Checkmate a Killer (Vegas Chantly Mysteries Book 1)

Book summary

When chess master Wilson Hopkins is found dead, his brother Bosco suspects foul play and enlists private investigator Vegas Chantly. With her clever mother Eleanor and trusty Bassett Hound, Buttermilk, Vegas delves into the cutthroat world of competitive chess, uncovering dangers lurking behind each move.

CHECKMATE A KILLER is a mystery novel that promises suspense and unexpected twists.

Excerpt from Checkmate a Killer (Vegas Chantly Mysteries Book 1)

Chapter one

On the outskirts of Blue Falls, Georgia, in the Pine Sap Camper Park (which had the catchy slogan “Come and stick around”), Vegas Chantly was sound asleep in her nineteen seventy-two silver Airstream camper. It was set up on lot twenty-one and had a giant painting of Woody Woodpecker on the right rear quarter panel.

Inside, everything was nearly quiet, with only the whispers of bird calls intertwined with rustling leaves seeping through the thin walls. At seven o’clock, the radio came on and awakened the warm August morning.

“Good morning, sleepy heads. Here’s your quick rundown of the news on this fine day. A body was found at the Rhinehouse Apartments complex on Fifth Street. The police said it appeared to have been accidental, and the case is closed. In literature, local professor Oliver Kimball’s essay on how to feed the hungry through cannibalism has now won both a Nobel Prize and a Bram Stoker Award. Also, it’s National Pig Day. So go out there and eat a wiener, America! Last up is the weather forecast — like they’re going to get that right — brought to you by Fitness Plus and Diet Center, located at the Plaza Shopping Mall right beside Big Tony’s Pizza. Rear entrance advised. …”

Vegas slowly opened her eyes, reached out with her left hand, and turned off the radio. The twenty-seven-year-old sat up in bed, her shoulder-length blond hair tangled and sticking up as if she had been shocked.

She rubbed her eyes with her fists, let out a big yawn like a lioness after eating a tourist, and suddenly noticed that standing at the foot of her bed was a short, redheaded round-on-both-ends woman with her hands on her hips and big, oval, black-framed eyeglasses perched on her nose.

“We need to continue our talk from last night,” she said.

“Good lord, Mom. You scared me to death,” Vegas said, her hand clutching her heart. “No wonder I never get the hiccups.”

Vegas leaned against the back wall of the camper while she continued to try to rub the sleep from her eyes.

Vegas’ mom, Eleanor, looked around the camper, shook her head, and said, “I can’t believe my only child is living in a camper in a camper park. If your father was alive, he’d roll over in his grave.”

Vegas cocked an eyebrow as she digested her mother’s words. “I think you said that wrong, but I’m too sleepy to know for sure or not.”

“Why don’t you move back in with me? There’s absolutely no reason for you to be living in a place like this,” pleaded her mother.

“No,” said Vegas as she stared up at the ceiling in despair. “Last night my answer was no, and it’s the same today. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really need some coffee. And maybe that guy who plays Thor on a sweet roll.”

Vegas slowly slid out of bed. She was wearing an extra-large red T-shirt with a drawing of Frankenstein’s monster printed on it, and a pair of gray jogging pants cut off at the knees. She made her way to the kitchen counter, which took all of two steps.

“Why don’t you want to move back in with me?” her mother implored.

“Because you’re crazy, Mom.”

“You live in a camper and you call me crazy. Look around you, sweetie. It’s obvious that the private investigator business isn’t working out for you.”

“I’m doing fine, Mom.”

“Do you have any clients lined up?”

“Tons.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t know you measured clients by weight now.”

“Okay, hundreds then.”

“Hundreds?” asked a doubtful Eleanor. “Am I supposed to believe that you actually have hundreds of clients?”

Vegas got the coffee can off a shelf and began unscrewing the lid when the can slipped out of her hands, bounced off the floor, and sent coffee grounds everywhere.

“This morning isn’t starting off well,” Vegas said as she bent down to pick up the can, and on her way back up hit her head on the underside of the counter, which sent her back to her knees.

“Ow. I think I’m dead,” Vegas said as she rubbed her head. “I admit I could be off in my client count.” She placed the can on the counter from her kneeling position and then used her hands to scoop the coffee off the floor and back into the can.

“You’re not going to drink that are you?” her mother asked in a state of horror.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t like this brand of coffee anyway,” Vegas said.

“Are these clients ever going to pay you?”

“Stop worrying about my financial situation, Mom. The camper’s paid for.”

“Of course it’s paid for. Your father paid it off in ninety-six.”

Eleanor sat on the bed, shook her head, and tried to keep from crying as she said, “I just don’t like you being a private investigator. It’s dangerous, you know? If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know what I would do. Well, I’d probably sell the camper.”

Vegas began placing several fistfuls of coffee grounds into the machine. “Mom, I’ll be okay. I’m a big girl now. I can iron my pants and everything.”

Eleanor noticed some business cards on the tiny kitchen table. She picked them up and began shuffling through them as if they were playing cards.

“Vegas Chantly, pie? What’s that?” Eleanor asked.

“That’s P.I., Mom. This coffee maker isn’t even working.”

Eleanor reread the cards, “I need to get these glasses changed. Where did you get these?”

“Pepper made ’em for me on his computer,” Vegas said as she walked to her tiny red refrigerator, opened the door, and retrieved a root beer. She popped open the can and took a big swig.

“Pepper? I’m not sure I like you hanging out with him.”

“He’s fine — in his own way.”

“Doesn’t he think he was once probed by aliens or something?”

“It could have happened,” Vegas said with an unsure look on her face and took a seat in a patio chair pushed into the corner. It sat beneath a shelf that held a thirteen-inch black-and-white television from the nineteen-seventies and a Pink Panther plush toy.

“What’s all this on the back of the cards?” asked Eleanor.

“Those are my rates.”

“Do you think you can get that much just for looking into people’s windows?”

“I do a little more than that. And yes, the rates are competitive.”

Eleanor put the cards down, then turned to her daughter and asked in her serious voice, “I want you to be honest with me now. Do you need money?”

“I’ve got money, Mom,” Vegas said as she drank her root beer.

“Oh, my God! Are you hooking?” Eleanor said as she threw her hands in the air in despair.

“Yeah, that’s how I can afford all of this. Enough of this now, Mom. Every time we get together, you end up talking about me and my life. Let’s talk about you for once. What’s new with you?”

Eleanor appeared to be a bit taken aback by her daughter’s query, “Me? What did you hear?”

“Nothing, Mom,” Vegas said through a sigh as she stared at the ceiling, then back at her mother. “Just tell me what you did yesterday.”

Eleanor’s eyes indicated she was trying to retrace her life from yesterday. “Oh, the other day I was watching The Wheel of Fortune, and before the lady contestant said a letter, I yelled out S, and do you know that there were three S’s in the puzzle? I was so excited. That’s never happened to me before — or since, for that matter. But for one moment in a long day, I was Lady Action.”

A proud look was etched on Eleanor’s face as Vegas asked, “What was the answer?”

“Answer to what?”

“To the puzzle. What was the answer?” Vegas asked in a frustrated voice.

“I think it was Rain Maker or something like that,” Eleanor said.

“There are no S’s in Rain Maker.”

“Well, Mommy can’t remember what it was. I just remember being excited that I got the S’s right. You know, if I’m ever on The Wheel of Fortune, that’s going to be my strategy. I’m going to say, ‘Give me an S, Alex.’”

“The name of the host is Pat.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s a man,” Eleanor said.

“Whatever you say, Mom,” Vegas said in surrender. “I’m going to regret asking this, but what if the contestant before you asks for an S?”

Eleanor thought it over, and a plan of strategy seemed to reveal itself to her satisfaction. “Well, I guess I’ll go with R then, in case it’s Rain Maker again. You know, I’m pretty good at these game shows during the day. My mind is always working. I’d love to be on one. Do they make you take a test first before you can be a contestant?”

“You better hope not,” Vegas said.

The payphone situated beneath a large oak tree some twenty feet from Vegas’ camper suddenly rang.

“I’ll get it,” Eleanor shouted as she rushed out of the camper.

“No, you won’t!” Vegas yelled as she sat her can of root beer down and tried to beat her mother to the phone. The tail of her shirt caught on a sharp point on the tiny kitchen counter, and her mother made it to the phone as she finally freed herself.

“Hello? Yes, this is Vegas Chantly’s residence. I’m her partner,” Eleanor said, much to the chagrin of her daughter.

Vegas took the phone from her mother. “Give me that,” she said to her. “And you’re not my partner, you’re my Brutus.”

Vegas composed herself, then began speaking into what was probably the last payphone in all of Georgia — and perhaps in all of civilization.

“Yes, this is Vegas Chantly. I can do that. Give me your address.” Vegas then whispered to her mother, “Get me a pen and a piece of paper.”

“Who is it?” asked Eleanor.

“Get me a pen and a piece of paper,” repeated Vegas.

“Who is it?”

“Get me a pen and a piece of paper.”

“But who is it?”

“Work with me here, woman,” Vegas said in annoyance.

“Okay, okay,” Eleanor mumbled as she reached into her purse and dug her hand into it like it was a backhoe. She somehow found a pen and a scrap of paper and handed them to Vegas.

“He’s a chess champion?” Vegas continued as she spoke with the person on the other end of the line. “Wilson Hopkins. I think I heard about him on the news. Was he the one that played a whole class of second-graders and they tied him up and painted him purple? Interesting. Bosco Hopkins … Rhinehouse Apartments … Apartment fifteen. Okay. I’ll be right there. Bye.”

Vegas hung up the phone.

“Is that a new case?” asked Eleanor.

“Yeah. A chess champion died, and the police said it was an accident, but the brother believes he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Eleanor said in a voice drowned in worry.

“That’s just what he thinks,” Vegas said in an attempt to calm her mother’s worries. “I’m sure the police were right in saying it was an accident.”

“If you believe the police are right, then why are you taking the case?”

Vegas tried to deflect the question and mumbled, “I’m just curious, is all.”

“You don’t have any other cases lined up, do you?” Eleanor replied in what Vegas called her “interrogation tone.”

“Everything’s fine,” Vegas said, hoping her mother would miraculously just move on. “I’m just going through a slow time right now. Not a lot of people need detectives in August. Solar wind patterns and all. Besides, maybe I’ll learn about chess when I get there.”

“You know, your father tried to teach me chess, but I was afraid of the horse.”

“I really don’t have time to try and understand you right now. I’ve got to go change,” Vegas said as she headed back to the camper.