Glossy Lips Read online

  Glossy Lips

  COLD CREAM MURDERS - Book 1

  barbara silkstone

  Glossy Lips©

  Cold Cream Murders - Book 1

  Copyright 2018 by Barbara Silkstone

  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, and respectfully. 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.

  Contents

  With love & laughter!

  COLD CREAM MURDERS SERIES

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Oh no!

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Luscious Lip Gloss

  Reviews are lovely things!

  SMOKEY EYES

  FALL IN LOVE WITH LAUGHTER!

  About the Author

  With love & laughter!

  I hope you enjoy GLOSSY LIPS Book 1 in the COLD CREAM MURDERS series. Please sign up for my newsletter to receive an email whenever I publish a new book or for special sales and giveaways. Your information will not be shared with anyone and you may unsubscribe at any time. I promise not to pester you!

  With love & laughter!

  Barbara Silkstone

  http://secondactcafe.com/barbara-silkstone/

  COLD CREAM MURDERS SERIES

  Olive Peroni put out her family therapy shingle six years ago never thinking her top client would be Myron Meyers, head of a New York crime family. When Olive’s grandmother dies and leaves her a condo in Florida and a secret recipe for miracle cold cream, she grabs the chance at a new life in Starfish Cove, Florida, making designer creams for ladies who spend far too much time at the beach. Business is brisk and life is good! Olive even makes a wild new best friend and business partner in Lizzy, the real estate agent who handles the transfer of Nonna’s condo.

  But when the quiet little community on the Gulf of Mexico soon begins to compete with a certain notorious coastal village in Maine, Olive finds herself solving odd-ball murders as often as she soothes wrinkles. Clean and wholesome!

  Each book contains a recipe for homemade cosmetics and beautifiers!

  Prologue

  The rhythmic crunch of rubbly brick pavers cut through the Florida night air as a slow-moving vehicle made its way cautiously down the narrow street. If the driver hadn’t been intent on avoiding the potholes, he might have looked to his right and noticed shadowy forms struggling to stuff a dead body into the trunk of a small car.

  Chapter 1

  New York City, Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.

  Myron Meyers fiddled with the gold coin nestled in the white chest hairs peeking from two open buttons. “So you want I should handle your ex-husband? I told you from the start, you take care of me I take care of you, my little Olive. You are mishpocha—family.”

  The last thing I needed was one of Myron’s notorious favors. “Leave Willie alone,” I said. “He’s not bothering me. I promise.”

  The sallow-skinned octogenarian tugged a yellow handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his brow. “You can’t leave me right now. I need you here.” I looked out the window at the skyline of lower Manhattan and sucked in a deep breath, struggling to calm my star patient enough to thump acceptance into his stubborn head.

  “Listen, Myron, when I put out my shingle a few years ago it wasn’t to adopt you. I appreciate that you consider me part of your extended family, but I have real relatives that I have to care for now and then.”

  He blotted beads of sweat from his neck and glanced at the door. He always sat facing the door despite the lock and the armed doorman in the lobby. “If that nudnik ex-husband of yours is giving you trouble, we take him for a ride in the country. The fresh air will do him good.”

  My ex was bleeding me dry money-wise, but he wasn’t deserving of Myron’s special attention. Whining Willie was merely a nuisance. Myron on the other hand…

  “I appreciate the offer, but Willie is no problem. He hardly ever calls. You, on the other hand, you call a lot.”

  He wiped the sweat from the tip of his nose. I deliberately kept the air conditioning in my office on the warm side to shorten Myron’s visits, but now the August heat was getting to me. I fanned myself with a sheet of paper.

  “You talking about me?” he said in an even raspier voice than usual. “Can I help it if I still get these attacks? You should know my heart, it’s running like a jalopy in here!” He pointed to either his chest or belly. I wasn’t inclined to pry.

  “You aren’t listening to what I’m telling you.” Before he could interrupt I continued. “Willie has nothing to do with me leaving. My Nonna just died! I have to go to Florida to sort out her things. How would you feel if your grandmother just died?”

  “If my grandmother just died, she’d be in the record books. I’m eighty-five, and she was no spring chicken when I was born.” He grinned, exposing a well-maintained set of choppers. “Why do you have to go to Florida to take care of her things? Stay in the city. Use the phone. That’s what we got a phone for—to call Florida.”

  He wiped his brow. “I’m sweating bullets here! Besides my retirement party is next week!”

  When he got to the petulant child stage, I had to speak to him in visuals to make him understand. “My grandmother probably has milk going bad in her refrigerator. I’m responsible for cleaning it out. Besides, I attended three of your retirement parties so far this year.”

  “I got a lot of friends. They like to throw me parties.” He shrugged his limp shoulders. “How long will you be gone?” He fought to lift his short chunky form from the chair. “A week? Two?”

  “I won’t know until I get there. Call me anytime you get an anxiety attack. Day or night. I promise I’ll answer.”

  He waddled across the room with his tan-colored silk trousers wrinkled like an old Shar-Pei. “I’ll give you two weeks. No more than that, my little Olive. Your grandmother can’t have that much food in her icebox!” He slammed the door.

  I stared at my desk wishing my world was different. My nameplate read Olive Peroni–Family Therapist. At the moment, I felt less like a psychologist and more like a woman in need of two weeks at a spa—preferably on some uncharted island in the South Seas—with
no phone.

  I reread the letter from Nonna’s lawyer. It listed all the things I needed to accomplish including disposing of her condo located in Starfish Cove, which was a private peninsula between Clearwater Beach and St. Petersburg.

  It was selfish of me to think I would never lose my beloved granny. Guilt hung over me like the weight of a winter coat. Forced to cancel my Easter visit with her because Myron had been suffering from a panic attack, my heart now ached. I missed my last chance to see the person dearest to me.

  Florida was a long drive but it would do me good to sit behind the wheel, put my brain on autopilot and chill. Or, at least, try to. In truth, unlike Myron with his large thug family, I could count my family on the fingers of one hand. With Nonna gone I’d have a digit left over.

  No more sad thoughts. Time to get to work. I needed a real estate agent to sell Nonna’s condo. An agent I could trust when I returned to New York. No small feat when my only option was the internet.

  I sat at the keyboard and began my search. In my mind I could hear my Nonna whisper please don’t sell my home. I pushed the thought away and entered “Starfish Cove” to narrow my search.

  Choosing an agent over the internet had to be only slightly less risky than using a dating site. List with Lizzy! Under the bold slogan, a photograph of a smiling gal jumped off the page.

  The webpage featured a stunning photograph of the Don Cesar, a legendary pink hotel on St. Petersburg Beach. Lizzy Kelly held a ‘sold’ sign in front of the Gatsby Era structure in a humorous pose as if she had brokered the landmark. The picture conveyed her sense of fun, for no way could she have been involved in the sale of such an important piece of history. It was a cute marketing ploy and based on that alone, I emailed her.

  I often cautioned clients about snap decisions based on a person’s appearance, especially on a website. And yet, I did that very thing. I must turn the selling of Nonna’s beloved condo over to someone both happy and trustworthy. This Lizzy person radiated fun and caring. Little did I suspect she came with more trouble than Myron’s vivid criminal imaginings.

  Chapter 2

  New York City, Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.

  I placed my matched set of luggage in the trunk of my Prius, and a tote bag of makeup, a thermos of coffee, some protein bars, and two bottles of water on the floor of the front passenger seat.

  With a sigh of relief, I set out for Starfish Cove, intent on driving straight through in twenty-four hours. As I pulled out of my building’s parking garage, the hairs on the back of my neck did a little dance. I found myself repeatedly glancing in the rearview mirror. If Myron had assigned a chaperone, he would incur my therapist-wrath. I was really fed up with dwelling under his wing.

  My GPS showed the drive time from my condo in Manhattan to Starfish Cove would be a bit over nineteen hours. I bumped it to twenty-four to allow for my driving style, plus frequent coffee stops and resultant potty breaks. With a small cushion of time for the inevitable unexpected, I could easily meet Lizzy Kelly at the condo in exactly twenty-six and a half hours.

  The radio was set to easy listening music. I took a deep breath and inched through the traffic towards Jersey to pick up I-95. It was a comforting sensation to see the New York City skyline in my rearview mirror. I felt like a canary that had just broken free from her cage. A melody that reminded me of Nonna flowed through the speakers. I brushed a tear from my cheek, cautioning myself to concentrate on the road.

  Hours, miles, and rest stops rolled by. I needed one last potty break and coffee in that order. With a quick stop I could beat rush hour traffic through Tampa. I pulled into an almost deserted rest plaza with the neon lights from the chain restaurants offering pizza, burgers, and chicken, all dimmed. The bright green and white coffee logo beckoned me. You could always count on coffee.

  I parked close to the entrance for safety. After a quick scan of the lot, I bolted from the car with my wallet in my pocket. The left side of the ladies’ restrooms was blocked with yellow cones declaring a cleaning was in process—although it didn’t seem possible as it was deathly quiet. I dashed in the right side, ducked low checking for mugger’s feet beneath any of the doors, and then ran into a stall sliding the rickety lock in place.

  A lone girl manned the coffee service. I ordered my usual dark roast and added a spritz of half and half. Despite the cardboard wrapper the cup was too hot to hold. It took a layer of four napkins before I could grab it. A small part of me felt sorry for abandoning the coffee girl. Would I ever free myself from the onus of mothering everyone I met?

  It took less than ten minutes to zip in and out of the building. Aside from a mini-van sitting on the other side of the concrete lot divider, the parking area was still deserted.

  I was less than one hundred yards from my car—a fast dash with a boiling cup. I hesitated. The harsh orange lights illuminating the lot created the illusion of a person near my car. I blinked, and the silhouette became clear. There was someone! Could it be one of Myron’s gang? Whoever it was, he wasn’t close enough to send me back into the plaza yelling for help from the coffee girl, but the skulking put me on guard.

  Juggling the coffee in my left hand, I splayed the keys between my right fingers. As a big city girl born and bred, I was always on the alert for huggers and muggers and thieves. Perhaps it was a trick of the lights?

  I approached the car ready to splash the boiling coffee on the lurker if he came any closer. Whoever it was dropped back into the shadows. The mini-van continued to idle. I couldn’t see the driver.

  With a quick inspection of the backseat through the window, I clicked the key fob, and slipped into the car. Before I could push the lock, the passenger door flew open. I was about to toss the hot coffee at the carjacker when I gazed into the teary eyes of a girl who looked to be no more than twelve or thirteen. “Take good care of my baby! I can’t keep her!” she said.

  The girl plopped a canvas bag on the front seat. She skedaddled over the low island and into the mini-van. The unseen driver put the vehicle in gear, and it rattled away.

  Her baby! My heart thrummed as I stretched across the seat attempting to close the passenger door before anyone else jumped in. The bag squirmed beneath my body and I lurched, spilling the coffee. I managed to soak my left pant leg and burn my knee. I glanced down in time to see a ball of white fur scramble from the bag, tumble to the floor, and jump out of the car onto the asphalt. It was a kitten!

  With the keys splayed in my hand, I raced around the car and found the quivering kitty. I grabbed her and pressed her to my chest. Using my butt to slam the passenger door, I zipped to the driver’s side and scooted behind the wheel. My heart sat wedged in my throat. I had survived the hit-girl and the killer kitten.

  I released the poor little kitten, and she disappeared under the seat mingling with the empty water bottles and uneaten protein bars. I took a long centering breath. My car held the alluring aroma of spilled coffee. I wanted to suck the caffeine out of the seat; but instead I continued on the last leg of my journey, hoping the cat didn’t slip beneath my feet.

  As I crossed the bridge over Old Tampa Bay, the kitten poked her head out and mewed. I hoped she wasn’t saying she needed a litter box. I ignored her and concentrated on driving. She let out a kitten meow then clambered into my lap mewing. She curled up and purred for a minute before she fell sound asleep. I wasn’t looking for a cat, but I had one now.

  We pulled into the reserved parking lot at the Sandy Shores Towers. The sun was up but my spirits were down. The last time I slid into this space Nonna was sitting next to me.

  The little furball woke up purring and stretched so hard she slipped off my lap. Was Nonna watching over me? Had she sent the critter to cheer me up?

  I emptied my tote bag and tucked the kitten inside, allowing just enough space for her head to stick out. With my purse in one hand and tote in the other, I headed for the elevator, pressed 2 and bit back my tears.

  The key was under the mat, just like the lawyer said i
t would be. I let myself in and stood in the foyer, tears now pouring down my cheeks. A part of me expected my grandmother to come running from her bedroom, wearing a big smile and a layer of her legendary cold cream that carried a faint hint of lavender.

  Nonna’s homemade beauty treatments were secret balms that performed mini-miracles. Every Christmas she would gift us with a selection of her skin creams, lotions, and foundations. She took such pride in being the keeper of the Peroni birthright. The recipes had been in the family for generations. The tears that had been filling my eyes spilled over. Get it together, Olive!

  The kitten escaped from the tote and jumped to the floor. I reached for her. She darted to the nearest chair, rubbed her cheek on it, and came back to me purring louder than something that small should be able to.

  “This isn’t home. We’re just here for a week or two, Puff.” The name slipped out before I thought about it. The little ball of fuzz now had a moniker and a mama.

  I placed a small bowl of water on the kitchen floor. She lapped at it noisily then stopped and gazed at me with a look that said, “Are you sure this isn’t home?” She daintily wiped her whiskers with her paw before she shot into the living room and sniffed around.