re not at the point where we’d sell. Anyway, it’s not my choice. It’s my parents’. And, I’m determined to find a solution.
“Don’t be hasty, dear. Look at the numbers first.” She slides an envelope across the coffee table.
I don’t touch it. “Even if we were considering selling, which we’re not, we wouldn’t consider someone who clearly views this place as just another business transaction.”
If and when we sell this place, it would be to the right person. Someone who loved the Inn and this town as much we do. Somehow, I see Beatrice selling it off to the highest bidder the day of acquisition. And then it would be torn down and luxurious condos built in its place. No way. Not on my watch.
Her perfectly arranged expression slips for a moment, revealing something harder underneath. “I’m offering you a lifeline here. Don’t be foolish.”
“No, Ms. Butt. You’re offering to buy our family’s legacy. You don’t love this Inn or this town.”
Her eyes narrow. “My, my. Perhaps you’re not as naive as you look.”
Other guests are filtering into the parlor now for afternoon tea. Mrs. Henderson from room 212 pretends to browse our local attraction pamphlets while obviously eavesdropping. Mr. Patel has paused in the doorway, newspaper forgotten in his hands.
I feel my cheeks heating up but force myself to maintain eye contact with Beatrice. “The Inn isn’t for sale. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
Beatrice stands with such force that the Victorian settee creaks in protest. Her B.B. monogrammed scarf slips, and she yanks it back into place with trembling fingers.
I notice Sam hovering in the doorway, and her signature purple hair. Joyce Johnson and Gary Hamilton have also drifted in, probably drawn by the mounting tension. Everyone is listening while pretending to be involved with something else.
Great. An audience for my humiliation.
Beatrice’s voice comes out in a hiss, her perfectly lined lips curling back to reveal too-white veneers. Her carefully maintained composure cracks, showing the ugly truth beneath her polished exterior. The other guests in the parlor pretend not to watch as she jabs a manicured finger in my direction. Spittle flies from her mouth with each biting word. “You’ll regret this, you foolish girl. You think you’re protecting your family? Your precious legacy?” She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “You’re going to destroy everything your parents worked for because you’re too stubborn to see reason.”
A flash of fury jolts through me. How dare she! It doesn’t take long for that fury to deflate into self-accusation. A small part of me takes in her words. A small part of me doubts my own capabilities. The last thing I want to do is ruin all my parents have worked for.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing thoughts. Like always when I’m stressed, I run through my mental checklist. I can’t cry right now, even though my eyes are burning. I absolutely cannot show any weakness. Beatrice would pounce on that like a cat with a wounded mouse. Dad would be proud of me standing my ground, I know he would. Just breathe, Mia. Just breathe. Deep breaths.
“I think we’re done here,” I manage to say, though my voice wavers slightly.
“Oh, we’re far from done.” Beatrice’s perfectly arranged face contorts into something ugly. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. None at all.”
She storms toward the grand staircase, her heels clicking against the hardwood like angry exclamation points.
Sam approaches, her tattooed arms crossed. “Hopefully she’ll be gone by tonight.”
I shake my head, watching Beatrice’s retreating form. “She’s not leaving.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“Look.” I nod toward the staircase where Beatrice has paused to speak with Joyce and Gary. Even from here, I can see the way she’s already composed herself, laughing as if she hadn’t just threatened me moments ago.
“She’s staying right here where she can keep pushing,” I say quietly. “And something tells me she’s just getting started.”
Sam squeezes my arm. “Well, she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with either. Nobody messes with my boss.”
I manage a weak smile, but my stomach is in knots. Because the truth is, I don’t know how to handle someone like Beatrice Butt. And I’m terrified that she’s right. That my stubbornness will end up being the very thing that destroys what I’m trying to protect.
But I do know one thing: I don’t trust her. Not her fake charm, not her generous offer, and definitely not her motives.
I just hope I’m strong enough to stand my ground.