Meet Cutes and Murder Read online

  Meet Cutes and Murder

  Lisa Kinley

  Bosta Books

  Copyright © 2021 by Lisa Kinley

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Bosta Books.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by DLR Cover Designs

  Editing by Amanda Kruse with Red Adept Editing

  Proofreading by Laura Koons with Red Adept Editing

  Blurb

  Romance author, donut influencer, and cat mom Hazel Hastings loves adding a dash of mystery to her novels, but she never expected her sleuthing skills to leave the page.

  When Hazel left Chinook Falls in her rearview mirror, she hoped it was for good. Now, years later, returning to her Oregon hometown is slightly better than sharing a zip code with her soon-to-be—but not soon enough!—ex-husband.

  But trouble finds Hazel on her first day at a new college teaching job and not only in the form of a distractingly hunky archaeology professor. On her way to a book signing at work, a jerk hits her car and refuses to share his insurance information. Once Hazel realizes the fender-crunching jerk is the visiting author, she plots to publicly call him out on his atrocious driving etiquette. Before she can put her plan into action, she discovers his body in the student union.

  With her proximity to the murder putting her dream job at risk, Hazel must act to uncover the killer. As long as sleuthing doesn’t interfere with meeting the deadline for her next novel, navigating her new job in academia, and keeping her cats flush in premium kibble, she’ll be fine. After all, she’s a millennial with a viral donut Instagram account. Finding a murderer should be a piece of cake… er… donut.

  Meet Cutes and Murder is the first in the Hazel Hastings Mystery series. Each book can be read as a standalone but is best enjoyed in order. The series is free of graphic violence, sex, and strong language. But it does contain adorable cats, gratuitous donuts, and healthy doses of snark.

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  For Mom and Dad,

  * * *

  Thanks for teaching me I can do anything if I try.

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Letter from Lisa

  Acknowledgments

  About Lisa

  Chapter 1

  @ChinookFallsTea: New school year, new batch of college students who don’t know how to use crosswalks. #YouDontOwnTheRoad #PullYourHeadOutOfYourPhones #GetOffMyLawn

  * * *

  I walked into Sequoia College’s student union and inhaled the familiar scent unique to college campuses—freshly ground coffee, disinfectant, and academic superiority. The building hadn’t changed much since I’d last been there as a high schooler, fifteen years ago. I never thought I would be back. My life plan hadn’t included an employment pit stop at the college in the hometown I loathed, but sometimes life had a funny way of hazing me.

  My smartwatch buzzed with an alert that my “meeting” (an academic initiation ritual thinly veiled as a new faculty mentorship program) was starting. I had far better things to do the week before fall semester began—my first week of a new teaching job—than getting voluntold to participate in some horrific onboarding program.

  I hustled down the steps inside the main entrance to the bottom floor and followed signs to the Alder Room at the back of the building. It was one of those odd buildings where the entrance on the front opened to the second level, but the street was on a slight hill, so entrances at the back of the building went to the ground floor.

  I stopped at a check-in desk outside the Alder Room. An older woman with a kind smile and spunky green cat-eye glasses complimented my dress covered with adorable cat faces. I was more used to judgment than acceptance over my unconventional outfits and ever-changing hair colors. Mark one in the maybe-the-day-won’t-suck column. Too many marks had gone in the other column recently, and I was overdue for a win.

  “Are you here for the mentor event?”

  “Yes. Sorry I’m running late. I didn’t expect parking to be this tough before the semester begins,” I said.

  She gave me a sympathetic smile and asked for my name.

  “Hazel Hastings. I’m a new adjunct instructor in the English department.”

  Her smile strained a bit. Yikes. I hoped I hadn’t joined a problem department on campus. Every college has at least one, and the English department had been among them at my last two campuses.

  “Welcome to Sequoia College.” She rummaged through a stack of manila envelopes and handed me one with my name on it. “Your mentor is listed in there along with some information about the program. The provost is about to begin her remarks, then she’ll release you to find your mentor.”

  I thanked her then briskly walked into the Alder Room. Someone began speaking as I tried to quietly grab a seat. Between the narrow row forcing me to bump knees and backs of heads and the water bottle sloshing in my bag, I was as subtle as a raging bull in a room of bells. My kingdom for size-inclusive spacing in rows of chairs. Some of us made “birthing hips” look dainty. As soon as I had my big bum on the chair and my bag on the floor, a woman introduced herself as the provost.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled after the provost said she expected mentors and mentees to meet weekly during the entire fall semester. Who has time for that between teaching, grading, required office hours, and meetings? Plus, the deadline to submit the second book in my romantic suspense series loomed like a dreary rain cloud. Fitting, now that I’d moved back to Oregon.

  When I’d signed the contract detailing deadlines for my debut series, I’d been happily married and happily teaching writing to college students and happily drinking my weight in Milwaukee’s craft beers. The deadlines seemed like a breeze, but after discovering Chad’s betrayal with one of my colleagues, I’d wasted over two months of valuable writing time fleeing the life that had turned out to be a lie. It was difficult to write romance with my marriage disintegrating around me like a wheat field in a brush fire. The fun, adventurous romantic suspense book I was contracted to deliver kept edging toward something dark and gritty without the required happily ever after. Go figure.

  I had to write over a third of my manuscript and attempt to edit the beast in two weeks while teaching classes, navigating a new job, and it seemed, having weekly mentor meetings.

  Despite the job at Sequoia being a pit stop on the way to my dream job at Powell University, I would put a smile on my face and fulfill the mentee duties on top of everything else. I always managed to juggle just shy of too much.

  The adjunct faculty position in Sequoia’s English department had gotten me back
to Oregon, back to both my brother and best friend, after my life in Wisconsin had fallen apart, but it wasn’t a forever job. Powell was a forever job, and since I was back in the state, I had a chance to make it a reality.

  I’d been lucky to get a position at Sequoia. Despite being in a town I’d never wanted to live in again, I was fortunate to teach interesting subjects to small classes. When I’d made the decision to move back to Oregon after leaving Chad, I’d fully expected to end up at one of the huge state schools teaching introductory writing courses to two hundred bored freshmen. My course load for the year at Sequoia would make me an attractive candidate to Powell University’s prestigious publishing program. Portland, here I come.

  “Is this the adult version of an elementary school buddy system?”

  I jumped at the low voice in my ear, pulling me from my mental pity party—a nice voice but startling just the same. I’d been so focused on grabbing a seat and trying not to put my plus-sized bum in anyone’s face as I squeezed past them in the row, I hadn’t noticed my surroundings. Correcting my mistake, I glanced at the voice’s owner, and the air punched out of my lungs. Oh. He was handsome. Dark hair styled into a gravity-defying swoop with a thin layer of artfully curated stubble on his face. Onyx eyes twinkled behind thick-rimmed black glasses, not unlike my own eyewear, as his cupid’s-bow lips curved to one side. I wasn’t in the emotional place to notice attractive men, but if I were, I would certainly have noticed him. He was hot enough to be the leader of attractive men. King, even. All hail.

  “It is,” I whispered back and leaned in. “Definitely hazing.”

  “I take it you’re a mentee. Or are you trying to clock some campus service hours for your tenure portfolio?”

  “Do you classify a tenure portfolio as hazing?”

  “Don’t you?” He blinked innocently at me, but his lips twitched, giving away his teasing.

  I snorted. The person in front of me turned to glare.

  Sorry, I mouthed to her. “I’m an adjunct. No tenure for me. I’m surprised they force the part-timers into this.”

  He leaned even closer, and his smirk grew smirkier somehow. Smirkier? Ugh. The linguistic prowess of a published author.

  “How can we foster hostage bonding if we don’t force everyone to go through the hazing together?” he asked.

  I bit my lips until the urge to laugh passed. “Fair point.” I managed to pay attention to the provost as she detailed her expectations of the program and mostly ignored the hot prof’s thigh next to mine.

  Goodness, the provost had a lot to say about how great the college was. Cue the wrap-it-up award-show orchestral music.

  The sooner I met with my mentor, the sooner I could go home and squeeze in some writing before coming back to campus that night. Attending a book tour event for some author I’d never heard of named Lane Cordon sounded boring, but I might earn brownie points with my new boss, Hamid, if I went.

  “Mentees, there’s a copy of your mentor’s curriculum vitae in the envelope. We have staff at the back who can help you locate your mentor. Again, welcome to Sequoia College!”

  Is that what freshmen feel like during orientation? Overly welcomed and under caffeinated?

  “What schmuck did you get paired with?” the hot prof next to me asked.

  I chuckled as I pulled the papers out of the envelope and scanned until I found a name. “Desmond Carter? Ooh, an archaeologist.” Please let him be cool. Please, please. I’d been lucky at my last university in Milwaukee to have made friends with an archaeology professor who offered to be an archaeology resource for my books in exchange for wine. I would love to find someone similar at Sequoia.

  “Got a thing for archaeologists? Let me guess. It’s the fedora and treasure hunting.”

  I laughed. “Indiana Jones isn’t a real archaeologist. The fedora’s great and all, but media portrayal of archaeology is criminal. They always treat it like treasure hunting, but it’s about understanding past human cultures.” I trailed off as his closed-mouth smile grew, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Anyway, it’s a—um—professional interest.”

  One of his thick eyebrows arched slightly. “Ah.”

  I bent to grab my bag. “I guess I’d better go find him. It was nice to snarkily whisper with you.” I held out my hand. “Hazel Hastings. English.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up and revealed straight white teeth that would make any orthodontist proud. His cupid’s-bow smile belonged on a magazine cover. Wait. A dimple too? My goodness.

  He wrapped his calloused fingers around my hand. “Desmond Carter. Archaeologist.” He winked. “Friends call me Des.”

  My mouth fell open as all the anxiety receptors in my brain sounded their alarms. “Excuse me while I die of embarrassment.”

  “I can’t let that happen after you so valiantly defended my profession.” The wattage of his smile brightened to a point where I nearly squinted. “It’s nice to meet you, Hazel. I promise to keep the hazing to a minimum.” He tilted his head and looked off into the middle distance. I definitely didn’t admire his defined jawline. “The hazing of Hazel Hastings. Has a nice ring to it.”

  I hated the alliteration of my name, though it sucked less when he said it. “I’m sorry for all the things I said about the mentor program.”

  Desmond laughed. “Don’t be. I didn’t create it. I’m merely a pushover who signs up every year to spare the newbies my crankier colleagues.”

  “An archaeologist and a martyr. Impressive. Tenure too?”

  He grinned.

  Oh no. Two dimples. The Dimples of Death.

  “It’s a lot to fit on a business card.”

  “I can imagine.”

  We stared at each other for a beat too long. I should have made my excuses and gone to write a chapter before the book event later, but I didn’t want to be rude. Maybe he would suggest setting a time to talk next week.

  “Shall we grab snacks and go sit somewhere to talk?” He stood.

  Or we can talk now. I guessed I could duck out of the department event early and get the chapter done before bed that night. “Sounds good.”

  I followed Desmond—not calling him Des because friends called him that, and he was merely a (hot) professional acquaintance—to the refreshment tables and loaded a plate with fresh fruit and mini pastries then snagged a cup of coffee. We walked to a far corner and passed by a coffee shop in the building, several departments for student services, and rooms that appeared to be reservable meeting and event spaces. We claimed two plush armchairs with a small table between them.

  As we ate, we followed question prompts provided in the packet, which covered our academic specialties, grad schools, previous institutions, and other boring stuff. Listening to Desmond talk and watching his expressive hands move to punctuate his points was the opposite of boring, but I wanted to know fun things.

  Desmond dropped the paper on his empty plate. “These questions are boring. Who wrote these?”

  I bit back a laugh. “Clearly an academic.”

  “Hey, I’m an academic, and I’d ask fun questions.” Desmond leaned back in his chair.

  “Like what? Hit me with your questions, Professor Fun.”

  Desmond arched one of his thick eyebrows. “Do you have any pets?”

  A softball question. I always loved talking about my cats. Shocking for a woman wearing a dress with cat faces on it. “Two cats named Glaze and Jelly. They’re orange tabby siblings and a bonded pair.”

  He glanced at my dress.

  I imagined the sirens going off in his brain, flashing a watch-out-for-the-cooky-cat-lady warning.

  “Aww.”

  The man awwed at the mention of my cats? Rein it in, hot prof.

  “Why those names?”

  My cheeks burned as I glanced away. “I have an Instagram about donuts, so I named them Glaze and Jelly when I adopted them.” The embarrassment flooding my nervous system wasn’t about the fact that I, a fat woman, proudly proclaimed a love for pastri
es. I’d shed the crushing weight of self-directed fatphobia in therapy. Nor was it that I’d named my cats after food. I’d almost named them Avocado and Toast as an ode to “Millennials will never amount to anything because they spend their money on avocados and prefer pets to kids and can’t keep stable jobs” rhetoric, but I figured naming my fur children out of spite wasn’t the best move. No, my inability to make eye contact had everything to do with having a popular social media presence. I hadn’t gotten used to admitting it to strangers yet. Despite having fun with it, my innocent hobby had always mortified my soon-to-be ex-husband, so I rarely mentioned it when I met people.

  “A donut Instagram.” Desmond’s eyes widened.

  “Mm-hmm. Yup.” I glanced away. The plants over at the far end of the seating area needed some TLC.

  “Do you have many followers?”

  I picked at an invisible thread on my dress. “About twenty thousand,” I mumbled.

  “Twenty thousand!” Desmond leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Well, I’ll be. That’s more than the population of Chinook Falls. Sequoia College has its very own donut influencer.”

  My head snapped up. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

  The mirth in his expression would be adorable if it weren’t so aggravating. “Have you ever received freebies because of your account?”

  Tilting my head back, I squeezed my eyes closed. “Once or twice.”