A spin-off from
the Charlie Kingsley Mystery series! The Redemption Detective Agency is a
funny, twisty cozy mystery series set in the 1990s featuring silver sleuths
solving cold cases. Great for fans of the Thursday Murder Club.
The Mysterious
Case of the Missing Motive
The Redemption
Detective Agency Book 1
by Michele Pariza
Wacek
Genre: Cozy
Mystery
When life gives
you lemons, make lemonade. Or maybe a gin and tonic.
Emily Hildebrandt has run into a bit of a rough patch. She's lost her job, her
fiancé and her apartment. Still, she never expected to be desperate enough to
accept an invitation to live with her eccentric Aunt Tilde in Redemption,
Wisconsin.
But, beggars can't be choosers. Even if part of the deal is she has to pretend
to work at her aunt's latest hair-brained scheme, The Redemption Detective
Agency.
Seriously, the woman is a retired nurse. Why does she think she's remotely
qualified to run a detective agency, especially in a creepy little town like
Redemption?
But, when a strange phone call suddenly thrusts them into an actual case, Emily
finds herself hoping her aunt really does know what she's doing ... or an
innocent person may be the one to suffer the consequences.
A spin-off from the Charlie Kingsley Mystery series! The Redemption Detective
Agency is a funny, twisty cozy mystery series set in the 1990s featuring silver
sleuths solving cold cases. Great for fans of the Thursday Murder Club.
Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads
Chapter 1
This couldn’t possibly be my life.
There was no possible way that I, Emily Hildebrandt, who graduated with honors from high school and then from the University of Wisconsin-Riverview with a 3.8 GPA … who, as of ten days ago, had a solid job with a good paycheck, a lovely apartment, new car, and fiancé … was now sitting in a dirty, smelly bus station in Redemption, Wisconsin, trying not to glance at the clock yet again as I continued to wait for my chronically late Aunt Tilde.
On second thought, I realized I should hope she was just late, rather than having mixed up the time I was arriving. Or the day.
Or maybe, she forgot I was coming altogether.
Oh, dear lord. I scrubbed at my face, torn between laughing and crying.
My Aunt Tilde was a character—crazy, lovable, chaotic. In so many ways, she drove me nuts. She was my complete opposite in just about every way.
Yet … I had always felt a connection with her. She made me feel seen--despite, or maybe because of, her craziness. When I was with her, I felt loved, just as I loved her. But I never felt like I could live with her.
Talk about the Odd Couple. But worse, because it would be MY life, not a television show.
That said, it was a moot point. No way should I be about to move in with my nutty Aunt Tilde. People like me didn’t go through the implosion of their lives and consequent upheaval of everything they’ve known while being forced to live with their relatives. I was a responsible adult. I had done all the responsible, adult, right things. I went to school, studied hard, and picked a useful degree as a business major so I could land a good-paying, solid job … even if it was a little dull. But work is supposed to be dull, right? That’s what “being adult” means—going to work, paying bills, keeping the house neat and tidy. None of these things are fun, but they’re all necessary in terms of being a responsible adult, like me.
And responsible adults don’t need to move in with their Aunt Tilde. Or have their Aunt Tilde give them a job. That isn’t how life works.
I must be dreaming. Or trapped in a coma. Otherwise, none of this was making any sense.
If only I hadn’t decided to take a closer look at that spreadsheet. Then, I wouldn’t have realized something was off. If I had just left it alone, none of this would have happened.
But even as I thought those words, I knew deep down that if I had to do it all over again, I would. Even if it meant losing everything—my job, my home, my car, and my fiancé. Even if it meant I would have no one to turn to except …
“Emily!” Aunt Tilde flung open the door of the station and beamed at me. Her bright-orange hair sparkled in the sunlight and perfectly matched her orange-rimmed glasses, although both clashed horribly with her bright-yellow and red striped shirt. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Traffic was dreadful.”
“It’s fine. I only just got here,” I lied. I seriously doubted small-town Redemption was a snarl of traffic problems, but at that point, I didn’t care. I was just relieved she remembered. I got to my feet and started to reach for the suitcase and duffle bag I had tucked under my feet.
But before I could get my hands on them, Aunt Tilde grabbed them. “I can take these if you want to get the rest.”
A tight knot seemed to settle in my chest. When I had first moved in with Geoff, my ex, he’d encouraged me to give away most of my belongings. He already had a fully stocked household, so why would we need duplicates of things like plates and towels? Not to mention the apartment was so small, it didn’t make sense to clutter it. As usual, he sounded so reasonable, so I ended up selling or donating most of my belongings, including the antique dresser my grandfather had refurbished for me. That, I instantly regretted, along with the set of crystal vases my grandmother gave me as a graduation gift. Now, that regret was doubled. I wondered if Geoff had always viewed me as simply a guest in his space rather than an actual life partner.
I gave my head a quick shake as I reached for the duffle bag. Enough of that. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got them.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Tilde said, trying to juggle both bags. “Go get the rest of your stuff.”
A mental image of myself packing what few personal items I had—mostly clothes and bathroom products—flitted across my mind. “This is all I brought. Let me at least take one of them.”
I braced myself for questions or condemnations. What do you mean this is it? I thought you said you were moving here? Who can fit their entire life in one suitcase and one duffle bag?
But Aunt Tilde just shrugged as she swung the duffle bag toward me. “Smart thinking. Who wants to mess around with a bunch of luggage on a bus anyway?” She started dragging the suitcase to the door, leaving me staring after her in shock.
She paused at the door to glance back at me. “Coming?” I quickly closed my mouth and hurried after her, lugging the duffle bag.
Hot, humid air immediately smacked me in the face as I stepped outside. I shoved a few strands of hair that were sticking to my cheeks back as I increased my pace. For an elderly woman, Aunt Tilde was surprisingly fast, even with my suitcase. “Here we are,” she sang out as she approached a light-pink Cadillac that was taking up two spaces, thanks to a very crooked parking job.
I stopped walking, my stomach twisting in on itself. “You have a pink Cadillac?”
She grinned. “I do. Isn’t she a beaut?” She patted the trunk lovingly.
Oh no. This was getting worse and worse. “I thought only Mary Kay beauty reps were able to get a pink Cadillac.”
“Yep. Isn’t it wonderful?” She set my suitcase down and started fiddling with her keys to open the trunk.
This was turning into a nightmare. Was this the job Aunt Tilde had promised me? Helping her with her multi-level marketing business? Was that the reason she was being so cagey about my new job? The idea of sitting in a kitchen surrounded by people I didn’t know as I revealed the latest eyeshadow colors was making me break into a cold sweat. “Are you selling Mary Kay?“
She popped the trunk and looked at me like I was crazy. “Heavens no! Do I look like someone who should be giving makeup tips?” She gestured toward her face, which was bare of any color other than a little smeared, pink lipstick, before letting out a rusty laugh. “Good grief.” Shaking her head, she turned back to her overflowing trunk.
I didn’t move. “If you’re not selling Mary Kay, then how did you get one of their cars?”
She waved a hand airily at me. “A friend gave it to me.”
A million questions rose up inside me, like how did this “friend” end up with a Mary Kay car? Were they the ones selling Mary Kay? And if they were, why weren’t they driving it?
But I forced myself to swallow those questions. Knowing my aunt, I wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of her if she wasn’t in the mood to give me one. What I needed to do was focus on the positives … like how my mysterious new job wasn’t selling makeup, to start. That was a good thing.
Although if I was being honest, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Whatever my aunt had in store for me, I really had no choice but to take it and be grateful for it.
And I was grateful. Truly. When I finally called Aunt Tilde three days ago, I was desperate and nearly in tears. Geoff had given me five days to pack my things and move out. “And that’s being generous,” he told me, his voice sounding so reasonable as he explained how, when couples break up, it’s customary for one to leave immediately. Of course, in my case, not only did I not have a job, but I also had no money or legal right to the apartment I had faithfully spent every single Saturday morning cleaning while Geoff lazily enjoyed the newspaper and home-cooked breakfast I made. My name was not on the lease, even though Geoff had assured me it was. Not only that, but the so-called “joint” checking account that I had deposited every one of my checks into wasn’t actually joint. It was solely his, and I had merely been a signer on it. Needless to say, that privilege had also been removed.
The only money to my name was the twenty-seven dollars in my wallet and $333.96 in my personal savings account that I had for years. Geoff knew nothing about it. He had promised to send me a check once he deducted my half of the last set of bills, but the whole setup had left me feeling uneasy. I reminded myself that despite all his faults, he had always been fair, and there was no reason for him not to be in this situation. It wasn’t like he was a thief or anything. He was just thorough, which was something I had always appreciated about him. I was the same way. And I was sure once he found a few minutes to go through all the bills, he would make it right.
No question.
Unfortunately, though, that meant until I got squared away, I only had access to a few hundred dollars, which wasn’t going to get me far. Especially if I had to rent a hotel room. It was 1993, after all … even staying in a cheap, rundown hotel wouldn’t last long. Both my mother and sister refused to let me stay with them. Well, to be fair, my mother was the one to outright refuse, which I had expected, although it still hurt. My sister told me I was welcome to sleep on her couch for a few days until I got my feet under me. I had a terrible feeling it was going to take longer than a few days to find a job and an apartment I could afford, though. Between that and the exhaustion in my sister’s voice as my two nieces screamed at each other in background, I knew it wasn’t an option. I thanked her and told her I would figure something out.
My friend Deena, on the other hand, immediately offered me her couch for as long as I wanted. “It will be fun, like a sleepover,” she gushed. As much as I appreciated the offer, Deena had a small, one-bedroom apartment with a boyfriend who stayed over more often than not. Not only that, but he happened to work in the same law firm as Geoff. While Deena might be fine with me staying with her, I suspected her boyfriend wouldn’t be nearly as enthusiastic.
And that’s how I found myself standing in a parking lot in Redemption, with the noonday summer sun beating down on my head and sweat dripping off my neck, about to get into a pink Cadillac that I was half-convinced Aunt Tilde had stolen from some nice Mary Kay lady.
When I had called my aunt, there was zero hesitation in her voice as she immediately instructed me to pack up my bags and move to Redemption, where she would not only provide me with a place to live, but a job, as well. I was so grateful and relieved, I nearly burst into tears. Finally, I had somewhere to go that would allow me to lick my wounds and figure out my next steps. I was going to be fine. It was all going to work out.
I should have known there would be a catch.
Aunt Tilde was busy trying to shove my suitcase into her trunk, on top of the mishmash of wrinkled clothes, crumpled fast-food bags, magazines, and cat litter bag, but it wasn’t fitting. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she tried rearranging things. “Oh, my library books! I need to return them. Emily, can you remind me to do that?”
“Of course,” I said, trying not to wince. Please don’t let my job be trying to keep my aunt organized. Maybe becoming a Mary Kay lady wouldn’t be so bad after all.
After a little more pushing and shoving, she finally managed to get my suitcase into the trunk. “Aha! It fits.” She turned and gestured toward me. “Here, let’s get that other bag in.”
I took a few steps forward, still clutching my duffle bag, my eyes fixed again on the bag of cat litter as my stomach filled with a growing sense of horror.
Don’t get me wrong … I liked cats. From a distance, and owned by other people. I didn’t have any desire to deal with the mess and hair and everything else that came from owning a pet. Plus, I was fairly certain cats inherently hated me. I had been snarled at and scratched by them more often than not, even from the ones whose owners swore were the friendliest around. “I don’t understand what’s going on with Princess,” my elderly neighbor had fretted a few weeks ago when I stopped by to drop off her mail. “She’s the sweetest cat I’ve ever had,” she insisted as Princess hissed and spat at me from the corner.
Again, I reminded myself that beggars couldn’t be choosers. If my aunt had a cat, I would just have to figure out a way to not be in the same room with it. With any luck, the cat litter belonged to the Mary Kay lady who was now out of a car. “It doesn’t look like there’s much room. I can just put it in the backseat.”
My aunt clicked her tongue. “Nonsense, there’s plenty of room. Besides, Sherlock is in the back.”
Sherlock? I craned my neck to peer into the back of the car, but as far as I could tell, it was empty. “Who’s Sherlock?”
“Oh, she’s one of my partners in my new venture,” Aunt Tilde said, taking the duffel bag from me and attempting to shove it into the trunk. “You two will love each other.”
I glanced at the backseat again but still didn’t see anyone. “New venture?” I asked cautiously.
“You’ll see,” Aunt Tilde answered mysteriously, giving my bag a final push before slamming the trunk shut with a grunt of relief. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
I followed her to the front passenger side, still trying to get a peek at the elusive Sherlock. All I saw was what looked like a long, black duffle bag similar to mine. Was Aunt Tilde getting a little senile? I didn’t think senility ran in my family, but I was no longer so sure. “Aunt Tilde, I don’t see anyone …” I said as I opened up the passenger door.
Just then, the head of a feline popped up from inside the duffle bag, and I let out a shriek.
“Emily, meet Sherlock,” Aunt Tilde said with a flourish, getting into the driver’s seat.
I didn’t move. “Sherlock is a cat?”
“Obviously.” She patted the passenger seat next to her.
I still didn’t move. “And you’re telling me this cat is your partner?”
“I said she’s one of my partners,” Aunt Tilde corrected.
“How can a cat be a partner?”
“You’ll see. You just need to have a little faith. Now, let’s get you home,” she repeated.
I could do nothing but look at her in horror. “What sort of venture is this?”
Aunt Tilde beamed at me. “Trust me. You just have to wait a little bit, and then it will all make perfect sense. Now, get in. We need to get going.”
Sherlock blinked at me and yawned, revealing rows and rows of very sharp teeth.
What had I gotten myself into?
A USA Today
Bestselling, award-winning author, Michele taught herself to read at 3 years
old because she wanted to write stories so badly. It took some time (and some
detours) but now she does spend much of her time writing stories. Mystery
stories, to be exact. They're clean and twisty, and range from psychological
thrillers to cozies, with a dash of romance and supernatural thrown into the
mix. If that wasn't enough, she posts lots of fun things on her blog, including
short stories, puzzles, recipes and more, at MPWNovels.com.
Michele grew up in Wisconsin, (hence why all her books take place there), and
still visits regularly, but she herself escaped the cold and now lives in the
mountains of Prescott, Arizona with her husband and southern squirrel hunter
Cassie.
When she's not writing, she's usually reading, hanging out with her dog, or
watching the Food Network and imagining she's an awesome cook. (Spoiler alert,
she's not. Luckily for the whole family, Mr. PW is in charge of the cooking.)
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