First Friday Read online

  First Friday

  An Agatha Maguire Mystery, Volume 1

  Eliza West

  Published by Eliza West, 2022.

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

  FIRST FRIDAY

  First edition. July 1, 2022.

  Copyright © 2022 Eliza West.

  ISBN: 979-8201322212

  Written by Eliza West.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue | Friday, May 1, 2015

  Part 1 | April 1, 2015 | 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 | Friday, May 1, 2015

  Part 2 | May 2, 2015 | 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

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

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  About the Author

  Prologue

  Friday, May 1, 2015

  The front room of the little healing arts center was bustling. Asha Patel, L.L.C. wandered through the clusters of guests, balancing a tray of hot tea that splashed inside small, ceramic mugs. Murmurs of laughter rose here and there as she made her way around the room, her gold earrings and nose ring flashing in the late afternoon sunlight as it filtered in through the windows. A Japanese flute sang melodiously in the background, complementing the resonant tones of conversation as people socialized.

  “We have fresh mint or chai,” she offered as here or there an outstretched hand helped themselves to a cup of the warm, mildly sweet liquid.

  The turnout for the First Friday event, a tradition of small businesses supporting and featuring local artists, had been a modest success throughout the afternoon, and by 5p.m. the front room of the small healing arts collective was buzzing. Brilliantly colored acrylic paintings and sculpture installations decorated the usually more subdued walls and tabletops as small groups of people chatted with each other.

  Several guests had come and gone throughout the afternoon, admiring the exhibit of abstract paintings and ceramic sculptures put together by Agatha Maguire, another practitioner at the small clinic, and a few had even made a purchase. Others had recently arrived or stayed to sample the cheese plate in anticipation of the upcoming raffle drawing, which was to be the culminating event of the afternoon.

  Dr. Charlie Thompson, a retired history professor who regularly came into the center for sessions with Agatha, stood by the window chatting up a handsome woman in riding boots named Diane and her husband Stuart, (an accountant who did his best to avoid eye contact), about his latest medieval research on Hildegard von Bingen. Stuart, never particularly comfortable in a crowd, stood inattentively with his hands fisted in his pockets while Charlie discoursed on his favorite subject.

  Agatha stood behind the front desk selling raffle tickets: ten dollars for the chance to win a wellness package with a series of therapeutic bodywork sessions. Her shoulder-length copper hair was swept back into its usual high ponytail, but rather uncharacteristically she was wearing a black knee-length cocktail dress and low heels in lieu of her usual leggings and oversized blouse. She was putting away the cash collected so far that afternoon when a familiar voice asked, “Are these prize sessions with you or with someone else?”

  Agatha looked up to see Nick, a jazz bassist who had recently become a client and whom she had previously known through mutual friends. She smiled at him, conscious that he was looking at her with interest. Despite the fact that she was essentially free to see whomever she wanted, and the fact that she genuinely liked Nick, she did not want to indulge in a flirtation with him. They had entered into a professional relationship now, and it was a line she couldn’t cross. Santa Cruz was altogether too small a city at times.

  “Not me, actually,” she said, smiling but taking a deliberate step back. “They’re with Stacey, the other massage therapist who works here. She’s in the back room now giving complimentary sessions if you want to add your name to the list,” Agatha gestured towards a sign-up sheet on the countertop.

  “Thanks,” Nick said, nodding casually and looking around the room, “Nice turn-out here this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty well attended after all, “she agreed. “You never know how these things will go. This is the first time we decided to participate in First Friday, and I’d say it’s been a success.”

  She followed his gaze across the room. One of the featured artists, a woman with hennaed hair named Barbara, sat talking with a balding middle-aged man on the far side of the room while a young couple decorated with abundant jewelry, makeup, and tattoos stood close together by the window drinking tea and conversing animatedly. It was a nice crowd.

  At that moment, a striking woman with wily black hair entered the room from the hallway, swaying slightly as she approached, as if to let everyone know just how relaxed she felt, and indeed, all eyes seemed to turn towards her as she made her appearance.

  “Oh, my goodness, look at you,” the woman said, gushing at Agatha from the other side of the counter. “What fun,” she winked and sighed audibly.

  “Hi, Carla,” Agatha said, smiling affectionately. “You look radiant.”

  “I just had a fabulous little massage from Stacey in the back room.”

  She picked a cup of tea up from the tray, winking at Asha as she passed and tossed what appeared to be a couple of small, white pills into her mouth, following them with a gulp of the fragrant, warm liquid.

  “Perfect. Although they really should be serving champagne at this hour,” she added as an aside, now directing her attention towards Nick.

  “Hi, Carla,” Nick said, grinning at her, yet at the same time his expression immediately became somewhat more constrained.

  “Hola, Nick,” she said breezily.

  The young woman with wavy, dark hair and heavily lined eyes by the window walked directly towards them from across the room, holding the hand of a young man whose arms were covered in generously detailed tattoos.

  “Meet my niece, Nina,” Carla said, nodding towards her and setting her drink down on the countertop. “I’m going to buy her a gift certificate to come and see you one of these days,” she said, addressing Agatha again.

  Agatha smiled at her, recognizing that it was the bartender, Kevin, from Carla’s new restaurant, Blaze, who was holding Nina’s hand. She offered them both another drink and Nina reached for a cup of chai, but Kevin shook his head dismissively at the steaming cups of tea. Carla noticed and winked at him coyly, to which he responded with a slight scowl.

  “Enjoy yourselves, everyone,” Agatha said, moving out from behind the front counter. “I’m going to go replenish our tea reserves. It’s going fast.” She made her way down the hallway to the back room where there was an electric teapot.

  She contemplated the unpredictable combination of clients and guests whose appearances had all coincided that afternoon. It was not an ideal mix of people, and she felt an uncharacteristic unease about the overall dynamic in the room.

  While she was pouring the tea into the ceramic mugs, a resonant voice travelled down the hall, exclaiming about “the lovely atmosphere,” and “Agatha’s magic hands.”

  The sound of Carla’s animated chatter troubled Agatha. She hadn’t expected the beguiling and rather well-known personality to come to the art exhibit, since she would have expected her to be at her own newly established restaurant, Blaze, in anticipation of a sure to be busy evening. Frankly, she found her presence and personality just a little jarring, as she knew that it would be to others who were there as well.

  She liked Carla, but the woman took over the room. This was meant to be a mellow and relaxed event. It certainly wasn’t helpful to some of her clients, (Diane in particular), to have to run into her here, especially with Stuart along, and she realized she’d better keep an attentive eye towards Diane and make sure that she was all right. Her client’s stress levels had been through the roof for weeks now.

  Upon returning to the front room, Agatha was keenly aware that there had been a palpable shift in the dynamic of the space since Carla’s re-appearance. What before had been a casual and random assortment of clientele and practitioners enjoying the exhibit and each other’s company had transformed into a stage with the presence of a diva. People’s attention unwittingly focused on the movement of Carla’s shoulders or throat when she spoke, the flash of her eyes when she sm
iled or laughed. Whether by design or not, Carla commanded attention.

  Agatha watched as Barbara leaned forward, whispering to the man next to her while watching Carla from across the room with obvious distaste. Even Charlie stumbled on his explanations of medieval monastic life and was watching her with mild fascination. Conversations continued, but ears and eyes were attuned to her vocalizations and movements above their neighbors’.

  Asha, Agatha’s office mate and acupuncturist extraordinaire had taken over the raffle ticket duty so that Agatha could take a turn making the rounds with the tea. As she crossed the room, she noticed that Diane was nodding politely at Charlie but that her attention was inevitably drawn across the room towards Carla. Stuart stood stiffly beside her, his hands still fisted in his pockets, eyes staring fixedly out the window, unengaged in the discourses on Hildegard and trying not to look at Carla as she laughed loudly from across the room.

  “Types don’t really change throughout the centuries, you see,” she heard Charlie say as she approached. “There are harlots and saints and us regular folks in between, whether its 1174 or 2015.”

  The front door chime rang as it opened, and a dark-haired man in a leather jacket walked in, taking in the small gathering, and looking around the room.

  Agatha waved to him, and he smiled. More than a few pairs of eyes followed his entrance as he joined her.

  “Hiya, Dean,” she said with a warm smile, “thanks for coming.” He kissed her cheek and helped himself to a warm cup of tea.

  “It looks great in here,” he said. “Nice turnout.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Hey, I’ve got to make the rounds here, but I’ll come back in a few to visit. Say hi to the other guests,” she invited, gesturing towards the smattering of people throughout the room.

  “Another cup of tea, anyone?” Agatha offered as she moved past the guests.

  Barbara nodded and Agatha paused as she and her friend each accepted one.

  “I like your contributions to the exhibit, Agatha, especially the glazed vase over there,” said Barbara, nodding towards a large piece decorating the far corner of the room.

  “Thanks! That’s an older one, but one of my favorites. I love having your work on the walls, too, by the way. It’s so much brighter in here with those colors.”

  “Why, thank you. It’s a pleasure to be included,” Barbara smiled, pleased.

  Agatha continued on her way, making another round with the drinks.

  “It was so interesting to hear about your book, Professor Thompson,” Diane was saying to Charlie as she passed.

  He beamed at her and replied, “Well, it’ll be out in another year or so if I’m lucky.”

  Agatha set the tray down on the makeshift buffet table nearby. Stuart eyed the warm tea from across the room and whispered something to Diane, moving away.

  Charlie had turned to speak with someone else, so Agatha approached Diane, who now stood alone, looking rather uncomfortable.

  “Thank you for coming, Diane. I think the raffle’s coming up in just a few minutes if you think you can stay for it.”

  “Oh, it’s time for us to go,” Diane said firmly, moving towards the door. “Stuart’s just grabbing a quick bite to eat before we leave – he barely had lunch earlier. Let me know on the off chance that we win,” she added, making an effort to smile.

  Agatha nodded understanding and squeezed her hand before continuing around the room, checking that everyone had what they needed.

  Dean walked up to the buffet table and helped himself to a small plate of cheese and crackers. He offered a tentative hello to Stuart, who turned and handed him a fresh mug of chai that he’d been holding.

  “Thanks, Stuart,” Dean said, surprised at the gesture. Stuart nodded at him stiffly.

  It seemed to Agatha that other than a couple of young women that she didn’t recognize and who had been engrossed in conversation with each other since their arrival, everyone knew everyone else in this little room. It was pretty unusual, even for Santa Cruz.

  Dean walked up to Carla to say hello, setting the steaming tea on a table next to her, and she flashed him a brilliant smile.

  “Hi, handsome,” she said, extending her hand and running her fingers up and down the soft leather sleeve of his jacket. He raised an eyebrow but smiled back at her, bemused. She was still standing with Nina and Kevin, who both did their best to appear comfortable in a roomful of strangers. Meanwhile, Charlie joked with Nick, who was watching Agatha out of the corner of his eye, who was attending to everyone.

  Stuart returned to Diane, who stood with her back turned towards the people chatting together nearby. He carried a small paper plate with fruit and cheese and smiled stiffly at Diane, making an attempt to appear friendly and relaxed, all while willing himself not to glance in Carla’s direction.

  The room felt fairly populated, and the volume had amplified slightly. About a dozen people stood around chatting, water glasses and teacups crowded the little tables, and the food was quickly diminishing. But there was a palpable tension in the room, which Agatha hoped might dissipate somewhat with Stuart and Diane’s departure.

  It was a shame that all these paths of contention had to cross in this moment, which was meant to be a fun event in a safe and therapeutic space. But she and Asha and Stacey had opened it up to the public for First Friday and that was the nature of these types of events. There was simply no predicting who would be there and when - it was all a matter of chance.

  Just as Stuart and Diane were about to exit out the front door, Asha chimed a water glass and they paused, turning towards her.

  “Okay, everyone,” she called, “We hope you are enjoying yourselves and want to thank you for coming by today. Let us know if you would like to support our featured artists by purchasing any art pieces on display, and please feel free to stick around and visit for a while yet, but in the meantime, it is time for the raffle drawing!”

  Everyone turned their attention towards Asha and the front desk, setting their drinks and small plates down in anticipation.

  Asha reached her hand into a small wooden bowl in which they had collected all the raffle tickets, and blindly pulled out the winning number, holding it up to prolong the moment of suspense before reading it.

  “The winner of our gift package, which includes a 90-minute massage therapy session with Stacey, a gift certificate for Chinese herbal remedies from myself, and two hand thrown coffee mugs by Agatha, is number twenty-seven!”

  Across the room, Carla gasped and held up her ticket, and for a moment she seemed bewildered, as if theatrically startled by her luck. But then she held her hand to her chest and wheezed. Agatha took a step forward in concern. Was she choking? Her skin had an ashen sheen to it, clammy and pale. She seemed to struggle for breath. A cup fell from her hands, a small arc of tea splashing across the carpet as Carla grimaced and fell back into the chair sitting directly behind her, slumped over in the most inanimate way.

  Part 1

  April 1, 2015

  Chapter 1

  Agatha poured herself a second cup of coffee as she stood at the kitchen counter reading the morning paper. The early morning fog hovered outside the windows, but the light in the sky was a bright gray and Agatha could tell that it would burn off before long.

  She picked up the local section of the newspaper and opened it. Despite her height, which at nearly six feet was striking, her broad shoulders and fiery copper hair pulled back in its usual high ponytail, Agatha’s hands were perhaps her most salient feature as they rustled the paper. They were strong and purposeful, the fingers long and the nails well-manicured. She made her living with them, after all.

  The front page, titled “Santa Cruz Local Expands Slow Food Empire,” featured the opening of a new restaurant, the owner pictured with her head thrown back in laughter before the open front doors of her latest establishment, her dark curls whipping in the wind. The caption read, “Carla Peterson standing before Blaze, where slow food meets fast music.” Behind her you could see a bartender pouring a drink at the bar against a backdrop of glimmering liquor and an abundance of wine bottles.

  Agatha raised her eyebrows and scrutinized the photograph. It might be the same Carla Peterson who had appeared on her schedule for a session that day, probably was. She skimmed over the article and discovered that the restaurant would host nightly music, (a local jazz group she recognized), in addition to its organic, local, and largely sustainable fare, and that Carla already owned two other successful food ventures in town, one of which Agatha had been to a few times with her friend Dean.