Read Chapter One: Killer Heels

     Estelle Staab propped her feet up on the edge of the tub and let the combination of scented bubbles and powerful jets do their job. She had learned over the last few months of imp motherhood that there was little sense in closing the bathroom door in need of solace and privacy; there would be none.

     As if he could read her mind, Estelle heard the soft shuffle of Kupa’s bare feet across the smooth marble bathroom floor and opened one eye.

     The little imp held a large, two-headed toad in his heavily clawed hands and looked anxiously over at her. His big yellow eyes blinked rapidly as he stood, fidgeting with the creature.

     “Why does it have two heads?” Estelle asked.

     Kupa cleared his throat and was about to speak when she raised a hand covered with a bubble.

     “Wait, I don’t think I want to know. You and I have agreed that you’re not to use any magic unless specifically asked to by either me or your Aunt Corra. To my immediate knowledge, neither of us has requested the manifestation of a magical two-headed toad.”

     Kupa’s head bowed slightly, and his brownie-green fleshed shoulders slumped forward.

     “Kupa want friend, cat not friend to Kupa,” he said, showing the latest battle scar that ran along his forearm from wrist to elbow, no doubt courtesy of Geneva, Estelle’s overly fluffy and obviously short-tempered white Persian cat. 

     Estelle frowned.

     Geneva could be quite awful when she wanted to be. But—rules were rules, and for everyone’s safety, they had to be followed. Estelle’s memory quickly, though painfully, flipped back to Kupa’s stone angel fiasco when he first flashed his toothy grin into her life.

     Her stomach churned.

     His magic could be powerful, but he lacked control, a rather troublesome combination that could prove deadly.

     “I tell you what, you can keep the toad this time, but you have to promise no more magic, and no more excuses,” Estelle said, slipping further into the fragrant bubbles. “If you want another friend, just tell me. I’m sure between the two of us, we can work something out—maybe something with a little fur next time. You know, something you can pet.”

     Kupa’s grin widened as he nodded his head enthusiastically.

     “Kupa good, Kupa not do any magic,” he said as he dashed out of the bathroom, the two-headed toad flailing in his grasp as he turned the corner. Two seconds later, Estelle heard a crash that sounded very much like the large potted plant in the hallway.

     She turned the jets of the tub up a bit higher.

     Kupa reappeared in the doorway, covered in dirt.

     “Kupa, sorry,” he said, his tail twitching rapidly. “Kupa, drop the toad.”

     “Is it broken?” Estelle asked.

     “No, toad not broken—but plant is,” Kupa said. A glimmer of hope flashed across his features, then quickly slipped away. “Kupa, can’t find toad.”

     Estelle’s frown deepened.  

     “I’ll get the plant later,” Estelle said. “Just find the toad.” 

     Kupa tiptoed out of the bathroom, searching for his new best friend, careful to avoid the wide flood of dark, loamy earth that spilled across the floor like coffee grounds.

     Not more than two minutes later, Estelle’s cell phone loudly vibrated on the edge of the tub.

     She opened one eye. She thought she could ignore it. If it was important enough, whoever it was would call back. She could enjoy her morning soak and the warm, scented air without the interruption of salesmen selling more channels of cable or the local fire department notifying her of their upcoming charity drive.

     Only the phone kept vibrating on the tub’s rim until it nearly fell into the billowing clouds of bubbles and hot, steaming water.

     She snatched it just in time and, to her relief, saw Tom’s name flicker across the screen.

     Tom York was the sheriff of Morgan’s Peak, and their relationship—for lack of a better word—was complicated. Not that Estelle was big on labeling the men in her life anything other than annoying or, at times, a mild inconvenience, but in Tom’s case, things were a little different. As much as she wanted things to be clear-cut when it came to him, it wasn’t, and there was simply no getting around it. It turned out he’d become a rather close friend over the last few months, and although she knew they both wanted more than just a firm handshake at the door, she just wasn’t capable of that kind of emotional investment yet.

     However, he was still the only man in the world allowed to interrupt a Saturday morning soak, well, the only living man anyway.

     The other man, though on a much simpler or less welcome level, would have been her late husband, Mort.

     Mort—was difficult to categorize.

     He was dead—yes.

     He was her husband at one time—yes.

     But where he fit in her life now that she had a living, breathing man sniffing around her door was hard to say.

     She didn’t want to lose Mort again. Once was more than enough. But there were days—oh, there were days—when she wished she could just misplace him.

     “Well, good morning, Tom,” Estelle said warmly.

     “I’m not sure if “good” is the word I’d use to describe this particular morning, but I’m willing to stay open-minded,” Tom said.

     His voice was heavy with sleepiness. It seemed to Estelle that something or someone had kept him awake most of the night. But it wasn’t her.

     Her eyes narrowed as she imagined their meeting with a particularly plump roasting chicken vanishing down the drain like so many used bubbles.

     “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s happened?” Estelle asked.

     She splashed around in the warm water, spilling a cascade of white, foamy bubbles over the side of the tub, but paid little attention. She was too busy trying her best not to sound bitchy.

     A warm breeze flowed through the bathroom’s open window, carrying a cloud of lavender-scented air into the room.

     Estelle’s body started to relax.

     “There has been a murder.”

     The relaxation abruptly came to a grinding halt.

     “A pretty gruesome one, actually. If I had to guess from the condition of the body, it couldn’t have been that long ago—most likely sometime late last night.”

     There was a pause, and Estelle imagined Tom rubbing the side of his chin, something he naturally did when trying to find the right words.

     “Now you know that I would hate to miss our cooking class, but I need to be here. I can’t risk leaving Mark here on his own. I have visions of him stepping all over the evidence with those big ass boots of his before Doc Walters gets a chance to look at the body,” Tom said.

     Estelle’s heart sank to the bottom of the tub.

     “Where are you?” Estelle asked, her mind racing with possibilities.

     Morgan’s Peak was a pretty quiet town. But like all quiet towns, it had its own problems. Estelle didn’t want to get involved with police matters, but she knew she could notice things Tom might miss. Important things, like the actual ghost of the dead man and stuff like that.

     “That historical guy, what’s his name—Larry Wickstrom? His cleaning lady called us first thing this morning. We’re at his place now, on Bakers Street, and before you say anything—yes,” Tom said. His voice suddenly hushed.

     “Yes, what?” Estelle asked, only slightly surprised. 

     “Yes—you can help. But let me make something very clear, Estelle: this is a messy one, and I don’t—let me repeat that—I don’t want you following up any leads on your own or keeping any pertinent information from me,” Tom said in his deepest, most official sheriff tone.

     Estelle tried not to reveal that she wasn’t entirely surprised. After all, Tom knew as well as she did that there was no way to stop her from investigating. Estelle had become somewhat of an asset in that regard, and Tom was finally learning how to work with her. He knew that Estelle could see and uncover things better than any detective or bloodhound he had ever met.

     Not to mention that he also knew she would do it with or without his blessing. 

     He was just cutting out all the nonsense in between. 

     “Okay, give me the vitals.”

     Estelle relaxed back into her top detective mindset.

     She liked to see herself as a female version of Colombo, minus the rumpled trench coat, or a modern-day Ms. Marple. She was always a sucker for a good murder mystery and a strong cup of tea. 

     “Doesn’t look premeditated, but it’s messy. The door wasn’t forced, and all the windows are still locked, so it’s not a B&E. Although, saying that, the assailant could have forced his way in on Wickstrom. God knows he wasn’t a big guy. He—or she—would have had to get close to him. I’m not going to rule out the possibility of a woman at this point, crime of passion and all that, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen Larry with a love interest. Either way, whoever it was was angry enough to crack his skull open with one of two matching marble bookends he had lying around,” Tom said. He muffled the phone and then came back. “Doc Walters just turned up. I’ll get back to you with the rest of it later. Let me know if you come up with anything on your end.”

     Estelle ended the call with a tap of her index finger.

     Her mind was focused on Larry and what little she knew about him. She pulled the thick white terrycloth towel from the brushed silver rack and, as she began to step out of the tub, was forced to stop abruptly.

     Looking up at her from inside Estelle’s pink, silk-cushioned slipper sat Kupa’s missing two-headed toad.

“Kupa!!” she yelled, her leg frozen in mid-air. “I found your friend!”