The Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 7)

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  When the door opened, a twenty-something kid ushered us inside and immediately began singing the old TV show theme song for Welcome Back, Kotter, but he substituted “Carter” for “Kotter.” I couldn’t help but laugh, but Carter didn’t seem amused.

  “Cooper, this is Sarah, my partner.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand. He offered me his fist instead, so I bumped it. The kid was tall, lanky, and reminded me of a surfer dude with the long blonde hair and tanned skin.

  He looked me up and down with an approving smile. “Nice to finally meet Mr. Carter’s leading lady.”

  Lost for an intelligent comeback, I simply shrugged. “Um, thanks.”

  Carter handed Cooper the computer bag. “I need you to find deleted files on the laptop and the cell phone. Our client suspects that her dead husband was having an affair, and if she’s right, I need a name.”

  “If the dude is dead, why does she care if he screwed around?”

  “That’s her business,” he replied. “How soon can you get to it?”

  “How soon do you need it back?”

  “Sooner the better,” Carter replied.

  “Done deal. Should have something by tomorrow morning.” Cooper set the bag on a sofa and reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter and what looked like a joint. “Hey man, wanna hit?”

  Carter took a step back. “No thanks. Sarah and I gotta hit the road. Call me as soon as you have something.”

  “Maybe the pretty lady would like a hit?” He held the joint up to me but I shooed it away.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Are you sure? I grew it myself. Right over there. Wanna see?”

  I followed his pointer finger to large tent structure. Looked like there were fans and lights going inside. A real pot production station. This kid was quite the entrepreneur.

  “Maybe some other time, Cooper.” Carter gave the kid a salute and headed back outside with me following close behind.

  Back in the car, Carter gave me the I told you so look. “Cooper is reliable and quick. That’s the only reason I use him.”

  “Hey, whatever gets the job done, right?”

  * * *

  As we drove home, I got on my phone, logged onto Amazon, and plugged in Samantha Black. Her list of books comprised three full pages. “Jeesh, Samantha Black has dozens of books and it looks like they’re all erotica. Every book cover shows men and women in seductive clothing, or lack thereof. Her books have hundreds of reviews, mostly five stars. Says here in her author profile, she’s a bestselling author with over a million ebooks sold. With over a million ebooks sold, wouldn’t that make her a millionaire?”

  “I don’t know,” Carter said. “How much are her books selling for?”

  “Between five and six bucks.”

  “Then she’s probably a millionaire unless she’s lying about her sales numbers. Is there a picture of her?”

  “Yep, and she’s attractive all right. Platinum blonde hair, slim figure, mid forties, I’d guess. And in the author profile, there is no mention of a husband or kids.”

  “How about the other two women writers?”

  “Hold on. Okay, Jessica Knowles has three books out in the fantasy genre. Her author photo doesn’t look very professional; it’s probably a selfie. Anyway, she’s gotta be late thirties, pushing forty. She does mention here that she’s married with two kids. I wonder if she’s happily married.”

  “Okay,” Carter said. “How about the third woman?”

  “I just typed in Vicki Macomber. Oddly enough, there is no author photo. Her profile says she’s a trained therapist, specializing in meditation and mystic healing. Her three books are all about those subjects. One of the books is about communicating with spirits through meditation.”

  When Carter didn’t comment, I could tell he was thinking that this woman must be a quack.

  “How am I going to find out which one of these women was sleeping with Jeffrey? I mean, maybe he wasn’t having an affair at all. Mary will feel awful if she accused Jeffrey of the affair and it never happened.”

  “Well, it seems like the guy was hiding something. What else could it be?”

  * * *

  When we got home, I immediately headed to the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, and brought my glass to the porch. It was almost four o’clock, and the sun had disappeared behind the back of the house. There was a cool breeze lapping at my bare feet and I yawned. Sure, it was a little early to be drinking, but it had been a long, emotional day, and it wasn’t over yet.

  With cell phone in hand, I thought about what I was going to say to Samantha Black. I dialed her number and it rang a few times before a female voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Is this Samantha Black?”

  After a short pause she said, “Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”

  “My name is Sarah and I’m a writer, or, at least, I’m trying to be. Do you still have an opening in your writers group? I’d love to join.”

  “Yes, we do have an opening. If I may ask, what do you write?”

  “Um, well, I’m working on a mystery right now, but I haven’t published anything yet. I’m not sure if that’s a requirement.”

  “No, but we like to have members who can contribute to the critique group. This is how it works: Everyone brings a chapter of a work in progress. You need to make copies for the other four members, so we can all read along and make notes while you are reading it out loud. We all take turns doing this, and it has proven quite helpful in the writing process. If this sounds like what you’re looking for, our next meeting is tomorrow morning, nine o’clock at the Book and Bar. Can you make it?”

  “Yes. I look forward to it. Thank you, Ms. Black.”

  “Please call me Samantha. We have a table reserved for our group, located in the back, so you shouldn’t have a problem finding us. See you then.”

  When I ended the call, I went back into the kitchen where Carter was sitting at the table, tapping away on the keyboard of his laptop, seemingly engrossed in what he was doing.

  “I spoke with Samantha Black, and she invited me to join the group.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” he said, keeping his eyes on the monitor. “I’ll have a chapter for you by the end of today.”

  “Great, but will it be any good?” I teased.

  “It’ll be even better if you order us some Thai food for dinner. I’ve already got a few paragraphs down.”

  Looking over his shoulder, I watched him continue to write the story. It opened with a man named David who was packing a suitcase because he had to leave town on a last-minute business trip. His wife was pissed because she had made plans for them to go away on a romantic weekend to the mountains. Just before he left the house, he hugged his wife and apologized to her. Promised to make it up to her when he gets back. She sulked a bit, but eventually kissed him on the lips. As David walked outside, a van screeched up the road, stopped in front of David’s house, and three guys get out, all wearing black masks. They grabbed David and his suitcase, hauled him into the van, and took off. The wife watched all of this through the window, and before she had a chance to call 911, the van disappeared.

  “Stop hovering, please,” Carter said. “I can’t concentrate with you watching me like that.”

  “Sorry, but I’m thoroughly intrigued by your story. Have you ever written anything before?”

  “I thought you were going to order dinner.” His tone was lighthearted, but there was an edge of irritation. Or maybe he was just embarrassed.

  “Yeah, OK,” I said. “I’m on it.”

  * * *

  After dinner, while Carter finished his chapter, I did an online search of Vicki Macomber to see if I could dig up some more information and find a photo. She had a website which gave links to her ebooks on various online retailers, but still no author photo. No mention of her personal life or if she was married.

  With no other option, I decided to plug her name into the dat
abase we use for background checks. I found a Vicki Macomber living in Dover, New Hampshire, about a twenty-minute drive from Bridgeport.

  There was a good chance that this was the writer, Vicki Macomber.

  She was 52 years old. Brown hair, green eyes, 5’4, and 140 pounds. My heart immediately went out to this woman as I gazed at her badly misshapen face in the photo I found. On the left half of her face, the scarring was so intense, it looked like the skin had melted. A horrible car accident? I couldn’t help but wonder what tragedy had befallen her.

  I hated myself for thinking that Jeffrey would most likely not have been involved with Vicki because of her face. Maybe she had been a beautiful woman at one time, but whatever had happened to her, changed that. Man, life could be cruel sometimes.

  I spent another hour or so trying to find any articles online that might explain Vicki’s injuries, but nothing popped up.

  By seven-thirty, Carter had finished writing his chapter and he let me read it.

  “This is really good,” I told him. “Maybe you should try to write a whole book.”

  “Thanks, but I’m gonna stick to my day job. How did you make out with the search for Vicki Macomber?”

  When I showed him the photo on her driver’s license, he bit his lower lip. “Poor woman. Any idea what happened to her face?”

  “No. I couldn’t find anything.”

  “You know,” Carter said, with a slightly uncomfortable look, “for all we know, Jeffrey might have been bi-sexual. So, we can’t rule out the one guy in the group. What’s his name again?”

  I had to check my notes. “His name is Ben Beale, but I’m almost positive that Jeffrey was not into guys.”

  “It would make sense why Jeffrey felt so ashamed that he had to leave the writers group, and why he couldn’t bring himself to tell Mary.”

  “I know you like to cover all bases,” I said, “but Jeffrey was not into dudes.”

  He raised his hands. “Fine.”

  “Look, my brain is fried and I need a break. You wanna watch a movie or something?”

  “Actually, I was gonna start reading Jeffrey’s novel. Can I download it onto your Kindle?”

  “Sure. Maybe I’ll take a bath and hit the hay early, then.”

  By the time I finished my bath, it was a little before nine o’clock. I found Carter sitting on the porch with a beer in one hand and my Kindle in the other. It was strange seeing him with the Kindle because usually he hated to read novels on electronic devices. He was old school when it came to books.

  “How is it so far?” I asked.

  “Pretty good. Don’t expect me to come to bed for a few hours.”

  I kissed him on the forehead. “I figured as much.”

  Chapter 4

  The next morning I woke up alone in bed. In fact, Carter’s side of the bed seemed untouched. The sunlight was pouring through the bedroom window, and I wondered what time it was.

  8:15 a.m.

  I slid out of bed, shrugged into a robe, and headed toward the kitchen, where I found Carter lying on the couch fast asleep with the Kindle lying on his chest. His head was at an odd angle and I cringed to think of the sore neck he’d have after sleeping that way.

  I gently nudged his shoulder. “Rise and shine, buttercup.”

  He shifted his body onto his side, but his eyes stayed closed. I brushed the hair from his forehead, smiling at the peaceful expression on the face that I’d grown to love dearly. “I’ll make us a pot of coffee, sleepyhead. I think you’re gonna need it.”

  As I waited for the coffee to brew, I went to my closet and fretted over what to wear to a writers meeting. Did it even matter? Why did I feel the need to make an impression with these people? I couldn’t deny that I was anxious to read in front of them, but thank God Carter had written a decent chapter. Hopefully I wouldn’t be asked how I came up with the idea.

  I chose a simple outfit of black jeans and a silk beige blouse with leather sandals. Comfortable-casual-dressy.

  When I got back to the kitchen, Carter was pouring two mugs.

  “Must’ve been a good book if you stayed up reading into the wee hours,” I said, taking my first sip of the scalding liquid. “Did you finish it?”

  “No.” He rubbed his eyes and made a grunting sound. “I must’ve fallen asleep soon after I moved from the porch to the couch.”

  “So, what do you think of his writing?”

  “Not bad. He’s no Daniel Silva, but I gotta say I’m impressed overall.”

  “By the way, how does your neck feel? You were sleeping at an odd angle on the couch.”

  He rotated his head a few times and it made a cracking noise. “I’m fine, just a little stiff.”

  “Well, I need to head out for the meeting right after I make printouts of the chapter you wrote. Wish me luck?”

  “You don’t need luck. You’ll do great. And, you look beautiful, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I hope I’ll appear more confident than I feel.”

  When I got to the Book and Bar just before nine o’clock, I spotted the table in the back where two people were seated. The woman I recognized as Jessica Knowles, and the other one had to be Ben Beale.

  I walked up to the table and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Sarah Woods. I spoke with Samantha yesterday and she invited me to sit in today.”

  They both looked up at me with quizzical, yet friendly faces. Ben stood up and held out his hand. He towered over me and I had to crane my neck just to look up at his face. “Nice to meet you, I’m Ben Beale. You said your name was Sarah Woods?”

  “Yes. I’m still working on my first novel, so I’m honored to be included in the group.”

  Jessica reached over to shake my hand, but remained seated. “I’m Jessica Knowles. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Likewise.” There were two other chairs at the table and I wasn’t sure which one to take. Ben pulled out the chair nearest him and said, “Have a seat.”

  “Oh, thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “So, what genre do you write?” he asked.

  “Mystery thrillers,” I said as I got settled. “I’m a huge fan of Robert Ludlum.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “There was a guy who used to be in our group who wrote spy thrillers, too.”

  “Really?” I said. “What’s his name? Maybe I’ve read his work.”

  Jessica and Ben glanced at each other with somber expressions. “His name was Jeffrey Kendrick,” Ben said. “He died last week.”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Was he ill?”

  The two exchanged another glance as Ben shook his head. “He . . . committed suicide.”

  “That’s awful. Actually, I think I might have heard something about that. Did he jump off a bridge?”

  Ben and Jessica both nodded, their eyes downcast.

  I felt as though they were genuinely sad about Jeffrey. “So, you must have known him pretty well, then. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said. “We had no idea he’d been so depressed. He was a good writer, and was even working on his second novel after the first one did so well.”

  I remembered Mary telling me that Jeffrey’s first book had stopped selling after the initial release buzz had died down. Maybe Jeffrey had kept his declining sales numbers to himself and chose to put a positive spin on his budding career. “What a shame. Did he have a wife?”

  The two pursed their lips, as if it was a sore topic, but Jessica eventually nodded. “Yeah, he has a wife. We met her for the first time last week, after he died.”

  I waited to see if she might expound on that meeting, but she clammed right up. Ben chose not to speak of it, either.

  I had a decision to make. Should I keep asking questions about Jeffrey, or let it lie for the time being. I didn’t want to appear too eager for more information.

  “Well,” I said, “how about you guys? What genre do you write?”

  “I write science fiction,” Ben said, his features softening. �
�I have a few books on Amazon, but they haven’t been out very long. Jessica here has three books out, and she’s doing very well.”

  Jessica gave him a sly glance, like he was full of crap but appreciated him talking her up. “I write fantasy for young adults,” she said, turning back to me. “It’s been a challenge because there’s so much competition in that genre right now.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m impressed that you both have completed novels. I’ve been working on the same book for years.”

  “It takes what it takes,” Ben said. “Don’t rush the process. It took me three years to complete my first book, not to mention the three rounds of edits. It takes an emotional toll, but once you have the finished product, it’s worth all the work and money. And truth be told, I don’t want to work at Best Buy for the rest of my life.”

  Ben went on and on about his experience with the self-publishing process, and I noticed that Jessica seemed to grow more impatient as the minutes ticked by. She kept glancing at her phone, frowning, then checking her watch.

  When there was a slight pause in Ben’s commentary, I took the opportunity to ask, “So, where is Samantha? I thought the meeting started at nine o’clock.”

  “Well,” Jessica said with frustration, “it’s supposed to, but this has become the norm. Sometimes she waltzes in twenty minutes late. I can’t afford the extra time today because I have a dentist appointment at ten-thirty.”

  “Maybe she got caught in traffic,” Ben said, but I could tell by his tight jaw that he was irritated, too.

  “I’ll give her five more minutes,” Jessica said as she turned to Ben. “Could you check your phone to see if she’s cancelled?”

  Ben checked his phone, then shook his head. “Nope. No texts from her.”

  A few moments later, I heard a woman’s voice call out from across the room. I looked over toward the entrance of the coffee shop and saw a tall woman, dressed to the nines, heading toward our table. I recognized her from her author picture. It was Samantha Black.