Be Still My Beading Heart Page 3

  “Gosh, Ryan, I’m sorry, I need to go, I’ve got, um, a pot boiling over on the stove. Bye,” I said. I was the worst liar ever. I’d have to deal with Ryan later. I needed to ask Val how to handle this situation, because I had absolutely no experience in how to juggle more than one boyfriend or how to tell one of them to shove off. For now, though, I was going to get ready for Zachary. I threw on my best cat-hair-free black stretch pants and a long pink satin tunic—it was Valentine’s Day, so pink seemed appropriate. I added my favorite glass bead necklace, made of a perfect set of a dozen oval beads in a vivid pink glass called rubino oro in Italian. I fluffed up my hair and whipped on my standard tinted lip balm.

  At precisely eight o’clock, Zachary Grant rang the doorbell.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, pulling a picnic basket from behind his back.

  “As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

  “Let’s start with this.” He pulled a checkered tablecloth out of the basket and placed it on the table. I pulled it off the table. He looked at me, puzzled.

  “You have a picnic basket and this looks like a picnic blanket. I don’t know about you, but I don’t eat picnics at a table.” I laid out the tablecloth on the Oriental rug in the living room.

  “I think we can make that work,” Zachary said. He sat down on the floor and pulled out a feast: roasted chicken, brie, crunchy French bread, a citrus salad, and a tiny heart-shaped chocolate cake. “I stopped at the market on the way over. I hope this is okay with you.”

  “It’s wonderful. Just wonderful,” I said, sitting down at the edge of the tablecloth next to him. Gumdrop came cruising over to us, a little spacey and content after his catnip fix. Gummie walked right past me and put his front paws on one of Zachary’s knees. The cat stretched toward his face, gently sniffing him.

  “Ah-choo!”

  “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” I asked. It would be terrible if he were allergic to Gummie.

  “I like cats—I’m not allergic. I think it must be something else. Your perfume?”

  “Good old Chanel No. 6,” I said with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t be wearing that ever again.” Although I thought I might keep it in The Ladybug’s glove compartment for self-defense, in case I ever needed it.

  Undeterred by Zachary’s sneeze, Gumdrop crawled into his lap and cranked up a loud purr.

  “I guess he likes me,” Zachary said.

  “I do too,” I said. In a move that would have made Val proud, I leaned over and kissed him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, taking off his glasses, smiling, and returning my kiss.

  About the Author

  Janice Peacock decided to write her first mystery novel after working in a glass studio full of colorful artists who didn’t always get along. They reminded her of the odd, and often humorous, characters in the murder mystery books she loved to read. Inspired by that experience, she combined her two passions and wrote High Strung: A Glass Bead Mystery, the first book in a new cozy mystery series featuring glass beadmaker Jax O’Connell.

  When Janice Peacock isn’t writing about glass artists who are amateur detectives, she makes glass beads using a torch, designs one-of-a-kind jewelry, and makes sculptures using hot glass. An award-winning artist, her work has been exhibited internationally and is in the permanent collections of several museums.

  She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, three cats, and seven chickens. She has a studio full of beads...lots and lots of beads.

  Connect with Janice Peacock

  www.JanicePeacock.com

  jp@janicepeacock.com

  www.blog.janicepeacock.com

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  Did you enjoy this book?

  Please write a review on the website where you purchased it.

  Find retailers for the Glass Bead Mystery Series at

  http://www.janicepeacock.com/books.html

  Books in the Glass Bead Mystery Series

  HIGH STRUNG

  After inheriting a house in Seattle, Jax O’Connell is living the life of her dreams as a glass beadmaker and jewelry designer. When she gets an offer to display her work during a bead shop’s opening festivities, it’s an opportunity Jax can’t resist—even though Rosie Perez, the store’s owner, is the surliest person Jax has ever met.

  The weekend’s events become a tangled mess when a young beadmaker is found dead nearby and several oddball bead enthusiasts are suspects. Jax must string together the clues to clear her friend Tessa’s name—and do it before the killer strikes again.

  Read sample chapters of High Strung

  A BEAD IN THE HAND

  A bead bazaar turns bizarre when jewelry designer and glass beadmaker Jax O’Connell discovers a dead body beneath her sales table. Suspected of murder, Jax and her friend Tessa scramble to find the killer among the fanatic shoppers and eccentric vendors. They have their hands full dealing with a scumbag show promoter, hipsters in love, and a security guard who wants to do more than protect Jax from harm. Adding to the chaos, Jax’s quirky neighbor Val arrives unexpectedly with trouble in tow. Can Jax untangle the clues before she’s arrested for murder? A Bead in the Hand is the second book in the Glass Bead Mystery series.

  Read sample chapters of A Bead in the Hand

  Sample Chapters of High Strung, A Glass Bead Mystery

  ONE

  GREAT-AUNT RITA DIED two years ago on Miami’s hottest day of the year. You’d think the old woman died of the heat, but she didn’t live with us in Miami. She lived in Seattle, Washington, in a house she’d split right down the middle.

  A month after my aunt died, a stiff white envelope arrived at the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Jerry. It contained a letter written by Great-Aunt Rita, forwarded to me by the attorney settling her estate.

  That letter would change my life forever.

  Dear Jacqueline,

  I’ve always felt a connection to you, because you and I are much the same. I know inside your tired heart is a woman waiting to start living. I’m going to help you break free. My attorney has my Last Will and Testament. In it, I have given you my house, as well as a savings account with a substantial sum of money.

  Mr. Prescott can fill you in on the details. My only stipulation is this: You must live in my house and find your creative passion. I hope my gift helps you live a life you love.

  You are in my heart,

  Aunt Rita

  Mr. Prescott’s business card fluttered to the floor. Dumbfounded, I sat in the dim kitchen for a long time, staring at the card, rubbing it between two fingers. I’d been sitting there so long I hadn’t realized it was dark outside. Jerry wasn’t home from work yet. I was never sure if he’d come home right after work or if he’d stop at the bar to see his buddies and stumble in the door long after I had gone to bed.

  Did I have the guts to call the attorney?

  It was now or never.

  “Yello?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

  Who answers the phone by saying YELLO?

  “Uh, yes, Mr. Prescott? This is Jax—Jacqueline—O’Connell. I’m the great-niece of Rita…uh, uh…” I couldn’t remember her last name. I could barely remember my own last name right now.

  “Oh, yes, Ms. O’Connell. You’re calling about the Rita Haglund property,” he said. He did this every day. I didn’t.

  “I’ve never inherited anything before. What happens now?”

  “Well, I suppose you come to Seattle, take ownership of the house
, and live in it.”

  “But what if I don’t want to move there? What if I like it here?” As I said the words, I knew they were a lie. I was tired of being in Miami, the land of pink flamingos and bugs the size of golf balls. I hated this apartment with its brown shag carpeting and harvest gold appliances, still around from the 1970s.

  “Unfortunately, if you choose not to live in the house, I’m afraid I’ve been instructed to sell the property and donate the proceeds to charity.”

  Seriously, Aunt Rita put this stipulation on her house? I couldn’t believe it. I saw her once a year when she’d fly out to my parents’ house for a few weeks around Christmas. It was her chance to get away from the cold Seattle weather. I’d been close to Aunt Rita, but close enough for her to give me a house? It was hard to fathom. Everyone in my family described my great-aunt as a “free spirit,” which was code for “an artist who never married and never had kids.”

  “Have you seen this house, Mr. Prescott?” I asked, hoping I could get some idea about whether this was a reasonable thing to consider.

  “Yes, as matter of fact, I helped your aunt complete her trust in her living room a few months before she passed away. Since she never had children, she wanted her home to go to someone in her family who could use it to change his or her life. She chose you.”

  I could use a life-changing experience. “Is it nice? If someone gave you this house, would you be happy?”

  “Oh yes, it’s an excellent house. But it does need some renovation. In her later years she let the house fall into disrepair. Oh, and you might like to know that it is, in fact, two houses. Your Aunt Rita was a savvy lady. She had a spacious house, and she was the only one living in it. She split it and made a rental unit out of one side.”

  “Who’s living there now?”

  “The property is vacant.”

  “When do I need to give you my decision?”

  “Officially, you have until the end of the month.”

  “What? That’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why, yes it is. You’ve got some thinking to do, Ms. O’Connell.”

  Without saying good-bye, I ended the call.

  Jerry came home later that evening and went straight for the TV.

  “What’s for dinner, babe?” he asked, not even looking my way.

  “Seattle…” I murmured, returning the letter to its envelope and pressing it flat on the table.

  “Seattle? Is that a new restaurant or something?”

  “No, it’s a city. Seattle, Washington.” I stared out the window at the dark sky, the streetlights starting to blink on.

  “Well, babe, let’s order a pizza. I’m starving and the game’s about to start,” Jerry said, plopping into the vinyl recliner as he clicked the remote. The announcer’s voice blared from the TV.

  Frightened by the sound, Gumdrop jumped into my lap, staring up at me with his big green eyes. My cat thought he had psychic powers. Or, more precisely, I thought he had psychic powers.

  “What do you think, Gumdrop?” I asked the fluffy gray cat.

  “Pepperoni,” yelled Jerry.

  Gumdrop stared at me, trying to send me a message.

  Jerry tossed the phone to me. “Thick crust.”

  I took the phone and dialed.

  “Hello, Mr. Prescott? My answer is YES.”

  I tossed the phone back to Jerry. “I think you’re going to have to order your own pizza from now on. Maybe you’ll want to get a small one, since you’ll be eating alone.”

  TWO

  I WAS WORKING IN the studio, making a glass bead with the torch blazing, when the phone rang. I don’t usually answer the phone when I’m in the middle of manipulating a molten blob of glass just inches from my face. To make things extra challenging, I can’t stop twirling the hot glass because if I do, the whole thing will get saggy and out of balance. I was using both hands and most of my brain. I’d cranked the volume of my ’80s playlist up to 11 on the iPod, and the giant ceiling fan hummed loudly.

  As the little calypso tune played over and over on my phone, I knew I needed to answer. It was Val, and the fact that she was calling instead of barging in my front door meant trouble.

  “Jax! Ahhhhgggg! Help! FIRE!” I heard the sound of the phone clattering to the ground. I jammed the bead I was making into the kiln, hoping it would be salvageable, and flicked off the torch. I ran out of my studio, through the house, out the front door, and made a quick U-turn into Val’s door. As I burst in, I was immediately hit with the smell of burnt chocolate.

  “Val, what happened?” I yelled as I ran toward the kitchen, a cloud of gray smoke lingering just above my head.

  “Oh, Jax, it’s awful. Awful!” Val said, stepping back from the smoldering oven.

  “You look terrible.” She was covered in chocolate from her elbows to the tips of her shiny red fingernails. Little bits of brown goo hung from her fluffy red bangs.

  “What did you do? Why did you call me in such a panic?”

  “I didn’t think an exploding cake was a reason to call 911, so I called you instead,” Val said.

  “Well, you could have at least told me you weren’t over here dying. I was worried one of your crazy boyfriends had come back to visit and was attacking you.”

  “Oh, only about half my boyfriends have been crazy. Still, I suppose that means there are a lot of crazy guys out there who are not particularly happy with me. Hmmmm…I’ll have to evaluate my choice in men sometime,” she said, attempting to wipe the chocolate cake batter off her face but instead adding more across her cheek.

  “What were you trying to do here—make something new?” I asked, grabbing a dishtowel so I could mop up some of the mess.

  “I was experimenting with a new recipe that has chocolate and chipotle peppers. I thought it would be a good combo, you know—sweet and heat—it’s on every trendy menu these days.”

  I looked at her doubtfully.

  “I don’t know what happened. Maybe I put a teensy-weensy too much baking soda in the batter—I threw in a couple extra teaspoons since I added some extra peppers. I was getting ready to pull the cake out of the oven, and I looked in. All I could see was this molten lava pouring out of the top of the cake pan. Everything is cooler now, but wow, it was scary there for a minute. That’s why I called you. I thought you’d know what to do, since you work with fire and molten glass.”

  “I’m not sure what to do, other than get a hose and spray the place down, including you.”

  “Don’t you dare. You’ll ruin the new throw pillows,” she said.

  I glanced over at a pile of animal print pillows with pink fur trim. No great loss if those awful things got destroyed.

  “Let’s take a look,” I said, bending over and peeking inside the smoldering oven. “Actually, what’s left in here looks okay.” I jabbed my finger into the crust of the cake still in the pan.

  “Ow! That’s scorching hot.” My hands had become used to high temperatures from working with hot glass, but this was a little more than I could handle.

  I blew on the brown goop and then tasted it. So far, so good. I grabbed a wooden spoon off the counter and plopped myself down on the floor. I gingerly pulled the pan out of the oven with a dishtowel and scooped up some batter. “Yum. This is delicious. Have a spoonful.”

  With a not-so-graceful thump, Val sat down on the floor next to me, snatched the spoon, and had a taste. “You’re right, it’s super yummy. I’ll have to try to perfect the recipe and see if I can make it so it doesn’t explode.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “exploding desserts are not good. We should never, ever waste chocolate.”

  Fortified with spicy half-cooked cake batter, we cleaned up the kitchen. Since I resisted using the hose to clean up, Val’s new zebra pillows were safe for now. Val still looked like a wreck and needed a shower.

  “Why
don’t you get yourself cleaned up?” I suggested. “I’m heading over to Tessa’s to help get her studio ready for some beadmaking demos, plus I’ve got to give my necklace and beads to the JOWL lady for the exhibition at Aztec Beads.”

  “Jowl? I don’t think it’s polite to say that a woman has jowls. I hope you don’t say that to her face.”

  “It stands for ‘Jewelry-makers of Washington League.’ Someone thought that was better than Beaders of Washington League. Apparently they were worried people would called them ‘Bowel’ rather than ‘Bowl’.”

  “Someone decided JOWL was the best choice?” asked Val, examining the chocolate gunk wedged under her long fingernails. “Whoever that was didn’t understand that jowls are not something anyone should ever want to be associated with. I personally plan to never have jowls, or date anyone who has them.”

  Time to leave before I heard any more of Val’s diatribe about jowls or other signs (heaven forbid!) of aging. I glanced at my phone.

  “I’ve got to get out of here. Tessa hates it when I’m late.” Tessa Ricci had been my best friend since kindergarten. She was punctual, bossy, and petite. In other words, she was the opposite of me in almost every way. And she was one of reasons I decided to move to Seattle. She had moved here with her husband Craig nearly 18 years ago.

  I popped my head back into Val’s doorway. “Oh, if the painter comes by, let him into my side of the house, so he can give me a bid on painting the kitchen.”

  I went out Val’s front door and made the usual U-turn back into my place. I nearly stepped on Gumdrop, who was standing in the open doorway.

  “Oh, Gumdrop, you’re a good kitty for not running away. You do such a superb job as my guard-cat.”

  I’d left the front door open when I went to rescue Val, and he could have easily made a break for it. Gummie was an inside cat. He loved the idea of an adventure, but he had never actually been brave enough to go outside.