A Geek Girl's Guide to Arsenic (25 page)

Go back to the beginning with
A Geek Girl’s Guide to Murder
:

IT manager Mia Connors is up to her tortoiseshell glasses in technical drama when a glitch in the Horseshoe Falls email system disrupts security and sends errant messages to residents of the gated community. The snafu’s timing couldn’t be worse—Renaissance Faire season is in full swing and Mia’s family’s business relies on her presence.

Mia doesn’t have time to hunt down a computer hacker. Her best friend has disappeared, and she finds another of her friends murdered—in her office. When the hunky new head of Horseshoe Falls security identifies Mia as the prime suspect, her anxiety level registers on the Richter scale.

Eager to clear her name, Mia moves into action to locate her missing buddy and find out who killed their friend. But her quick tongue gets her into trouble with more than the new head of security. When Mia begins receiving threats, the killer makes it clear that he’s closer than she’d ever imagined.

Read on for an excerpt from
A GEEK GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER
:

Chapter One

“Good morning, Bernie.” I swiped my badge at the guard gate outside Horseshoe Falls, my home away from home, and forced a tight smile. Normally, arriving at work was my favorite part of the day. I also preferred to sleep until six, but my day had started at five when an unprecedented email from the boss rocketed me out of bed. Apparently this was a day for change.

I could count the number of 5:00 a.m. emails from my manager on one finger. I didn’t need any fingers to count the number of problems with my computer system. Receiving the former with accusation of the latter had me on edge and out for reconnaissance. Add a mandatory staff meeting to the cryptic predawn message, and the day was ruined before it started. Preparing for an ambush was harder than it sounded.

Bernie emerged from behind the candy-cane-striped lever with a smile. Her park ranger-esque uniform worked seamlessly with the recorded bird songs piping through hidden speakers along the ivy-covered walls. “Hi, Mia. Did you read my blog today?”

Bernie was at least twice my age, with a round face and kind eyes. Her parents had named her Bernice after a Hawaiian princess, and she kept a blog, Aloha from Ohio, about growing up on the Big Island. My grandmother could barely work her VCR.

“Of course.” Bernie’s blog served as the unofficial Horseshoe Falls rumor mill and who’s-who resident guide, complete with vintage photos and anecdotes from the Aloha State. What wasn’t to love? Today’s scandal was a new head of security, which seemed irrelevant to me or my system. “I loved the post. Quite intriguing. Have you heard anything about a problem with my network?”

She shook her head. “No. How is that even possible?”

“Right?” I relaxed against the cool leather of my seat. “Randall called a staff meeting this morning. He said something about a system problem. I hoped you might’ve heard something so I could prepare a defense or fix the glitch before the meeting.”

Bernie rocked back on her orthopedic track shoes and shook her head slowly. “No. I’ve got nothing. There’s some hostility with residents about staffers not honoring appointments, but I don’t pay much attention to that. I say, make another appointment or go somewhere else. There’s a great big world out there.” She widened her arms and smiled at the gates to the outside.

“Okay. Thanks.” I tapped my thumbs along the curve of my steering wheel. “Hey, I’ll check out the new guy this morning and give you the scoop.”

A mischievous smile stretched over her face. “If you say so.”

“Mmm-kay.” Whatever that meant. Reading between the lines wasn’t my strongest social skill. Neither was being objective or making small talk, which probably explained my love of technology and nearly-thirty-and-still-single status. Computers never cared if I was five minutes late to dinner or asked why I wasn’t dating.

I waved goodbye and accelerated to the posted speed limit of twenty-five, careful to steer clear of road-crossing ducks and frolicking squirrels. My MINI Cooper motored along the quaint cobblestone roads toward its parking space outside the clubhouse, practically on autopilot, but stopped a few feet short. I shoved black cat-eye sunglasses onto my head and took another look. I wasn’t imagining it. An obnoxious oversize blue pickup filled my space and spilled across the yellow lines on either side. Giant black mirrors protruded from the truck’s cab and reached for the cars in neighboring spaces. A line of spotlights stood sentinel across the cab’s roof. The metal beast had too many tires, dual rears and a bed large enough to park my MINI inside, which I had half a mind to do.

I craned my neck, looking for an explanation. That was my spot.

The phone in my handbag buzzed to life. Marcella’s face appeared on the screen.

I shifted into Park behind the blue monstrosity and kneaded my forehead with one hand. “Hello?”

Marcella’s words whipped through the receiver. “Where are you? Randall’s on a rampage.”

I eyeballed the truck and surveyed my parking options. “I’m in the lot. Someone took my space and the lot’s full.”

She sighed. “That’s because he called a mandatory staff-wide meeting this morning, gorda.”

Apparently the other employees had the same idea about arriving early. I shifted into Reverse and drove around the building. “I’ll have to park across the street. Give me five minutes.”

As Public Relations Manager, Marcella kept the residents of Horseshoe Falls happy and the employees in line, mostly with love and baked goods. She called me fat girl, an odd term of endearment I was earning this year. I had a new double-digit dress size to prove it.

I parallel parked outside the Sweet Retreat ice cream parlor and jogged past a couple on horseback as I made my way to the clubhouse. Horseshoe Falls was an elite gated community designed for nature lovers. Its peculiar futuristic-frontier-living mash-up led to people riding horses to the nearest recycle bin. I crossed the clubhouse parking lot, glaring at the mammoth truck parked in my space.

Marcella opened the front door and motioned for me to hurry. I tiptoe-ran on new heels, clutching my cross-body laptop bag and praying my glasses stayed on my nose.

She clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t run in those heels. If they were mine, I’d display them on a pedestal and polish them with Cupid’s tears.”

“Yeah, well. You could use my tears. I think my toes are bleeding.”

Marcella’s wide eyes dropped to my shoes again. She pressed a palm to her chest and muttered something in Spanish, punctuating the lament with the sign of the cross.

I had a feeling the prayer was more for my shoes than my toes.

“The conference room is filling fast. Let’s get seats before we have to stand.”

“Already? What’s going on? If this is about my system, why’s everyone so eager to be here?” Computer issues bored staffers. They never cared about software updates or my efforts to reduce redundancy, save them time and streamline their processes. My system was a burden they endured. A kink in their flow.

Marcella smoothed her hair and heaved a sigh. “The founder called. Residents are in an uproar and the pressure is on Randall to fix things.”

“An uproar about what?” Was she intentionally being cryptic or was I completely dense? “What is happening?”

She pressed a stout finger to crimson lips and pointed to the rapidly filling conference room. So much for having time to prepare.

The voice of Randall Gershwin, clubhouse manager, boomed from inside. “I’m going to get started. I need everyone at their stations on time, so I’m going to move quickly through this thing. Take a seat. Come on in.” A bead of sweat rolled over his temple.

I followed Marcella on silent feet to a pair of empty seats in the back of the room. Bodies in various Horseshoe Falls uniforms filled the space. Salon workers, golf and tennis pros, restaurant and spa staff. Warren, my only IT subordinate, sat up front with a tablet, ready to take notes. Warren wasn’t the keenest staffer, but he had skills and typed ninety words a minute. I’d learned to ignore his blatant thrift-store look and luminous white-and-silver tennis shoes. Fashion wasn’t for everyone.

Randall paced the far wall, hands clasped behind him, chin high. His khaki pants sagged from recent weight loss, something I envied but lacked proper motivation to achieve. Unfortunately, his trimmer look hadn’t come with any perks like a shave or haircut. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll make this quick so we can get out there and serve the fine residents of Horseshoe Falls. IT has agreed to take notes and get copies in every hand. If you miss something, you’ll get a copy in your email later today. If you don’t, look for Warren.”

Warren lifted his hand in an awkward wave.

Randall scanned the room, stopping when he spotted Marcella and me. “As most of you know, the community’s had some unprecedented troubles lately. In addition to two residential break-ins, there’s an ongoing snafu with our community email and appointment system.”

I glanced at Marcella.

She nodded.

I lifted my hand. “Did you say there’s a snafu? How long has this been going on? Why am I just hearing about it?”

Creases lined Randall’s forehead. “Apparently this has been happening for upwards of two weeks, though residents have only recently gone to the founder with complaints. If it makes you feel any better, I hadn’t heard of it before last night either. I received a courtesy call from the founder and he wasn’t feeling very courteous during his explanation.” He patted a handkerchief over his brow. “If clubhouse staffers had come to me sooner, we might not be in this mess today, but they didn’t and here we are.”

A groan rolled through the crowd. Whispers climbed the walls and stood the hair on my arms at attention.

Randall continued pacing. “When you have a problem with a resident, you come to Marcella or myself. Always. No exceptions. It’s our job to smooth these things over. Confrontation is never an acceptable response. Neither is pretending it didn’t happen or telling residents they can’t have what they want.”

I raised my fingers. “I’m sorry. What exactly is going on? You said it’s an email problem?”

Warren looked over his shoulder and shook his head. It seemed this was the first he’d heard of it, too.

Randall slumped. “I don’t know what’s going on with our network, but people are coming to the clubhouse expecting appointments they never made—at least as far as we can tell—but they insist they scheduled online after receiving a clubhouse email.”

Warren cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “We haven’t sent any emails about an online scheduling option.”

Tension zinged through the room. People shifted in their seats. The word mob popped into mind.

A woman dressed in the day spa uniform stood and addressed me. “How is that possible? We’re accepting fake coupons and honoring specials customers seem to have made up. I’m losing money. I lease my massage table here and I’m working for free to avoid losing clients.”

Randall clapped his hands, returning the attention to himself. “Yes, and you aren’t alone. Employees are frustrated. Residents are irritated. The board of directors has threatened to replace us all if we don’t get our act together fast. In the meanwhile I need all workers to start documenting these things. Keep detailed lists of resident names when they come with these problems. Record the types of specials you’re honoring. Ask when they received the emails and get any other details you can without upsetting them further.”

He looked long and hard at Warren and then me. “I need our IT staff to find out what’s happening and get it fixed. Yesterday.”

Yikes. I hopped to my feet. No flaw in my system would put anyone out of work. I’d make sure of that. “I’ll look into it right away.”

I bowed to Marcella and headed to my office, by way of the concierge desk. Why did I bow to Marcella? Group settings brought out the weird in me. I slipped out of my shoes and chose an extra-large cup from the disposable selection.

My toes curled and stretched in the island of plush carpet around the concierge desk. Not bleeding as I’d expected, but in desperate need of a wiggle. Thanks to my morning jog in four-inch couture heels, all ten of my little piggies were crooked and numb. I circled my ankles one at a time to circulate blood flow and filled my cup with liquid enthusiasm.

The decibel level rose behind me as golfers returned from early morning tee times or arrived for clubhouse services. The building was laid out like a compass. North was the front door and main parking lot. South was the exit for outdoor amenities and activities—tennis courts, group exercise, a pool and a café. Other compass points stopped at clubhouse services: pet groomer, hair salon, restaurant, conference center and a hall leading to employee offices. Natural light twinkled around me, illuminating dust motes in the air. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls showcased local flora and fauna, giving inside people like me the illusion of outdoor living.

Scents of buttery hotcakes and syrup wafted through the Derby Steakhouse door. I breathed through my mouth to avoid unbearable carbohydrate temptation. One more whiff of pancakes and I might order a dozen hot doughnuts for second breakfasts.

I dashed my coffee with cinnamon and grabbed a little wooden stir paddle. Bernie’s blog was right. There was trouble at the clubhouse. I pressed the cup to my lips and inhaled tendrils of bitter steam. My eyes slid shut while I counted to ten and organized my thoughts. What exactly were residents receiving in email? Whatever it was, it hadn’t come from me and I doubted it came from the clubhouse system. Could they be lying? How many complaints were there?

A long shadow overtook me.

My lids popped open, and I jumped to attention, stuffing swollen feet back into their luxurious torture devices.

The shadow had a stiff-looking man in his midthirties at the end of it. “Mia Connors?” His voice was deep with a hint of Southern charm.

Hmm. White dress shirt. Shiny shoes. “Are you a cop or a salesman?” I squinted through foggy glasses and set my coffee aside. “I met with our software rep last week, and we’re all up-to-date on licensing, so I guess cop.” Cops wore uniforms and carried twenty extra pounds but, for some inexplicable reason, most men liked being mistaken for one. He was definitely new to Horseshoe Falls. Resident? Guest?