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  Frugal Lissa Mysteries

  Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

  Organized Mysteries

  Organized for Scheduled Sabotage

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  Table of Contents

  Also By Ritter Ames

  What reviewers say about the | Organized Mysteries by Ritter Ames:

  Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER | ONE

  CHAPTER | TWO

  CHAPTER | THREE

  CHAPTER | FOUR

  CHAPTER | FIVE

  CHAPTER | SIX

  CHAPTER | SEVEN

  CHAPTER | EIGHT

  CHAPTER | NINE

  CHAPTER | TEN

  CHAPTER | ELEVEN

  CHAPTER | TWELVE

  CHAPTER | THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER | FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER | FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER | SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER | SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER | EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER | NINETEEN

  CHAPTER | TWENTY

  CHAPTER | TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER | TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER | TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER | TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER | TWENTY-FIVE

  RECIPES

  MONEY SAVING TIPS

  BOOKS BY RITTER AMES

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  What reviewers say about the

  Organized Mysteries by Ritter Ames:

  "A DELIGHTFUL NEW COZY mystery series starring an intriguing heroine—Kate McKenzie. Twists and turns abound, entertaining the reader throughout! I loved it and look forward to the next installment. Ritter Ames is a new star on the cozy set!" ~ Michele Scott, bestselling author of the Wine Lovers Mystery Series, featuring Nikki Sands

  "Organized for Murder is a very enjoyable first in a new series. Ritter Ames really hit it out the park with this debut, and with her organizational tips included (throughout the book and at the end), I know this is one book I will be hanging onto. If you haven’t discovered this series yet, I highly recommend picking it up." ~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  "Ritter Ames keeps ratcheting the suspense until I started skipping sentences just to find out who murdered Amelia and another woman. It was thoroughly enjoyable with well-developed, 3dimensional characters." ~ BookTalk with Eileen

  "If you enjoy cozy type mysteries, I think you'll enjoy this light fast read." ~ Murder Most Cozy

  "The characters are well written and stay true to who they are from the beginning to end of the book, and they feel real as if you could meet the in real life." ~ Hiding from My Kids

  "Organized for Murder by Ritter Ames is the first in a new cozy mystery series, Organized Mysteries. This is a quality cozy mystery. The story is well-written and the mystery kept me guessing. This is a great start to a new series, and one I am looking forward to revisiting. Great characters, fantastic writing, and a clever mystery all combine to make a really wonderful book." ~ Brooke Blogs

  "I am a huge lover of cozy mysteries, and this by far is one of my favorites. I loved the premise of the main character Kate being an organizer and I loved all the organizational tips that I picked up throughout the story." ~ Doctor’s Notes

  "The plot was well paced and I enjoyed the way Kate followed the clues in a very organized fashion. The author added some great twists, I was surprised by the actual murderer. I enjoyed all the organizational tips that started each chapter. Several will be introduced into my own household." ~ Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

  Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

  by Ritter Ames

  FRUGAL LISSA FINDS A BODY

  by Ritter Ames

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Ritter Ames

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

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  Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  JUST LIKE LISSA NEEDS her canine sidekick Honey in the Frugal Lissa Mysteries, this author needed her own real-life Honey to give the most authentic ring to the fictional Honey in the stories. My Honey is also a yellow Labrador retriever we call a blonde Lab because her fur is nearly white. She’s loyal, loving, and a favorite of everyone who meets her (the UPS man has offered to take her off our hands many times).

  Our Honey is a rescue dog, and we’re (as far as we know) her third family to live with. My husband and I are thrilled she chose us three-and-a-half years ago, because we truly wanted her in our family, and she’s already offered us a lifetime of love and laughter ever since then. She was approximately five years old at the time, well-trained, articulate (in a canine rowl-based language), and ready to follow at a moment’s notice.

  Today, when she isn’t chasing squirrels, she spends her days brainstorming story ideas with me, then sleeping at my feet as I write the scenes she worked so hard to help me develop. She says she’s my writing coach. I’ll give her whatever writing career she wants, as long as she keeps working with me.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  “WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD.” I pushed the lemon Bundt cake toward the graying man in the doorway as I tried—and failed—to stop staring at his bushy eyebrows. It looked like a caterpillar tête-à-tête on his forehead. “I’m Melissa Eller, but everyone just calls me Lissa. I live in the noisy two-story across the street.”

  “Noisy?” The caterpillars wobbled upward.

  “I have two young sons.” I shrugged. “I may as well start apologizing now.”

  Gorgeous Abby, my best friend despite always showing me up with the pulled-together look she wore without effort—today in a DKNY silk t-shirt and black peplum slacks she snagged the last time we shopped at the outlet store because they fit her but not post-pregnancy me—stepped up and held out a hand to shake his. “Abby Newlin. I don’t live in Rogerston anymore, but I’m a longtime family friend so you’ll see me around. Don’t mind Lissa. She worries too much.”

  “Worry?” The caterpillars shifted close together again.

  “About the boys and their antics,” Abby added. “They’re actually quite sweet.”

  He took the cake from my hands and said, “We’re the Harpers, John and Jane.”

  I attempted my own handshake, but he kept a firm hold on each side of the plate. Apparently the floral-print J. Jill shirred tee I’d grabbed on that same outlet trip as Abby’s shirt and slacks, the cute top I’d t
hrown on today because I thought it made me look trustworthy and friendly, wasn’t doing the job. His gaze darted to some place over my left shoulder instead of meeting my smile.

  “The wife is still unpacking.” He kept watch over the landscape behind us as he spoke. “We have a lot to do.”

  “Absolutely,” I said a little too brightly, and shoved my hands into my jeans pockets. “Been there, done that. Not a lot of fun. We just wanted to come by and let you know if you need anything you only need to ask.”

  The caterpillars gave each other a smidgeon of distance as some tension left his expression and voice, and he almost looked at my face. “I’ll let my wife know. Appreciate it.”

  I took a step back and nearly fell down the stoop. Abby grabbed my arm and saved me from an ungraceful fall.

  “We’ll be going,” Abby said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes. Be looking for you,” he said.

  More likely he’d be looking out for us and running the other way. Not trusting myself to answer and just make everything worse, I waved and kept flashing what I knew was my idiotic grin.

  We crossed the street with me slightly behind Abby. The soft highlights in her shoulder-length chestnut hair made me wonder what a salon could do to help my sadly overlong cut I’d recently given up on in favor of simply putting into a thick coffee-colored side-braid every day. I was frowning at the ragged tail below the rubber band that hung a bit below my collarbone, so almost missed when Abby said, “Remember, you only get what you expect out of life.”

  “What? How did you know what I was thinking?”

  She laughed. “Lissa, you’re an open book.”

  We hit my front yard, and she reached over and gave me a one-armed hug, reprimanding, “Don’t expect people to be annoyed at your children and they won’t be.”

  Okay, so she didn’t mean my hair and wasn’t a mind-reader. Thank goodness. There were some secrets I kept even from Abby.

  “Fat chance of that. You haven’t heard the complaints through the years,” I replied.

  “They’re just rambunctious boys.”

  Abby skipped up the steps ahead of me to push open the front door, then gasped and leaned against the wooden frame. I kept walking, dazed as I surveyed the carnage. We’d only been gone five minutes. I swear, only five minutes.

  The boys were under orders to clean their room. As we left, we’d heard them thundering up the stairs, and our blonde Labrador retriever, Honey, galloped right behind them. We’d actually chuckled over the booming noise.

  I never expected the complete chaos now enveloping the living room, but it proved the point I’d been making only moments before. Apparently, the boys didn’t believe me when I told them earlier in the week that they couldn’t fly by attaching their Batman capes to the ceiling fan. Said ceiling fan, denuded of two blades, currently wobbled valiantly in a drunken rotation above our heads. A chair and one end table were knocked over, and I presumed staked a claim to where each boy landed. Wood slivers littered the durable gray carpet, as well as what I took to be fallout from the tops of the fan blades. I admit it; I don’t clean my ceiling fans often enough. Maybe the mini-dust bunnies helped cushion their fall.

  Abby continued making gasp-like sounds. I looked for blood. I found the blades, but not my two sons.

  “Boys! Front and center!”

  Wide-eyed faces topped by tousled brunette hair popped up between second floor banisters, with Honey padding in close to anchor the far end. Thin sunlight streaked through the upstairs sidelight and washed over my sons to give each a glowing halo. Like that would help anything. I pointed to my feet. “Down here. Immediately!”

  Longest trek downstairs I’d ever witnessed. Even the dog moved in slow motion. Three heads and faces downcast. All eyes focused on every single step.

  I didn’t see any bruises, but a torn cape came to light behind one chair when Jamey, the oldest, let his gaze stray in that direction.

  “Take a tumble, did we?”

  Each boy nodded.

  “Anyone hurt?”

  My five-year-old, Mac, short for Mackenzie, my maiden name, rubbed his elbow. They both gave me a negative headshake. I figured it would be enough to watch for limps, but I ran an exploratory hand over each head to feel for any lumps. The boys were clear. A second later I checked the dog, too. She didn’t yelp, so I assumed she’d been smart enough to stay out of the way of the flying siblings.

  “Going to do it again?” I asked my Batboys.

  They shook their heads once more, eyes still cast downward.

  “How in the world did you even get up there?”

  “I boosted Mac onto the bookcase, then we climbed up it and jumped.”

  My heart quit beating for a second, when I thought about the possibility of their pulling down the heavy oak piece, so it and the books landed on top of them. “The bookcase is not a ladder. Never do that again.”

  “Okay,” Jamey said. Mac shrugged. That didn’t bode well. What else would they think of trying before I had a chance to squelch the idea? Good heavens. I changed tactics and knelt to give each boy a hug. “You boys can’t scare me this way. Wild flying maneuvers and scaling tall furniture can mean bigger accidents than what you had today. You’d break my heart if either of you got seriously hurt.”

  “We’re sorry,” Mac took the lead this time.

  “Good. Remember that.” I got back to my feet. “But just being sorry isn’t enough. I never want you to try anything that dangerous again, so you boys will pay for a new ceiling fan with your birthday and Christmas money.”

  Jamey had the grace to look ashamed and nodded. That’s what came from being the more mature eight-year-old, I supposed. Mac looked up in horror, then shrugged and gave an agreeable head bob.

  “Back upstairs. Room inspection in thirty minutes.”

  They ran like I’d set fire to their heels. It would have given me a warm feeling about possibly having their respect, but I knew better. They were hoping if they followed instructions with no argument I might forget about the threat to take away their gift money.

  Abby stood quietly beside me.

  “Come on in. Ignore the mess. Looks like they tried turning the house into the Bat Cave,” I said, moving toward the kitchen so she would follow.

  “I expect nothing less from the dynamic duo,” Abby replied and grabbed a banana from the wooden fruit bowl I optimistically kept full to entice my hooligans to eat healthy.

  “Hopefully they’ll actively shovel out their room now.”

  The shoveling comment was motherly hyperbole, but from the sudden thumps and scurrying noises that emanated over our heads, I wondered how much my words rang true.

  Abby, ever the optimist and doting pseudo-aunt, said, “Sounds promising.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They need no encouragement.”

  “Have an ETA on when Dek will be home?” she asked.

  My husband, Derek, went personally and professionally by Dek Eller, because our family was drawn to using nicknames, and he was an award-winning globe-trotting photojournalist. I was eagerly anticipating his return—not just to see his handsome face, but because he’d scooped up a double dose of the monthly expense money to get him through his current assignment needs before he left. Leaving me to wait impatiently for the reimbursement check from his media conglomerate employer, and I had to continue waiting until he returned. Recently, two photographers had digitally enhanced some of their receipts, so the auditors required all expenses turned in as a hard copy until further notice.

  When we first married, he worked for only one newspaper, but every business has spin nowadays. Unfortunately, the spin in any career associated with journalism has spiraled downward for the last decade. Dek shifted with the times and signed a contract with a syndicate to stay readily employed without resorting to free-agent status. He constantly hung onto steady employment by networking connections and jaw-dropping photographic successes—but neither was enough to keep our bi
lls paid if I didn’t recycle every copper penny until it was as thin as aluminum foil.

  I took a deep breath before answering. “We Skyped two nights ago. He was scheduled to leave Kabul yesterday and is hoping to be in London by Friday. But he has to head into Turkey first.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “He was euphoric.” I shrugged. “Says he has some amazing shots he took outside of his assignment parameters. Has an idea for a project. Scares the heck out of me just thinking about it, but he feels it’s a winner.”

  “Like a Pulitzer?” she asked.

  “That’s always the brass ring, naturally. But I’m guessing more along the lines of magazine layouts. Like National Geographic.”

  “He’s worked with them before. I still have the issues.”

  I nodded. “He loves magazines because it feels like his work has more permanence. Especially when he sees his photos in copies of old magazines in doctors’ office. His digital shots for the conglomerate’s different newspapers are all posted in color, of course, but there’s just something extra when he can pull out a magazine and point to his work.”

  “And his employer is okay with this freelance stuff?”

  “Dek had the okay specifically added to his contract. They gave him some grief at first, because they wanted to own everything, but ultimately realized they’d lose him if they held out. At last year’s Christmas party, his immediate boss admitted it was probably the best thing they did, anyway. He said whenever Dek sells outside projects, people take more notice of his name, and that translates into more public interest for the conglomerate’s newspapers that publish him as well.

  “Nice he has their blessing, even if it did take a little to make it forthcoming,” Abby said, pulling out a chair of the recycled set I used at my white kitchen table. The pine table had been purchased cheap at an auction, and I stripped the wood and repainted it white. The chairs were all orphans of a similar design, that I’d picked up at garage sales and pseudo-matched using a high-gloss red paint, brightening up the kitchen at the same time. The final touch had been strawberry print chair pads I’d made to match the curtains in the rooms’ big windows.