The Stiff in the Study
Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries Book Two
Shéa MacLeod
The Stiff in the Study
Text copyright © 2016/2020 Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design by Mariah Sinclair / www.mariahsinclair.com
Editing by Janet Fix of www.thewordverve.com
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries
The Corpse in the Cabana
The Stiff in the Study (Coming Soon)
The Poison in the Pudding (Coming Soon)
The Body in the Bathtub
The Venom in the Valentine
The Remains in the Rectory
The Ghost in the Graveyard
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Watch for more at Shéa MacLeod’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter 1 | A Juicy Murder
Chapter 2 | The Stiff in the Study
Chapter 3 | What Happened to Portia?
Chapter 4 | A Clue in Pink
Chapter 5 | Curiosity Killed the Cat
Chapter 6 | The Prohibition
Chapter 7 | Kerfuffle at a Funeral
Chapter 8 | The Feud
Chapter 9 | Lying Louse
Chapter 10 | A Conundrum
Chapter 11 | The Dirty Dog
Chapter 12 | Winos and Riffraff
Chapter 13 | Fork You
Chapter 14 | Perception is Everything
Chapter 15 | Viola the Snoop
Chapter 16 | WTF
Chapter 17 | Sea Lions Don’t Eat People
Chapter 18 | Stuck in the Window With You
Chapter 19 | It’s Not Like I’m Dead
Chapter 20 | The Bookend of Death
Chapter 21 | An Appropriate Bribe
Chapter 22 | To Catch A Killer
Chapter 23
Chapter 24 | Speak of the Devil
Chapter 1 | Good Luck At The Party
A Note From Shéa MacLeod
About Shéa MacLeod
Other Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod
Non-Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod
Other Books by Shéa MacLeod
Acknowledgements
So many people have helped with Viola’s second story that it’s hard to thank them all properly, but here goes.
To Alin Silverwood for coming up with one of Viola’s more hilarious exploits. To Dan J for the vehicle expertise. To B for the brainstorming sessions. And to the wonderful people of the city of Astoria, Oregon, who welcomed this crazy writer on her researching journey, particularly the women who give their time and attention to the glorious Flavel House Museum. I learned so much.
Dedication
To my aunts, Becky and Charline, who are always up for shenanigans.
Chapter 1A Juicy Murder
I’D HAVE GIVEN ANYTHING for a really juicy murder.
A romance novelist’s life involved skirting one unmitigated disaster to another. Or maybe that was just me. The current disaster was a raging case of writer’s block, so bad that dead bodies were starting to sound good. Even relocating from my writing den at home to a table at my favorite wine bar wasn’t helping. Maybe I should give up historical romance and write crime thrillers?
I sighed and glanced around Sip. It was a cozy place with a wide front window overlooking the Columbia River, warm red walls, and wide plank floors. Racks of wines—all from Pacific Northwest wineries— lined nearly every wall and a great deal of floor space. The rest of the room was taken up by little round tables covered in cheerful red and gold cloth so patrons could sit and enjoy a glass. Or bottle.
Nina Driver, who not only owned Sip but was a good friend of mine, was busy behind the bar unpacking boxes of newly delivered cabernet. Her long, honey hair tumbled about her shoulders as she hummed softly to the old-school jazz playing over the stereo system.
At the end of the bar sat one of the more colorful denizens of Astoria, Oregon. A regular at Sip, Lloyd was somewhere between sixty and eighty, his craggy features and wild beetle brows making it impossible to tell which. His white hair stood straight up as if he hadn’t brushed it in days, maybe a week even. He leaned heavily on the bar, staring soulfully into a glass of red.
I scowled at my laptop screen, willing words to appear. No luck. I had a looming deadline, and the story was stuck.
“You lied to me, Scarlet,” he said, his manly chest heaving. (Did manly chests heave? I’d have to look into that.) “I can never forgive you.”
“But Rolf,” she cried, “I did it for your own good.” Tears poured down her beautiful face, turning her blue eyes a stormy gray.
Good grief, that was melodramatic. My readers would love it. But what did Scarlet lie about? That was the million-dollar question. And if I couldn’t answer it, I’d be the next dead body, thanks to my editor.
“I could kill him!” Portia Wren stormed into Sip and slammed her turquoise designer purse on top of the polished wood bar, hard enough to make a substantial thwack. She hiked herself onto one of the tall stools. Her snug blue and green dress slid up her thighs like it was trying to escape the laws of gravity. She didn’t seem to notice, but Lloyd sure did. His eyeballs nearly popped out of his head, despite him being three sheets to the wind already.
“Keep your eyeballs in your head, Lloyd.” The order was snapped out from behind a rack
