A Whale of a Murder: A Venus Bixby Mystery by Valerie Taylor

Author:Valerie Taylor [Taylor, Valerie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aspetuck Publishing
Published: 2024-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

“Wake up!”

Expecting to hear the smoke alarm blaring, I bolted upright, preparing to pull back my covers and sprint out of the house in my nightgown. But alas, it was just Sherrie sitting at the foot of my bed. She grabbed my left foot through the comforter, shook it, and repeated her rude command.

“Wake up! How can you sleep?”

Two emotions overwhelmed me simultaneously. Confusion and reminiscence. What time was it? Memories of our childhood flooded my mind. She always got up first, whether it was a school day or the weekend. Whenever she’d say, “The early bird gets the worm,” I took for granted I was in for a long day.

“How can you sleep, Venus?” she repeated.

I lifted my phone that sat on my nightstand and clicked it to life. “What the devil, Sherrie, it’s five-twenty-five. It’s sunrise, not Venus-rise!” I fell back on one pillow and pulled the other one over my face. I tried to explain I didn’t have to get up until six. I could get ready in less than an hour and be out the door in plenty of time to get to the Stop ’n Shop parking lot where the parade floats and marchers would be gathering.

“We need to talk, Venus. To strategize.”

Strategize? This was a new side of Sherrie. Where had it been hiding all these years? But then again, I recalled she’d been in cahoots with Carole and Budd about my birthday celebration and kept that a secret.

“About what?” was all I could muster at that ungodly hour. Though well-honed, my strategic skills didn’t normally kick in until after my first cup of tea, preferably English breakfast.

“If you’re not a suspect in Maggie’s death, who is?”

I slung the pillow covering my face across the room. It barely missed a vase I’d made at Whale Craft Pottery the holiday season after Paul passed. Therapy, Carole had suggested. It would be good for me to squish my fingers in wet clay and wrap my hands around a pottery wheel. “Imagine you’re Demi Moore, and Patrick Swayze is …” she’d said. She didn’t need to fill in the blank. My broken heart took care of that.

Succumbing to Carole’s advice, I walked into the pottery studio carrying an unhealthy attitude of skepticism and left with my cottage rented to the gentleman who Sadie had recommended to me. She was right, I had to give her that. With Paul gone, I could utilize this fellow’s handyman skills to keep both the main house, as well as the cottage, in good repair. On closer inspection, during the month after he moved in, I discovered there was more to Budd than his ability to drive in a screw. He could mix a great cocktail and cook a splendid meal. A man after my own heart. Blessed with many talents, Budd Nickerson charmed and reinvigorated the woman in me faster than The Chronicle posted breaking news.

I hopped out of bed, relieved the vase had escaped my high-risk pillow toss. “Great question, sister of mine.

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