Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets Read online

  Cheers and Applause for Mary McHugh’s Happy Hoofer Mystery Series

  Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses

  “The Happy Hoofers bring hilarity and hijinks to the high seas—or in this case, a Russian River Cruise where murder is nothing to tap at. The cruise finds them kick-ball-changing and flap-kicking their way across Russia on a ship where murder points to more than a few unusual suspects.”

  —Nancy Coco

  “A fun read . . . the elements of hilarity and camaraderie between the characters make Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses intriguing and worth the read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A page-turning cozy mystery about five friends in their 50s, dancing their way across Russia. From the first chapter, McHugh delivers.... The cast of characters includes endearing, scary, charming, crazy, and irresistible people. Besides murder and mayhem, we are treated to women who we might want as our best friends, our shrinks, and our travel companions.”

  —Jerilyn Dufresne

  “Featuring travel tips and recipes, this series debut features plenty of cozy adventure for armchair travelers and mystery buffs alike. Sue Henry and Peter Abresch fans will be delighted with this alternative.”

  —Library Journal

  “Spasiba, Mary McHugh—that’s Russian for ‘thank you.’ Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses is a huge treat for armchair travelers and mystery fans alike, as five spirited tap dancers cruise from St. Petersburg to Moscow undeterred by a couple of shipboard murders. Vivid description and deft touches of local color take the reader right along with them.”

  —Peggy Ehrhart

  “A fun book! Mary McHugh’s Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses is, quite literally, a romp. It has a little bit of everything, from tongue-in-cheek travel tips to romance and recipes (and oh, are they good). Not even the most jaded reader will be able to resist plucky Tina Powell and her cadre of capering cougars aboard a cruise ship where death is on the menu, along with the caviar. What could be more delicious?”

  —Carole Bugge

  “If you can’t afford a Russian cruise up the Volga, this charming combination murder mystery travelogue, which mixes tasty cuisine and a group of frisky, wisecracking, middle-aged chorines, is the next best thing.”

  —Charles Salzberg

  “I just finished Chorus lines, Caviar, and Corpses! Oh WOW was it great! I read it in less than two days. So good! Thank you for writing this book and I can’t wait till the next one!”

  —Shelley ’s Book Case

  “I really enjoyed reading about the Happy Hoofers’ trip on a Russian River Cruise. This book had a lot of action. I learned a lot about Russia that I never knew before. Great job, Mary. I look forward to the next installment in the Happy Hoofers Mystery Series.”

  —Melina’s Book Blog

  “I loved ‘The Happy Hoofers’ immediately. What a fun group. This mixes some of my favorite things in one book—a cruise ship setting, a group of friends, and a murder mystery. What could be better? This book moved along at a fast pace and had engaging characters—some nicer than others, of course. Add those things to a great setting and it’s off on a wild adventure with a very interesting cast of characters.”

  —Socrates’Book Review

  Also by Mary McHugh

  The Happy Hoofers Mystery Series*

  Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses*

  Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities*

  Cape Cod Murder

  The Perfect Bride

  The Woman Thing

  Law and the New Woman

  Psychology and the New Woman

  Careers in Engineering and Engineering Technology

  Veterinary Medicine and Animal Care Careers

  Young People Talk about Death

  Special Siblings: Growing Up with Someone with a

  Disability

  How Not to Become a Little Old Lady

  How Not to Become a Crotchety Old Man

  How to Ruin Your Children’s Lives

  How to Ruin Your Marriage

  How to Ruin Your Sister’s Life

  Eat This! 365 Reasons Not to Diet

  Clean This! 320 Reasons Not to Clean

  Good Granny/Bad Granny

  How Not to Act Like a Little Old Lady

  If I Get Hit by a Bus Tomorrow, Here’s How to

  Replace the Toilet Paper Roll

  Aging with Grace—Whoever She Is

  Go for It: 100 Ways to Feel Young, Vibrant,

  Interested and Interesting after 50

  *Available from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets

  Mary McHugh

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Cheers and Applause for Mary McHugh’s Happy Hoofer Mystery Series

  Also by Mary McHugh

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Bonjour, Paris

  Chapter 2 - Fireworks

  Chapter 3 - We Are Not Amused

  Chapter 4 - Morning in the Garden of Eden

  Chapter 5 - Nothing Like a Well-Fed Shih Tzu

  Chapter 6 - Another Bite of That Salade Niçoise, S’il Vous Plait

  Chapter 7 - Only 387 Steps to the Top

  Chapter 8 - Moonlight in Paris

  Chapter 9 - Another Glass of Veuve Clicquot?

  Chapter 10 - Water Lilies, Willow Trees, and What’s New

  Chapter 11 - Speeding Through the Louvre

  Chapter 12 - Sleepy-Time Gal

  Chapter 13 - Help!!!!

  Chapter 14 - What Chlorine Gas?

  Chapter 15 - What Do You Mean—Perfumed Lambs?

  Chapter 16 - Want Some Raspberries to Go with That Frozen Lemon Soufflé?

  Chapter 17 - Parlez-Vous Français?

  Chapter 18 - Marlon Brando Ate Here

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  To Paris, my favorite magical city

  Chapter 1

  Bonjour, Paris

  Why we decided to arrive in Paris on the fourteenth of July, one of France’s biggest holidays, I’ll never know. We call it Bastille Day because it’s the anniversary of the day in 1789 when the French stormed the prison, the Bastille, to liberate the political prisoners and to celebrate the unity of France, but the French call it La Fête Nationale or le quatorze juillet, which just mean “The National Holiday” or “the fourteenth of July.” It’s a day of parades and closed shops and picnics, and fireworks at night. A day when all of France has a huge party. Kind of like our Fourth of July. A lot like our Fourth of July.

  I’m Janice Rogers, and I’m going to tell you the story of our Paris adventure, which took me and my four best friends down the beautiful Seine River and into the heart of a murder mystery that we ended up solving—but not without some danger.

  We were hired to dance for seven nights on a dinner cruise on a Bateau Mouche, one of the sightseeing boats that allow visitors to view the beauties of Paris from the Seine River. It would have made sense to come at least one day before the fourteenth, but Tina Powell, our leader, couldn’t get a flight for the five of us Happy Hoofers until the evening before, and since Paris is six hours ahead of us, we arrived early the morning of the fourteenth.

  Before we left, Gini complained that we wouldn’t have time to rehearse, but Tina reassured her. “We know what we’re going to do,” she said. “We’ve rehearsed it enough. All we have to do is show up and dance. Everybody will be too full of wine to notice if we make any mistakes anyway. And we’ll be part of one of France’s biggest celebr
ations.”

  We believed her. What did we know? Who thought before the night was over and the last firework burst into the Paris sky that someone would be dead? Who thinks of murder on the biggest, most joyful holiday in all of France, on Bastille Day? Excuse me, La Fête Nationale.

  This was my first return to Paris since my honeymoon with my second husband. It was still the same magical city it was twenty-five years before. No matter what they do to Paris, it never loses the beauty and charm that makes it different from all other cities in the world.

  “There it is,” Gini said, her voice almost a whisper. “The good old Eiffel Tower. We’re in Paris. My Paris. I can’t believe we’re here.”

  The five of us Happy Hoofers were loaded into a van on our way from Orly Airport to the apartment we had rented for a week on Boulevard du Montparnasse, on the Left Bank, while we danced every night on the Bateau Mouche. I was glad we were going to be in an apartment instead of a hotel, because I thought it would be more relaxing.

  For Gini Miller, it was a real homecoming. She studied photography for a year in Paris after she graduated from college. Whenever anyone mentioned France or French anything, her face radiated a glow that told us exactly how she felt about this city. “It was a year when I could improvise my life, Jan,” she once told me. “I time-stepped my way through that City of Light, drank sweet vermouth with a twist at the Select café with artists and writers and actors and directors and . . .” She paused for breath. “I was in love with someone different every week.” She became an award-winning filmmaker because of what she learned in this incredible city.

  “Does all this bring back memories, Gini?” I asked.

  “Wonderful memories, Jan,” she said.

  I love Paris too, but my view of it is slightly marred by the memory of my second husband, Derek, who wasn’t all that great after the honeymoon. He spoiled Paris for me because I couldn’t help thinking about the way he turned out when we got back home. That marriage only lasted two years, definitely two years too long.

  “Look,” Mary Louise Temple said, pointing to the glass pyramid we were passing. “The Louvre.”

  “We have to go there,” Pat Keeler said. “There’s a fantastic exhibit of Renaissance sculpture. Denise said we absolutely must not miss that.”

  “We’re going to see everything,” Tina, our planner extraordinaire, said. “I’ve got a list.”

  “Are we dancing every night?” I asked.

  “That’s the plan,” Tina said.

  “Look,” Gini said, her face reflecting her delight. “There it is—the Arc de Triomphe. That’s Paris personified. We’re on the Champs-Élysées. Tina, I love you forever for getting this gig for us. How did you do it anyway?”

  “It was the publicity about our gig on that train in Spain that landed us in all the papers because the talk show host who was murdered was so famous. We got offers from everywhere. I’m glad we decided to stick with performances closer to home during the winter. But when this offer came in, it seemed like the best one for a midsummer getaway.”

  “Where else could we have gone?” I asked.

  “Camden, New Jersey, or Winnipeg,” Tina said, trying not to smile.

  “Tough choice,” Pat said.

  The taxi moved along the busy wide avenue. People were lined up four and five deep on either side.

  “What’s going on?” Gini asked the taxi driver in French.

  “Madame, c’est le quatorze juillet,” he said and, in French, explained what was happening to her.

  Gini translated his words for us. “It’s Bastille Day,” she said. “They’re going to close down the Champs Élyseés in an hour because of the parade. People have been waiting there since early this morning.”

  We passed The Gap, Disney, Hugo Boss, Sephora, and Cartier along the crowded sidewalks. There was even a McDonald’s. I’ll never get used to a McDonald’s on Paris’s most glamorous, elegant avenue.

  We crossed the Pont Neuf onto the Left Bank, the artistic, bohemian part of Paris. The cafés were all crowded. The red, white, and blue French flag flew from every building. We drove down a narrow street past the Sorbonne, past the Jardin du Luxembourg, to Boulevard du Montparnasse. Everywhere we saw flowers in ceramic planters, graceful shade trees, and people walking dogs that looked clean and well-trained.

  “There’s La Coupole,” I said, pointing to the red awning that was almost a block long. “Hemingway’s restaurant. Can we eat there?”

  “Of course,” Tina said. “It’s only a block from our apartment. See. That’s where we’re going to stay. The one with the balconies overlooking the boulevard.”

  “I lived right next door when I was here,” Gini said. “That’s my café across the street. The Select. I practically lived there. It’s just the same.”

  She was almost dancing in her seat in the van. The rest of us had been to Paris once or twice, but it didn’t have the same meaning for us as it did for Gini. I envied her having lived here.

  Tina paid the driver a bunch of euros, and we dragged all our bags and assorted belongings to the door of our new temporary home. Tina punched in the entry code and held the door for us as we filed into the foyer. Another code opened the inside door, and we squeezed into the glass elevator that went up to the third floor.

  There was one other apartment on this floor. Tina stuck the key in the door of our flat and, after some maneuvering and pulling and pushing, opened the door.

  We had only seen pictures online of this place, but it was perfect. It had a large living room with a couch that converted into a bed, several big black, comfortable-looking leather chairs, a coffee table, a basket full of books in English—nice touch—a TV, and a dining table. Off the living room, there was a roomy, bright kitchenette with a combination washer-dryer, a dishwasher, fridge, stove, two sinks, and cabinets with glass doors full of plates, glasses, and serving dishes. There were two bedrooms, a room with a toilet, and a room with a shower and sink and heated towel racks, complete with thick, terry towels. In France, the toilet and the shower are usually in separate rooms.

  I could have used another shower stall, but this was Paris. I was grateful for one. We’d just have to bathe in shifts. One bathroom was the only thing particularly French about this apartment, except for the view from the little balcony on one side of the living room. That was spectacular. We could look down on Boulevard du Montparnasse and watch people sipping coffee at the Select across the street, men and women hurrying by on their way to work, cars going by. Very Paris.

  The view from our bedrooms was of other apartments close by. So close, in fact, that we kept the blinds down when we were dressing or running around in our underwear. The blinds opened and closed with a remote control, which took some getting used to, but they were fun.

  “What do you think, gang?” Tina asked. “Are we OK with this?”

  “Who gets to sleep in the living room?” Pat, our practical, always thinking, family therapist asked.

  “Any volunteers?” Tina asked.

  “I’ll sleep in here,” Mary Louise said. “I don’t mind.” She’s our peace-at-any-price Hoofer. We all love her and take advantage of her good nature all the time. She doesn’t seem to mind, so we keep doing it. People treat you the way you let yourself be treated, I’ve discovered in this life as an actress, director, wife, and mother.

  You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I’m tough. I had my daughter when I was seventeen, divorced her father a year later, and supported my child as a waitress while I auditioned for acting jobs in New York. I’m blond with a little help from my hairdresser. People tell me I’m beautiful, but I don’t really believe them because my mother never missed a chance to tell me that I was “average-looking” when I was growing up. She thought telling me I was pretty would spoil me.

  My father was too busy chasing after other women to pay much attention to me. Before he left my mother for a younger woman when I was twelve, he would occasionally take me to movies and baseball games at Y
ankee Stadium. I adored him. I guess I’ve been looking for him ever since, through three marriages and countless love affairs.

  My daughter and I have had some rocky times, probably because she felt neglected during her childhood. She didn’t talk to me for a long time, until last year when she asked me to collaborate on a book with her about the Gypsy Robe on Broadway, a tradition among chorus dancers where at the opening of every new musical in New York, the robe is passed on to the dancer who has appeared in the most shows on Broadway. I cherish my time with my daughter.

  Gini and I unpacked in the bedroom we would share. I plopped down on one of the beds to test it. It had the kind of firm mattress I like. There was no dresser, just a stack of baskets to keep our things in. No closet either. We would have to hang our clothes in the closet by the entrance door to the apartment. The mirror was weird—sort of wavy and distorted—but I checked and there was a good one in the bathroom and a full-length mirror in the living room. Not great, but you can’t have everything.

  I was grateful that I would be sharing a room with Gini. I like her. She always says what she means. That can be like a kick in the stomach at times, but I prefer her directness to Mary Louise’s attempt to find sunshine in every disaster that comes our way. I love Mary Louise dearly, just like I love our whole gang, but I need a rest from her sometimes.

  Tina and Pat shared the other bedroom. It was almost as bare-bones as ours, but there was a dresser and a mirror that you could actually see yourself in. Tina gets along with everybody. That’s why she’s our leader. She’s the travel editor at a bridal magazine and is the most organized of all of us. She’s the best one to deal with Pat’s never-ending search for flaws in every situation. Pat’s philosophy is that if you find things that need to be fixed ahead of time and fix them, you’ll never have any problems. I don’t think life works like that. Half the time, disasters that you think are going to happen don’t happen, and even if they do, they’re never what you expected. They just land on you with a thump, and you figure out what to do then. You improvise. Maybe because I’m an actress, I’m pretty good at improvising.