FREE EBOOK OFFER
Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!
Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAD MONEY MURDER
a Merry Wrath Mystery
by
LESLIE LANGTRY
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2020 by Leslie Langtry
Cover design by Janet Holmes
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
CHAPTER ONE
"What do you mean I've inherited a dead body?" I repeated into the cell phone.
"It's not a body, kiddo," my mother said in her usual calm, measured tone. "They're cremains."
"That kind of makes it worse," I insisted. "And technically, it's still a body."
"Anyway," Mom continued, "the urn with Aunt June's remains arrives today, so make sure you are home to sign for it."
"Why didn't they just send it to you?" I asked.
"Because Aunt June left them and everything else to you. They just called me to get your address. You should expect a call from her lawyer soon."
"So." I whistled. "There really was an Aunt June. And even though I didn't know her, she left me her cremains in her will."
For years there had been a running joke in our family about the mysterious Aunt June. My grandmother would occasionally mention her to Mom, but no one else had ever met her, knew anything about her, or believed she existed. If we didn't know who'd said something interesting or done something unusual, it was attributed to Aunt June. Who said May comes in like a Methodist lime Jell-O mold and goes out like Catholic Tater Tot casserole? Aunt June. Who once rode a tricycle to Des Moines for a chance to meet Richard Nixon? Aunt June.
And now an urn with the ashes of a folk saying Nixon lover was going to be delivered to my door at any moment.
We ended the call, and I sat in the living room with my pets—Philby (a rotund, tyrannical cat who looked like Hitler), Leonard (a sweet Scottish deerhound who was terrorized by Philby), and Philby's daughter Martini (a narcoleptic cat on her best day who believed Leonard was nothing more than a scruffy piece of furniture to nap on).
"What am I supposed to do with somebody's ashes?" I grumbled to the animals.
Philby looked me in the eye, smacked me in the face with her paw, and farted. I guess that's what she thought about that.
"Bobb," I said meanly.
The fat cat closed her eyes and hissed so hard that she flew backward across the glossy surface of the coffee table, landing on the floor on her side. It took a while for the tick-like cat to right herself. Once she did, she glared at me and fled the room.
I shouldn't have done that. Philby had once been owned by a man named Bobb who'd turned up dead on my doorstep a long time ago. Whenever you said his name, the feline führer had the same reaction.
I was about to seek her out and apologize with albacore tuna when the doorbell rang. Glancing at the window, I spotted the delivery van in the driveway.
An obnoxiously happy young man who couldn't have been any older than eighteen greeted me cheerily at the door with a big box.
"Howdy! I'm Jason! Sign for this, please!"
I signed, and Jason handed it over. It was so heavy that I nearly dropped it. I guess the ashes of an entire body would be heavy. Hopefully the box itself wasn't the actual urn.
"Have a wonderful day, ma'am!" Jason saluted me for some reason before bouncing back to his van, where he saluted me once more before starting it up and driving away.
"What are you so happy for?" I shouted at the receding truck. "This is a dead body! Show some respect!"
A woman pushing a carriage in front of my house stared at me in horror.
"It's not like I killed her. I didn't even know she existed until she was dead," I insisted before taking my body inside. At least, I didn't think I had.
As a spy, you never really knew if one of your actions eventually led to an accidental death. It was just par for the course, and when I was in that line of work, I never thought about it.
My name is Merry Wrath, and I used to be a CIA field agent. I say used to because, a few years ago, I was "accidentally" outed by the Vice President as a rebuke to my father, who is a senator. Back then I was Fionnaghuala Merrygold Czrygy—or Finn. The outing took place on CNN while I was undercover with a Chechen group. We all happened
