Ms. Mia and Murder at the Grand Island Concours

First Chapter Preview

Family Dream

The gleaming cream-colored 1939 Lincoln Zephyr rolled down the trailer ramp and stopped beside Mia. Deliverymen unhooked the winch, easing the car under the shade of the live oaks. Mia’s breath caught. After all these years, Leo’s dream had finally arrived at the Grand Island Concours.

In the distance, the sprawling hotel rose, its layered terraces descending to the white sand beach. Gaily striped awnings fluttered at the windows. Wide porches wrapped the tabby walls, with intricate curlicues adorning the balconies like icing on a wedding cake. A breeze carried the salty scent of the sea and stirred the Spanish moss draping the trees. The show grounds stretched across a broad green lawn, framed by century-old live oaks.

Mark walked around the car and nodded. “Not a scratch. Thanks, guys.” He ran his sleeve over a smudge on the chrome. “What do you think, Mom?”

Mia’s fingertip trailed along the glossy paint, following the crisp reflection of the trees. For a second she didn’t speak. Then she looked up. “It’s exactly how your dad would have wanted it.”

“I can’t believe it sat in storage all that time. Dad would have loved this.” Nicole stepped closer.

Alec grinned and swung the door open. He dropped into the driver’s seat with easy confidence. “Yeah, I could get used to this ride.”

“Get out of there,” Nicole said, laughing. “You can’t drive it until after the judging.”

Alec slipped back out, still smiling. “I bet that car didn’t look this good when great-granddad drove it.”

“Probably not,” Mia said. “But it looks great now.”

Mia had married Leo Spinel when his sons, Mark and Alec, were young. Nicole, their twenty-five-year-old daughter, had come along a few years later. Before his death, Leo had begun the long restoration process. Now, Mia and her children had finally brought the car to the Grand Island Concours.

The Lincoln Zephyr had been Leo’s grandfather’s car, a tribute to the first Spinel hotel’s success. He had driven it for decades before parking it in storage when the newfangled air conditioning came out. He’d always intended to drive it again.

The beautiful four-door convertible made Mia long for coastal drives, with salt air filling her lungs and wind in her hair. Its Art Deco design featured a curving chrome front grille, a swooping hood ornament rising like the prow of a ship, and silver trim running the length of the sides. A central circular dial dominated the dashboard, promising speeds of up to a hundred mph. A V-12 engine hinted at far more power than the cream Bakelite dial showed.

And now the Zephyr was finally here, at the twentieth Grand Island Concours, ready to be inspected by some of the most respected judges on the circuit. The quietly influential event took over the entire island for a week.

The Zephyr fit into the show as though it had always been there, but was far from the most unusual car on display. Cars and enthusiasts traveled from all over the world to Georgia’s Golden Isles. Impeccably restored automobiles worth millions of dollars and well-maintained classics lined the smooth green lawns beneath the live oak trees.

Mark’s feet shifted, matting the grass under his leather soles. His khakis had a crisp crease, and his custom-made white button-down shirt was neatly tucked in. He leaned down to brush a microscopic mote of dust off the Zephyr, then stood and scanned the other cars moving into place with a solemn face. Around the lawn, owners lovingly tended their cars—the judging started tomorrow. “I suppose it’s time to make the rounds.”

“No rush,” Alec said easily. “Everyone’s still getting settled in.” He was slightly taller than his older brother, with an athletic frame from constant activity. He mountain biked, kayaked, and Mia strongly suspected he wasn’t mentioning the mountains he had climbed. She preferred Mark’s golf and tennis—though she had a feeling Mark joined his brother on far too many dangerous adventures.

“The Vardania group will be calling again any minute,” Nicole said. “Relax while you can.”

Mark ran a hand through his dark hair, frowning. “If I’d known how much trouble they’d be, I’d never have let them set up a pavilion.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with the pavilion,” Mia reminded him. “Oliver set that up.” The Spinels had hired Oliver McNally, a retired classic automobile auction specialist, to run the Grand Island event when they’d first started the concours. His dedication had been a large part of its success.

“Well, I wish they would realize that Oliver’s in charge of the car show, not me. Sometimes I think they forget I’m CEO of the whole resort group, not just this event,” Mark said.

Alec’s white teeth flashed as he laughed. “You always answer the phone. That’s the problem.” Despite his long hours as COO, Alec vigorously preserved his vacation time. He often didn’t even carry a phone on his more remote treks.

“I’d barely heard of Vardania before they set up the pavilion,” Nicole said. “I’m ashamed to say that I had to look at a map to find it—it’s only a tiny country on the Black Sea.”

“I heard it’s the place to go for black market trading,” Alec said with a broad wink.

“They sent some gorgeous cars for their goodwill tour of the United States. The president, Viktor Karev, and his family are arriving today,” Mia said.

“It’s not the president who’s bothering me. I swear their chief of staff, Adriana, has called at least every hour over yet another minor crisis,” Mark said. “She’s killing me.”

“Adriana just likes to talk to the boss directly,” Mia said soothingly. “She should calm down after the president arrives.”

“Or get even worse,” Nicole teased. “I’ve heard some stories.”

“His wife, Elena, is a prominent society hostess,” Mia said. “She’ll smooth things over.”

“And she’s gorgeous, too,” Nicole added. “I can’t wait to see her clothes.” Nicole took after her mother, with a wide, welcoming smile. Naturally blonde hair fell past her shoulders, topped with an oversized straw hat that hung down over one eye with a rakish swoop. Her classic A-line dress in a crisp pink floral linen showed off long tan legs ending in bright green espadrille wedges. A few chunky green glass bracelets encircled her wrist, chiming with every gesture she made.

She was steadily working her way up through Spinel Resorts’ financial department. The current CFO, her great-uncle, was a mere eighty years old. He planned his retirement only when he considered her properly trained for the job.

“We’ve got a terrific lineup of guests and cars.” Mark smiled with satisfaction. “Twenty years. I can’t believe it. I was fifteen at the first one—completely blown away.” Those years smoothed from his face, and his bright blue eyes lit with excitement.

“When we held the first show, we had no idea whether anyone would even come,” Mia said. “At the end of the week, we’d raised enough to run the Harbor Light Children's Homes for a year. Every year, we have a wonderful event, and the proceeds run the homes.”

“Let’s go see the cars,” Nicole said eagerly, turning toward the rest of the show. Mark and Alec followed.

Mia lingered beside the Zephyr, brushing away an imaginary speck. She blinked hard. Her gaze followed the three young people striding confidently across the grounds, pausing to shake a hand or lean over a vintage hood. Her mouth curved. Leo would have been proud.

Pulling her shoulders back and brightening her smile, she crossed the lawn. Her family leaned over a charming red MG TC convertible, as cheerful as a child’s toy shining in the sun. Both men pointed out various mechanical curiosities, while Nicole stood admiring.

As Mia came up, Nicole gave her a smile, then linked arms. “1948, isn’t it amazing? It looks brand new—and such elegant lines compared to modern cars. Edward tells me it took him three years to restore.”

A young man dressed in high-waisted trousers pushed driving gloves into his seersucker jacket. An orange waistcoat, with a gold pocket watch on a chain, completed the look. “Edward Stubbs, ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you, Edward. I’m Mia Spinel.” She took in his vintage outfit, her mouth twitching at the corner. “You’re dressed just right for your car, too.”

“I like staying in period,” he said, his long face lighting up. “It’s like traveling back in time for a whole week.”

“It’s going to be a great event—I love your enthusiasm,” Mia said.

The family continued walking. Mark gestured across the lawn. “The Zephyr is in the American Classics row, European cars on the other side. Each class gets its own award, but we’re all competing for several, like Grand Touring or the Original Paint Award.”

Alec broke in, “Not a chance for us on that one, I’m afraid. Great-granddad drove it too much.”

Mia spied a familiar face and crossed to the American side. “Billy! It’s great to see you. Is this your jeep?”

Her old friend Billy Watson gave her a wide grin from behind the steering wheel of a 1943 Willys Jeep. “She finally made it!” The capable jeep looked like it had shrugged off a war and continued its adventures.

Alec let out a low whistle. “It’s fantastic!”

“Did it all myself,” Billy said, patting the metal dashboard. “This girl was a mess when I found her. Now, she’ll go anywhere.” He jumped out with surprising spryness for his age. “And I mean anywhere. These babies could take on any terrain and keep on going. I take my grandsons off-roading in it. You should see the caked-on pluff mud.”

“I can’t see a trace of mud now,” Mia said. “So that’s where you’ve been.”

“Mostly. I just got back from picking up the Vardanians from the airport. Maria wanted her best driver for the VIPs.” Billy’s narrow shoulders lifted.

“I haven’t met them yet. What are they like?” Mia asked.

“He talks a lot, mostly about himself. The wife’s not happy, but doesn’t say a word. Just looked out the window the whole time.” He clicked his tongue sharply, then turned back to the Willys. “Took two weeks to clean her up for this show. I’m almost done. She looks good, doesn’t she?” His face creased into a network of wrinkles as he beamed.

“It was worth it,” Mark said. He walked around the little jeep. He tapped the spare gas can and bent to look underneath. “What a trooper!”

Billy swiped the dull green hood with a microfiber. “She’ll do.” He leaned under the dash.

“We’ll see you tonight,” Mia said with a smile.

He grunted in reply as his wiry figure contorted to reach the offending spot.

A hint of magnolia blossoms hung in the air as they walked under the shade of the spreading trees. Around them, the show hummed with the excited chatter of long-lost friends meeting, the creaks of tires positioning into place, and the last-minute swish of polishing cloths.

Mark waved a hand. “The Preservation Lawn’s over there—the unrestored cars. Pretty amazing what people find stored in barns. We’ll have to check those out.”

“There’s something special about a vintage car—one that was driven,” Mia said. “So many now just wait in storage. Almost sad.”

Mark shrugged. “Something for everyone.”

A soft Southern voice drawled, “Aren’t you Mark Spinel? I love your car.”

An attractive woman wearing a cherry-red sundress stepped toward him, adroitly cutting him out of the family group. Golden blond hair in soft waves curled over her tanned shoulder. A substantial pink diamond on her right hand caught the light as she held it out. “I adore handsome men and gorgeous cars. Come see mine. I’m Camille, Camille Barron. It’s my very first year here.” Her showgirl smile spread across her face.

Mark froze, then a pleased smile spread across his face. “Sure, I’d love to see your car.”

“It’s over in the big American ones. A 1957 Cadillac.” She gave a quick, self-conscious laugh. “All-American, that’s me.” She slipped her arm through his with easy familiarity and led him away, her conversation easily flowing in a honeyed drawl. Her head tilted up to his. He didn’t seem to notice that Mia and the others were no longer with him.

Nicole muffled a giggle. “Mark doesn’t get out of the office enough.”

Mia didn’t answer. Her eyes followed her stepson as she adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat to a precise angle. Then she smiled at Nicole and Alec. “What’s next?”

A red sedan, so polished it almost glowed in the sunlight, guided their steps. Admiring, Mia paused to read the placard. “1938 Buick Roadmaster Touring Sedan. Goodness, it’s in beautiful condition. You’d think it had come straight from the factory.”

A tall man almost overwhelmed by his wild mane of white hair leaned over the hood, polishing vigorously. He straightened at their approach. He said, “Thank you. I restored it myself, with my grandson’s help.”

A gawky teenage boy with tousled dark hair smiled bashfully.

“Very impressive,” Mia said, offering her hand. “I’m Mia Spinel. These are my children, Alec and Nicole.”

He made a small bow as he shook her hand. “I’m Peter Antony. It’s very nice to meet you.”

The teenager transferred his microfiber cloth to his left hand, holding out his other hand in a well-drilled gesture. “Nice to meet you. I’m Matt Antony.”

Peter gestured around the concours grounds. “Spinel…Are you the organizer of the show?”

“No, just the hotel owners. Oliver McNally has run the show since the beginning.” She walked around the car, admiring the pristine white-walled tires and the shining chrome grille.

“Quite a heritage.” Peter lightly touched the fender with a cloth. “I wanted one of these from the time I first saw it in a magazine—open roads and a powerful engine. A classic car to tour the country seemed like the essence of America.”

“It really is,” Mia agreed, peering into the Roadmaster’s window. She inhaled the smell of polished leather. “Do you drive it?”

“Of course,” Peter said, surprised. “Whenever the weather is good, we drive up and down the coast.” He smiled, giving her a wink. “My wife’s escaped to the spa—she says we fuss over an old car too much.”

Mia laughed and said, “Then she’s having fun at the show too.”

They continued walking down the long lines of pristinely restored cars, each offering a glimpse into a glamorous history. At the end of the promenade, a wide circular area opened up, paved with crushed oyster shells and ringed by low tabby walls. Ancient oaks cast dappled shade across the broad pavilion.

Three cars stood angled prominently on the fine gravel. A dark-haired, tanned man in spotless mechanic’s overalls was bent over one of the engines, a large red toolbox open beside him. A square-shouldered man with close-cropped hair and narrowed pale eyes stood next to him, watching his every move.

“That’s the Vardania group,” Alec said. “Very nice cars.”

“They don’t look like they’ve ever been driven,” Mia observed.

“Not a scratch,” Alec murmured as a woman called out, beckoning to them with an impatient hand, her long white nails gleaming like talons. He muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “That’s Adriana Vukic, their chief of staff. Rumor has it that she’s the president’s mistress. Here we go again.”

Adriana’s dress clung to her petite, surgically enhanced figure. Her designer handbag lay open on the table, and from the contents spilling out—lipstick, paperwork, and a dress—Mia wondered if it had doubled as her suitcase. Dark chestnut hair fell in a smooth sheet that reached halfway down her back, framing her narrow, sallow face. It was difficult to tell what her features were under the heavy makeup—only the black lashes and the vivid red lips stood out.

Her words tumbled out in a heavily accented, deep-throated purr. “Alec, thank goodness you’re here. The cars were unloaded an hour ago, but the roses still haven’t arrived. Where are they?” Her foot tapped impatiently, balanced on a stilt-like heel.

“The roses?” Alec gestured at Mia and Nicole. “My mother, Mia Spinel, and my sister, Nicole.”

Adriana dismissed the women’s introduction with a sharp gesture. “The roses for the opening ceremony. They’re an hour late.”

“Have you spoken with the hotel manager?” Mia asked.

“No, no—we ordered them from a florist in town, not the hotel. We needed many, many roses.” She waved her hands expressively. “The president will not be happy if the roses aren’t here.”

“I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”

“But what if they don’t?” Her words tumbled out, increasing to a grating pitch. “The event will be ruined. Completely ruined. President Karev insists on roses. They are the symbol of Vardania.” She glared at Alec, almost spitting. “I blame the hotel.”

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing the hotel can do about outside orders,” Mia said. “The florist is probably caught in traffic. Because of all these gorgeous cars, we have to check everyone coming onto the island—especially with protests planned against your president.”

“Preposterous,” Adriana screeched. “You should throw them in prison.”

A deep voice boomed across the pavilion. “Adriana? Adriana!”

Adriana’s shoulders slumped for a second. Then she straightened. “He’s here,” she muttered, pulling her shoulders back and her bust forward as she hurried to meet her boss. “President! I’m glad you’re here.”

“And my cars? Have they arrived safely?” The president was small in stature. His bulky shoulders and a puffed-out chest gave him the air of a strutting pigeon. His military khaki had enough added gold braid to compensate for his height. He briefly touched Adriana’s waist and moved toward the cars.

He motioned to the square-shouldered man, who gave a curt nod and moved into step behind the president.

A statuesque woman waited beside him, wearing a perfectly fitted cream silk suit. Her ash-blonde hair was impeccably controlled in a French twist that wound pale highlights into an intricate sculpture. She held herself rigidly erect, as if pulled by a marionette string, every muscle of her face tensed into place. Her four-inch heels barely made a sound on the gravel. Her oval face was naturally beautiful, with high, prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a graceful neck, encircled by a gold torque studded with sparkling gems.

Nicole said, “That’s Elena Karev. What a gorgeous Valentino suit she’s wearing—I told you she’d dress well. She was an Olympic gold medalist for Vardania, a biathlete.”

“She still has that lovely athletic posture.” Mia took a step forward as Mark hurried up, holding out his hand to the important arrival. The man next to the president stepped sideways, blocking his way.

Mark didn’t miss a beat. He smoothly redirected his hand toward the president’s security. “Mark Spinel. Welcome to Grand Island.”

The man nodded with no change of expression, barely touching Mark’s hand. “Nicholas Vale, Vardania’s chief of security.” He gestured toward the president. “Viktor, this is the hotel owner.”

The president stepped back, then shook Mark’s hand. “Spinel Resorts. Call me Viktor,” he ordered. His mouth widened. “Why don’t you have a Spinel Resort in my country yet? You will, once you see what my beautiful country has to offer.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Mark said smoothly. “Your cars are certainly something.”

The president led him to the cars, the others trailing behind. Nicholas stayed close, his head constantly turning, his body angled protectively toward Viktor. Mia wondered how difficult it was for one man to guard a president, especially with vocal protesters just outside the island gates.

Viktor stopped in front of the first car and pointed with a blunt forefinger. “A 1936 Bugatti Type 57. Once the property of the Vardania royal family. Now it belongs to the people.” He gave a small, satisfied nod. “A valuable car.”

Mia nodded politely. The insurance needed for these cars this week had been impressive.

Viktor moved to the next car and clapped the mechanic on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “1939 Mercedes-Benz 540K Cabriolet.” His teeth gleamed white. “I bought this for the country myself, to lead our parades.”

He peered into the engine. “What do you think, Tomas? Did they survive their journey well?”

Mark leaned over the bright red convertible, examining the dashboard. Tomas quickly moved in front of the Mercedes, his heavy eyebrows lowering. “Don’t touch.”

Mark took a step back. “Sorry.”

Tomas turned to the president. “I’m still checking them over, sir. The plane was a week late due to mechanical issues, so they only arrived today. They’ll be ready for you to inspect this evening.”

Viktor nodded and moved to the last car. “And this—a 1939 Delahaye 135M Figoni et Falaschi. Once owned by the former queen. Unique.”

The swooping, dramatic lines were pure Art Deco. The tires were almost eclipsed by bulbous fender skirts. It looked less like an automobile and more like a sculpture. It was unlike anything Mia had seen.

Viktor stood smiling possessively at the cars.

Mia’s eyes drifted to his wife, standing in front of his mistress. Elena’s face was impassive. She might have been looking at a traffic light, waiting for it to change.