Confound It
Page 25
Mayes, Larissa, and I returned to our bodies, holding each other and reflecting on what we’d experienced.
He’d gone. I felt the Roland-void in my heart and soul. I was truly a widow in every sense of the word. But I wasn’t alone, not now, not ever. Mayes had healed the rift in our world and in my heart. He’d taught me how to live.
Photo by Jeanie Reeves
Formerly a contract scientist for the U.S. Army and a freelance reporter, mystery and suspense author Maggie Toussaint has nineteen published books, sixteen as Maggie Toussaint and three as Rigel Carson. Her previous mysteries include Gone and Done it , Bubba Done It , Doggone It , Dadgummit , Death , Island Style , the Lindsey & Ike Mysteries, and three titles in her Cleopatra Jones series: In For A Penny , On the Nickel , and Dime If I Know . Her latest mystery, Confound It , is Book Five in her Dreamwalker series about a psychic sleuth. Maggie won the Silver Falchion Award for Best Cozy/Traditional mystery in 2014. Additionally, she won a National Readers Choice Award and an EPIC award for Best Romantic Suspense. She lives in coastal Georgia, where secrets, heritage, and ancient oaks cast long shadows.
Visit her at www.maggietoussaint.com.
During a family vacation at a mountainside lake, psychic sleuth Baxley Powell is enlisted by the local police to find the killer of a man mysteriously drained of his life force. The otherworldly trail leads to Jonas, a vampire who feeds off energy, not blood. Joining forces with a Native American detective whose powers rival her own, Baxley sets out to conquer this formidable entity.
Dadgummit
Chapter One
The campfire’s flames soothed my soul after the eight-hour, three- hundred-fifty-mile drive from the coast. We had six glorious days in the Georgia mountains before jobs and the start of school demanded our return.
Should have done this months ago. Should’ve packed up the people I loved and hit the road for a vacation at the start of summer. But between dreamwalking and police consulting—two new jobs I’d added seven months ago—and my Pets and Plants business, I’d barely had time to catch my breath this year. Now we’d nearly run out of August. It was the last Tuesday of the month, and I had until Sunday to relax, unwind, and recharge with my favorite people.
I’m Baxley Powell, and apparently I’m a workaholic. People say I look a bit like Emma Watson from Harry Potter fame, but other than the shoulder- length brown hair, cocoa-colored eyes, lean body, and extra abilities, I don’t see it. At five-six, I’m taller than the actress and shun the spotlight. And then there’s my dreamwalking, which melds several psychic abilities, as opposed to her character’s fictional magic.
Mom cleared her throat, drawing me back to the campsite. My folks were the last wave of baby boomers, but their style of dress remained true to the 1960s. Both sported tie-dye T-shirts and wore their long gray hair in braids. My mom was dressed in a denim jumper, my dad in denim shorts and flip- flops. In age, they were nearing sixty, but I’d never known anyone more ageless and agile.
After the Army declared my soldier husband dead, I’d moved home to the house I’d inherited from my grandmother in Sinclair County, an hour south of Savannah, Georgia. My parents lived about ten minutes from me. They were a constant source of inspiration, encouragement, and childcare. Between my mother’s affinity with crystals and my father’s ability to talk to the dead, I had a built-in support team for dreamwalking.
“Tab and I are headed over to my friend Luanne’s farm first thing in the morning,” Mom said. “We’re helping her put up pickles. Her brother is there and he offered to teach Tab how to whittle. Everyone is welcome to join us.”
“No thanks. I plan to veg in the sun,” Charlotte said, firelight glinting off her glasses. My friend’s outgoing personality, ambition, and her love of bold colors and chunky jewelry made some folks wary, or maybe it was the heavy makeup that stood out in our small town. Honest to God, she never had a stray hair in her auburn bob or bangs, while my hair constantly stuck out in every direction.
We’d been best friends since Sinclair County Elementary School, and she was the closest thing I had to a sister. Plus, she was three months older than me, so I got to tease her every year about being an older woman. Right now, she was twenty-nine to my twenty-eight.
For months Charlotte had been vying for top dog at our local paper, but the constant friction had worn her down. She’d leapt at the chance to get away. “I don’t want to think about deadlines or careers,” Charlotte continued. “Last time I visited Annabelle’s place in the mountains, I was a teenager. I plan to relive my glory days of being a slug.”
Charlotte’s cousin, Annabelle Kinsey, owned this property at Stony Creek Lake in north Georgia where we’d parked our borrowed RVs. When we’d asked Annabelle to recommend a campsite, she insisted we stay on her land. Three years ago, a friend of hers had sprung for electricity and water, installing it in the nearby pavilion along with an outdoor shower, thus creating the ideal temporary getaway. Annabelle said we’d be doing her a favor by making sure everything worked.
Her kind offer plus the campers we’d borrowed made this an inexpensive vacation. My tag-along style camper was a loaner from one of my Pets and Plants clients, and my folks were using their friend Running Bear’s small motorhome. They’d towed their sub-compact sedan behind it for scooting around in the mountains. We’d already connected both campers to water and power, so camping was going to be even easier than we thought.
“Sounds like we can accommodate everyone’s wishes,” I said. “The forecast is for blue skies and low eighties. A perfect day to be outdoors. Fishing in the morning for me, and paddleboarding in the afternoon for Larissa.”
As one, the dogs lifted their heads. Maddy, our black lab, bolted to her feet, her hackles raised. A deep rumble sounded in her throat, a menacing sound I’d never heard her make. Elvis and Muffin, our Chihuahua and Shih- poo, stood at attention behind her, their gazes riveted on the same spot in the woods.
Something was out there. Unfortunately, my Beretta was in the camper under my pillow. As concerned as the dogs were, I wouldn’t have enough time to grab the gun from inside and protect my family.