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Without A Clue
Trish Jensen
What do you mean your house?Since her aborted wedding, Meg Renshaw's thrown everything into her work. But her latest brainstorm–a mystery weekend at a Charleston plantation–hits a few bumps. For one, her "corpse" has passed out on pain pills. One guest is a cat. And the owner of the house walks in, claiming their lease is invalid.Luckily, Meg's got a persuasive bent and she sweet-talks Matt Rossi into becoming the new corpse. With that item checked off, she's ready to move on. Until she discovers the uptight, controlling corpse refuses to stay murdered and has just turned her plans for the weekend upside down.And then he starts demanding some other rights….
Dear Reader,
I’m a Court TV and crime-drama junkie. I also learned from my family that laughter is an essential ingredient in life. Call me weird, you won’t be the first. But I have this horrible problem with wanting to inject humor into everything. In fact, when I first began submitting work to publishers, they kept telling me that I made them laugh in inappropriate places.
Trust me, I took the hint, and decided murder and laughter didn’t mix. Then I got feisty. There had to be a happy medium. Thus, Without a Clue was born, where I could have a murder mystery that’s gone horribly wrong. Or wonderfully right, if you’re a lover of lovers.
So this book is a nod to all of the things that float my boat. Love, laughter, murder, mayhem and a mystery with no possible solution except to decide everyone’s guilty of something.
I wish you all plenty of love, plenty of mayhem, plenty of reading and plenty of fun!
Trish Jensen
“What now?” Matt asked, his voice a little gravelly as he turned from the open doorway in the bedroom
“We…uh, explore the secret passageway?”
He sort of liked that Meg put it in the form of a question. It left open other possibilities.
Matt checked his watch. “Probably not enough time right now. We have to get me ready to be murdered.”
Her eyes took on a wicked light. “Now the good times are starting to roll.”
“A guy could develop a complex,” he said, but he let her go.
She showed him how to close the secret passageway again, and they returned to the bedroom suite.
“Let’s check the weapon,” Meg said, reaching for the stage knife.
“Bloodthirsty little wench, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “You betcha.”
Without a Clue
Trish Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trish Jensen once wanted to be famous. But she decided to be a writer instead.
Life is still sweet. She lives in the gorgeous mountains of central Pennsylvania with the love of her life, Ross, and the banes of her existence, dog Cassie and cat Foxy.
E-mail is welcome at trishjensen@earthlink.net. Or you are welcome to yell at her editor at the Harlequin address. Send snail mail c/o MTH, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
This book is dedicated with much love to a bunch of loopy women who help me wake up with a smile every single day. Humor is such a powerful thing. Thank you, ladies (you, of course, know who you are) for empowering me constantly.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
1
“OUR CORPSE IS DRUNK.”
Megan Renshaw glanced up from the script before her. Her assistant, Tina Brown, stood at the entrance to the study of the old Charleston plantation. “Pardon me?”
Tina stomped farther into the room, hands planted on slim hips. “You heard me. Our corpse has arrived. And he’s high as a kite.”
Megan sat back and dropped her pen. “Well, he has time to sober up. The paying guests don’t arrive until Friday.”
“Acement truck could land on that man’s head and he wouldn’t feel it.”
“This isn’t a problem,” Megan said, sliding back her chair and standing. “We’ll get Glenda to pour some coffee down him.”
Tina scowled. “Drunk and drunker.”
Megan checked her watch. “Already? It’s not even three.”
“She’s been using the ‘two for you and one for me’ method while experimenting with the Marsala sauce for tomorrow night’s veal.”
Megan winced. “Do we need to buy more Marsala?”
Tina’s frown deepened. “Only if she adds it to the eggs again tomorrow morning.”
Megan laughed as she headed to the door. “So that’s what that flavor was this morning.”
Tina followed, hot on her heels. “Remind me again why we keep her?”
“You mean other than the fact that she makes a crème brûlée to die for?”
“Only after she’s cracked open the brandy.” They headed down the hall to the front foyer of the mansion. “It also doesn’t hurt she’s the boss’s cousin,” Tina said under her breath.
Grinning, Megan replied, “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”
Tina scowled at her. “This weekend hasn’t even begun and already we’ve got half the staff blitzed. I smell disaster.”
Tina always smelled disaster. “Not exactly half the staff. We’re still waiting on our butler, our chambermaid and four of our ‘invited guests.’ I’m certain at least one of them will be sober.”
“You’re inhumanly unflappable, Meg,” Tina grumbled. “Does anything ever faze you?”
Megan refrained from mentioning that she hadn’t taken being left at the altar all that well four years ago. Of course, by the next day she’d decided Mike had done her a huge favor. And right now she was frankly ecstatic. If she’d married Mike, she’d probably be a stay-at-home mother by now, instead of special events coordinator for Big Adventures Travel.
And she loved her job. Adored it. True, crises like this one arose on a regular basis, but that’s what kept the job interesting. And challenging.
This weekend was the most important event to date, career-wise, though. It was the launch of Big Adventures’s murder mystery theme package. It was also her baby. She’d presented the idea to her boss, Roy Lucas, a year ago. He’d been skeptical that she’d be able to find enough people who met the requirements necessary to make the venture profitable. By her count, the clients only needed two. A love of a good whodunit and nice, fat wallets.
“The guy isn’t going to be in any shape to walk through dress rehearsal tonight,” Tina muttered.
“What’s to rehearse? He gives one speech at the beginning of supper, then disappears until he’s found dead.”
They entered the large marbled foyer, and Meg immediately spotted their corpse slouching on a receiving couch, blowing at the fronds of a potted palm. By the slackness of his jaw and the glaze in his brown eyes, she realized Tina hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was sloshed. Meg would have to call the agency next week and request sober actors from here on out. She didn’t think that was asking too much.
She sifted through her brain trying to come up with the man’s name. He’d been hired to play Lionel De Wynter, the supposed owner of this mansion, and the host for the supper where the mystery began.
That’s right, Terence Brogan. Formerly a Shakespearean actor, lately reduced to bit TV parts and commercials. Even stoned, he exuded an imperious air that would work well in his role as the evil corporate raider, about to announce to his “guests” his nefarious scheme.
His hair was graying gracefully, and his eyebrows held a sinister bent. His Roman nose gave him the natural look of a snob. Perfect. Just as soon as he stopped drooling.
“Mr. Brogan?” Meg said, stopping before him and thrusting out her hand. “I’m Megan Renshaw.”
Although the two had talked on the phone several times—most of which were spent with him dissecting his motivation for playing a dead guy—this was Terence Brogan’s first job for Big Adventures. Possibly his last if he always had this much trouble struggling to his feet and focusing. Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he grasped it, turned it palm down and almost plowed into her as he began to bend down, thought better of it, and instead lifted it to his lips to press a gallantly drunken—and thankfully not slobbery—kiss upon her skin.
When he finally managed to connect after a couple of aborted attempts, his foggy eyes swept over her and his palm went to his breastbone. “‘She walksh in be-beauty, like the night,’” he intoned, “‘as if all the world were his stage. Of cloudlesh climes and st-starry nights; And all that’s best of dark and night…’” He stopped, looking momentarily confused. “Wait, wait, that should be ‘bright. All that’s best of dark and bright.’“
Much as she enjoyed a good Byron poem, Meg didn’t have all day. “That’s lovely. Truly. What a very dear man you are. And that delivery! Why, I knew straight off, just from your photo and impressive résumé, that you were quite a catch.” She waved in Tina’s direction. “And this is my assistant, Tina Brown.”
“A pleasure, madam,” the actor said, without moving his head an iota in Tina’s direction.
“Tina, why don’t you take Mr. Brogan to the kitchen and offer him some of Glenda’s wonderful coffee, while Timmy takes Mr. Brogan’s suitcase—” that’s when she noticed the steamer trunk, the large suitcase and the industrial size makeup case flanking the man “—er, while Timmy and I take his luggage to his room.”
Thank goodness the mansion sported an elevator that ran to all three floors.
Brogan’s eyes widened a moment, and once again his palm dramatically covered his heart. “Why, madam, are you under the mish-mistaken impression that I am inebriated?”
Tina snorted.
“You’re not?” Meg said dubiously. If this was sober, they were in even bigger trouble.
“Sh-certainly not! I’m a professional, I’ll have you know.”
“Of course you are,” she rushed to assure him. “A recent blow to the head, perhaps?”
He looked mildly offended, but shook his head and his hand came up to cover his jaw. “Emergency root canal shurgery.”
Meg blew out a relieved breath. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. The Novocain hasn’t worn off, I take it.”
“I had the shurgery Monday. However, it’sh still quite painful.”
Terrific. Pain pills. If she couldn’t talk the man into putting them away for the rest of the weekend, she might have to sneak into his room and steal them. It wouldn’t do for the first corpse of her first murder mystery weekend not to be able to say his lines clearly, although she had the feeling he’d make a believable stiff.
That was her last thought just before Terence Brogan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he pitched forward, straight into her arms.
MATT ROSSI WAS RIDING OUT the biggest endorphin rush in his entire thirty-six-year life. Catching the touchdown pass that won his high school the state championship his senior year had nothing on this. Getting inside Nina Chambers’s panties in eleventh grade had nothing on this. Hell, making his first million dollars at the age of thirty-two had had nothing on this.
As he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel of his vintage blue Mustang convertible, in beat with the music of Harry Connick, Jr. blaring from his speakers, Matt decided he was definitely the master of his fate. The keeper of his destiny. The maker of his dreams.
Yesterday he’d signed a land development deal so huge and so profitable he could never work another day in his life and he’d still have money to spare when he died at a hundred. Even with the bunch of kids he planned on having. Even with lavishing his wife with expensive gifts every day of their marriage.
His bubble burst just a tad at that. In truth, he didn’t have a wife yet. Or any kids that he knew about for that matter. But now that this deal had been successfully completed, it was time to move on down his checklist.
Graduate high school. Check.
Earn a college scholarship. Check.
Graduate college. Check.
