30
SECOND DEATH
A
Tobi Tobias Mystery #2
by
Laura Bradford
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Pub
Date: 7/11/2017
To
help an old friend, Tobi Tobias gets a third-rate thespian a part in
a commercial, and learns that in the advertising business, bad acting
can lead to murder . . .
When Tobi Tobias
opened her own advertising agency, Carter McDade was there for her
every step of the way. A brilliant hairdresser, Carter has just
landed his dream project: doing hair and makeup for a theatrical
production of Rapunzel. But the dream turns into a nightmare when he
runs into Fiona Renoir, a cruel, talentless starlet who won’t let
Carter touch a hair on her head.
To get Fiona out of
Carter’s hair, Tobi hires the difficult actress for a bit part in
her latest commercial. But true to character, Fiona is a terror on
set, and Tobi is starting to think she’s made the biggest mistake
of her life. But things get even worse when Fiona drops dead in the
hairdresser’s chair, and the only suspect is the man left holding
the tainted hair dye, Carter McDade. And unless Tobi can prove his
innocence, he’ll never do hair in this town again.
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Hell had officially frozen over. And, oddly enough, there was no
swell of background music, no thunderous blast
like I’d always
imagined.
There was simply crunching.
Loud, deliberate crunching.
In fact, it was the cruncher and the crunchee
that had turned the
fiery flames of the dreaded underworld into
the clichéd icicles referenced
at the end of virtually every nasty breakup.
In English?
My best friend, Carter McDade, was standing
less than five feet
from my sofa eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.
That’s right, Carter McDade—the same guy who
lectured me daily
on the gaps (okay, seismic gullies) in my
eating habits. The same guy
who could draw a textbook food pyramid in mere
seconds. The same
guy who’d willingly and happily choose
broccoli in a head-to-head
with a Caramello bar.
Which is why his puff-crunching pointed to one
indisputable conclusion:
Carter was stressed. Big-time.
A rarity in and of itself, Cocoa Puffs or no
Cocoa Puffs.
My upstairs neighbor was the most positive
human being I’d ever
met. One of those happy-go-lucky,
always-has-a-smile types. You
know, the kind of person everyone needs in
their life, but few are fortunate
enough to have.
I was one of the fortunate.
I was also dumbfounded. Utterly and completely
dumbfounded
by what to say and how to say it. So I took
the not-so-subtle approach.
“What’s wrong, Carter?”
“Uh-in.”
Now I’ll admit, I have a leg up when it comes
to deciphering pufftalk
(it is, after all, my second language), but I
was feeling pretty proud
that I could decode it from even the most
novice of crunchers.
“Nothing? Nothing?! Do you realize what you’re
eating right now?”
Carter looked at the bowl in his left hand and
then the spoon moving
toward his mouth with his right. “Uh-huh.”
“They’re Cocoa Puffs, Carter! Co. Coa. Puffs. As in chocolate—
or as you call it, sugar central. You know,
void of roughage. In fact, if
I do recall correctly, you refer to them as
the downfall of mankind.
The reason for society’s ills.”
I guess I thought if I really hammered home
the point, it might
sink in. Then again, I was living proof that
tactic failed. Just ask my
mother.
Besides, it was hard to hammer home drawbacks
when I didn’t
believe a word of what I was saying. Why?
Because I, Tobi Tobias,
am a chocoholic. And proud of it, I might add.
So I did what any good chocoholic would do. I
sauntered into the
kitchen, grabbed my Bugs Bunny melamine bowl
and matching
spoon, filled it to the brim with the last of
the crunchy brown puffs
(don’t worry, I’ve got four more boxes in the
cabinet over the stove),
and headed back into the living room. I mean,
let’s face it, the expression
“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” was coined
for a reason,
right?
Not that my commiserating helped. In fact,
when I returned, Carter
showed no signs of having noticed my departure
or subsequent return.
His facial expression was still void of its
trademark smile, and his eyes
held a vacant look. Somehow, though, I managed
to coax him onto
the sofa.
“C’mon, Carter, spill it. It’s Fiona again,
isn’t it?”
Call it a lucky (or, really my only) guess, but it was
worth a shot.
And judging by the look of complete
mortification on his face as my
words (and thus, his choice of food)
registered in his subconscious,
I’d hit the jackpot.
“Oh, good God, please tell me I’m not eating
what I think I’m eating.”
Carter squeezed his eyes shut, then opened
them slowly, cautiously.
A tortured gasp escaped his mouth, along with
a partially
chewed puff.
2 • Laura Bradford
“It’s okay, Carter, really. It’s been a long
time coming. And it’s
not a good idea to keep depriving yourself of
the finer things in life.”
I reached out and touched his shoulder, a
teasing smile tugging my
lips. “Thanks for letting me be a part of your
spiritual awakening.”
If looks could kill . . .
He rolled his eyes upward and then frantically
wiped his tongue
with the sleeve of his cable-knit sweater.
“Ugh, how on earth can you
eat that stuff?”
“Same way you just did, my friend. One yummy
spoonful at a
time.” I winked and popped some puffs into my
mouth. I knew I was
being ornery, but I couldn’t help myself.
Let’s face it, I’d endured
more pontificating about my eating habits from
this man than I could
possibly recall. So this was, in a way, sweet
justice. Payback. Comeuppance
at its finest . . .
“My mind was compromised.” Carter released a
long, slow sigh
and wiped his tongue one more time. “I swear,
Sunshine, that woman
will be the death of me yet. Mark my words.”
I took the bowl from his shaking hand and set
it on the end table
to my right. It never ceased to amaze me how
fast the sugar rush hit
the chocolate virgins. Especially the stressed
ones.
“What’d Princess Fiona do this time?”
“In the interest of time, it might be better
if I tell you what she
didn’t do.” Carter pushed off the couch and wandered over to the
window. Drawing back the curtain, he peered
outside. “Have you
ever noticed the way Ms. Rapple kinda looks
like Gertrude? Around
the eyes and snout—I mean, nose?”
That did it. I laughed. And snorted. Loudly.
Damn.
“I’m serious, Tobi. The eyes droop in almost
the exact same spot,
and the nose, well, it’s a perfect match.
Right down to the persistent
wetness.”
Ewwww . . .
Thinking about my next-door neighbor, Ms.
Rapple, was enough
to make my stomach turn. The old biddy was
something of a thorn in
my side and had been since the day I moved
into my apartment at 46
McPherson Road. In fact, I’m not sure I’d even
turned the key in the
front lock before she’d descended on me with
her over-the-top questions,
mean-spirited honesty, hideously bad breath,
and her yippity-
30 Second Death • 3
yappity dog, Gertrude. Fortunately, having
Carter in the apartment
above me, and Mary Fran and Sam Wazoli living
above Ms. Rapple,
made the situation more bearable.
Still . . . was I wrong for hoping she’d win
the lottery and move
out into the countryside? Or, even better, to
another continent entirely?
Carter, I knew, felt the same way about our
elderly neighbor, though
he tried his best to smooth over her
abrasiveness with his normally
sunny disposition. When that didn’t work, he
resorted to other things.
Like ducking to the side of windows in true
surveillance mode.
“You better come away from there, Carter.
Laura
Bradford is
also the author of the Emergency Dessert Squad Mysteries,
including Silence
of the Flans and Éclair
and Present Danger,
and the national bestselling Amish Mysteries, including A
Churn for the Worse and Suspendered
Sentence.
Under the pen name, Elizabeth Lynn Casey, she writes the Southern
Sewing Circle Mysteries, including Wedding
Duress and Taken
In.
She lives in Yorktown Heights, New York, with her husband and their
blended brood.
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1 comments:
Thanks so much for posting! -Janet @ Silver Dagger Book Tours
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