Mancini Blue

Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Series: Art Studio Mystery, 1
Release Date: October 13, 2026
Genre: Cozy Paranormal Mystery
Available Formats: eBook and Print

A widower turns amateur sleuth to solve his wife’s murder

After his wife, famous artist Sophie Mancini, allegedly commits suicide in Savannah, wealthy financial advisor Robert Calloway makes a fresh start on St James Island. To honor Sophie, Bob creates the Island Art Gallery. He lives above the shop with his niece, her ten-year-old daughter, and Sophie’s cairn terrier.

He is certain the cops got his wife’s means of death wrong. When he left her in the studio that fateful evening to paint overnight, her door locked behind him. She wouldn’t unlock her door for a stranger. To get justice for Sophie, Bob delves into her murder using his hidden ability to help find solid evidence.

When he unsuccessfully searches his old Savannah haunts for leads, he returns to St. James to discover a bizarre murder occurred near his shop. Despite his alibi, he is questioned by the local cops. He’s stunned when many aspects of this new case are identical to Sophie's death. Thus, solving his wife’s murder will most likely shed light on the recent case.

Bob’s suspect list includes family members, neighbors, friends, and Sophie's art associates. He discovers people are rarely what they seem and believes this deadly foe kills to protect secrets. Can he identify his wife’s murderer before the killer strikes again?

Chapter 1

Nothing about Sophie’s so-called suicide last year felt right. The familiar stab of grief welled and receded as Robert Calloway focused straight ahead on the fishing pier’s splintered wood decking. The sounds of ocean waves crashing on the nearby seawall drowned out murmurs of strolling passersby. Thunder rumbled across the Atlantic, matching his stormy mood.

Bob had tried to forget the pain. When that didn’t work he’d turned to the bottle and fighting. That proved disastrous. He’d settled for the maxim of time healing all wounds.

As if. Time and therapy had given him perspective. His physical wounds had healed. Substance free and mostly pain free now, he felt like himself.

Strong.

Sharp.

Intuitive.

He was back. And though he lived in the now, checking into his wife’s death—no, her murder—was still his priority. He owed her that much.

“Mr. Calloway?” a tart female voice intruded on his musings.

“I’m Bob Calloway. What can I do for you?” He rose from the wooden bench and studied the tall, slender woman before him. Chin length blonde hair. Dark glasses. Modest diamond studs on her earlobes. Lavender blazer and top. Black pants with low heels. Nice.

Blondie flashed a badge and a tight smile. “Police Chief Darlene Smiley. May I join you?”

When apprehension threatened, he batted it down. Not going there. He gestured to the bench. “Certainly. Are you a local artist seeking to place your work in my art studio shop?”

She perched lightly on the bench, her jacket gaping to reveal her holstered gun. “Not an artist unless you consider the criminal justice system a living sculpture. My work is never done.”

Touché. He sat and leaned against the back railing, cautiously opening his extra senses. She had good energy. Vibrant orange, in fact. Man, it felt good to register that sensation again. Therapy meds had dulled his senses. Thankfully, he was med-free now.

“What’s this about?” he asked. Did he cross a legal line during his recent move sixty miles south?

“You.” Her energy spiked as she spoke. “We have a peaceful community here, Mr. Calloway.”

That pulse meant the conversation upset her. The caretaker part of him reacted to her rising stress. He wanted to soothe her, and the new Bob trusted his instincts. So he softened his tone. “Please call me Bob.”

She scowled at him in return. “My cousin is on the force in Savannah. I asked him to pull your file, Calloway, because your name sounded familiar. You got yourself in a world of trouble last year with your drunken brawls. We don’t tolerate those shenanigans in Brynn County. You’re officially on notice from my office. No bar fights. No public drunkenness.”

Egad. His police record.

Would he never escape it?

He flashed an easy smile, gesturing upward with his palms. “I’m a changed man, chief. You have my word I won’t be fighting or drinking.”

She held her silence long enough to raise his stress level then proceeded to lecture him. “We have zero tolerance for destructive behavior in our county. St. James Island is a Georgia tourist resort. We rely on visitors to fuel our economy. If the wrong crowd gets a foothold here, it’s bad for business and unsafe for residents.”

“Understood, and we’re on the same page. My shop relies on tourist trade as well.”

“We’re happy to have your business here, but that won’t buy you an ounce of sympathy with the law if you screw up.”

Man oh man. Felt like he was a grade schooler sitting outside Principal McFee’s office again. He tugged at his shirt collar. “You sure know how to make a newcomer feel welcome.”

She leaned into his space. “I’m not rolling out the hospitality mat, and I need to be crystal clear. I’m not soft on crime.”

He’d heard about that. For weeks, the daily paper on the mainland had been poking at Chief Smiley over a homicide, saying she couldn’t do her job, that she wasn’t tough enough. Given the furor in print, he’d thought they might be onto something.

And secretly hoped she’d be too busy to notice him taking root over here.

But now, seeing Darlene Smiley in person and sensing her mostly good energy, he believed in her integrity. Her emotions weren’t shielded. Was that by choice or ignorance? Either way, he found her green-apple-crisp directness refreshing.

He shot her a wry smile, and his gaze lingered on those enigmatic dark glasses. “Message received. I mean no harm to the tourists, the residents, or the economy here. St. James Island is a fresh start for me.”

Though he’d spoken assertively, questions churned in his mind. Why did she hide her eyes? What color were they? And most importantly, what did she see when she looked at him? He’d worn many hats in recent times: husband, father, businessperson, grief-stricken man, broken loser, and out-of-control wastrel. Did her cop eyes see only the wear and tear on his body? Would she find him lacking?

The latter thought saddened him. He’d hoped to blend in and build a new life, and she was reading him the riot act. But she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know he was a man on a mission who needed this do-over. He had to believe he would succeed because he would never return to Underwood. Been there, done that.

“Are we good?” she asked, rising.

Sea gulls wheeled overhead as he rose beside her. “We’re good, Chief.”

He watched her stride away, admiring her confident exit. With studied casualness, he sat again, resting his hand in the spot where she’d sat. Static filled his senses at the layers of energy she left behind. He fine-tuned the read. Spiky and orange with an undercurrent of … something else. He focused a bit more.

Attraction. She was attracted to him, and it bugged her. Perversely, interest unfurled in him like a tender shoot. Down boy, he told his libido. Justice for Sophie comes first.

~*~

Later that day, his grandniece tugged on his arm. He turned from his home laptop to face the ten-year-old holding his geriatric terrier in her arms. “What’s up, Gussie?”

“I miss Aunt Sophie. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.”

His gut panged at the topic. Grief still smacked him hard at times like this. “Me, too.”

“This feeling I have,” Gussie continued as she stroked the terrier’s fur, “it won’t go away. Something bad happened to Aunt Sophie.”

Alarm shafted through Bob. He’d begun experiencing “knowing” feelings at puberty, same as his brother. Gussie was mature for her age, but she shouldn’t be thinking about death. And yet, what if she was like him? She might need his guidance.

“Tell me more about the feeling,” he said. “How did it come to you?”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t there, and now it is.”

“It’s a sort of knowing? No sounds, voices, or anything scary?”

“Nope.” Her elfin face scrunched up. “Does it matter?”

“Sometimes knowing feelings come with other stuff. If that happens, please tell your mom or me. We can help you with that.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Gussie huffed out a breath of air. The dog shot him a pained look. “About Aunt Sophie. I want to help her. I want to do something.”

“You are helping. You’re telling me about your feeling.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the cops?”

A sticky wicket for sure.

He’d walked this unholy road of benighted righteousness before, and his life went sideways. “I never agreed with the Savannah police about Sophie’s death, and they won’t take my calls now. I’ve been thinking about her, too, and I promise you I’ll clear her name. I was too lost in grief to be effective before. You may not want this advice but let the feeling go. Play with your friends instead of bugging your crazy uncle.”

“You’re not crazy, Uncle Bob.”

He smiled. “I appreciate your opinion.”

His grown sons weren’t so generous. His oldest, Barry, had insisted Bob spend six months in a place with shrinks and padded walls. Prescription meds and being locked up for mental illness were the deadliest cocktail he’d ever tried.

Bob ruffled Gussie’s silky brown hair. “Thanks for sharing your feeling with me, Gussie.”

She lowered the dog to the floor. Luke ambled over to his corner doggie bed, sinking down with a contented groan on his fleece-covered heating pad.

Gussie turned to him. “Can we watch a movie?”

“Sure. Go ahead and cue one up. I’ve got to answer this email, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Yay!” Gussie skipped over to the TV, turned it on, and began scanning through the kid friendly movie options online.

He turned his attention to the email from his employee, Oz Lockhart. Then he read it again. According to Oz, some fool at the Met thought the blue woman in Sophie’s “Mother and Child” painting was her dead mother communicating from the grave. Folks were coming out of the woodwork to view the exhibit. As a result, Oz wanted to schedule another dozen showings of Sophie’s work.

Bob’s gut twisted.

The traveling art shows emotionally drained him. His sons had represented the family at the Sophie Mancini Exhibits while he was locked up in Underwood, but they had their own lives to live. He couldn’t prevail on them indefinitely to represent the family. It was his turn.

Sophie’s art rotated through prestigious museums around the world, even though she’d been gone for over a year. Did she need such constant exposure? Further, did he still need an art agent on his payroll? Not ready to decide just yet.

He replied to Oz saying they’d discuss the schedule soon. Then he joined his niece on the couch for a movie. Priorities were important. The new Bob realized family was the most precious thing in the world.

~*~

“Dad! Looking good, looking good. I love your new digs.” Kevin Mancini Calloway strutted through the open doorway of The Island Art Studio, looking sun-kissed and vibrant.

The snug lavender polo shirt, form-fitted black pants, and trendy sandals Kevin wore were a familiar and welcome sight. Bob embraced his son with his heart in his throat. His son was so like his mother in looks and artistic talent. It felt good to hug him, to feel his vibrancy.

Kevin’s wavy, raven-black hair had been highlighted and shorn irregularly so that it no longer resembled his mother’s beautiful hair. His bleached eyebrows matched his striped hair. Bob gazed fondly at his son’s dark brown eyes, Sophie’s eyes and yet distinctly Kev’s too.

“So are you, son.” Bob shielded his senses against the erratic energy that accompanied his baby boy. The frantic currents worried him at first, until he realized they came from a different source than his mother’s clinical diagnosis. His youngest had new secrets and shame, but he denied both.

Kevin caught Gussie in a tickle fest. “How you doing, little minx?”

His niece dropped the dog’s leash and shrieked happily. Luke plodded over to the dog lift and waited until she scooted out of Kevin’s reach. “I’ve got to feed him before we go to dinner,” Gussie explained.

Kevin followed her to the lift, a makeshift sling of suede suspended on a swing arm powered by a motorized pulley system. She secured his terrier inside the sling and connected the top straps. Then she darted up the stairs to hoist the dog. His son shook his head and turned to face Bob. “That dog’s got it made.”

“Your brother told me to euthanize Luke because he can’t climb stairs.” Bob leaned against the checkout counter as Kevin admired the quaint seascapes in this front room of the shop. Cheery seaside watercolors sold by the hundreds to island vacationers.

Every piece in the two-month-old shop had been approved by Bob, from the darting sandpipers to the majestic lighthouses. He’d done the walls in a deep-sea green and matted the artwork in white frames. Track lighting provided illumination on featured works of art.

Best of all, the shop smelled like home. Like Sophie. He’d learned in therapy that the first year of grief was a throwaway. He’d not coped well, despite knowing that. But now, now he felt somewhat centered. And moving forward. Good things.

“This is divine.” Kevin tapped on the wormwood frame of A. Lyer’s latest effort and toured the rest of the room in a whirl of color. “Don’t mind Barry. He’s too caught up in the bottom line. Your dog isn’t a plus, so he’s a minus in Barry’s book.”

Was Bob a minus in his oldest son’s book? Barry had insisted Bob step down as CEO of Calloway Investments last year. When Bob complied, his son jumped into Bob’s CEO shoes.

Gussie’s mother, Angie Gilbert, strolled in from the back room with a handful of unframed prints and dumped them on the counter at the sight of her cousin. “Kev!”

Bob watched his family interact with paternal pride. Loving them had brought him back from the brink of chaos. Helping them provided the focus he so desperately needed.

Kevin spun Angie in tight circles until she couldn’t stop laughing. Her golden ponytail reminded Bob of a gilded feather atop a brightly colored kaleidoscope of turquoise and peach.

“Gracious, Kev,” Angie said with a giddy laugh. She grasped the counter for support after he put her down. “You’d think I hadn’t seen you in months or years. Are you that starved for affection?”

“Not hardly. I love to hear you laugh, Angie girl. Why don’t you ever come to Savannah to see me?”

Angie brushed stray tendrils of hair away from her flushed face. “Because I’m working full time at the Island Art Studio. And I have a kid to raise. A kid that goes to school.”

“That’s no excuse. If Dad won’t let you play hooky, you need a new boss. I could get you a job in Savannah.”

“Ah, but I doubt another job would pay as well as Uncle Bob pays me. Money is what I’m all about these days. Kid-sized combat boots don’t grow on trees. Behave yourself.” Angie stacked the art prints on the checkout counter and headed back to the stockroom.

“Ange, wait,” Kevin called, “I want to show you my new camera lens before I head home tonight.”

“Sure thing,” she answered from the stockroom.

His son nodded towards the other half of the shop. The half that radiated Mancini blue paint. The half that was the official Sophie Mancini art gallery. “You thought about putting my work in there, Dad?”

Ah.

A heaviness bowed Bob’s shoulders. The direct approach this time.

His son didn’t have the same fire in the belly that Sophie had for interpretive work. Which was why Bob wouldn’t display his son’s brilliant watercolors beside Sophie’s internationally acclaimed oils. “It would be a disservice to you to spend your life in your mother’s shadow. Your art is distinctly you and will triumph on its own merit.”

Kevin’s voice sharpened. “How do you know that will happen?”

“Thanks to Sophie, I have been immersed in the art world longer than you’ve been alive. I’m doing what I think is best. Your work is very good, but it’s stylistically different from your mother’s. Your work is welcome on the other side of my shop. Anytime.”

Kevin rammed his hands in his pockets. Miraculously the taut fabric didn’t rip. “You don’t want my career to take off.”

Here we go, Bob thought, recognizing the flash-and-burn of artistic temperament. Again, Kev and Sophie always insisted their way was the right way, the only way. When they were denied, they sulked and drank.

The evening went steadily downhill from there. Angie and Gussie begged off from dinner at the last minute, so Bob endured Kevin’s downward spiral alone in the nearby restaurant. After bouncing around like a grasshopper on speed, his youngest son transformed into a gloomy, despairing lump.

Bob understood the cycle. His talented wife had undergone similar mood shifts. He’d stood by her and gotten her help when she needed it. She’d been emotionally stable for six months. In retrospect, it was clear he’d missed something big. That he’d failed her.

His fingers fisted.

God willing, he’d find a way to help his son.

The music at the White Pelican Bar and Grill where they dined was superb. Bob had discovered this rustic spot recently, and although he no longer drank, he enjoyed the soft rock and pleasing harmonies of local entertainers.

Kevin downed beer after beer as if he feared a coming shortage of the stuff. He was in no shape to drive back to Savannah tonight for work tomorrow. The expedient solution to Kevin’s geographical problem scared Bob witless, but what choice did he have?

From the restaurant parking lot, he called Angie on his cell phone. “Looks like I’m headed to Savannah tonight.”

Angie’s quick intake of air was unmistakable. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

He hadn’t been to Savannah in months. After Sophie’s death, he’d found it too painful to live in the house they’d shared for thirty years. His inspiration to move south to St. James Island had coincided with his desire to make a fresh start. The best of all worlds.

“It’s time.” Bob hoped that was true.

“What happened?” Angie asked.

He heard a man’s voice in the room with Angie and winced. His brother had believed in having a variety of sexual partners, and Angie inherited that belief. She tried out men as if they were new flavors of her ever-present chewing gum.

“Kevin spent the whole evening lobbying to get his work in Sophie’s gallery,” Bob said. “He got sloppy drunk when I refused.”

“You’re driving aren’t you?”

“I’m not dumb enough to ride with a drunk driver. I’ll sleep on Kevin’s sofa tonight and then have him drive me home to the island after he gets off work tomorrow. I didn’t want you to worry when I stayed out all night. Could you and Gussie handle Luke and the shop until I get back?”

“Not a problem. Hey, listen, if you’re going to be out anyway, would you object if I let Gussie spend the night in your half of the suite? I have a friend over, and it would be less awkward if she wasn’t one thin wall away, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure. If you have any questions about the shop tomorrow, call me. I have my phone.”

“Cool. Later, Uncle Bob.”

While his son snoozed in the passenger seat, Bob drove Kevin’s white convertible over the island causeway and hopped on I-95 North. The cool night air whipped through his hair as he joined the hordes of snowbirds heading north. Pilgrims, one and all.

He’d put off this journey for months but Kevin’s intoxication gave him a compelling reason to return to his hometown of Savannah. Sure, he could cope fine on St. James, but could he hold it together in Savannah? Could he finally budge from his bone-deep belief that his wife had been murdered? The only way to know for sure was to walk in his old footsteps. To visit his old haunts.

After all, Calloways never did anything halfway.

~*~

Paint encrusted overalls burned brightly in the swampy backwoods. Sparkling, crackling heat radiated in frenzied waves from the fire. The killer shivered in rapt fascination at the billowing column of smoke above the discarded clothing, the animated tongues of fire, and the searing blue flames.

This primary color represented the ultimate cleansing, the hottest part of the flame, the most complete combustion. It signaled purification, revitalization, and rebirth.

Blue. The color of champions. Of divinity. Of the vault covering the earth. The only color better than blue was green, and plenty of green would soon be coming the killer’s way.

Easy street was around the corner. Patience had paid off, though it had been hard to wait. Patience and strict attention to detail.

The light in Bob Calloway’s bedroom had been on tonight. Bob’s Jeep had been parked behind the art shop. Bob had the means to commit murder. Bob had the opportunity. All that remained was to ensure Bob’s motive to kill was discovered.

Soon Bob would feel the blistering of heat again.

Blue heat.

Bob’s star was ebbing, but the killer’s star was ascending like a smart missile locked on target. This night’s work had gone off with military precision. The killer made certain of that.

His nemesis had a military background.

The connections were there for the men and women in blue to find. Bob would pay dearly for stealing the best years of Sophie’s life, for sleeping in Sophie’s tender arms for thirty years. The noose around Bob’s neck would close slowly, relentlessly, until that loser was truly snared.

And the man would die for his sins.

The killer felt bone-deep satisfaction. True genius could not be hidden. Its beacon blazed brightly. Like blue flames in the fires of hell.

Mancini blue flames.