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.”

Without a Clue

Trish Jensen

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.

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

1

“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.

“Mr. Brogan?” Meg said, stopping before him and thrusting out her hand. “I’m Megan Renshaw.”

Although the two had talked on the phone several times—most of which were spent with him dissecting his motivation for playing a dead guy—this was Terence Brogan’s first job for Big Adventures. Possibly his last if he always had this much trouble struggling to his feet and focusing. Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he grasped it, turned it palm down and almost plowed into her as he began to bend down, thought better of it, and instead lifted it to his lips to press a gallantly drunken—and thankfully not slobbery—kiss upon her skin.

When he finally managed to connect after a couple of aborted attempts, his foggy eyes swept over her and his palm went to his breastbone. “‘She walksh in be-beauty, like the night,’” he intoned, “‘as if all the world were his stage. Of cloudlesh climes and st-starry nights; And all that’s best of dark and night…’” He stopped, looking momentarily confused. “Wait, wait, that should be ‘bright. All that’s best of dark and bright.’“

Much as she enjoyed a good Byron poem, Meg didn’t have all day. “That’s lovely. Truly. What a very dear man you are. And that delivery! Why, I knew straight off, just from your photo and impressive résumé, that you were quite a catch.” She waved in Tina’s direction. “And this is my assistant, Tina Brown.”

“A pleasure, madam,” the actor said, without moving his head an iota in Tina’s direction.

“Tina, why don’t you take Mr. Brogan to the kitchen and offer him some of Glenda’s wonderful coffee, while Timmy takes Mr. Brogan’s suitcase—” that’s when she noticed the steamer trunk, the large suitcase and the industrial size makeup case flanking the man “—er, while Timmy and I take his luggage to his room.”

Thank goodness the mansion sported an elevator that ran to all three floors.

Brogan’s eyes widened a moment, and once again his palm dramatically covered his heart. “Why, madam, are you under the mish-mistaken impression that I am inebriated?”

Tina snorted.

“You’re not?” Meg said dubiously. If this was sober, they were in even bigger trouble.

“Sh-certainly not! I’m a professional, I’ll have you know.”

“Of course you are,” she rushed to assure him. “A recent blow to the head, perhaps?”

He looked mildly offended, but shook his head and his hand came up to cover his jaw. “Emergency root canal shurgery.”

Meg blew out a relieved breath. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. The Novocain hasn’t worn off, I take it.”

“I had the shurgery Monday. However, it’sh still quite painful.”

Terrific. Pain pills. If she couldn’t talk the man into putting them away for the rest of the weekend, she might have to sneak into his room and steal them. It wouldn’t do for the first corpse of her first murder mystery weekend not to be able to say his lines clearly, although she had the feeling he’d make a believable stiff.

That was her last thought just before Terence Brogan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he pitched forward, straight into her arms.

MATT ROSSI WAS RIDING OUT the biggest endorphin rush in his entire thirty-six-year life. Catching the touchdown pass that won his high school the state championship his senior year had nothing on this. Getting inside Nina Chambers’s panties in eleventh grade had nothing on this. Hell, making his first million dollars at the age of thirty-two had had nothing on this.

As he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel of his vintage blue Mustang convertible, in beat with the music of Harry Connick, Jr. blaring from his speakers, Matt decided he was definitely the master of his fate. The keeper of his destiny. The maker of his dreams.

Yesterday he’d signed a land development deal so huge and so profitable he could never work another day in his life and he’d still have money to spare when he died at a hundred. Even with the bunch of kids he planned on having. Even with lavishing his wife with expensive gifts every day of their marriage.

His bubble burst just a tad at that. In truth, he didn’t have a wife yet. Or any kids that he knew about for that matter. But now that this deal had been successfully completed, it was time to move on down his checklist.

Graduate high school. Check.

Earn a college scholarship. Check.

Graduate college. Check.

Work hard for several years and save and scrape. Check.

Open own real estate development company. Check.

Make a fortune. Check.

Start a family. No go.

Not yet, anyway, although in truth he’d been awfully busy checking off all those other items to really begin an honest search for Ms. Right. He’d kept his eyes peeled over the years, just in case she popped into his life at any given moment. But so far, it was still a no go. He’d correct that now. He was taking time off from work to search in that systematic way he approached every challenge he tackled.

And really, his standards weren’t out in left field, either. All he was asking for was an intelligent, funny, beautiful, sexy, orderly woman who was interested in settling down and making babies. Lots and lots of babies.

He wanted a houseful of them. He’d grown up the only son of “Brick” and Maria Rossi, both of whom had worked tirelessly; his father as a bricklayer and his mother a cleaning lady. Consequently he’d been left alone much of the time. Too much of the time. What he wouldn’t have given for younger brothers and sisters to fill the void, to be companions. And his personal slaves.

No kid of his was going to grow up an only child. Therefore his wife would have to agree to a houseful of them. Of course, he also enjoyed peace and solitude, so she’d have to be good at keeping them quiet, too. Noise and chaos drove him crazy.

As he reached the outskirts of Charleston, he conjured a vision of a wife and kids filling the Charleston mansion he’d invested in at an auction three years ago. He’d originally checked it out as merely another good investment. But the first time he’d laid eyes on the Southern Georgian, he knew it was perfect for his future family. The mansion was huge, with seventeen bedrooms and two guest cottages out back. He could produce a whole passel of children without having everyone tripping over one another. It’d be big and peaceful and orderly.

Smiling, he made the left onto Magnolia Lane, the mile-long drive that led to his, only his home. No pesky neighbors to contend with. Another plus.

Whistling, he enjoyed the secluded solitude the huge live oaks dripping with Spanish moss afforded him. Yes, indeed, he’d chosen well. He certainly hoped the Realtor maintaining the place had made certain the cleaning service was doing their job. He wasn’t into dust.

His whistling stopped in mid-toot when he emerged from the tunnel of foliage and passed through the brick gates, and into the mansion’s cul de sac. There had to be ten cars parked in his driveway! What the hell?

Pulling in to the first available spot, he cut the engine and practically leapt from the car. A scowl tugged at his lips as he passed car after trespassing car. It grew even fiercer when he looked up the steps between the giant columns to find the oak double doors thrown wide open.

Racing up the stairs two at a time, all kinds of thoughts were scrambling through his head. Especially the one of how he was about to murder a Realtor.

He reached the door and stopped dead in his tracks. The sight that greeted him nearly made his eyes bug out.

Chaos reigned.

2

MEG WAVED as best she could at their new arrival. He looked a little dumbfounded, which was probably natural, considering she was using an unconscious man’s hand to deliver the greeting. But her corpse was her only tool at the moment. The rest of his sprawled self had the rest of her sprawled self plastered to the marble floor.

“I’ll be right with you,” she kind of grunted, as she heaved with all her might until Mr. Brogan rolled off her body and ended up spread-eagled on his back.

Now another dilemma presented itself. How to gracefully rise from the floor in a skirt that wasn’t constructed to give much leeway unless she hiked it up around her thighs. So thinking quickly, she rolled onto her stomach pushed to her knees, then one leg at a time got to her feet.

She ran a hand through her hair before turning around to face the newest guest. For some reason his lips were slightly parted and he was staring at her midsection. She had the feeling he’d just taken in an eyeful of her butt poked high in the air.

She jumped over Terence, her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Megan. Are you the butler?”

“Excuse me?”

“One of the paid guests?”

“Excuse me?!”

Meg dropped her hand, seeing as he looked too dumbfounded to shake it. He was really cute, but apparently a little dim. “Are you lost?” she suggested. That was a better option than an escapee from a mental institution. Last time she checked, they didn’t have any straitjackets on hand.

His brown eyes cleared a little and he shook his head. “No, but you must be. I’m Matt Rossi and this is my property.”

Meg took a step back, took a deep breath, then plastered a smile on her face. “Thank you so much for renting it to us.”

“I didn’t rent it to you.”

“Well, um, yes, you did.”

“I think I would know, don’t you?”

Okay, he wasn’t all that cute. Well, he was, but in a downer sort of way. “We signed a contract.”

“Who are we? I know I didn’t sign anything.”

Terence Brogan began to moan pitifully, and Meg glanced around to see all the witnesses frozen like statues, including Tina. This wasn’t good. “How about we go to my office and talk about this?”

Both of his brows lifted. “Your office?”

Nope, he wasn’t in the least bit cute. His hair was too black and his jaw was too square and his nose was crooked. Meg conceded that his mouth was sexy, but what came out of it wasn’t. “Yes, my office. At least for the duration of our…of the lease.”

“Well, then, by all means, let’s go to your office.”

MATT WAS FLOORED. It had been like walking into a Laurel and Hardy movie that was freeze-framed. Everybody who’d been in motion had gone still, and the one still person had arisen from the debris of the wreckage and taken charge.

He needed to regroup fast. Except, the woman who had risen from the carnage had a smile that could scramble eggs. And his eggs needed to stay intact. As far as he could tell, his home had been invaded without his consent. And apparently this brain scrambler was claiming they had legal permission to invade. If she was right, there was going to be one hurtin’ Realtor in Charleston.

“Follow me,” the woman said, as if he needed a guide.

Gladly, he decided after catching the view.

She led him down the maze of hallways to the study. His study. Which she had confiscated and turned into her office.

He seemed to vaguely take in that she was chatting pleasantly the entire time. But scrambling did strange things to his brain because all he was digesting were words like “murder” and “guests.” He wasn’t into murder as a rule and he most definitely wasn’t into guests. Any guests.

They reached the study and she took command of the desk as if she owned it, smiling while she offered him the guest chair.

If she hadn’t used the smile, he might have tossed her straight out the bay window. But her mouth and face were weapons he had a hard time overcoming.

She had rust-brown hair that fell in wisps to her jaw, and gray eyes that defied description. She smelled good. And that butt moved right. He’d never known there were wrongs and rights in butt-moving before, but he knew right when he saw it swaying in front of him.

Nonetheless, she was an intruder, and therefore had to be considered the enemy.

“Mr…?”

“Rossi. Matt Rossi. And this is my house, Ms…?”

“Renshaw. But call me Meg. And we’re thrilled to be able to use this spectacular house for our mystery weekend.”

“Don’t be so thrilled. You have no right to be here.”

“As I said, we’ve signed a lease,” she said, rooting through a file drawer.

“That my agent had no right to draw up.”

She pulled it out, still serene as all get-out. “He told us he has the authority to sign off on anything to do with the maintenance of this house.”

She was right, but he wasn’t willing to concede that easily. “Renting it to intruders technically is not maintenance.”

“We’re not intruders. We paid for the privilege to use it.”

That fact finally hit him. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, smiling even brighter. “And it’s perfect.”

Matt took the lease from her hands and perused it. “You know, I could have you evicted,” he said, between clenched teeth.

She nodded. “You go right ahead and begin eviction proceedings first thing in the morning. By my calculations we’ll have been gone at least three weeks by the time they come to toss our butts out.”

Right again. As long as they’d signed the lease in good faith, it would probably take weeks before he could legally have them kicked to the curb. This wasn’t good. “Okay, the lease says that you pay for cleanup and any and all damages that might occur during your occupancy.”

Her mouth popped open and she waved at the papers. “You barely glanced at that thing. How do you know that?”

Matt shrugged. “I read fast.”

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive.”

He’d question her sincerity, but her smile actually did look genuinely impressed. And he knew she knew her rights, so she wasn’t trying to butter him up. Still, he felt a twinge of pride. “Here’s the deal, I’m not leaving. I’m staying to protect my investment.”

Ms. Renshaw nodded. “You’ll have a great time. And it only costs—”

“Don’t even try it.”

“—not a dime for you! Have fun on us.”

“And I, of course, will be staying in the master bedroom,” he added, trying to grab back some control over this untenable situation.

She pursed her lips and her brow furrowed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. The murder victim is going to be the owner of the mansion. It wouldn’t do to have him found in a guest room.”

“Kill him off in the kitchen.”

She shook her head, and the light from the bay window showcased every single nuance of highlight in her hair. “Owners of mansions don’t generally even know where the kitchen is.”

He was about to argue until he realized that even he wasn’t exactly sure where the kitchen was. “Off the dining room?” he ventured to guess.

“Do you even know where the dining room is, Mr. Rossi?” she asked, sweet as cream pudding.

“Right off the kitchen,” he answered her, getting a little irritated she was grilling him. More irritated he didn’t know the answers. After all, this was a big house. “How about killing him off in the dining room?”

She shook her head. “The script calls for him being found dead in his bed. In the master bedroom bed.”

“Meg,” a woman said, striding into the study, a look of complete consternation on her face. “We have a problem.”

Matt recognized her from the foyer. She was tall and skinny with a face that might be pretty if she smiled once in a while. Great, he had a smiler and a frowner on his hands. Both female. It almost felt as if he was caught in a cosmic estrogen tornado.

“Tina, this is Mr. Rossi, owner of this property,” Ms. Renshaw said. “Mr. Rossi, Tina Brown.”

“Hiya,” Ms. Brown said, with a perfunctory smile, which vanished instantly. “Meg, Mr. Brogan isn’t going to be delivering any speeches anytime soon. He’s really whacked out on those drugs.”

“You have drugs in my house?” Matt said.

“Prescription,” the Renshaw woman said quickly. She tapped her jaw. “Root canal.” She looked from him to Tina. “We’ll have to improvise. Maybe he can play the silent but sinister butler. This isn’t a problem.”

“Meg, we need a corpse. One that can read his lines.”

Matt couldn’t figure out how a corpse would need lines, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Megan Renshaw began tapping her lips with one finger. Then her head swiveled in his direction. “Are you as quick at memorizing as you are at reading?”

Uh-oh. “Well, technically, I guess. But—”

“And you want to sleep in your own bed in the master suite, right?”

“Since I own the place, I think I have the—”