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  Praise for R. J. Lee and his Bridge to Death mysteries!

  PLAYING THE DEVIL

  “Entertaining . . . Lee does a good job rendering Southern speech patterns in the conversations between Wendy and her friend Merleece.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Solid small-town cozy fare.”

  —Booklist

  GRAND SLAM MURDERS

  “Lee deals a winning hand.... An attractive protagonist, plenty of Southern charm, a long suit of colorful characters, and a plot that comes up trumps at the surprising end all bode well for future installments.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A compulsively readable series debut, dripping in Southern charm, with a clever sleuth whose bridge skills break the case.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Lee vividly captures life in a quirky southern town ruled by a rich elite, and heightens interest with a plot that exposes past secrets and a budding romance.”

  —Booklist

  “Set in a small Mississippi town rife with stereotypical prejudices, gossip finger-pointing suspects, and an interesting mystery with an unlikely detecting team that puts their entire focus on finding out whodunit. . . . The author cleverly uses knowledge of the game of bridge to uncover what really happens—and it all leads to one heck of a jaw-dropping ending. Book two will be highly anticipated.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A promising introduction to R. J. Lee’s Bridge to Death mystery series. I look forward to the next one.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “An impressively original and deftly crafted mystery from first page to last, Grand Slam Murders by R. J. Lee will prove to be an inherently riveting read.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Pick up a copy of Grand Slam Murders: A Bridge to Death Mystery, and find out just how delightfully devilish the game can be.”

  —The Baldwin Times

  “The book is set right here in Mississippi, which is quite appropriate since the author is one of Mississippi’s literary gems.”

  —Tupelo Daily Journal

  Books by R. J. Lee

  GRAND SLAM MURDERS

  PLAYING THE DEVIL

  COLD READING MURDER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Cold Reading Murder

  R. J. LEE

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Rob Kuehnle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3147-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3147-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3147-6

  To my beloved Will

  CHAPTER 1

  She was married at last. It had finally happened just a little over an hour ago on a warm June afternoon in her childhood home perched atop the hill with the big pecan trees looming on either side. Wendy Lyons Winchester was now Wendy Winchester Rierson after a courtship of two years, plus a seven-month-long engagement that seemed like it would never end. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed every minute of it, nor the attention and cavalcade of gifts that the higher-profile families of Rosalie, Mississippi, had lavished upon her.

  Wendy’s father, the sturdy Police Chief Bax Winchester, had spared no expense in giving his one and only daughter away, and she could not help but cherish the sparkle in his eyes as he had walked her down the makeshift aisle in the family parlor. Moments later, Wendy and Detective Ross Rierson had exchanged their original vows in front of a Presbyterian minister, and then the celebration had begun in earnest.

  At the moment, Wendy was gazing fondly across the vast expanse of the air-conditioned reception tent that had been pitched out on the lawn to accommodate the extensive guest list. Her father and her new husband in their navy-blue, double-breasted dress uniforms were the objects of her affection; both men having a grand old time with their arms around each other’s broad shoulders, while enjoying their liquor and exchanging what were likely ribald jokes of some kind. It was more of that special, police-work bonding that they always had going for them down at the station, and most of the other officers attending had joined up with them now and then and peeled off after they’d had their fill of that precinct camaraderie.

  Meanwhile, the towering, three-tiered, Madagascar vanilla bean wedding cake had already been cut into manageable portions and much of it distributed to the crowd after the seated dinner of salmon for some and prime rib for others had come off without a hitch. It was now that time of the reception when the art of mixing drinks with sentimentality had entered the equation, and few were feeling any pain.

  To add to the frivolity, another huge contingent of the guests had wandered with gusto into the separate dancing tent next door to step to the trendy rock beat of Mississippi’s hottest new four-man group, Bishop Gunn, who would be headlining in October at Rosalie’s popular Hot Air Balloon Festival. They were the current favorites of Ross and most of the younger officers who worked alongside him.

  There was one of the round tables, however, consisting of five, eclectic-looking people who were doing neither much drinking nor any dancing at the moment. With her luxurious red hair piled high atop her head to crown her elegant bridal coiffure, Wendy finally turned away from the throng of officers and focused instead on her “bridge newbies,” as she now referred to them.

  Over the past seven months, Wendy’s Rosalie Country Club Bridge Bunch had recovered from all the unfavorable publicity generated by the murder of the unscrupulous, insufferable Brent Ogle in the club’s hot tub. Wisely, the decision had been made to remove it entirely to avoid lingering, morbid curiosity. The question, “Is that where it happened?” needed to be retired once and for all. As a result, the membership had grown steadily to the point where the original single bridge table had now expanded to six, with two dozen players in the fold. Furthermore, there was this one other table that could only be described as a work in progress.

  Separately over that period of time, these five from widely disparate backgrounds had come to Wendy and asked if she might consider the possib
ility of teaching them the game of bridge. For different reasons, they all said they wanted to learn how to play and play well, but knew next to nothing about it, except that it was an extremely social game and that it might be easier to make friends that way in a Deep South, layered town like Rosalie.

  In addition, four of them were newcomers to the city—ranging anywhere from a month or so to five months arrived upon the scene. The exception was Sarah Ann O’Rourke, who was a Rosalie native. Wendy still couldn’t quite believe there was this much interest in learning bridge from scratch on the part of that many people within such a short time frame.

  The paying job she held down—her nearly two-year stint as the Rosalie Citizen’s first full-time investigative reporter—was working out well for her. Her experienced female editor, Lyndell Slover, was pleased with the steady progress she was making in the quality of her work; as an interesting sidebar, her widowed father and Lyndell were also fully enjoying one another’s company in every sense of the word on a regular basis.

  Would Wendy’s mentor also eventually become her mother, in a manner of speaking?

  Stranger things had been known to happen, particularly with the social complexities that composed the Deep South.

  Wendy had hardly rushed into the decision to teach, however. After all, she’d only been playing the game herself for about two of her twenty-seven years. Was she truly qualified to set others on the path to making successful contracts and winning 500 or 700 rubbers? It had not been all that long ago that she had been in training as a substitute for the much-revered but now very expired Rosalie Bridge Club with its legendary Gin Girls. Finally, Wendy had gathered up her courage and told those five that she would take them under her wing, and they had all seemed ecstatic at the prospect.

  Wendy chose her words carefully as she approached their table, fearing she had been neglecting them just a little throughout the busiest afternoon of her life so far. “I sincerely hope you’ve all been having a wonderful time. I’ve had to make my manners to so many people here in Rosalie all day, or I would have chatted with you all long before now.”

  The widowed Charlotte Ruth—whose corny running joke about herself was that her name sounded like a dessert with a lisp—was the first of the five to speak up. “Don’t worry about a thing, sweetie. It’s just been a spectacular wedding and reception. I’ve had more than my share of salmon and cake and champagne, I can assure you. I’ll have to go on my diet again tomorrow. When you reach my age, you have to watch every calorie, you know.”

  Wendy was as diplomatic as ever, a trait she had inherited from her late mother, Valerie—the talented acrylic artist and quintessential socialite. “I’m sure that’s not true, Charlotte. That’s a stunning lavender gown you have on, and you are wearing it to perfection.”

  “You’re too kind,” Charlotte said, adjusting her décol-letage ever so slightly while tilting her chin upward to tighten the folds of her aging neck. She was clearly under no illusion about her late middle-aged appearance, but one never knew when or where interesting men might show up. Weddings, in fact, were notoriously good venues to meet them, and Charlotte had been more than grateful to receive her invitation from Wendy.

  Vance Quimby spoke up next. “I’ve been getting some wonderful images and bits of dialogue all afternoon. Note-taking seems rude, so you have to shut your eyes and memorize all these joyous scenes and snippets so you won’t forget them.” If such a thing existed, there was indeed about Vance a suggestion of something “writer-ish,” what with his carefully trimmed mustache, receding hairline, and glasses hanging off the end of his nose. “A genuine Rosalie wedding can’t be beat for local color, and that’s just what I need to bring this Great Southern Novel of mine to life. Thank you so much for including me in your plans today.”

  “Think nothing of it. We do go all out in this town,” Wendy said, making a sweeping gesture that included the entire tent full of chattering people. “And I can assure you that my wedding wasn’t even one of the especially big ones. Not by a Mississippi River mile.”

  Vance’s expression indicated he clearly wasn’t buying the observation. “I’d like to see a big one if this was an example of small. I’ve never seen so much attention to detail—all the lovely flowers, especially the gardenias, even the slightly bruised ones—and the elaborate decorations, like these little bits of gold and silver glitter on the tables. It seems nothing was overlooked. Writers like myself aren’t worth a hoot unless we get all those fascinating details ironed out just right to bring our plots to life.”

  “You can thank Party Palooza for that,” Wendy continued. “They planned everything, and if they couldn’t come up with it themselves, they found somebody who’d work with them, such as Bluff City Caterers. If you ever need to throw a party of any kind while you’re here in Rosalie doing your research, they’re a one-stop shop, believe me. As a matter of fact, I can introduce you to Merrie and Rex Boudreaux before you leave today. I’m sure they’d be delighted to meet a new customer. They’re party prodigies, believe me.”

  “That would be terrific, Wendy. A party might be just the ticket for me as a break from all this research I’ve been doing at the courthouse. That, and the thousands of questions I’ve been asking around town. I guess I’ve become the town’s busiest busybody.”

  Wendy gave him a gracious smile and said, “This town has inspired many writers. Enjoy your research.” But she still had three more of her newbies to fuss over.

  Wearing a pink chiffon dress, which seemed more appropriate for a retro, junior-senior prom, Sarah Ann O’Rourke looked every inch the gangly, freckled-faced student who was entering her senior year at the local College of Rosalie. She was studying English because she said writing had always fascinated her, but had no idea what she was going to do with her degree after graduation. She had never actually sat down and written anything—short or long form.

  “I just wanted to tell you that your wedding dress is so lovely. It just looks so feminine. And how do you pronounce that style—emm-pire?”

  Wendy’s response was light and carefree. “In France I believe they say awmm-peer.”

  “I would love to have one like yours when I get married. It looks so romantic and Old World.”

  Wendy moved to her side and gently patted her on the shoulder. “You should plan for it, then. You and your mother should get together whenever the time comes and make it happen. Have exactly what you want on your big day.”

  Sarah Ann’s expression suddenly went sour, followed by silence, and Wendy sensed that the subject of the girl’s mother, Dora O’Rourke—whom Wendy had met just once and found to be rather high maintenance—might be one to avoid further, so she signed off with another of her polite smiles.

  Aurelia Spangler was seated in the next chair, perhaps the most intriguing of the five pupils whom Wendy would soon be teaching. Her dark eyes, olive skin, and tall frame imparted a sense of mystery to her, making it difficult to discern what her ethnicity might be. Eastern European, perhaps? Italian? Greek? Perhaps a mixture of those?

  “I can’t help but ask you if you have any predictions for my marriage,” Wendy said with a great deal of playfulness. “Any cold readings you just happen to have on hand at the moment?”

  Swathed in perhaps the most unconventional of all the outfits present at the wedding—her busy gown featured a myriad of neon-bright swirls running from bodice to hem—Aurelia shook her scarlet scarf-wrapped head slowly. “Not this second, but those will come in time. It’s my intention to give every one of you at this table a free cold reading after we’ve had our first bridge lesson next week. That is, if you want one. Some people prefer not to know things.”

  “What an interesting idea,” Wendy continued, surprised by the comment. “It’s not everyone that can say they have a practicing psychic in their bridge club.”

  Aurelia fingered her shiny, metallic necklace, which caught the lights inside the tent now and then from every possible angle. It seemed as though its mission w
as to blind people—at least temporarily. “But I don’t need a reading to predict how you and your husband will get along. From what I’ve seen so far, I’m sure you’ll make it to wedded bliss without any outside help.”

  “Now that certainly doesn’t need any interpretation,” Wendy said, while some of the others around the table tittered. “And I thank you for the happy prediction.”

  “My pleasure, of course. But you haven’t told us yet where you’re going on your honeymoon,” Aurelia continued, waving her hand about as if it were a wand.

  The enthusiasm level in Wendy’s voice fell off just a bit. “As a matter of fact, we’re postponing it until sometime this fall. That’s the only time we could book this particular cruise to all of the Hawaiian Islands. We wanted to be sure and do it up right. We didn’t just want to settle for Diamond Head, Pearl Harbor, and Waikiki Beach—the usual touristy spots, you know. Our cruise takes us to Maui and Kauai, as well as Hilo town on the Big Island. Ross says we’re even going to climb right up to the edge of Mauna Kea to top it all off.”

  “Living on the edge. I’ve always abided by that, and I love it. It sounds like perfection,” Aurelia said. “I wish I were going there. I’ve only been once, but the islands are so much more laid back than the Mainland. People are so much more in touch with their environment there.”