Free The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3) by Mary Bowers Page B

forced myself out of the office.
    I set up coffee to brew in five hours, then set my cell phone alarm for 7:45 am. The meeting at The Royal Palm was set for 9:00 in the morning.
    I couldn’t sleep. I’m a perfectionist, and I couldn’t get over the fact that I hadn’t thought of going to the Tropical Breeze Historical Society.

Chapter 8
     
    From the shorthand notes of Bernie Horning, Editor-in-Chief, The Beach Buzz
     
    I arrived at Whitby House at 8:45 in the morning, April 10, the much anticipated 100 th anniversary of Cassandra Whitby’s death in 1915.
    I had decided to wear my old-lady outfit, (an old cotton print dress, chunky-cheapie earrings, a big sparkly poodle brooch and orthopedic shoes), since nobody knew me but Ed, and people tend to discount old folks. If they were too cagey to talk in front of me, I’d pretend to fall asleep. Gets ‘em every time.
    I surveyed myself in the mirror, decided I looked harmless enough, put a little lipstick on my front teeth and got over there early.
    I had met that cute production assistant, Lily Parsons, over at Don’s Diner the night before. You couldn’t miss Lily in the diner. She was being toasted (with milkshakes) by half the town. Nice, frisky young woman; I liked her.
    Ed looked startled when he saw me, then blurted his usual stray thought: “I’m sorry, I only made seven copies, so I won’t be able to give one to you.”
    Not knowing what the heck he was talking about, I just said, “That’s all right, Ed. You can give a copy to me later.”
    Begrudgingly, he made a note of it. What he does with all his notes I can’t imagine. He can’t possibly keep track of them all.
    We had assembled in Misty’s dining room. She’d done it over in Victoriana. Edwardian would have been more appropriate, or even art deco, but that’s Misty. The walls were papered in a dark, striped pattern with overblown roses rising in columns, and the draperies were thickly gathered with heavy, scalloped valences. The long table was mahogany with a hand-crocheted runner going down the middle, and the chairs had blue striped seat cushions. Must have cost a fortune, just for this one room alone.
    Misty had provided us with coffee and sweet rolls.
    I helped myself to coffee, sat down near the foot of the table and started being inconspicuous. Teddy hadn’t arrived yet, but the place at the head was left open for him. One seat away from me, on what would be Teddy’s right, was Lily, who looked incredibly fresh and healthy, and greeted me like an old friend. The others I didn’t know yet.
    Casual murmurs were percolating around when Ed walked in and we had the brief exchange I described. He went to the place across from Lily, set his satchel on the table, and took out a stack of papers. He put one set at Teddy’s place, then handed the rest across to Lily and asked her to pass them around. When she handed the stack to me, I helped myself to a copy, passed the rest on, then started to read. Keeping my awareness going in all directions, I noticed that Lily and I were the only ones who were interested in them. One of the men was just fanning himself with his copy.
    It was headed, “ Haunt or Hoax? Investigation No. 1: Suicides at Whitby House, a/k/a The Royal Palm.” It was pretty interesting, and I decided I would snaffle a copy when nobody was looking.
    I was deep into it when Teddy made his entrance.
    His black hair was wet and pushed straight back, with arty little points of hair pulled down over his forehead. He is handsome. He looked at me, grinned, and said, “Who’s this little lady?”
    “I’m Bernie Horning. I’m the Editor-in-Chief of the local paper.”
    “I see. And you’re doing an article on the show?”
    I know when to pour on the banana oil. “Oh, my, yes! This is just the biggest thing to happen in Tropical Breeze ever! Since last fall, when you did your other investigation down the road at Cadbury House, anyway. My readers want to know all about it. And so do