February Fever (Murder by Month Mystery) by Jess Lourey

Author:Jess Lourey [Lourey, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2025-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

I am not a big TV watcher. It isn’t elitism; I just have terrible reception out at the double-wide. However, one channel came in consistently, and that was RCN, which was devoted to reality television. As a die-hard people-watcher, I have no issue with reality TV other than the scripted feel of it.

That said, a show that I’d caught once or twice had rubbed me wrong. It was called Attenborough PI, and featured Doghn (pronounced “Don,” which says all you need to know) Attenborough, an “actual private investigator with twenty-three years of experience running his own agencies in three different countries, escaping danger, thwarting criminals, and saving lives and reputations.”

He’d been propelled into the national spotlight by solving some high-profile case I couldn’t remember the details of, and he’d rolled the exposure into a TV show. He came across as an arrogant, precious man, and I was looking at him right now, in the flesh.

He appeared smaller in person than on TV, no taller than five five, with a head so big it looked like he was standing near me even though he was ten feet away. His predominant characteristics were a mustache curled up at the tips and a cherubic pink nose.

“Hello!” He held his hand in the air to quiet the excited murmuring. I hadn’t been able to place his accent when I’d watched his TV show, and it was no clearer in person. It seemed like a Mississippi twang wearing a British coat. “Doghn Attenborough. Pleased to meet you all. I hear you’ve had a little trouble.” He chuckled dryly. “Well, don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Several people on the train clearly recognized him. Mrs. Berns was not one of them. “Who’s the puffy little rooster?” she asked me, not using her inside voice.

Doghn’s smile slipped, but he glided through the packed car to where she and I stood with Terry and Ms. Wrenshall. He opened the blazer of his three-piece suit, retrieved a silver case, and flicked out a business card in a signature move that I’d seen him perform on his show.

“Doghn Attenborough, actual private investigator with twenty-three years—”

Mrs. Berns scratched at his card.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It looks like a couple extra letters fell onto your first name, Don,” she said, “and I was trying to see if they came off. It’ll be mighty expensive to reprint these if not. Maybe some Wite-Out?”

He sniffed. “That is the correct spelling of my name.”

This close, he smelled like Aramis, which my high school gym teacher used to wear. I associated the odor with swishy pants, whistles, and incompetence. “You said you’re here to help?” I asked.

I didn’t add to the question because I wanted to hear exactly what he thought the trouble was. The possible murder of Aimee’s mom? The fact that Aimee and her dad were missing? The gunshot victim back at the Fargo train station? The escaped convicts who might or might not be on the train? The mechanical problem that likely didn’t exist?

He snatched his card back from Mrs.

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