Synopsis – Dashiki
A cozy mystery with a dash of romance set in the vibrant world of jazz.
During an interview with reclusive jazz singer Betty Brown, journalist Virginia Farrell is shown priceless tapes from the iconic 1957 Thelonious Monk-John Coltrane gig at the Five Spot. When Betty is found murdered, Virginia is determined to recover the tapes and uncover the truth behind Betty’s death.
In the spirit of Nancy Drew, Virginia teams up with her six-foot blonde roommate to investigate the various suspects. Detective Robert Smith from the Hoboken Police Department joins the case, quickly becoming absorbed by an unsolved murder possibly linked to Betty Brown’s death, as well as an undeniable attraction to Virginia.
Dashiki is a cozy mystery laced with romance, immersing readers in the captivating world of jazz, where musicians, journalists, scholars, and enthusiasts intersect in an entertaining whodunit.
Author Bio
Florence Wetzel was born 1962 in Brooklyn, NY. Her novels include the thriller The Woman Who Went Overboard and the Swedish mystery The Grand Man. She has also authored horror short stories, a book of poems and memoir essays, and co-authored jazz clarinettist Perry Robinson’s autobiography. In July 2024, she published Sara My Sara: A Memoir of Friendship and Loss.
Social Media Links – Facebook
Florence Wetzel (@florencewetzel108) • Instagram profile
(1) Florence Wetzel | LinkedIn
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Dashiki – Extract
In this scene, the detectives arrive at the site of the murder to begin their investigation. While examining the scene, they uncover their first important clue: a name and number scrawled on a torn piece of paper.
“Name’s Baseema Baheera,” an officer said as Robert and Tony rushed up to the door of 1305 Bloomfield, after double-parking behind an ambulance and a squad car. “Dead from a hit to the head. The kid in there found her.”
He nodded toward a frightened-looking Black boy visible through the building’s glass doors. A woman stood behind the boy with her hands resting on his shoulders, tears streaking her worried face.
Robert took in the scene outside the building. Neighbors and passersby had gathered in the courtyard, chattering excitedly.
“Disperse the crowd,” Robert instructed the officer. “Or at least get them on the sidewalk. And set up cones to redirect traffic. Where’s the apartment?”
“First floor. Around the corner to the right, next to the elevator.”
Robert and Tony entered the building and found the apartment. An officer had just finished securing yellow crime-scene tape across the door.
“I went in to check the body,” the officer told Robert. “Otherwise nobody’s touched anything.”
“Good. Wait here for now.”
“You want we should go in?” Tony asked.
Robert paused. He and Tony were the same rank, but since Robert had so much homicide experience, it made sense for him to take the lead. Although just for now: the procedure for violent crimes was that Hoboken uniform and detectives did the initial footwork, then turned everything over to the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office.
“Hold on,” Robert said. “Let’s talk to the witness first.”
As they approached, the boy’s eyes widened with fear. Robert smiled to reassure him.
“It’s all right, son,” he said, kneeling in front of the boy. “You’ve done nothing wrong. What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“All right, Alex. Why don’t you tell us what you saw?”
The boy looked up at the woman, who inclined her head. He cleared his throat and said, “My mom, she asked me to check on Miss Baheera. ’Cause she’s been sick, and we bring her food most days. I went over to see if she wanted some dinner.”
“Go on,” Robert said.
“I knocked, but no one answered. Miss Baheera sometimes didn’t hear so good, so I tried the door. It was unlocked and I went in. I saw her on the floor. There was blood.”
“Did you touch anything?”
Alex shook his head vehemently. “No, sir. I went right back and told my mom.”
“And your apartment is—?”
“Next door,” the mother said. She had a round, attractive face with liquid brown eyes. “We’ve been neighbors for years. We always looked after Baseema, as much as she’d let us, especially when she got the cancer.”
“You’re the one who called 911?”
“Yes.”
Robert turned back to the boy. “Alex, did you see anyone in the hallway or going into the elevator?”
He shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Did you, ma’am?”
“No. It was quiet. At least then it was.”
“How do you mean?”
“The walls here are thin. I had the radio playing, but throughout the afternoon I heard Baseema talking with someone, laughing now and then. That was unusual; she didn’t get many visitors.”
“No raised voices or sound of a struggle?”
“Not that I heard. Like I said, I had the radio on. If the song was on the quiet side, I could hear a bit, but mostly I didn’t hear too much.”
“OK. Why don’t you two go back to your apartment, and an officer will take your statements.” Robert smiled encouragingly at the boy. “You did a good job, Alex.”
“Officer?” the mother said. “I want you to know that Baseema was the most harmless creature on earth. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill her.”
“We’re going to try to figure that out,” Robert replied.
Together with Tony, he walked back to the apartment.
“Ready?” Tony said.
Robert gave a brief nod. “Ready.”
He lifted the yellow tape. They ducked under it, and Tony pushed the door open with one hand. Robert took a deep breath and stepped into the apartment.
A short entry hall led into a small, square living room. To the left was a compact kitchen and an open door leading to a bathroom. On the right was a closed door, most likely the bedroom.
The living room had two windows, bookshelves, and framed pictures on the walls. A beige couch, a black-leather armchair, and a coffee table sat on light-blue carpeting. Near the front door, a small table held a black purse and a dish with keys.
And on the floor, a thin Black woman in a light-green dress and dark-blue headscarf lay face down. A wound on the back of her head had seeped blood onto the carpet.
Tony and Robert moved forward and knelt by the body. Robert reached out a hand and placed it gingerly on the woman’s back.
“Still warm,” he commented. “This happened less than an hour ago.”
Tony nodded, not taking his eyes off the prone woman.
Robert eyed a thick glass vase on the coffee table. Blood stained the outside of the vase, and a crumpled napkin lay next to it.
“Looks like our weapon,” Tony said.
Robert nodded. “And that napkin was probably used to wipe off the prints.”
He looked around the apartment. It had been a hot, sunny day, and beams of light still shone through the two windows.
“OK,” Robert said. “Go ahead with the photos and prints.”
As Tony clicked away, Robert examined the room. The coffee table held his attention a long time. The table held two teacups with spoons on the saucers, a white sugar bowl, a creamer of milk with a layer of film on top, and a stack of napkins. The vase, which judging by the layout of the cups had originally been the centerpiece, was near a corner.
There was also a piece of paper torn from a notebook with a name and number written in big letters:
Virginia Farrell
845-435-3191
