A Wonder Springs Cozy Mystery Omnibus: Books 1, 2 & 3

by B. T. Alive

  With his eyebrows hunched, he gave me a single nod. “After you,” he rumbled, and gestured at the stairs, waving his enormous sleeve in a flourish.

  I returned the nod, and I skipped down the stairs, forcing myself to move with my usual energy, as if my sore body wasn’t wailing for a nap.

  But above me, the stairs squealed under the weight of my elephantine uncle. He really was like an elephant, I reflected: he was large and slow and lumbering… until he wasn’t.

  And he never forgot.

  Chapter 10

  Uncle Barnaby and I set a brisk pace across Wonder Springs toward Haven Island. The noonday sun was holding bright, but far on the horizon, a gray bank of distant clouds hinted at a storm.

  We crossed the low-water concrete bridge onto Haven Island, and I expected that Uncle Barnaby might want to examine the vineyard for himself. But the sheriff was still up there, walking the rows alone, and Uncle Barnaby gave him a wide berth, taking a low outside path on the grass near the water.

  Avoiding them suited me fine; I just hoped we’d find Radcliff holed up in the house. As long as Uncle Barnaby didn’t pulverize the man into a sniveling puddle of remorse, Radcliff might let slip a real lead. I was still suspicious of Glynis, but considering what Radcliff had done to Tina, the man could easily have at least one other ex who’d be inclined toward obsession and revenge. And we only needed one to get Tina off the hook.

  The back of Haven Island was wild, old forest; grape vines need sun, but here on the northern side, much of the day was spent in shadow. Although over the past summer I’d been out with Tina in boats on the southern side of the river, I’d never been back here before, and as I caught sight of the tiny, second island with its lone, old clapboard “mansion”, I cried out in dismay.

  “That’s the bridge?” I said. “That thing looks like it dates from the Civil War!”

  “At least,” grunted Uncle Barnaby, and he stepped out onto the narrow wooden walkway. The long old bridge groaned an ominous creak, and I could have sworn it swayed, but my uncle bustled along over the rushing river as if he were strolling on steel. I hated to show any hesitation, but I did at least wait until he’d reached the far shore before I sprinted across. The ancient boards had grayed with the decades, and the rough railing on either side was worn, and spongy, and eager to splinter into my palm.

  Maybe I wished that Barnaby hadn’t filled me in on the details of Grandma’s dream.

  But as I glimpsed the river rushing through the wide cracks between the shuddering boards, I realized a crucial detail he’d let slip; the drowning happened during a storm. We’d had some unreasonable rains lately, but the storm, if it was even going to hit us, was hours away on the horizon. Maybe days.

  Ergo, Tina was fine. Right? Right.

  (Okay, there was a fallacy in there somewhere, but until I got off this antiquated bridge, the logic would work for me.)

  I reached the far shore, where Uncle Barnaby was already striding up to the Respite’s wide porch. Unlike the bridge, the Respite had been renovated several times over the years, most recently, alas, in the 1970s, with unfortunate results. The bones of the place still stood strong, but the cozy old porch had been expanded to excess, stretching into a massive, wraparound deck that wound around the back and sailed out over the steep cliff at the tiny island’s rear. I had no idea how the original owners’ idea of a “respite” had been to butt their getaway home right against a cliff over a river, but only later had someone added that dangling deck and expected people to relax.

  Anyhow, I joined Uncle Barnaby on the front porch, which stood on solid ground, and just barely beat him to knocking on the front door. Actually, okay, we both knocked.

  He eyed me. I eyed him right back.

  The door opened, and there stood Mr. Dante Radcliff, in all his gaudy telempathic glory.

  I say “gaudy” because what first caught my eye was his neon Hawaiian shirt. Whatever he’d been wearing on that photo shoot, it had certainly suited him better than this painful orange. Nor was he doing himself any favors by exposing his gray chest hair to the navel. He had an outie. You probably didn’t need to know that. But I had to see it.

  Even adjusting for the horrifying shirt, Dante Radcliff didn’t fare so well on this closer examination. His aristocratic face and long curls, which had seemed so handsome from a distance, now looked haggard and worn. He looked every day of fifty, and then some.

  And yet, when he locked into my gaze, I found myself feeling… attracted? At least intrigued. What was that line about older men, that they looked “distinguished”? Maybe there was something to that…

  Then I caught myself, and I nearly groaned with frustration. Oh my gosh, this dude was doing his thing on me? Now? The day of his wrecked wedding, for real?

  Beside me, Uncle Barnaby harrumphed.

  Dante Radcliff snapped away his gaze, and he frowned up at Uncle Barnaby. Whatever I was feeling evaporated… maybe I’d just imagined it? It occurred to me that if Uncle Barnaby had actually physically confronted this guy several years back, we might get the door slammed in our face. But judging from Dante’s questioning eyebrows and pursed lips, all he was seeing was a huge tall wide dude with a beard. And a wizard robe and hat.

  “Hi!” I cut in, all bright and chipper. “I’m Summer Sassafras, and this is my Uncle Barnaby, and we’re from…” Should I mention the Inn? Would he remember? It would have helped to know exactly how the Merediths had run him out of town. “From around here, and we heard what happened with your vineyard and we are so sorry. Is there anything we can do?”

  Man, I sounded so fake. With a pang, I realized how much I missed Tina. She was the one to gush with that kind of abundant, sincere concern… where was that girl?

  And yet, fake as it was, Dante seemed to eat it up. His droopy eyes went bright, his brows knit with ponderous sorrow, and he shimmered into a tragic stance. “You’re too kind,” he intoned, and his rich, low, throbbing voice gave me another shiver of… something. “If only there were something you could do,” he continued. “I fear that Lee and I may never recover from the shock. We both had such high hopes here, for a new life together, here in Wonder Springs…”

  “It’s not your first time here,” Uncle Barnaby growled, unable to contain himself.

  Dante snapped him a sharp look, but he still didn’t seem to recognize him. He relaxed and shrugged. “Ah, yes,” he said. “A youthful misunderstanding.”

  “You were forty-three,” said Uncle Barnaby.

  I dug an elbow into his robe. Side note: the guy might have been carrying some excess weight, but I still hit muscle like rock.

  Uncle Barnaby flicked his eyes at me, but he held his peace.

  Meanwhile, Dante was already rhapsodizing again. “Forty-three is young, my friend. At least, for some of us.” He winked, somehow pointing it at us both. “But now, at last, as I come into maturity, I thought I’d found the One. And not just the One, but the One Place to live with my One and Only. As One.”

  “That’s… beautiful,” I managed to eke out, without throwing up. “A man like you must have had so many…” I affected a bashful hesitation. “…other women along the way.”

  Dante grinned. “Not so many,” he said. “And they were all here to see me off.”

  “What?” I blurted, totally losing the blushing ingenue act. “You invited all your exes to your wedding?”

  Beside me, Uncle Barnaby looked equally flabbergasted.

  But Dante frowned. “Naturally. Who else more fitting than former lovers to celebrate the final union? Oh, it would have been lovely… we adapted this authentic tea ceremony, they were all going to enfold the couple in a circle of platonic love—”

  “How big a circle are we talking here?” I cut in. “Seriously, all your guests are exes of you or your fiance?”

  “Well, no, only mine,” he said, as if this were obvious. “And not Glynis, of course. She’s just an old friend.”

  “Of your fiance?”

&nb
sp; “No, no,” he said. “She only met Lee this week. But they already love each other to death. And it’s been so helpful working with a local.”

  Rats. So much for my theory about Glynis holding some old grudge.

  But if the dude had seriously invited all his exes… what was he thinking? Any one of them could have gone bonkers and trashed his precious vineyard. How could anyone be so oblivious?

  “Your guests must be so disappointed,” I said, trying to get back into character. “Are they staying on for a few days? Could we stage a reception? What are their, ah, names?”

  Okay, yes, I was off my game. But the moment I’d mentioned “guests”, Barnaby had darkened back into a scowl, and his overall air of menace was super distracting.

  Besides, Dante really did seem utterly oblivious; I wasn’t sure I’d ever met someone so willing and ready to talk about themselves, delving with delight into every tiny detail as if it must hold endless fascination.

  “Oh, they’re lovely women,” he assured me. “The wedding itself may be up in the air at the moment, but you’re right, we must do something. They’ve all been so supportive. Starting, of course, with lovely young Tina. Tina Meredith. She’s local, you might know her.”

  Uncle Barnaby growled.

  “Ah, yes,” I said hastily. “Tina’s a peach. Who else?”

  “Yes, who else?” rumbled Uncle Barnaby. “Who else might have taken a just revenge, and prevented this loathsome parody of commitment?”

  “Crud,” I breathed.

  “Pardon?” said Dante. He looked confused.

  “Has the possibility truly not penetrated your narcissistic mind,” Uncle Barnaby demanded, “that the avenger who savaged your vineyard may not yet be sated? That you yourself may yet be in danger?”

  “Me?” Dante snapped, finally comprehending. “You think that vandalism had anything to do with me? I just bought the place! They were stealing the grapes, plain and simple. Some rival vineyard.”

  “The night before your wedding?” Uncle Barnaby demanded. “Have you lost all sense of self-preservation?” He leaned in, and though Dante was a tall man, he was still dwarfed by his bearded senior. Uncle Barnaby looked grim, and his fell gaze bore into the smaller man’s face.

  Dante went pale, and his jaw loosened and went slack.

  Crud! Uncle Barnaby was going Rogue Telempath and pushing him to terror! And Dante didn’t even know what was hitting him. Whatever skill the man might have in preying on empaths or oblivious non-psychics, he was clearly no match for my master uncle.

  I hadn’t even realized what Barnaby was doing myself until it was too late. Now the fear was so thick that I was feeling it too, a cold dread lapping at my spine.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine!” I chirped, fighting the unseen miasma. “If we could just have those names—”

  But with a muffled shriek, Dante Radcliff slammed the door in our faces.

  Chapter 11

  “You look tired,” I said, trying to sound solicitous.

  “I am not going home without Tina,” growled Uncle Barnaby.

  We had made it back across the wobbly bridge and were walking back along the grassy path on Haven Island. I’d managed not to berate Uncle Barnaby for gratuitously antagonizing Dante, even though I was sure I’d have gotten a full wedding list out of the guy if Barnaby hadn’t flipped out. Clearly, my uncle’s lifestyle had not suited him well to detective work. I needed to get him safely back in his cage before he broke something.

  “What an oblivious ass,” Uncle Barnaby sniffed, stomping along the grass. “Grape thieves indeed! The man doesn’t know the first thing about vineyards.” He gave the shorn vines up the slope a contemptuous nod. “Real thieves would never target a vineyard so small. They’d have been lucky to get a thousand dollars for those grapes, maybe two. And how would they drive a huge lumbering truck all the way out of Wonder Springs without anyone noticing?”

  “Maybe someone did notice,” I said. “They might come forward and tell the sheriff.”

  Uncle Barnaby shook his head. “They didn’t care about the grapes. Likely as not, they dumped them in the river.”

  “Would that work?” I said. I eyed the river, rushing along beside us. It was hard to believe that even this fast current wouldn’t get bogged and jammed with so many grapes… but maybe if they floated? But then wouldn’t they all get stuck somewhere downstream, in some giant floating mass? Or would they get waterlogged and sink? Or get eaten by animals? Destroying the evidence?

  “This is the weirdest crime ever,” I said.

  “I could not care less,” grumped Uncle Barnaby. “They can burn the place, for all I care, and he’d still be getting off easy.” He stumbled, nearly tripping on his long robe, and only barely righted himself without slipping on the muddy grass near the water. He growled and muttered some imprecation, then said, “Our only focus is finding Tina.”

  “So let’s take turns,” I said, as gently as I could. “If you’ll go get some rest, I promise I’ll go look for her.”

  He snapped me a suspicious look, squinting in the sun. “You sure? You won’t waste all day on this pointless vineyard shenanigan?”

  “Not until I find her,” I said. “And if I don’t, you can take a turn tonight.”

  “Hmm,” he sniffed. He paused for a moment, then huffed, “Very well. But see that you do. It’s not like her to stay out all night. Not at all.” He squinted up at the distant cloudbank, which had edged a bit closer. In a low voice, he added, “And I think we can be sure of a storm.”

  “Relax,” I said. “She doesn’t have a car, and Wonder Springs is a small island. I’ll find her.”

  But I didn’t.

  I thought I knew all Tina’s hiding places; over the past several months, she’d taken me on way too many hikes. Mostly, she loved to explore the forests around Wonder Springs, and I checked every spot she’d ever shown me. I’m still not much of a hike person, but if I hadn’t been worried about Tina, the rest of the day would been lovely; the trees were peaking in glorious autumn reds and golds, and with the storm holding off, the sky was sunny and the air was cool and perfect.

  I didn’t quit my search until the sun had sunk below the mountains, and the twilight air turned cold. Only then did I remember the tunnels; a few months back, we’d discovered the entrance to the old mining tunnels beneath Wonder Springs, and I’d forgotten how Tina kept talking about exploring them, even making a “hideout”.

  I hesitated. My experience in those tunnels had been anything but playful. And I had no map, nor any real clue how to explore them in a way that included getting back safely. I hated to quit for the night, but honestly, the tunnels were a job for her mom the empath. If Aunt Helen could sense Tina’s presence empathically, Uncle Barnaby might be able to use that connection to make Tina feel like getting her butt home. Or at least texting someone.

  I guess this might sound overprotective. Thing is, as we’d found out, the Shield didn’t work down there in the tunnels. Anyone could be roaming around.

  Defeated, I trudged back to the Inn. I left a note at the desk for Aunt Helen and Uncle Barnaby, reporting the day’s failure, and then, when I’d made the trek up to my own room, I found a note under the door for myself.

  My heart skipped. Was it Tina? Was she fine?

  Nope. Just Cade. With a very Cade economy of words, he apologized for “the Fiona thing” that morning, and proceeded to ask that I make sure to at least stop by work tomorrow morning. He’d met some lady who he wanted to heal, but she was jumpy and hypervigilant, and he’d need to me to stand by for a memory wipe in case she freaked out when the pain stopped.

  I sighed. Life in Wonder Springs.

  But the next morning, I went. The guy was technically my boss. Plus, I had prosaic orchard duties besides clandestine post-healing memory wipes; I owed him at least a short chat if I wanted to spend another day hunting for Tina or solving this vineyard crime.

  I hustled down Main Street in the early morning sun, mull
ing it all over. Could Dante really have planned a wedding that was packed with his own exes? I clearly had to get a guest list and talk to these women. Maybe they were all ancient history, all amicable friends now.

  Sure. Like Tina.

  As I turned down the alley to the orchard path, I dimly realized that something was off. On the street, I’d been too preoccupied to notice, but as I stepped into the cool air and quiet of the forest, the question nibbled at my mind. Something had been different… but what?

  I reached the rows of the orchard, and headed for the old barn we used as our main base. As always, the old Graves mansion stood empty. Cade had all these grand plans to renovate it as a Visitor Center, but that would take money we didn’t have yet, and for now… the place had too many memories.

  As I creaked open the barn door, I startled a little, and that made me realize that this was practically the first sound I’d heard on the entire walk. No one was around. Everything was quiet.

  Quiet. That’s what had been off about Main Street too. Normally the street would have been buzzing—tourists, locals, chatty shopkeepers getting their morning off to a slow start. This morning? I couldn’t remember passing a single person.

  But maybe I’d just been preoccupied.

  “Cade?” I called, as I slipped into the barn. “You here?”

  “Well, well. Good morning, sweetheart,” called a low, laughing voice. But it wasn’t Cade.

  It was Fiona.

  “Don’t look so happy to see me,” she laughed, striding toward me across the wide old barn. She wore overalls and a bright flannel that still flattered her figure, and over her shoulder she carried a huge shovel like it was made of straw. We had a huge mountain of mulch in the back that we got delivered from local farms, and she’d clearly been loading up a wheelbarrow for a run.

  My job.

  I tensed (more). How long was she staying here?

  She must have read my face (at least, I hoped that was all she could do), because she laughed again, louder. “Summer, geez, relax. I’m not here to poach any minimum-wage manual labor. Just trying not to be a total mooch while I breeze through town for this wedding.”