Portia and I shot Lloyd a scowl, though he couldn’t see me since I was sitting behind him. He dove back into his wine glass with gusto. It wasn’t that anyone could blame Lloyd, exactly. Portia had a way of attracting attention. The woman had curves that wouldn’t quit and dressed like a runway model, despite Astoria being a small, wet, coastal town and not Milan or Paris.
“You look like you could use this,” Nina said, emerging from behind the rack. She was a tall woman, though not as tall as Portia, and her voluptuous figure was crammed into a cranberry knit dress. She set off the ensemble with knee-high, black boots and her naturally pouty lips painted with a cranberry-color lipstick. She may have passed the fifty mark, but I could only aspire to be half as sexy as Nina.
She set a large wine glass in front of Portia and held up a bottle. I knew without looking that it would be a dry, oaky chardonnay—the only kind Portia ever drank. The minute the glass was full, she snatched it and chugged back half in one go.
I used the interruption as an excuse to escape my laptop. I got up and joined Portia at the bar. “Who do you want to kill? And can I help?” I asked, only half kidding. Mess with my friends, feel my wrath. I may not look scary, being of the short and plump variety, but believe me, I’m devious.
Portia snorted delicately. “The Louse.”
“Oh,” Nina and I chimed in unison.
“The Louse” was August Nixon, Portia’s boss at the local museum, Flavel House. The gorgeous landmark Victorian that drew tourists from around the globe was, unfortunately, run by a big, fat jerk.
“Better be careful about making murder threats,” Nina joked. “Viola will have to hunt you down and see that justice is served.”
I rolled my eyes. One time. One time, I—Viola Roberts, author of bodice-ripping Western romances—solved a murder and now it was an eternal joke among my friends. “More likely I’d help her hide the body. What happened, Portia?”
She sighed and swallowed her remaining wine before handing the glass back to Nina for a refill. “I was in one of the storage rooms doing inventory, and he cornered me. Started putting his gross, sweaty hands in places he shouldn’t.” Her face was nearly as red as the walls of Sip, making her short, platinum hair look like a nimbus of white fire.
“You need to report that...jerk,” Nina said. Clearly, she’d wanted to use a stronger word, but Nina didn’t like to swear at work. Outside of work, she swore like a longshoreman. “No wait, forget that.” Nina waved off the idea of reporting Nixon. “Knee the sucker. Right in the—”
“I think reporting him is the better option,” I interrupted. While kneeing her boss in the delicates would probably be satisfying, Portia would likely be the one who ended up in trouble, in this day and age. “Turn him in. Report him for sexual harassment. This is not okay.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Portia scowled. “But who am I going to turn him in to? He’s the boss. And it’s not like we have an HR department. I am the HR department.”
She had a point. Astoria was a small town, and the museum had just four employees, two of which were part-timers. There were another half dozen volunteers who showed tourists around on weekends and during the summer months. Basically, August Nixon was king of his Victorian castle.
“How about the head of the historical society?” I suggested. “Surely they have some say in the matter.”
“Please. The Louse is loaded. And he’s got all kinds of powerful friends, including the mayor and a judge. No way they’re going to kick him out. Not as long as he wants the job.”
I grimaced. That was the problem with this world. Those in high places got away with murder, sometimes literally, while the rest of us paid for it. But I didn’t want to focus on the negative. I needed to help my friend.
“You could report him to the police,” I suggested. “That won’t look too good for him with his fancy friends. Might knock him down a rung or two.”
“Yeah, and he’ll make my life even more miserable,” Portia groaned, taking another deep swallow of wine from her glass, which had been magically refilled. Every move was elegant. I caught Lloyd peeking at her again and threw him another scowl.
I stared out the large front window. It had been a rare sunny spring day, and the early evening light glinted off the water below. It was nearing sunset. Magic time.
The bell above the door jangled as a group of tourists walked in. Nina excused herself to greet them and hand out the daily wine list. Sip was one of those places where you could buy a bottle (or case) of wine and sit at the bar and drink it. Or just have a glass. It was also the local watering hole of sorts for those who preferred wine over beer and conversation over ear-bleeding music or giant TV screens full of sports. It was also about the best place to catch up on town gossip, which was why I liked it.
“So,” said Portia, changing the subject, “have you heard from Lucas lately?”
I felt myself blushing and told myself sternly not to be an idiot. “Oh, you know, now and then,” I said, trying to play it cool. I fooled no one, certainly not Portia.
I’d met Lucas Salvatore several months earlier at a writer’s convention in Florida. The same convention where I’d found a dead body, been accused of murder, and managed to get both myself and my best friend Cheryl Delaney into and out of trouble. Like Cheryl, Lucas was a thriller and mystery writer. He also had a secret love of romance novels. Go figure. Although we’d
