Sarcastically Yours, Jen

Links To Hook,Line, And Murder By GG Calpo
Genre: Cozy Mystery

Guest Post
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Coffee cup in hand, I looked out my front window. Behind me, Cannoli was busy chasing down her kibble while her purple bowl did its best to slow her down.
I took a sip of the velvety latte. A flat white with swirls of extra creamy oatmilk and the barest touch of honey. This was my morning ritual. Coffee and watching the school buses come and go. I eyed the neighborhood parents standing on the corner. After a year or more of meeting at the same street corner, they were chatting easily with each other, their kids milling around.
Brie was one of those kids not so long ago.
“Brianna Townsend,” I breathed the name out in a sigh. Dead at twenty-four years old. Murdered. What had she done?
I took another sip. Cannoli and I usually went for our morning walk once the parents had left, bundling their preschool children home with them. I looked at my pet Corgi. She had finished breakfast and was resting, head on her paws, her back two legs thrown out, body splayed like a rug on the floor.
Moving my gaze to the kitchen, I savored the smell of the blueberry muffins cooling on top of the stove. Time was in short supply today, and baking after our morning walk was off the calendar. Nor was there time to garden, and—I cringed—possibly no time to cook dinner for my grandson. Wait…he loved pizza.
“That works,” I murmured, refusing to think of what my daughter-in-law would say.
I looked down at my empty mug, froth clinging and slipping down its insides. Stooping over the breathing mat of fur, I tickled Cannoli under her chin while her eyes slowly closed and her docked tail wagged furiously. Then I scolded myself under my breath. Brie was turning my day upside down, inside out. And I was letting her.
Investigate her murder. Easier said than done. How was I to do this? I thought of Brie’s aunt, vaguely remembering a woman about my height, brown, frizzy hair clipped back from her face, exposing the square chin and the network of wrinkles radiating from her broad forehead and eyes. Not a friendly person. A book on my living room coffee table caught my eye. I remembered that the woman’s house was on the way to the library. I could say I was on my way to return the book but stopped by to give her my sympathies, couldn’t I? Maybe bring her a half dozen of the blueberry muffins?
Of course, I could. Nothing to it. No reason for anyone to think I was snooping. “Stop being a wuss,” I told myself.
Taking the leash hanging by the wall, I clipped it on Cannoli, who had sprung up from the floor at the sight of the leash in my hands. “All right then. Come on, you old softie. Let’s get this over with so my days can go back to normal.”
Poor deluded me.
My days never settled back into their old routine. But by then, I was swinging to a different groove. Normal was the least of my worries.

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What does Meg, a retired kindergarten teacher, do when the killer of her husband and only child still walks free a year after dirt had covered their graves? Go rogue, of course!
When the detective responsible for Meg’s nightmares takes over the murder investigation of her former student, Meg hunts the killer down with help from her friends. Their cozy lunches at Sweet Buns Café turn into tactical meetings while these retired grade school teachers get themselves in trouble better suited to those in their twenties. And to put the icing on their cream scones, someone is after Meg. Is it the killer? Or has Meg uncovered secrets better left buried with her loved ones?
Excerpt:

Chapter One
The divers were still underwater, scouring the
bottom of Duck Harbor, searching for the rest of the
body.
I was with my friends at Sweet Buns cafe, across
from the harbor, our unofficial clubhouse ever since we
retired from teaching at Whitman’s Port Post Elementary
School. Standing right next to the front windows of the
café, we had the clearest view of Duck Harbor Park and
the blue uniforms swarming there.
We had been on our morning walk, making our way
around the edges of the park. Screaming kids played by
the playground while teenagers giggled, grouped around
benches, or meandered in the aimless way young people
do. The day was beautiful, with clear skies and a mild
snap in the air. It was cold yet warm with the right
amount of heat from the sun, making it the perfect spring
day. Motorboats and sailboats dipped in and out of the
water, out by Poet’s Bay. And at the edge of the harbor
were the fishermen, alone or in groups of two or three, a
rod in their hands and their tackle boxes opened beside
them. We rounded the corner, almost done with our
walk, when we saw mothers dragging their children
away and fathers covering the eyes of the children in
their arms. Pushing against the stream of parents
scrambling away were others whose eyes were fixed on
the man by the harbor’s edge. A man on whose fishingline dangled a catch with, what I thought were, red fins
and a red tail swaying lazily around the hook.
Red? In the salt waters of Poet’s Bay? As I stood
there trying to figure out what I was seeing, Barbara
shoved her way into the crowd. I followed, my curiosity
getting the better of me. Murmurs of “Good morning”
and “Good to see you, Mrs. B” trailed behind me,
changing to “You sure you want to see this, Mrs. B?” and
“I wouldn’t go any further if I were you, Mrs. B.” We
fetched up to the front and looked down on the ground
before us while the fisherman beside us puked his guts
out.
It wasn’t a fish he had caught.
Instead, on the ground was a hand. Just a hand.
Nothing else. Where I thought I had seen red fins and a
red tail were fingernails painted blood red. The fingers
were tangled in the fishing line with a hook sunk deep
into the palm. The hand looked grotesque against the
green grass: long, slender fingers and pale skin. My eyes
traced the shape of the fingers to the palm and snagged.
Glinting and winking back the sun’s rays, a signet ring
encircled the ring finger, an initial B covered with
diamonds. I had seen that very same ring not that long
ago.
“Brie? Brianna Townsend?” I whispered in horror,
my mind going back to the time when Brie was five,
sitting in my kindergarten class, an impish grin on her

face. To this past Wednesday, when Brie, now twenty-
four and grown-up, had come up to Barbara and me

while we were having breakfast at Sweet Buns. Dressed
in tight, faded jeans with studded booties on her feet, still
with that impish grin on her face, Brie had proudly
shoved her right hand in front of us, waggling her fingers

rapidly, the diamonds on the ring catching and reflecting
the sunlight streaming through the window. The same
diamond ring on this hand before us. I thought of how
Brie had bragged about how the ring was custom-made
for her, and only for her.
Was this hand Brie’s? Where was the rest of her?
Well, that was what the divers were down there for.

About the Author

A retired CPA and lawyer, GG Calpo now writes cozy mysteries and urban fantasies. She blends her experiences as a Filipino American immigrant with the everyday stories of life around her. She spends her time reading, crocheting blankets and sweaters for her five grandchildren, watching mystery TV shows and taking long walks in her neighborhood. She resides in Central New Jersey, with her husband and two corgis, Whiskey and Nugget.

Links To Hook,Line, And Murder

• Goodreads
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