Fanatically in Trouble Read online

  Fanatically in Trouble

  An Enchanted Events Mystery

  Jenny B. Jones

  Sweet Pea Productions

  Copyright © 2019 by Jenny B. Jones

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  * * *

  No part of this book maybe used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

  With special thanks to Kristin Avila for her editing skills and for graciously tolerating my 5000 neurotic emails.

  * * *

  For information contact:

  [email protected]

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  Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  His Mistletoe Miracle

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Also by Jenny B. Jones

  Chapter One

  “You’d be nothing without me! You ungrateful, lying, brat of a—”

  I sat in my office and sheepishly smiled at the video on my laptop screen, a viral snippet that had managed to eclipse the political scandal du jour and had been viewed twenty million times. Now, twenty million and one. . .

  “I’d stage an intervention, but I don’t have time.” Henry Cole, my partner and business manager, breezed into the room, wearing his usual well-tailored dark suit and coordinating scowl of judgment.

  I muted the video, but only to turn on my office TV to a morning news program. After a brief update on an upcoming election, they cut to their top story. The Jaz Debacle. The show replayed the surprisingly professional-looking recording of my former bandmate, former lead singer of the Electric Femmes, and former friend, in what could only be called a lapse in judgment and one fantastic PR disaster. The footage showed Jazmine Vo, now only known to her adoring world as Jaz, someone far too deified to have a last name, in a pre-concert altercation with up and comer pop star America Valdez. Jaz had screamed a litany of expletives at America, reminding the much younger pop star of Jaz’s self-proclaimed fabulousness and listing all the reasons America could not compare before shoving the twenty-three-year-old in front of an oncoming tour bus.

  Henry stood next to my chair and watched the screen. “That Jaz is one fine woman.”

  “Yeah, one fine mess of a woman.” I’d known it for years, but now the world was finally seeing a glimpse into the real Jaz Vo. I punched up the volume on the Good Morning America reporter’s commentary. “At the high point of the argument, Jaz pushed the Latina singing sensation in front of a slow-moving bus, the vehicle narrowly missing America by inches. The two, who share a label and a manager, have been on tour together since July. Jaz and her manager could not be reached for comment. Blitz Records released a statement this morning condemning the behavior. Will Jaz recover from her public attack? Only her fans know the answer to that. Back to you, Paul.”

  “You’re getting all giddy and gloaty, and it’s probably just a misunderstanding,” Henry said. “Surely, Jaz didn’t mean it.”

  There were hearts illuminating from Henry’s dark brown eyes, but I had to set him straight. “She’s a tyrant.”

  “She works so hard. I bet she was simply sleep-deprived.”

  “Deprived of manners.”

  “Maybe dehydrated,” he suggested. “You know that can mess a person up. Make them do crazy things.”

  “Henry, Jaz is not a nice person. She could drink the entire contents of the Sugar Creek water tower, over-hydrate, and still not have a sweet disposition.”

  “We type A personalities often get misunderstood.” Instead of settling into his desk beside mine, Henry remained standing. “I’ve got Clem Millson in the basement checking on that water leak.”

  “Oh, good.” One less thing I’d have to take care of. After a series of torrential rains, we’d noticed some leaky spots in the ceiling and wet baseboards.

  “Actually, not good. He’s already let me know he’s found some damage.”

  I’d inherited Enchanted Events mere months ago. I’d left my dead music career behind in Los Angeles and moved back to Sugar Creek, Arkansas, thinking it was temporary, only to fall in love with the business I now shared with Henry. We’d started with weddings and expanded to handling events all over Northwest Arkansas and beyond. And even though just last week Enchanted Events had been featured in Southern Living for the second time and we were booked through early next year, I didn’t have an account at the Sugar Creek Bank and Trust labeled “Extra Cash I Just Don’t Know What to Do With.”

  My faithful employee Alice entered the office, carrying a cup of coffee big enough to serve all of us. “Morning, bosses.” She favored me with a warm smile and gave Henry a polite nod of her brown highlighted head. “I guess I don’t even have to ask if you’ve seen that video of Jaz.”

  “Paisley has every frame memorized,” Henry said. He may have looked like a thirty-two-year-old version of Idris Elba, but when he opened his mouth, he somehow sounded like a pompous English Lord who sipped Earl Grey during afternoon tea and made references to his cravats and valet. “She’s done with that topic for the day.”

  But Alice knew better. She plopped right down in the chair in front of my desk. “Has the media called you? Has Jaz reached out? Gimme some scoop, Paisley.”

  I took a sip of coffee and smiled. “TMZ and CNN have called, but I let it go to voicemail.”

  “As you should.” Henry finally sat at his own desk and tapped a few keys on his keyboard a little too loudly, as if we needed a reminder of what work sounded like. “Can we discuss next week’s conference?”

  “Aren’t you the least bit tempted to tell the media all the dirt on Jaz?” Alice asked.

  She had no idea. “There’s something about nearly losing my life a few weeks ago that’s made me more gracious to my fellow man.” Alice’s eyes rose over her new glasses in doubt. “Okay, I tried to call CNN back, but the line was busy.” So I’d called my boyfriend, Beau, and told him all about it. He was out of town for some conference for outdoorsy business people.

  “Paisley, stay out of this mess,” Henry said. “Enchanted Events doesn’t need any bad press.”

  Henry didn’t say it, but I knew he was referencing the two murder inve
stigations the town had endured this summer. We did not need to talk about the fact that both victims were clients of Enchanted Events. And both cases I’d help solve. Was it my fault if our clients seemed to be a wee bit unlucky? And was I to blame because I had a natural aptitude for picking out just the right dinner napkins and information that led to arrests? I thought not.

  “Moving on to the Arkansas Extraterrestrial Association conference.” Henry cleared his throat. “I did the final walk-through of the Sugar Creek Inn, and the meeting rooms are ready to go. Spartan Tech will handle the audio-visual.”

  “Have you ever seen Jaz throw a hissy?” Alice asked. “Did she ever push you? Start a physical fight?”

  Henry raised his chin and his volume. “The president of the AEA has requested only green alien cupcakes from catering and asks that—”

  “No fights, but many fits,” I told Alice. “Now, Henry, all the bed and breakfasts have extended checkout times on their final Sunday for the group, and city hall has welcome gifts for every attendee.” Though I had to nix the chamber’s idea of tinfoil hats. “I’m still finalizing the keynote speaker’s flight changes.”

  Henry consulted his notes. “He called yesterday and reiterated his request for a hotel room that had been swept for all listening devices and whose EMF reading reveals limited paranormal energy.”

  Alice snickered. “Most guests just request a continental breakfast.”

  “Sylvie and Frannie volunteered to personally check Professor Shepherd’s hotel room.” My grandmother and aunt were newly retired CIA and lived for any excuse to help. Or butt in. “I think we’ve got everything covered.” Reviewing the checklist one more time, I inhaled an easy breath. “I have to admit, this conference has come together easier than any other I’ve done. Maybe I’m finally getting the hang of this event planning stuff.”

  Henry grabbed his iPad and stood. “You’re doing quite satisfactory, Paisley. The extraterrestrial extravaganza will be memorable, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah,” Alice said, “And unlike our last event, hopefully, this one will be murder free.”

  Chapter Two

  “Yes, an alien parade. That wasn’t a typo.” Holding my phone to my ear the next day, I read an email while I spoke to my cousin and director of marketing for the city of Sugar Creek, Emma Kincaid. “The high school band agreed to participate, and we have some civic organizations creating floats. It’ll be fun.” After hitting send on the email, I crumpled up the wrapper of my sandwich and tossed it in the trash can beside my desk. “I didn’t request a permit sooner because I knew you’d say yes. Well, tell the National Association of Justin Timberlake Look-alikes they can have their parade the next weekend.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a customer walk past my office once—then twice. “I need to go, Emma, but feel free to use my “Cry Me A River” joke when you break it to the JT impersonators. I’ll see you at book club.”

  I stood to check on the wandering customer just as the woman slinked inside my office. “Ma’am, are you looking for your event planner? Can I walk you back to the front?”

  “I’m not lost.” The woman eased off her sunglasses with cinematic elegance. Familiar eyes stared back at me. “I’m here to see you, Paisley.”

  Somewhere in my brain, I heard the needle scratch a record as I did a double-take. “Jaz?”

  As I lived and barely breathed, the now-disgraced former lead singer of the Electric Femmes stood in my office in her yoga pants, bulky sweatshirt, and bleach-blonde wig. “Hello, old friend.”

  Old friends mailed each other Christmas cards. Old friends sent funny texts and met for coffee. This woman made it clear years ago she was not my friend. “What on earth are you doing in Arkansas?”

  “I came to see you.” She glided toward me, arms outstretched, and gathered me into a limp excuse for a hug. Pulling back, she air-kissed one cheek before I removed my face from her pantomimed overtures. “You look wonderful!”

  “Cut the crap, Jaz. What are you doing here?”

  Without invitation, Jaz sat down in an empty seat, pulled off her wig, and placed it on my desk like it needed a time out. “Is it really that strange that I’d drop by and see my very best friend and bandmate?”

  Was she serious? “Now I know you want something.”

  “Oh, come on, Paisley. I’ve traveled so far to catch up.” She patted the seat beside her. “How’ve you been? What’s new?” Her hand swept a semi-circle around her. “This place is new, eh? You’re an event planner. How utterly adorbs!”

  Jaz liked to abbreviate words as if some syllables weren’t worthy of touching her lips.

  A spot at the base of my skull began to throb. Ah, yes, the Jaz Headache. I’d forgotten all about those pains that came over me in her vicinity. How I used to keep aspirin in every bag, drawer, and pocket. There were many nights I’d washed the tablets down with something a whole lot stronger than water.

  “I’m very busy, so maybe you could cut to the chase.” I sat down, my tail end balancing at the edge of the chair in case I needed to suddenly flee. “You’re here for a reason, and I’m guessing you want something.”

  “My goodness. After all we’ve been through, that’s how you welcome me?”

  “It’s because of all we’ve been through. Do you realize this is the first time you’ve deigned me with your presence since you broke up the band?”

  Her manicured hand fell on mine. “And I’ve counted the days until I could apologize to you in person. I’ve had a lot of therapy, Paisley, and I’ve come to realize how wrong I’ve been. How brutishly I treated you and our dear sis Trina.”

  Trina Sparkles was the third member of our rock trio, and I knew Jaz hadn’t treated our “dear sis” any better. Our band had rocketed to stardom when I was only sixteen. Five years later, without any warning, Jaz announced her plans to leave the Electric Femmes during the guitar solo of our Grammy performance. A coveted golden trophy was the least of things I lost out on that night. The GIF of my shocked face was still alive and well on the internet, enjoying more popularity than I ever did.

  “I know I have a lot to apologize for.” Jaz ran her hands over her black tresses tightly bound in a bun. If she let it down, it would fall in long, voluminous layers to her mid-back, and one flip turned the heads of men and women alike. “I thought today would be a good day to do that. So here I am!”

  “You do know we get TV and internet here in the sticks of Arkansas?” I laughed as her face fell. “If you’re thinking I haven’t seen the video splashed all over the media, you would be mistaken.”

  “So clearly, I could use a few more seshes with my therapist and life coaches.”

  I was pretty sure her life coaches deserved NBA-level pay. “Jaz, it’s . . .” I edited at least ten word choices before settling on something neutral. “ . . . pleasant to see you today, but I have a one o’clock appointment with a very nervous bride.”

  “Postpone it. Because I’ve sprung this surprise visit to bring you the most marv opportunity!”

  Apprehension and doubt fueled my eye roll as I checked the time on my watch.

  “Don’t you even want to know what it is?” She clapped her hands together, nearly bursting with her good tidings. “I want your little business to organize a Jaz fan week!” She giggled. “Right here in . . .” Jaz’s brow furrowed as she struggled. “Here in . . .”

  “Sugar Creek,” I supplied.

  “Right. Sugar Creek.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am.”

  “We’re all booked up.”

  If her following laughter were a song, it would be titled “Fake and Nasally.”

  “Come on, now,” she said. “Just think what a week with my legions of fans could do for your little biz and this tiny map dot of a town.”

  “First of all, I don’t have a little biz. I have a flourishing, highly acclaimed one. Enchanted Events is a premier event-planning enterprise specializing in first-rate affairs and upper scale celebr
ations. We reek of dignity and high class and prestige. I deal in elite, elegant events.”

  The office door opened, and Henry stepped in. “Mark Simmons wants to know if pants are required for next Saturday night’s Martian rave.” My partner stopped mid-stride, his mouth opening and closing like a hooked catfish. “I . . .I . . .You. . .” He stared at Jaz like she was an oasis of water in his desert, uncertain if the image before him was even real.

  “Yes, this is Jaz.” I took this commercial break of adoration to sip my coffee. “Jaz, this is my partner Henry Cole.”

  Jaz stood, her lips lifting in a glossy, modelesque smile. “How do you do?” She offered her hand, which Henry robotically accepted. “Paisley didn’t tell me she worked for such a handsome, muscular, charming man.”

  Was I being pranked? Were there cameras in my office, and any moment a TV crew would jump out and yell, “Surprise! We sure got one on you!” And then we’d all laugh, and I’d worry if I had sucked in my gut enough for television, and everyone would depart and get out of my life?

  “I don’t work for Henry,” I said. “We own Enchanted Events together.” And now was certainly not a good time to discuss the extraterrestrial conference. “Henry’s here to get me for my next appointment.”