Trish Jensen - Without A Clue

Dear Reader,

I’m a Court TV and crime-drama junkie. I also learned from my family that laughter is an essential ingredient in life. Call me weird, you won’t be the first. But I have this horrible problem with wanting to inject humor into everything. In fact, when I first began submitting work to publishers, they kept telling me that I made them laugh in inappropriate places.

Trust me, I took the hint, and decided murder and laughter didn’t mix. Then I got feisty. There had to be a happy medium. Thus, Without a Clue was born, where I could have a murder mystery that’s gone horribly wrong. Or wonderfully right, if you’re a lover of lovers.

So this book is a nod to all of the things that float my boat. Love, laughter, murder, mayhem and a mystery with no possible solution except to decide everyone’s guilty of something.

I wish you all plenty of love, plenty of mayhem, plenty of reading and plenty of fun!

Trish Jensen

“We…uh, explore the secret passageway?”

He sort of liked that Meg put it in the form of a question. It left open other possibilities.

Matt checked his watch. “Probably not enough time right now. We have to get me ready to be murdered.”

Her eyes took on a wicked light. “Now the good times are starting to roll.”

“A guy could develop a complex,” he said, but he let her go.

She showed him how to close the secret passageway again, and they returned to the bedroom suite.

“Let’s check the weapon,” Meg said, reaching for the stage knife.

“Bloodthirsty little wench, aren’t you?”

She smiled. “You betcha.”

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Trish Jensen once wanted to be famous. But she decided to be a writer instead.

Life is still sweet. She lives in the gorgeous mountains of central Pennsylvania with the love of her life, Ross, and the banes of her existence, dog Cassie and cat Foxy.

E-mail is welcome at trishjensen@earthlink.net. Or you are welcome to yell at her editor at the Harlequin address. Send snail mail c/o MTH, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

This book is dedicated with much love to a bunch of loopy women who help me wake up with a smile every single day. Humor is such a powerful thing. Thank you, ladies (you, of course, know who you are) for empowering me constantly.

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

“OUR CORPSE IS DRUNK.”

Megan Renshaw glanced up from the script before her. Her assistant, Tina Brown, stood at the entrance to the study of the old Charleston plantation. “Pardon me?”

Tina stomped farther into the room, hands planted on slim hips. “You heard me. Our corpse has arrived. And he’s high as a kite.”

Megan sat back and dropped her pen. “Well, he has time to sober up. The paying guests don’t arrive until Friday.”

“Acement truck could land on that man’s head and he wouldn’t feel it.”

“This isn’t a problem,” Megan said, sliding back her chair and standing. “We’ll get Glenda to pour some coffee down him.”

Tina scowled. “Drunk and drunker.”

Megan checked her watch. “Already? It’s not even three.”

“She’s been using the ‘two for you and one for me’ method while experimenting with the Marsala sauce for tomorrow night’s veal.”

Megan winced. “Do we need to buy more Marsala?”

Tina’s frown deepened. “Only if she adds it to the eggs again tomorrow morning.”

Megan laughed as she headed to the door. “So that’s what that flavor was this morning.”

Tina followed, hot on her heels. “Remind me again why we keep her?”

“You mean other than the fact that she makes a crème brûlée to die for?”

“Only after she’s cracked open the brandy.” They headed down the hall to the front foyer of the mansion. “It also doesn’t hurt she’s the boss’s cousin,” Tina said under her breath.

Grinning, Megan replied, “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

Tina scowled at her. “This weekend hasn’t even begun and already we’ve got half the staff blitzed. I smell disaster.”

Tina always smelled disaster. “Not exactly half the staff. We’re still waiting on our butler, our chambermaid and four of our ‘invited guests.’ I’m certain at least one of them will be sober.”

“You’re inhumanly unflappable, Meg,” Tina grumbled. “Does anything ever faze you?”

Megan refrained from mentioning that she hadn’t taken being left at the altar all that well four years ago. Of course, by the next day she’d decided Mike had done her a huge favor. And right now she was frankly ecstatic. If she’d married Mike, she’d probably be a stay-at-home mother by now, instead of special events coordinator for Big Adventures Travel.

And she loved her job. Adored it. True, crises like this one arose on a regular basis, but that’s what kept the job interesting. And challenging.

This weekend was the most important event to date, career-wise, though. It was the launch of Big Adventures’s murder mystery theme package. It was also her baby. She’d presented the idea to her boss, Roy Lucas, a year ago. He’d been skeptical that she’d be able to find enough people who met the requirements necessary to make the venture profitable. By her count, the clients only needed two. A love of a good whodunit and nice, fat wallets.

“The guy isn’t going to be in any shape to walk through dress rehearsal tonight,” Tina muttered.

“What’s to rehearse? He gives one speech at the beginning of supper, then disappears until he’s found dead.”

They entered the large marbled foyer, and Meg immediately spotted their corpse slouching on a receiving couch, blowing at the fronds of a potted palm. By the slackness of his jaw and the glaze in his brown eyes, she realized Tina hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was sloshed. Meg would have to call the agency next week and request sober actors from here on out. She didn’t think that was asking too much.

She sifted through her brain trying to come up with the man’s name. He’d been hired to play Lionel De Wynter, the supposed owner of this mansion, and the host for the supper where the mystery began.

That’s right, Terence Brogan. Formerly a Shakespearean actor, lately reduced to bit TV parts and commercials. Even stoned, he exuded an imperious air that would work well in his role as the evil corporate raider, about to announce to his “guests” his nefarious scheme.

His hair was graying gracefully, and his eyebrows held a sinister bent. His Roman nose gave him the natural look of a snob. Perfect. Just as soon as he stopped drooling.