Mysterious Musings

Note: This was my first attempt at Chapter One for my first mystery novel starring Pepper Morgan. I have since revised it and will post that revision soon. In the meantime, if you want to comment, please do. Just remember … I’m a newby. 🙂 Thank you!

*

I sipped my martini and gazed across the crowded room.

Rich people were everywhere – chatting, laughing, drinking, helping themselves to the h’orderves. Servers moved gracefully through the crowd, topping off champagne glasses and offering small plates of shrimp and caviar. The string quartet played Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

The bash was in full swing. Everyone was going to have a very good time.

Meanwhile, I had a job to do.

As the society writer for the Palm Springs Daily Star, I attend fabulous parties and rub shoulders with the wealthy and noteworthy. I capture details – Who did handsome retiree Gerald Tarkington have on his arm tonight? Who is visiting the Madisons from Chicago? What designer’s strapless gown is lovely Lara Mosley wearing?

Everything is noted carefully in my reporter’s notebook – the vintage of the wine, the country of origin of the caviar, the presentation of the platters of crab legs and shrimp. And then I dash back to the newsroom to write up everything in my signature witty style.

Tonight was one of the social season’s biggest events – the gala fundraiser for Puppy Protectors, an organization that educates people about the sad reality of puppy mills. Puppy Protectors also raises pure-bred dogs in conditions it certifies to be free of the appalling conditions that mark puppy mills.

Each year, socialite Carrie Smith-Kelly hosted the Puppy Protectors gala. Tonight she moved from guest to guest, chatting with one about real estate, another about the local chamber music scene, and yet another about schnauzers. She was friendly, sweet and sincere.

Carrie Smith-Kelly was, in fact, the perfect hostess. And she charmed her guests in one of the most beautiful houses in Palm Springs.

Just before the city passed restrictions on building in the foothills of the Santa Rosa Mountains, a developer had snagged 500 acres of land and built 30 luxury estates complete with dramatic sweeping views and every amenity known to mankind.

I scribbled the details of Carrie’s home in my notebook: the way it combined glass, light and marble, its airy modern feel with open ceilings dotted with skylights, an entryway featuring a Dale Chihuly glass chandelier, and framed work that included an early piece by Picasso and an etching by William Blake.

Carrie spent her family fortune with gratitude and grace, ensuring that a good 20 percent of it went to charity each year. And she guarded her fortune with grit. When she married Roy Kelly, she had an iron-clad pre-nuptial agreement signed before she walked down that aisle.

Unfortunately, Roy Kelly had turned out to be a worm. On their wedding night, he had flirted with the maid of honor. It had been downhill ever since.

Carrie wasn’t about to waste any tears. The sea was full of fish and, besides, going solo for a while might just be a whirlwind of fun.

Carrie couldn’t wait to get the divorce papers filed.

In the meantime, nothing was going to slow her down. Even now, nearing 70, she was fetchingly beautiful with honey-colored hair that coifed perfectly every day of her life, clear skin and arresting blue eyes. She was slim and poised and had the features of a model.

And Carrie knew how to use her beauty.

She used her beauty to cement friendships, drive business deals and raise even more money for her charitable causes: protection of the bighorn sheep that roamed the Santa Rosas, the local Alzheimer’s foundation, and Puppy Protectors.

For tonight’s Puppy Protectors gala, Carrie had planned a lovely dinner under the stars.

With the help of her party-planner, Margot Aster, and French master chef Pierre Le Blanc, Carrie set up ten tables around her dramatic pool with its waterfalls spilling over rocks into a sea of deep blue. The tables were swathed in gold silk and each featured a centerpiece of gold and white lilies and candles.

Each place setting featured Haviland china – pure fragile white plates rimmed with a thin slice of gold – and Riedel crystal wine glasses and goblets. Above each plate was a tiny sterling silver dog, the place card of that guest in his mouth. And on each plate was a foil-wrapped tiny box holding the gift of a gemstone – an opal, an onyx, a cat’s eye and, for one lucky guest, a purple diamond.

As I watched the staff add the finishing touches to each table, I made careful notes. Now was the time to capture the interesting color details, before the guests arrived and I was busy concentrating on who was who.

Deadline already loomed. Even with the pre-written “laydown,” describing the charity and some basics on Smith-Kelly’s past works, I had a tight turnaround even if I got back to the newsroom by 10 p.m. The presses rolled at midnight.

As the dinner began, Puppy Protectors CEO Clark Withers stood up, immaculately dressed in upscale Western wear – Armani trousers, yes, but matched with fine leather cowboy boots, a ruby-red bolo tie and a brown cowboy hat. Carrie clinked her knife against her wine glass, gently alerting the crowd to forego conversations.

“Thank you,” Withers said. “Thank you, first, for being here. Aren’t we lucky, spending this gorgeous Palm Springs evening under the stars, in the lovely home of Carrie Smith-Kelly? We are indeed lucky.”

“Now before we share the wonderful meal that has been prepared for us and before we have a chance to bid in tonight’s auction for the puppies – anyone interested in a week in Italy in a countryside villa? Yes, that’s up tonight for bidding. – but before that, a few words. At risk of preaching to the choir, I’d like to share a few thoughts about puppy mills.”

Several in the crowd of onlookers appeared suddenly uncomfortable. Yes, puppy mills … that was certainly the reason for the evening… but did they need to be discussed? And, well, dinner was waiting.

But Withers had plunged onward, providing painful details about dogs that were never petted, never had a chance to play, never had a comfortable night of rest. Instead, these dogs had only one purpose – to breed and breed again, until finally, used up, they were killed.

“Thankfully there are people protecting the puppies of tomorrow,” he continued as the waiters began to deliver the entrees. “People like us who will not buy from disreputable breeders and instead will adopt Certified PPF puppies who are born into loving homes and are raised by professional breeders to be happy pets.”

As the dinner continued, I approached Carrie for a copy of the guest list, which would save me valuable time in checking names for my column.

Carrie had left the head table and was near the check-in table, speaking in whispers to Roy.

When she turned toward me, I noticed her face looked pale and drained.

“Pepper,” she said hastily, gripping my arm tightly. “How can I help you? Oh, the guest list… ?”

Carrie leaned over to the check-in table and picked up a copy of the guest list.

“There,” she said, “here’s the list. Thank you, Pepper, for being here. Pepper…”

For a moment it seemed that Carrie was starting to tell me something. But she paused in mid-sentence and set her jaw firmly. “Thank you,” she said again, and I thought she seemed anxious and, well, sad.

Perhaps she was just weary of being the perfect hostess, especially with the cad Roy by her side.

Quickly I thanked Carrie and moved into the crowd of people filing from the dining tables into the pool area. I finished my interviews, filling half my notebook.

Outside again, I looked up once more at the fantastic velvet sky as stars sparkled like a million diamonds above me. I sighed with contentment.

The valet approached with a smile and I handed him my claim slip. And then I was back in my bright red Subaru Impreza WRX, zipping through the streets of Palm Springs. Above me, the palm trees swayed in the wind. Delighted, I turned on the CD player and turned up the volume. The sounds of Pink Martini filled my car.

Lilly comes when you stop to call her

Lilly runs when you look away

Lilly leaves kisses on your collar

Lilly, Lilly, Lilly, Lilly, stay!

Fabulous evening. Fabulous job. Fabulous car. Fabulous me.

Or so I thought.

When I pulled into the company parking lot and zipped into an open space, something made me turn around.

I looked into my back seat.

Curiously, I saw Carrie Smith-Kelly. She was lying down. I had no idea what she was doing there.

And then I noticed her pearls wrapped around her neck and the vacant look in her open eyes.

Carrie Smith-Kelly was in the back seat of my car, all right. She was there. And she was dead.