Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  “But—”

  “Get this. He was fixing an outlet at the station and overheard Varney say you were coming home from Chicago and something about the murder. So, he just went over the night before you got home and wiped down the computer stuff. He had already killed Carrie Seeley, so he knew your house would be printed.”

  “But why the whole—?”

  “Mind games again.” He pulled her into a corner and poured her more punch. “As he wiped down the house, he realized it’d be ominous to start dusting a house for prints and not find any. It made you a non-entity. No impact. His words were, ‘It was a subtle message for Alexa to get her fingerprint off of American Society.’”

  Wide-eyed, Alexa gasped. “You have got to be kidding me. He expected me to get all that because he wiped all the fingerprints from my house?”

  “He’s a little complicated in his thinking...”

  “A little!” She snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

  Two hours later, as the band played “Till We Meet Again,” Joe and Alexa prepared to leave. “I love this song.”

  Joe listened for a moment, nodding. “It fits for a final song, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to go home. I hate taking off this dress. It feels like a fairy tale dies each time I do.”

  “All two times you’ve done it?”

  “All one time,” she corrected, blushing, “except for the time I tried it on for you.”

  Joe led her out into the night and opened the door to his Jeep as they reached it. “Maybe your perspective is all wrong, Miss Sherlock. Maybe the fairy tale isn’t over once the dress is in the closet. Maybe that’s when the fairy tale begins.”

  From the Author

  I WROTE THIS FIRST book in the Hartfield Mysteries to show why a Christian author would ever write about and profit from stories of murder and mayhem. Looking back, I think I may have been inspired by Dorothy Sayers’ attitude regarding why she wrote mysteries rather than staying home and enjoying what were considered more “feminine” pursuits. She shares that opinion in her Lord Peter Wimsey book, Gaudy Night when she says something to the effect of, “I would wash floors very ill, but I write detective stories rather well.”

  While I gave Alexa Hartfield a more philosophical and spiritual reason for her choices, the idea was the same. She uses fiction, as many Christian authors do, to demonstrate spiritual truths.

  You can learn more about the Hartfield Mysteries by visiting Chautona’s website at www.chautona.com.

  Promise Me

  JL Crosswhite

  © 2017 BY JL CROSSWHITE

  Published by Tandem Services Press

  Post Office Box 220

  Yucaipa, California

  www.TandemServicesInk.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be resold, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Piracy is illegal. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  SCRIPTURE QUOTATIONS are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, dialogue, incidents, and places either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photo credit: Depositphoto

  Chapter 1

  ORANGE County, California

  The fog was calling. Cait Bellamy lifted her digital SLR camera off the passenger seat of her Jetta. No point in bringing the whole camera bag when she wouldn’t use more than the zoom lens already attached. She liked the challenge provided by having only one lens with her. Gravel crunched under her Keds as she stepped out into the parking lot, shutting and locking her car before tucking the keys in her pocket.

  Slinging her camera over her shoulder—and freeing her long, blonde hair from under the strap—she passed the Samashima farm store, busy even though it was Valentine’s Day. Maybe people were hoping to make last-minute chocolate-covered strawberries from the early producers. Those strawberries weren’t nearly as sweet as the later spring ones would be.

  She waved at her boss Alani through the window and kept going. Since it was Sunday and almost two o’clock, Alani would be closing soon. They kept short hours on Sunday so everyone who wanted to had a chance to go to church. She loved the Samashimas and how they treated all their workers like family, just as their parents before them had.

  Fog hung like a damp blanket over the emerald rows that stretched back toward the foothills. The smell of damp earth and mulch enveloped her, causing her shoulders to ease down. As she headed past the main building where her office was, she noted all the lights were off. The Samashimas kept work minimal on Sundays, an aberration in this modern world. But they believed in the importance of rest, regardless of your religious beliefs, as part of the natural order of things, that working seven days a week would make you less productive, not more.

  Cait wasn’t so sure. She didn’t work here on Sundays, but she couldn’t remember the last Sunday she wasn’t working on restoring her farmhouse, even when she sang in the choir at church for three services. But the house was another problem she was escaping today.

  She declined an invitation to go out to lunch with other singles from church, sort of an anti-Valentine’s Day thing. But she was at a frustrating point with her house renovation, and she needed a break.

  It wasn’t that she was anti-Valentine’s Day; she had good memories of it with her Grandma. They’d always make a special dessert. When she was eleven, they’d made a strawberry soufflé. Her mouth watered even now thinking of it. She had considered making something today, but with no one to share it with, she’d be eating dessert all week.

  She’d learned to enjoy her own company from years of eating microwave dinners in front of the TV while her parents were out. Once Grandma had taught her to cook, her meals improved. But cooking was always better when done for more than one person. Maybe she should have invited the singles over to her house. But with as much of it in shambles as it was, it probably wasn’t safe.

  And now she was thinking far too much for a day where she was supposed to escape with her camera.

  Far enough into the fields, she stopped and looked around. The fog created lovely tendrils of mist. The diffused sun laid a lovely, soft light on the young strawberry plants. Cait composed the image in her mind before lifting her camera. She took some readings, refined her settings, and then began shooting. After a few shots, she checked the display on the back of her camera. Satisfied, she let her work absorb her, pushing aside, for now, everything else that threatened to consume her.

  GRAYSON KENDALL SLID the creeper out from under the ’66 Mustang, wiping his hands on a rag. “Try that, Dad.”

  Dad cranked the key and, after a bit of sputtering, the old girl turned over and began running like a champ.

  Grayson leaned under the hood and made some adjustments before closing it. “I think that’ll do it.”

  Dad climbed out of the car and grinned. “Glad you figured it out. Just in time for me to take your mother for a little Valentine’s Day spin.” He tapped the roof.

  “It’s a little foggy to head out to the beach.” Grayson picked up tools and began returning them to their places. He was glad his folks were happy. Maybe that’d be him too. Someday.

  “Ah, we have our places you know nothing of. We’ve had a few years’ practice, you know.” Dad picked up the last tool, placed it in the drawer and pushed it shut.

  “I know. Go have a good time.”

  “We will. I appreciate your help, son.” Dad paused. “You have any plans?”

  Grayson didn’t miss the significance of the pause. That was about as prying as Dad got. “Oh yeah. Pizza and a movie and my couch.” The piz
za sounded good, and he’d probably have a movie playing in the background, but he’d be working on a new land development proposal he was trying to pull together. He had to get moving on it before someone else grabbed it, but he never seemed to have time with his other work. His folks thought he worked too hard as it was, even though they didn’t quite understand what a real estate attorney did all day.

  He opened the door to the house before this conversation could go any further. “I’m giving Mom a hug goodbye, and then I’ll be out of here.” Before Mom could start in on him too.

  CAIT LEANED BACK AND stretched. She’d been in some awkward positions getting the shots she wanted. Luckily, there was no one out here to witness her contortions. She couldn’t wait to upload her photos to her monitor and see how they looked. She glanced at her phone. Whoa! She’d been out here for hours, much longer than she’d thought. Well, time did that when she was absorbed with something she enjoyed. It happened often when she was working on a house project.

  Her stomach growled. Time to eat anyway. She headed back.

  An odd sound floated across the field. Fog could carry sound in weird ways, but this almost sounded like running water. But there was no running water anywhere out in the fields. Back in the day, there used to be irrigation ditches, but now everything was done through drip irrigation.

  In the barn area, there were pumps and faucets, but there was no way she should be able to hear any water from there out here. Plus, being Sunday, no one would be in the barn.

  She stopped. Footsteps?

  Maybe she was hearing things. Nope. Definitely water.

  She hopped over rows of plants and headed to the access road where she could make better time. Orienting toward the sound of the water, she picked up her pace, but the fog made it more difficult to discern the direction of the sound. Closer now, it was definitely water.

  A shape moved in and out of the fog. Someone else was here. Mario? None of this made any sense.

  The fog parted, and she could see the irrigation controls. Water was spewing out all over the ground. One of them must have broken. She reached for her phone.

  A man darted from behind one of the storage sheds, looked right at her, and froze. Tall, blond, broad shoulders. If he had a plaid shirt, he would look like a lumberjack.

  Barely thinking, she brought up her camera and snapped off a bunch of shots. No idea if the settings were right or if she’d get anything usable.

  The man’s face reddened, and he ran toward the parking lot.

  Shaking, she lowered the camera and fumbled for her phone. She touched the screen at Mario’s number and gave him a brief rundown. As she talked, she jogged toward the irrigation controls. Water flooded in every direction, creating a rapidly enlarging pond drowning the nearby strawberry plants. Her shoes immediately soaked through. “It looks like the lines were ripped off and the valves opened. I can try to shut them off.”

  “Do what you can.” Mario’s voice came through the phone.

  She looked closer at the pipes coming out of the ground. “Scratch that. I won’t be able to shut them off. Everything’s been smashed open.”

  Mario swore. “I’ll be out there right away. I’ll call Makoa on the way. You call the police.”

  Cait stared at the disconnected phone. The police? Her boss, yes, he should know, and she was glad Mario was calling him and she didn’t have to. The severity of what she was looking at stunned her. Water lapped her ankles. If they couldn’t get this under control, they stood to lose a good part of their strawberry crop before it even got off the ground.

  Gingerly stepping out of the water, she headed back to her car. She’d call the police and wait there for them since there was nothing she could do to stop the flow of water. Her stomach churned.

  Rounding the farm store, she saw her lonely car in the parking lot. But it looked odd. It sat lower than normal. And, she hadn’t left the windows down.

  A sick feeling threatened to overwhelm her. Her tires had been slashed and her windows smashed out. Hands shaking, she called 911.

  Chapter 2

  GOOGLE Maps told Grayson he had arrived at his destination. He wasn’t so sure. He looked at the address on the house and compared it to what he had. Yep, this was it. An old farmhouse on the edge of a new development. Somehow it had managed not to be torn down. But it was clearly a work in progress. Peeling paint and a sagging front porch stood in contrast to the blooming front yard where camellias stood sentry on each side of the porch stairs. Purple verbena lined the front beds dotted with orange California poppies while the pink tulip tree in the front yard was in full bloom.

  Maybe Cait lived with a relative. Bernie hadn’t said anything about it when he had called and asked if Grayson could give her a ride to choir practice. He had jumped at the chance and hadn’t asked for details.

  Before Bernie had called, Grayson had planned on skipping rehearsal because he needed to put more time in on his real estate deal. Though as yet unseen, he felt his competition breathing down his neck. The clock was ticking, and he needed every minute.

  And if it had been anyone but Cait, he would have put Bernie off. Grayson had had his eye on Cait ever since he joined the choir last fall. During the marathon Christmas season, he had managed to sit by her in the green room one night and they talked through several services. He had enjoyed her company and wanted to get to know her better. But since then, he hadn’t had the opportunity to get her alone to ask her out. So this seemed like a perfect opportunity to spend some time with her, if only for the short car ride to and from church.

  He got out of his car and headed up the warped porch steps to the front door, wiping his hands on his jeans before he twisted the old-fashioned doorbell. Why did it feel like a date?

  The door swung open almost immediately, and Cait’s bright smile appeared through the old wooden screen door. She pushed it open. “Hi! Come on in. I just have to grab my music folder.”

  “Hey, this is a great place. I didn’t know any farmhouses had escaped development.” He looked around the small entry way. Scuffed wood floors led to the back of the house. Stairs in front of him led upstairs. The newel post was solid wood and beautifully carved. The banister looked like it was in the process of being stripped of paint. The house was a grand old lady that just needed a bit of sprucing up.

  Cait lifted a folder off a console table in the hall and grabbed her purse. “It barely did. I bought it from the city for back taxes after the owner died. The developer that built the homes in the rest of the neighborhood offered me a lot of money for it. If I was smart, I probably should have taken him up on it. But I just couldn’t see this place torn down.”

  He reached out and rubbed the newel post. “This is fantastic. You just don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore.”

  Cait tilted her head. “If you’re interested sometime, I’ll give you a tour. But it’ll take more time than we have right now.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.” He turned and opened the front door for her then waited while she locked up. Taking a few quick steps, he opened her car door for her.

  “Thanks.” She slid gracefully into his low-slung Dodge Charger.

  He closed the door once she was settled and hustled around to his side. This was not a date, though it sure felt like one.

  Once they were on the road headed toward church, he glanced at her. “So what happened to your car? Bernie didn’t say.”

  Cait blew out a long breath.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Complicated. The short answer is someone slashed all the tires and smashed out the windows Sunday. Then the rental car wouldn’t start when I tried to leave work today. My boss gave me a ride home.” She tugged a lock of hair over her shoulder.

  “Random vandalism? Or is there more to it than that?”

  “It happened at work. I’m the marketing director for Samashima Farms, and I was out there taking pictures. Someone had destroyed the irrigation pipes, damaging our strawberry crop. I saw a guy
run off. And I called the police, but they aren’t sure what’s going on.”

  He wanted to know more, but by the time he got his thoughts in order, they were pulling into the church parking lot. Was Cait in danger? Did this guy she saw know who she was?

  He hustled around the car and got her door open before she had gathered her purse and music folder. He resisted the urge to reach for her hand as they walked into the church together. Soon they were surrounded by fellow choir members. He reached out and touched Cait’s arm.

  Her gaze met his, and she gave him a warm smile.

  He almost forgot what he was going to say. “I’ll meet you after practice, okay?”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” And it absolutely was. He knew one thing: as much as that real estate deal was calling for his attention, giving Cait a ride was the best choice he could have made. And he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

  “So, I’ll see you around 7:30 tomorrow?” Heather McAlistair said, just as Grayson joined them. Cait’s nerve endings went on high alert around him. With his dark hair, blue eyes, and dimples, Grayson had always been attractive to Cait. Getting to spend some time with him, short as it was, confirmed what she’d always known about him: that he was a genuinely nice guy. A rare commodity these days.

  “That’d be great. Thanks. I’ll buy you coffee.” Cait slung her purse over her shoulder, trying to appear casual.

  “Anything for coffee.” Heather waved and left the choir room.

  “Ready to go?” Grayson said to Cait, touching her arm and creating a shock that raced through her whole body.

  “Yep.” She hoped her voice sounded casual and even.

  They walked toward the parking lot. “Is Heather giving you a ride to work tomorrow?”