Tinkerbell and the Storybook Murder

Maya Bohnhoff

Description

She's 5'2", gamine, and weighs ninety-four pounds in a soggy trench coat. The nickname 'Tinkerbell' has followed her from high school. It's hard to imagine her riding a Harley or packing a baby blue .357 Magnum. She does both. When a local businessman is murdered on the eve of his company's IPO, Gina is invited to consult on the case. Coming from Detective Chief Ramon Mirande, that invitation remarkable enough. But then a celebrity author whose plots are 'ripped from the headlines' turns up to shadow the investigation. Mirande can't tell her to take a hike-she's a friend of the DA-but he can assign Gina to babysit her. What happens then turns their investigation on its head.

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 08 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611389623
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Tinkerbell and the Storybook Murder
A Gina Miyoko Novelette
Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition June 8, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-61138-962-3 Copyright © 2021 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Table of Contents
Copyright & Credits
The Storybook Murder
About the Author
More Books by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
About Book View Café
Copyright& Credits
Tinkerbell and the Storybook Murder
Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

Copyright © 2021 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
First digital edition Book View Café 2021
ISBN: 978-1-61138-962-3
Cover photograph: Odua
Cover designer: Maya Bohnhoff
Cover designer’s website: http://www.mayabohhoff.com

Production team:
Beta readers: Sara Stamey, Katharine EliskaKimbriel
Copyeditor: Sara Stamey
Proofreader: Alma Alexander
Formatter: Jennifer Stevenson
JKS10312020

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historicalevents, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names,characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, isentirely coincidental.

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The Storybook Murder
A nthonyP. Holcraft was found dead in the master bathroom of his stately Telegraph Hillhome the morning after his company’s celebration of their initial public offering (known in the stock bizas the IPO). To say his death was embarrassing would be an understatement.Anthony Holcraft died in one of those freak situations that makes every motherwho’s everexpounded the virtues of clean underwear wag a finger and say, “I told you so.”
His tighty-whities were all Holcraft was wearing when hisbody was found. The only other item on him was the toothbrush sticking jauntilyout of his foamy mouth. I know this only because I happened to be in theMedical Examiner’s office when the callcame in, consulting with the assistant ME, Alvie Spielman, on one of my cases.Alvie’s boss was on vacation, which leftAlvie holding the reins. If the ME had been there, I would not have had aprayer of tagging along, but Alvie and I go back to our Police Academy days,where he taught my class crime scene procedures and forensics. There is alsothe slightest possibility that Alvie has a bit of a crush on me—if my mother isto be believed.
At any rate, this is why Alvie allowed me to hop on myHarley (a sweet ‘83 Super Glide II named Boris) and follow when he went to viewthe body in situ. That is, the fact of my being there, not his possible crush.
Holcraft was lying on his side approximately two feet fromthe sink, as if he’dtaken a step or two backwards before falling to the floor. The toothbrush, as Imentioned, was still in his mouth which hinted that whatever had struck himdown had done it hard and fast. His lips were twisted in a wry grimace thatcaused the brush handle to poke up at a disturbingly comic angle. He lookedlike a man who appreciated the absurdity of his repose. His underwear, for therecord, was brilliantly white where he hadn’tsoiled it in his final moments, and undeniably expensive.
I stood in the middle of the absurdly opulent bathroom,careful not to touch any surfaces, or get in the way of the forensics team.From my catbird’s seat, I watched Alviego through the checklist of things an ME must do at the crime scene: having theforensics team take pictures from every angle, directing what should be bagged,checking the temperature and lividity of the body, and other things pursuant todetermining a cause of death.
As he was doing this, the imposing figure of Detective ChiefRamon Mirande appeared in the bathroom doorway. I could tell by the furrowingof his brow and the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth that he foundthe scene bemusing.
“What do you think killed him?” the Chief asked.
Alvie glanced up at him. “I won’tknow until I’ve done a tox panel andan autopsy, but right now it’slooking like he was experiencing chest pains.” He gestured at the deceased’s right arm, which was at an awkward angle across hischest. Not draped, but as if he’d beenclutching at his left shoulder. “Possible heart attack.”
“The foam is an odd color, isn’tit?” I said quietly, half-hoping Mirande would take it as a little voice in hishead.
Alvie grunted and tilted his head for a better look, causinga cascade of dark curls to fall across his forehead. “Yeah, but that could bebile.”
“Or not,” said Mirande, before turning to me and saying, “Whatare you doing here, Gina?”
“Just happened to be in the ME’soffice on a consult.”
“Uh-huh.” He switched his attention back to Alvie. “Let meknow as soon as you have the tox results, okay?”
Alvie squinted up at him. “Are you thinking this isunnatural causes?”
Mirande shrugged. “Hammer. Nail. Humor me. I’mgoing to go interview the staff.” He disappeared into the master bedroom.
“Ramon apparently suspects foul play,” I observed as Alviefinished up his duties.
“Like the Chief said, if you’rea hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
“Actually, he just said ‘hammer, nail’ inhis awesome economy of words. But you have to admit, he’sgot great instincts about this sort of thing, and I find myself in the peculiarposition of agreeing with those instincts.”
Alvie grinned up at me, pushing his glasses further up thebridge of his prodigious nose. “Wow. You agree with Ramon Mirande aboutsomething. That’s newsworthy. Spideysenses tingling, are they Tink?”
I didn’tanswer, in part because he’d usedthe annoying nickname a guy named Perry Dixon had given me in high schoolbecause my full name, Gina Suzu Miyoko, translates into English as “Silver Bell Temple.” Ergo, “Tinkerbell.” Ergo “Tink.” Perry is now serving time in Folsom,which has nothing to do with the nickname, but a great deal to do with mycareer as a creep magnet.
Alvie’spoint was well taken; the Chief and I are often at odds, but not because of thestereotypical antagonism between legit law enforcement and the upstart PI.While that’s largely fictional, ourrelationship is more complicated. In Ramon’seyes, I am a poor specimen. At a mere five-foot-two, and less than 100 pounds.I look, I am told, like a China doll and not—I repeat, not —a detective. I thinkof it as a tactical advantage, but Ramon believes it puts me (and everyonenearby) at risk. He takes every opportunity to remind me of this, and toquestion my choice of weaponry. My sky-blue, Taurus .357 Magnum is too much gunfor me, and my chosen profession is absurd and will surely get me killed, yadayada.
For the record, I am not Chinese. My dad—Edmund Miyoko—isJapanese. My mom is very, very Russian and in her more self-conscious moments,affects a stunning “moose-and-squirrel” accent. I take after Dad’sside of the family: small-framed, inoffensive, gamine. At twenty-something, Istill get offered the kiddie menus in restaurants.
Big sigh.
The real reason Ramon’scircuitry goes into security mode when I am involved is personal. He and my dadare the best of friends. They were patrol partners once upon a time. They are,in many ways, birds of a feather, despite the fact that, well, let’s just say that opposites attract. Mirande is big andbuff and aggressive. When he enters a room, everyone in it takes notice. Dad isshort and calm and quiet. When he enters a room, no one notices until hespeaks—usually to crack a stealth joke. Well, at least, we think they’re jokes. With Dad, it’shard to tell.
Then there’sthis: Ramon was procedural instructor at Diamond Heights the year I was there.He believed—in fact, he still does—that I have problems with procedures.
Told you it was complicated.
But I digress. Back to the Holcraft case. Alvie’s autopsy discovered no natural reason a man as youngand healthy as Tony Holcraft had died of heart failure. He was 45, had absurdlylow blood pressure, and was as fit as a latex glove. Despite this—and the factthat his demise was beneficial to several people close to him—the DA didn’t see enough cause to mount a full scale investigation.
That was when fate intervened in the form of VanessaPleasance, a celebrity mystery writer whose cachet was compounded by herreputation as an amateur sleuth.
“An unwarranted reputation,” Ramon growled uncharitably, twoweeks after the three of us first exchanged wary glances over the body of thedeceased. “Trust me, she’lldelight her readers and the media at our expense. She’llbe the star of the show; we’ll endup as bit players in a celebrity whodunit.”
The net effect of the Pleasance Phenomenon was that it tookthe Chief’s focus away from me and put it pointedly on theillustrious author.