ALSO BY

SHARON LINNÉA

FICTION

Death in Tranquility (Bartenders Guide to Murder 1)

Death By Gravity (Bartenders Guide to Murder 2)

With B.K. Sherer

Chasing Eden • Beyond Eden • Treasure of Eden • Plagues of Eden

Young Adult, with Axel Avian

Colt Shore: Domino 29

NONFICTION

Princess Ka’iulani: Hope of a Nation, Heart of a People

Raoul Wallenberg: The Man Who Stopped Death

Chicken Soup from the Soul of Hawai’i

Lost Civilizations

America’s Famous and Historic Trees with Jeff Meyer

As Sheridan Scott

Now you Tell Me! 12 Actors Give the Best Advice They Never Got

Now you Tell Me! 12 Army Wives Give the Best Advice They Never Got

Now you Tell Me! 12 College Students Give the Best Advice They Never Got

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BARTENDER’S GUIDE TO MURDER

Book 3 DEATH AMONG THE STARS

Copyright c 2021 by Sharon Linnéa

ISBN 978-1-933608-36-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-933608-37-2 (ebook)

First Edition November 2021

Cover Art and Cover Design by David Colón

Interior Design by Phillip Gessert

For Jamielynn,

One of the best mixologists on the planet,

Happily met over a strawberry rhubarb concoction

at a bar in Lake Placid.

Cheers!

Table of Contents

In the Adirondacks

1 Evening’s End

2 the History of Stars

3 Batten Those Hatches

4 the Hollywood Sign

5 Orchestra and Balcony

6 Buttered Popcorn

7 Into the Night

8 Salty Gang Rides Again

9 Light the Lights

10 Leaves Me Cold

11 Puzzle Pieces

12 the Gang’s All Here

13 Hiding Out

14 the Nexus

15 Old Home Week

16 Early Morn

17 Truth Be Told

18 the Boys Are Back in Town

19 the Band Played on

20 Those Magic Moments

21 Closing Early

22 Harvest Moon

23 Unplugged

24 Over the Cliff

25 Into the Sunset

Acknowlegements

IN THE ADIRONDACKS

One more piece. Or seven.

The young man took a sip of Malbec and fitted the puzzle piece shaped like a fish into the larger work that created a sitting fox. A fox with a strange, knowing grin on his face. It was a long time since he’d done a jigsaw puzzle. The rental cabin had a stack of them, all wooden, with shaped pieces. This one was close to complete.

Rise was grateful to his manager for renting this Adirondack cabin. He’d flown across country from Los Angeles three days early, to rest, re-center and dismiss any jet lag. In Los Angeles there was a pile of scripts on his desk—he’d only brought the three most promising along to read—constant calls and texts, a demanding personal trainer, and, oh yeah, four stalkers, two of whom required restraining orders.

Ah, the life of a star.

Except he wasn’t a star, only a guy who’d grown up on television in three different series. Enough folks were so comfortable with him in their living rooms they figured they should be married. To him. And became violent when he didn’t agree.

It had been a wonderful couple of days. His assistant, Con Allred, had laid in supplies, his favorite food, and he’d been able to cook for himself. Con had then gone ahead to join Rise’s agent, manager and publicity crew to lay the groundwork for the premiere of his new feature film.

A car would be sent for Rise in the morning, his hiatus over.

The tall actor ran a hand through his golden blonde hair, snapped another piece into the puzzle and groaned. Two pieces were missing. Why would you rent a cabin and offer your guests puzzles with missing pieces?

He took another large sip of wine. The fire was burning down, a bed of orange embers lined the fireplace floor. Add another log, or let it go out?

If he wanted to be fresh and rested for the film festival, he should probably take some melatonin and read awhile, then get some sleep.

Rise drained the wine glass, washed it out and put it to dry by the sink. The cabin was made of wood with antlers everywhere. He stepped outside onto the small porch, then sat in a dark-green Adirondack chair. Rushing water of the nearby Ausable River spoke of recent rain; the piquant, calming scent of pine melded with the loam of the earth. He breathed deeply.

Back in Los Angeles, his house was a fortress, alarms everywhere. Even so, one enterprising woman, a teacher for god’s sake, had left a note on his bed when he was away filming. His agent had gotten a letter from another of his stalkers, a psychologist, explaining they were uniquely psychologically suited for each other. Therefore, if she couldn’t have Rise, she’d have to hurt him. A young man had stopped his mother in the grocery store and introduced himself as Rise’s fiancé. Someone had followed and confronted his mom. His mom!

Rise hated being on guard all the time. Which was why he was sorry to leave the solitude of the cabin to rejoin the world in the morning. It was rented under his manager’s brother’s secretary’s son’s name. No one knew he was here.

The actor stood and stretched, then went back inside, and locked the door. He headed into the bedroom where he pulled on pajama pants and a t-shirt. He scrubbed his face in the master bath and popped two melatonin gummies.

The queen-sized bed had a quilt with an Adirondack design featuring bears dancing around a campfire. Rise picked up a script from the bedside table at random, put on his glasses, and began to read. Within ten minutes, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

It was all he could do to turn off the light before falling into a dreamless sleep.

His phone rang at seven the next morning.

The car’s on its way. It’ll be outside in twenty, said Isobel, his agent. See you at the hotel for breakfast.

Roger. Wilco, said Rise.

He wiped sleep from his eyes and went to shower and dress. He was already packed. It wasn’t long before the crunch of tires arrived outside the cabin. A glance out the bathroom window showed it to be a Range Rover driven by Castor, Isobel’s favorite driver. Rise was grateful she hadn’t sent the stretch.

Castor knocked on the door and Rise came through the room, pulling his suitcase. The shorter, stockier man gave Rise a friendly nod and took the bag. Rise walked around the living room, doing one last visual check. The puzzle. Should he rebox?

He stood in front of the table. And stared.

Castor was saying something, but Rise didn’t hear him.

The puzzle was complete. All the pieces were locked in. None missing.

The paper towel next to the puzzle, which had a small rim of Malbec from Rise’s glass the night before on it, now also had a tiny heart, drawn by pen. Filled in with lipstick.

Castor came and stood next to him, looking at the puzzle and the paper towel. A knowing smile crossed his face. Fun night? he asked. Come on, we’ve got to go, or Isobel will have our heads.

Rise grabbed the paper towel and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

It was only when he got into the car that he began to tremble.

1

EVENING’S END

Tranquility, New York, held a new spark of energy. I felt it as I walked the nearly-empty sidewalks at 11:30 p.m. on that clear September Tuesday evening. A brisk chill seasoned the air around old-fashioned streetlights whose bulbs flickered merrily as if the lamplighter had recently come by. The shops of Main Street also spoke of an earlier day. They were brick or clapboard, one story or two, although the Adirondack Adventure Hotel had dared climb to four floors, the village’s version of a skyscraper.

The Tranquility Film Festival was opening that weekend and I was looking forward to it. First, because I had friends whose documentary was certain to create a stir. Second, with the first festival screening on Thursday, actors, directors, publicists, and journalists were beginning to descend in their limos and fancy rental cars. Their imminent arrival excited the locals, even those who claimed disinterest, and the crowd at the pub I manage and bartend was buzzing with anticipation. Food, drinks, and high spirits flowed freely all evening.

MacTavish’s, the Scottish-style inn that housed that pub—formally named That Ship Has Sailed, but universally called the Battened Hatch—was on the south end of Main, while my cottage was nestled in a hidden glade called Mill Pond off the northern end. I’d decided to walk to work that afternoon, in the late-summer heat with the teasing hint of autumn leaves. Tonight, the mountains that rimmed town loomed as a backdrop, purple and protective. We’d closed the bar at 11. My barback, Marta, and I took some extra time swapping out the next day’s drink specials in the holders on each table. Marta then hurried off on her bike, and I headed home, savoring the pre-festival calm by strolling the walkways of my adopted home.

Most businesses, including restaurants, were closed, their nighttime illumination offering a soft glow over wares displayed in shop windows. There was one notable exception: the Orpheum Theater, where the festival was soon to begin. Outdoor lights shone and the marquee was aglow.

I paused to study the listing of films with the dates and times of their screenings. Salty Sally and Pepper: Truth Be Told, the documentary featuring as yet unknown stories about two screen idols of Hollywood’s Golden Age who’d lived in Tranquility, would show on Saturday afternoon, a prime slot.

Glancing inside the hall that led to the lobby, I saw posters for the festival’s other films lining the walls. It was kind of odd that the lobby doors were still open. Surely the night’s final screenings of regular movies were done by now? As I entered to study a poster for an independent feature, Kyle, the lanky teenager who ran concessions during the week and usually closed up, walked into the lobby. He saw me and waved. I waved back.

Just perusing, I said, signaling my willingness to leave.

He joined me in the outer hall. You work around here, right?

Yes, I’m Avalon. Nash. I bartend at the Battened Hatch. In MacTavish’s.

Could you help me for a minute? He looked nervous.

What is it?

The last movie’s over. I need to close up. But some girl fell asleep in the theater.

You can’t wake her up?

I tried saying, ‘wake up,’ but it didn’t work.

If she slept through an action movie, I’m not surprised. Did you try shaking her shoulder?

Kyle looked uncomfortable. I don’t want to touch her or anything. We’ve had harassment training.

Okay. How could I not help such a well-meaning kid?

The Orpheum was a grand movie palace back in the day. Now it was carved into three theaters, the largest of which was downstairs, in the footprint of the original. The once-commanding balcony was split in half to create two smaller screening spaces, but each remained large and raked with the original stairs going down each outside wall.

The sleeper was in theater three, upstairs. I trotted up the carpeted steps behind Kyle, who was obviously eager to get on with things.

All the theater lights were on, including the harsh work lights, which took away any golden veneer of the magic of storytelling. I headed down to where the young woman was seated, fifth row center, and walked across row four to be squarely in front of her.

The movie-goer was petite, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with the carefree good looks of youth, wearing a form-fitting white cashmere sweater that showed off her flawless tan skin, and jeggings. Her small popcorn was settled into the seat beside her. She hadn’t enjoyed much of it before dozing off.

Excuse me, I said. No reply.

Miss? I put my knee onto the folded seat bottom in front of me and leaned forward, reaching out and shaking the young woman’s leg. I shook harder. Her naturally curly brown hair jostled, but she didn’t move. Hello?

I glanced up at Kyle, who shrugged, see what I mean?

Willing myself not to think the worst, or even the second-worst, I walked back a row and across it. I put a hand firmly on the girl’s shoulder and shook her. The movie’s over.

She fell forward.

Her popcorn spilled over her seat and onto the floor.

That’s when I thought the worst.

Local police arrived first, followed quickly by EMTs, who were led to the young woman. Neither Kyle nor I wanted to stay close as they laid her down to see if any ministrations would make a difference. She’d been stiff to the touch; I guessed she hadn’t seen much of the film.

Kyle waited back in the upstairs hall. He had a long face, peach-white skin and dark hair with a slight natural curl and a normal smattering of acne that would clear in years not far ahead. He looked like he wanted to throw up.

Have you called Mr. Donovan? I asked. Kyle looked momentarily surprised at the idea that calling his boss was a thing he might do. If I ran a movie theater that held a corpse, I’d want to know.

Kyle nodded and began to text with trembling fingers.

The night had just gotten longer for both of us. I sat down and indicated a place next to me on the tufted hall bench.

Perhaps to keep from dwelling on the recent discovery myself, I found myself feeling protective of Kyle, who would remember this night all his life.

Is someone waiting for you at home? I asked the usher. Do you want to call someone to come get you?

Maybe, he said. He stood up as he dialed and wandered down the carpeted hall. It was a good, thick carpeting with fleur-de-lis, a motif that would have played well in decades gone by. I thought about carpet for as long as possible to keep from remembering that girl the had friends, family and people who loved her who would be getting the phone call or visit no one wants to get.

We have to stop meeting like this.

The speaker was State Police Investigator Mike Spaulding, and he had a point.

To be fair, I’d only found one other body since moving to Tranquility—which was how I met Investigator Spaulding in the first place. We’d worked together well to solve that murder, at least in my mind. The most recent death about which I’d been questioned had been under the auspices of Investigator Gerald Mason. I was not a fan.

Investigator Spaulding dropped next to me on the bench.

I was passing by the theater on my way home, I said. The doors were open, so I came in to look at the posters in the hallway. Kyle asked me to help wake the young woman up. She didn’t wake up. That’s the entirety of my story. There are witnesses who can place me at the Battened Hatch all evening.

He expelled a breath. That matches what Kyle told us. Don’t worry. I didn’t think you’d try something this soon.

I looked at him with surprise. Kidding, he said, raising his hands in a defensive position.

Mike was Black, his skin the dark mahogany of the wind chimes in my kitchen. Since he was an investigator, he wore civilian clothes, jacket and shirt starched and pressed, not unlike what he usually wore to the Battened Hatch.

Mike had dismissed Kyle before joining me. A man I assumed to be Kyle’s father put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and led him downstairs.

Marcus Donovan, the third generation Donovan to own the Orpheum, had arrived as the State Police did. Crime scene investigators took the girl’s popcorn and soda for testing. They also shut down the concession stand, pending the results. That seemed to shake Mr. Donovan most of all.

That’s how we meet our overhead, he pleaded.

Any chance you recognized the victim? Investigator Spaulding asked me.

No, I said. I haven’t seen her around town. I was wondering if she might have something to do with the film festival. She was an ectomorph—tiny bones, very skinny, and her facial features were unusually symmetrical, meaning she is classically beautiful, in the Hollywood sense of the word.

I keep forgetting you’re from L.A.

I keep trying to forget, as well.

We both smiled.

Investigator Spaulding stood and stretched. You can go. If you think of anything that might be meaningful, give me a call. He would have offered me his business card, but his number was in my phone from last time.

I glanced at my watch. 1:10. An hour and a half after I’d entered the theater. I headed downstairs, scuffing against the fleur-de-lis pattern, and passed the concession stand, now decorated with bright yellow crime tape.

The front doors were closed, and the outside lights were off. It was mighty dark out there. I was glad to be nearly home.

Streetlights threw enough illumination into the entrance hall that I could still read the posters for the festival films that had lured me in the first place. One on the wall opposite those I’d perused earlier caught my eye. I did a double take and took a step back to stand squarely in front of the poster for the independent feature film.

It was my second shock of the night. Holy shit, I said.

###

It was 1:30 a.m. when I reached Cherry Lane, the pathway that led over the creek into the private glade where my cottage stood. I wasn’t surprised to find lights aglow in the lodge where my landlord lived. Sally was a night owl who had undoubtedly just awakened.

I passed, a silent figure in the night, wanting but not wanting company, wanting but not wanting to be alone with my thoughts.

I crossed the footbridge past the small waterfall to my own achingly charming cottage. Inside, I turned on the small light above the stove, and made a cup of herbal peach tea, planning to sit on the terrace. I doubted sleep would come this night.

The terrace was chilly. Hands wrapped around the mug for warmth, I came back inside and went to sit in the dark on the couch in front of the picture window in the living room. I set the mug down on the coffee table and studied the lights from Sally’s large log home across the waterfall, under the starry canopy of night. I meant to contemplate everything that had happened that evening, that had happened this year. It was a lot.

Much to my own surprise, as I began to contemplate, I fell fast asleep.

EVENING’S END

Mama’s Medicine

Ingredients

Fresh whole orange (peeled and pulled apart, save peel)

1/4 teaspoon ground turmeric 

2 oz honey (preferably local)

2 cups of water

1 1/2 oz Bourbon/Whiskey of your choice 

Method

In medium saucepan add water, turmeric, one large piece of orange peel and honey.  Let simmer for about 10 minutes and stir occasionally.  In large mug add Bourbon or Whiskey and then add a ladle or two of hot toddy mixture.  

Relax, sip and enjoy going into dreamland.

2

THE HISTORY OF STARS

The thump of a bass, the beat of a snare beneath it, and Willy Nelson’s voice reverberated from the other room inviting me to join him on the road again as I pried one eye open. It took me a moment to comprehend that it was my phone, and that Hannah Bricksford was calling me.

I kicked blue square sofa cushions away and sat up, then put my feet on the floor and lurched toward my bedroom where my phone sat, now fully charged, on the bedside table, Willy still wailing away. I’d assigned Hannah a new ringtone when we went on a girls’ trip after