A Blooming Fortune Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A BLOOMING FORTUNE

  First edition. August 11, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Stephen John.

  ISBN: 978-1393050506

  Written by Stephen John.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  A Blooming Fortune (Miss Fortune World)

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ~THE END~ | (I hope you enjoyed “A Blooming Fortune.” Below is a sample of my latest novella, “A Fish Bomb Caper”, available online through all the usual suspects.)

  SAMPLE CHAPTER | THE FISH BOMB CAPER

  Also By Stephen John

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  A BLOOMING FORTUNE was originally released as Devil’s Helmet, under my pen-name, Mark Len Mayfield. Devil’s Helmet vaulted to number one in KindleWorlds before the program was eventually terminated. The creator and original author of the Miss Fortune Mystery Series, Jana DeLeon, entered into an agreement with many of the authors, myself included, to allow our cozy Miss Fortune mysteries to be republished.

  I believe this re-write has made A Blooming Fortune better, but if you have read the original work please know that the basic storyline is the same.

  I’d like to thank Jana DeLeon for allowing us to use her wonderful characters to create our own Miss Fortune stories.

  The timeline of story in this novella takes place shortly after Book 2 of the original Jana DeLeon series, Lethal Bayou. Fortune has been in Sinful for only a short while.

  As a bonus, I’ve included the first chapter of my latest Miss Fortune novella, “The Fish Bomb Caper.” I hope you enjoy it.

  Chapter One

  I’d just finished my run and was cooling down, sitting on the park bench looking out over the lake. I pulled a small baggie filled with oats from my jacket pocket. I enjoyed feeding the geese just after sunrise. I loved how the clouds chewed away at the peaks of the distant rolling hills. The wind created a soothing rustle as it whipped through the trees.

  Sundays in Sinful were peaceful and incredible. This one was unseasonably cool, meaning for this time of the year in Louisiana, the weather report projected the temperature to be only in the low eighties. I’d recently developed a solid workout routine which included morning and afternoon runs, and I’d eaten healthier over the last month. I lost four pounds and decided a reward for my efforts was in order. When meeting with my friends later this afternoon, I intended to have two orders of Francine’s famous banana pudding—the best pudding on the planet, by far.

  I arrived about fifteen minutes late, bounding into the restaurant with a smile on my face. Ida Belle, Gertie, and Walter were engaged in a serious conversation, I could tell. They hardly looked up at me.

  Normally the three of them greeted me warmly, even when I was fashionably late. This afternoon was different, however. Their look was dour. Something was wrong.

  “Am I interrupting?” I asked.

  “No, of course not, Sunshine,” Walter said, pulling out a chair for me.

  “We’re just processing very sad news,” Ida Belle added.

  “Oh, dear, what happened?”

  “Emma Peterson died yesterday afternoon,” Gertie said. “Heart attack.”

  My heart sank. I gasped, “Oh no! Are you serious?”

  I felt ill; blood was rushing from my face, making me slightly lightheaded.

  “I’m afraid so,” Ida Belle chimed in.

  I took in a big breath and held it, trying not to hyperventilate. I exhaled after a moment.

  “I saw her a few days ago. I brought The Crucible and The House of Mirth for her to read. She seemed. . . I don’t know, happy . . . and healthy. I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, you know how heart attacks can be,” Walter said. “They often have no warning signs.”

  “And they can happen just like that,” Gertie added, snapping her fingers for effect.

  “Such a shame,” Walter continued. “She was doing so well lately. I saw her not all that long ago, myself. Fortune is right. She seemed healthy—and happy.”

  “When did you see her, Walter?” Gertie asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. About ten days ago. It was so good to see her out of the house. She was in the store with Maxine Reed.”

  “Maxine Reed? I don’t know her,” Gertie said.

  “She’s a friend of Cindy Lou,” Walter told her. “She and Emma were in the store shopping for plant food.”

  Cindy Lou was Sinful’s Volunteer Election Coordinator.

  “I think I remember her. She lives just outside of town,” Ida Belle commented. “She’s divorced—doesn’t come into town all that much.”

  “I didn’t know Emma was friends with anyone named Maxine,” I told her. “She did tell me she’d been getting out of the house some. I was happy to hear that.”

  “She met Maxine fairly recently,” Walter said. “I overheard them talking about visiting a nursery in Thibodaux. I figured they must have met there.”

  “Emma loved her garden, that’s for sure,” Ida Belle said. “Meeting someone in a nursery would be no surprise.”

  “But dying so suddenly certainly was,” Walter noted.

  “She had heart problems,” Gertie stated. “Everyone knew it.”

  Gertie was right. I’d seen Emma’s medications on the kitchen counter in the past and knew she’d been treating a heart condition.

  Still, the news hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt nauseous. I’d grown attached to Emma Peterson. She was a widow and a longtime resident of Sinful. She’d suffered personal tragedies that no one should ever have to live through. After losing her husband and teenaged daughter within a few years of each other, she slipped into a deep depression and became a recluse, leaving her house only occasionally to purchase food or necessities.

  Over thirty years ago, her teenaged daughter, Glory, seventeen at the time, was killed by a stranger. Glory’s murder had gone unsolved for thirty years, that is, until Ida Belle, Gertie, and I dug up new information.

  I found new evidence in Glory’s bedroom, which Emma had impeccably maintained in its original condition as a shrine to her daughter’s memory. The evidence wasn’t much but what little we had ignited a chain of events that allowed us to pick up the rest of the trail.

  We traced a connection to the Teller Talent Agency in Santa Monica, California, where we found additional clues originally overlooked by investigators. That connection linked us to a B-movie actor and other persons of interest. To make a long story short, we ended up solving the murder and brought Glory’s killer to justice. The resolution finally gave Emma some closure and a measure of peace. Not only that, but the retired and wealthy owner of the Talent Agency, Steve Teller, was distraught over his unintended role in connecting Glory to her murderer. When he heard about Emma’s dire financial situation, he gifted her $500,000.

  Before Mr. Teller’s generous gift, Emma lived in near poverty. Her house had run down, and she’d sold most of her furniture and valuables to pay for her basic
needs: utilities, food and medicine.

  After we solved the murder, Emma was able to finally get closure. She came out of her shell, little by little. She developed interests again. Her passions were reading and gardening, however she still refused leave the house to go to bookstores or the library, at least at first. I established a routine, bringing her a few books each month and returning the finished novels to the library. At first, my visits lasted only a few minutes, just long enough to drop off a few books, pick up those she had finished, and get her wish list for the following month.

  However, more recently, she began to invite me into her house for tea when I stopped by. We’d sit and talk—mostly about her garden. I would listen intently, as though I understood what she was saying about pollination, soil nutrients and grub damage. She seemed to enjoy my visits, and I enjoyed her friendship. It was a breakthrough. I’d grown to like her a lot. She was unbelievably sweet and caring. I invited her to join Walter, Gertie, and I at Francine’s on Sunday afternoons. She said she wasn’t ready for that, and I didn’t want to push her, but it felt like she was close to engaging in more social activity.

  “You say she seemed fine when you saw her?” Ida Belle wondered.

  “Yes,” I replied. “It was early afternoon last Wednesday. She invited me in. We had tea, and she was telling me about her latest plans for the garden.”

  “Latest plans?” Walter asked.

  I nodded, “Yes, she had a lot of gardening plans in the works. She was unbelievably passionate.”

  “She knew more about home gardening than anyone I know,” Walter said. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “It’s so sad,” I continued. “She was just getting that garden the way she wanted it.”

  “Oh, my goodness, her garden was amazing,” Ida Belle said. “She loved it so much.”

  “You haven’t even seen it lately, Ida Belle,” I replied. “Once she invested time and money into it, it became even more astonishing.”

  “What about her family?” Walter pondered. “Did she have anyone else at all?”

  “She talked about a younger brother and sister, who lived together in Rhode Island,” I replied. “They’re twins, I believe.”

  “Vermont,” Ida Belle corrected. “I met them once, many years ago. A very . . . eccentric pair. Did you know Emma and her family were from England, originally?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I admitted. “Emma didn’t have an accent of any kind.”

  “She had one a long time ago,” Gertie said. “I remember it. She must have lost it over the years.”

  “Emma was born in the United States,” Ida Belle said. “Her siblings were born in England. They moved back and forth when she was young.”

  “Victor and Bessie are their names,” Gertie said. “Their last name had something to do with plants, as I recall. Branch? Rose? Flowers?”

  “It was Bloom,” Ida Belle said.

  “That’s right,” Gertie replied. “Victor and Bessie Bloom. How did you remember that?”

  “I saw Carter earlier today,” Ida Belle said. “He told me he had contacted them to let them know Emma had passed. He mentioned their names.”

  “You said they were odd people,” I commented. “I knew she spoke with them on the phone occasionally, but she never talked about them much. What makes you think they were odd?”

  Ida Belle shrugged, “They were snotty—British snotty, uppity even, always insulting everyone, even each other.”

  “Are they coming to town?” I asked.

  “Yes, they are due here tomorrow from what Carter tells me,” Ida Belle continued.

  “This will be interesting. They’re very weird,” Gertie added.

  “And this is coming from someone who wears camo underwear and walks alligators on a leash,” Ida Belle said.

  Gertie nodded and raised her hand, “Guilty.”

  I sat there, still stunned, shaking my head, half listening, half distracted.

  “Why are you shaking your head, Fortune?” Walter asked.

  “I keep thinking about Emma passing. I know she had a heart condition,” I replied. “I saw her medications on the counter. I knew she was having sleeping problems, too. This should not be such a surprise. Still, she seemed more alive than I’ve ever seen her. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Fortune, she was seventy years old with health problems,” Walter said. “People get old—it happens.”

  “I know, but still, doesn’t it strike anyone else as odd that a lonely widow comes into money and then dies suddenly a few short months later?”

  “Not necessarily, Fortune,” Walter stressed. “Given the circumstances—her age and history of heart problems.”

  “I’m sure Celia will be sniffing around soon enough,” Ida Belle suggested.

  Gertie blew a raspberry, “Oh yeah,” she agreed. “You can count on that.”

  I rolled my eyes. I had forgotten that, since Emma came into money, Celia Arceneaux had taken a strong interest in her ‘emotional recovery and well-being,’ as she liked to put it.

  Celia had been on a mission to save face in Sinful ever since she lost the recount of the mayoral election. She had a burning desire to show people how useful she could still be in the community.

  She first got wind that Emma had come into money when she learned that the widow was considering donating funds to the local high school drama department. The high school theater was in bad need of a makeover. Glory dreamed of becoming an actress. Emma told me her idea. I could not think of a more fitting way to honor her daughter’s memory. The donation was sizable and word of it quickly spread throughout town.

  Celia knew Emma had been living frugally and decided she would find out how Emma could suddenly make a donation of that size. In the small town of Sinful, it didn’t take long for her to find out all the details.

  When Celia learned about Emma’s sudden good fortune, she made several personal visits to her house under the guise of checking in on her and offering to help. Her idea of helping was to offer ideas about what Emma could do to invest her money in ways that would advance Celia’s personal agenda.

  Her latest brainchild was to gain support for the construction of a statue in the likeness of the late Confederate General P. T. G. Beauregard, who was born and raised just twenty miles outside of Sinful. Celia wanted to place the statue at the entrance of town.

  Ida Belle, Gertie, and I all thought it was a horrible idea. With so many Southern towns under political fire regarding the flying of Confederate flags on government buildings in the South, the very last thing we thought the town of Sinful needed was media coverage focused on a statue to memorialize a Confederate general.

  Fortunately, the idea was not gaining traction in the community, but Celia, being Celia, pushed on and presented the idea to Emma. Emma mentioned it to me in passing but I got the feeling she wasn’t interested. She still dreaded having to tell Celia no. My best guess is that Emma was Celia’s last hope for funding the project, so in the absence of an emphatic “no,” Celia continued to push.

  Still, Gertie had a fair point. When Celia got herself worked up on a mission, she was not easily dissuaded. And it would be just like her to overstate Emma’s intentions to Victor and Bessie.

  “And you don’t know this, Fortune,” Ida Belle added, “but Celia met Victor and Bessie when they were here last, many years ago. Celia was quite smitten with Victor as I recall.”

  “Well, that was not a two-way street, I can tell you that,” Gertie said, chuckling. “Victor couldn’t stand Celia.”

  “I think I like this guy already,” I offered.

  “Don’t get carried away,” Ida Belle warned. “I don’t think Victor likes anyone very much. He’s mean as a snake and has an ego the size of Texas.”

  “Really?” I replied. “Because he’s so . . . what, handsome?”

  “He’s actually not bad looking, for a fat, cranky old cuss,” Gertie interjected. “The attraction had nothing to do with his looks, though.”
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  “What then?”

  “He’s British,” Ida Belle replied. “He’s prim and proper—he carries an air of sophistication.”

  “Yeah, hot air,” Gertie barked.

  Ida Belle shrugged, “Whatever. He’s got the whole Downton Abby thing going.”

  “He is a little like Carson, the butler, isn’t he?” Gertie noted.

  “How long ago was it that Victor and Bessie were here?” I asked.

  “It’s been at least five years,” Gertie said. “I wonder if Victor has mellowed since then?”

  Ida Belle rolled her eyes, “You’re asking if a cranky old fart has mellowed now that he’s five years older? Really?”

  Gertie shrugged, “Now that you say it that way . . . forget I asked.”

  We changed our conversation to more pleasant topics, like what Gertie might do next to torment Celia, but I could not get poor Emma Peterson out of my head. I could not finish a single order of banana pudding. After two bites, I pushed it away.

  After a long while, we said our goodbyes, and I headed home. I needed to make two stops beforehand, but called Carter first. Carter Le Blanc is the Deputy in Sinful, and my on again, off again boyfriend. He happened to be working an extra-long shift.

  He answered on the third ring. I got right to the point.

  “I have a bone to pick with you, Mister. Why didn’t you tell me Emma Peterson passed away?” I asked.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” he replied.

  “Sorry,” I replied, “but . . . why?”

  “I meant to call you, Fortune,” he replied. “I’m so sorry; I got busy. Plus, I ran into Ida Belle and I figured she’d tell you.”

  “Were you on the scene?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I was the closest responder when the nine-one-one call came in on Saturday afternoon. When I arrived, she had already been dead for many hours.”

  “How long had she been dead?”

  “Based on body temperature, the EMT set the timeline at fifteen to twenty hours.”

  “So, she passed away sometime early Friday evening, between seven o’clock and midnight?”