Mystic Falls (A Coyote Wells Mystery Book 1)

by Vickie McKeehan

  Gram had gone on to say the light was simply the spirits calling out to the land, calling out to their ancestors, calling out to the dead, the dead who belonged there, the dead who lived within its surrounding dome-like intimate setting.

  Remembering that birthday brought back a list of things Gemma had filed away, a litany of stuff from childhood she’d simply ignored. Things like celebrating the solstice every June that marked the beginning of summer, dancing late into the night during the Sun Bringer Festival, chanting at every winter solstice, and lighting candles at the church to honor all who had passed.

  Those warm memories brought Gemma to life.

  She realized something else. She was done with ignoring things she’d chosen to block out. She’d come back to live here permanently even if she had to confront the past head on. She’d been avoiding one person in particular. But that little detail was about to get taken care of---now. Today. This afternoon.

  3

  Coyote Wells was the type of small town where everything was within walking distance. One could get just about anywhere within the peninsula in fifteen minutes or less.

  The police station was seven doors down from the chocolate shop and across the block. It sat at the corner of Water Street, which was the main drag where all the downtown businesses were jammed into one place. That main street dead-ended into a common park area where a thirty-foot lighthouse stood guarding the pier.

  Known as Lighthouse Landing, the park had bike paths that stretched around the cape for two miles. A series of old-fashioned globed street lights lined the sidewalks and bench areas.

  The lighthouse hadn’t worked in four decades, but no one had the heart to tear it down. Every spring the town got together to paint and repair the old landmark and try to pretty it up for the tourists. They’d end up fixing whatever Mother Nature had dished out over the past year. The minor renovation rarely did much to alter its weathered appearance, but it was that Coyote Wells trademark that refused to give up and have it torn down and hauled away.

  So, the lighthouse stood there, year after year, as a reminder that even old battered things had a purpose in life and could be appreciated for what they’d been through.

  Like many parts of the downtown area, the police station was old. It was connected to a smattering of alternating red and tan brick buildings, some two-story, some with large plate glass windows in the front facing the street. It meant the bakery might look just like the bank which looked just like the market and the greasy spoon burger joint known as Babe’s. There were a few exceptions. Contractors had used darker brick for the newer additions because, try as they might, they couldn’t always match the century-old brick color.

  Gemma took a deep breath as she swung open the door to the police station and headed straight for the woman who sat behind a raised desk at least two feet off the floor. Gemma was convinced it was that way so the female desk sergeant could look down her nose at everyone else who dared approach.

  “Well if it isn’t Gemma Channing,” Louise Rawlins drawled, leaning over the top of her desk like a menacing vulture waiting for fresh meat.

  Louise had a daughter Gemma’s age who used to terrorize the playground. Mallory Rawlins had been a bully even before she got caught in high school selling stolen goods. Her mother Louise wasn’t much better, especially when she was in uniform, like today. Louise had pulled in favors from everyone to keep her daughter out of prison. Which made Gemma wonder how both Rawlins females managed to pull off their holier-than-thou attitude.

  “Hey, Louise. How’s it going?”

  “That’s Sergeant Rawlins to you, missy. I didn’t think you’d stick around here after they put Marissa in the ground. I hear Coyote Wells isn’t exactly your kind of town these days. Gemma Channing prefers fancy-schmancy upscale Snob Hill.”

  “Coyote Wells is where I grew up,” Gemma reminded the cop with a shrug. Unwilling to share more than that with Louise, she stated flatly, “I’m here to see your boss. Is he in?”

  “The police chief is mighty busy today. You’ll have to wait until he’s free.”

  “Sure. No problem. I thought I saw a carjacking going down on Elm Street this morning. I guess Lando’s trying hard to solve that case before he goes home.”

  “No need for sass, missy. This ain’t crime-ridden Golden Gate Park.”

  “No ma’am,” Gemma said, holding up her hands in surrender before taking a seat on a hard bench in the hallway. As she sat there waiting for a chance to see King Lando, her irritation grew the longer it took for him to make an appearance.

  Twenty minutes went by before Lando came out of his office, his arm around a distraught female. Naturally. And then he started talking.

  She remembered that voice, a combination that fell somewhere between caring and commanding. As she watched his mannerisms, she noticed they hadn’t changed much in the last ten years.

  To her, Lando Bonner had always been too pretty for his own good. Not only had he been blessed by the Native gods with striking facial features, they’d also left their mark on his chin---a slight but distinct depression---that set him apart from his triplet brother, Luke. To this day, he had the most sensuous mouth of any man she’d ever seen. If that wasn’t enough of a reason to plaster him on the cover of some rugged, outdoorsy-type magazine, his penetrating brown eyes did the rest. Even though his stare hinted at a soulful, thoughtful nature, his calm demeanor hid a quick temper and a willingness to back it up. At six-two he made an imposing figure. One didn’t want to underestimate Lando Bonner or push him too far without figuring there’d be consequences.

  “Suzanne, there’s no need to worry. I’ll have one of my deputies take you home and make sure Buddy isn’t there to harass you while you gather up your things.”

  Suzanne Swinton, a curvy redhead, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. She’d had a Buddy problem for as far back as Gemma could remember. Her husband had a nasty temper and often took his anger out on his wife and kids. Suzanne had put up with Buddy for the better part of twenty years. To Gemma’s knowledge in all that time, Suzanne had never once filed charges and followed through with leaving. Gemma wasn’t buying that fact would change within the next fifteen minutes. Watching Lando’s attempt to comfort the woman brought back more memories, memories she pushed out of her head.

  “So, you mean I can’t just toss his stuff out in the front yard?” Suzanne asked. “I don’t want to be the one to leave. Why not make him pack up?”

  Lando shook his head. “That would be asking for him to retaliate in some way and we don’t want that. If you’re serious this time about kicking him out, you need to follow my lead and do what I tell you. We’ll go through the steps this time by getting a court order for him to vacate and then we can come back, serve it with you not there in the house, and make sure he moves out. Once he’s gone you’ll be able to go back in. But none of this will happen unless you decide to follow through with the protection order.”

  Suzanne didn’t look convinced.

  After she was escorted out the door by one of Lando’s uniformed officers that looked a lot like Barney Fife, Lando whirled around and caught sight of Gemma. “How long have you been out here?”

  Gemma shot a vicious look toward Louise. “Long enough to wonder if my tax dollars are wasted on useless public servants.”

  “Good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor. I was sorry to hear about your grandmother. I remember Marissa as a lovely woman with a big heart.”

  “Marissa is the reason I’m here. I’d like to see the crime scene photos you took from the garage that night.”

  “Crime scene photos?” Lando cracked a smile, showing perfect teeth. “In order for those to exist there would have to have been a crime. There wasn’t.”

  His answer was a little too snippy to suit Gemma. “Says you.”

  Lando’s back stiffened at her surly attitude. He took her arm, shepherding her toward his office. “Let’s talk about this somewhere else, someplace where the whole t
own won’t get wind of our discussion by nightfall.”

  “Fine by me.”

  As soon as they reached his office, he slammed the door shut. “I’m the chief of police now, Gemma. And when I say there was no crime, there was no crime.”

  “I’m aware of your job title. But that doesn’t make me feel any better about knowing exactly how my grandmother died.”

  “Marissa fell. It’s unfortunate, but things like that happen to women her age every day somewhere in America. She fell and hit her head. There was no crime.”

  “That’s your opinion,” Gemma fired back. “If she hit her head then how did her neck get broken? If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the photos of the garage for myself.”

  “It is my opinion that her death was an accident. The coroner backed me up. Try to face facts, Gemma.”

  “Sure, when you let me see the photos from that night. Please tell me somebody on your staff did the right thing and took photos.”

  “I might have a couple. But I don’t recommend a family member seeing their loved one laying out like that. It wasn’t pretty, Gemma.”

  “I’m not here for your recommendations or your descriptions of what you saw.”

  “You never were.”

  Gemma cleared her throat. “Bringing up old resentments is a waste of time. I’m here because I think someone might’ve caused my grandmother to fall. Someone else caused her to break her neck.”

  “What proof do you have of that?” Lando said, taking a step back. “Let me guess. You’ve been talking to Ballard.”

  “He stopped by the shop today. Yes. And I’m glad he did. Otherwise I’d never have known a few important facts that were left out of the original phone call. You let someone else do your dirty work for you. You weren’t even the one who called me. Not only that, you deliberately held things back.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What things did I hold back?”

  “Like the fact that my grandmother helped you on a case several years back.”

  “I’m sure Ballard bent your ear about a lot of nonsense, like Marissa’s psychic ability. Fact is, Marissa did help me catch a very nasty guy up there that she’d seen lurking around Mystic Falls. Her so-called psychic gift didn’t enter into it.”

  “Says you. God, I’d forgotten what an ass you could be. Your ego won’t even allow you to give credit to an old woman who helped you find a serial killer. Unbelievable.”

  “I just gave her credit for phoning in the tip that led to Smyth’s capture. That’s what concerned citizens do. They do their civic duty and get involved. What more do you want from me?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Photographs. Crime scene photos from that night would be nice. Pictures taken from the garage. I’d like to see the coroner’s report. I’m not leaving here, Lando, until I see everything you have from the night my grandmother died.”

  “With that attitude, why should I give you anything?”

  “I suppose it’s just a coincidence then that you became chief of police right after Gram helped you snag Timothy Smyth who just happened to be hanging out at the Falls? What was she doing that far outside of town near where a serial killer had holed up?”

  “How would I know what took Marissa out to the waterfall that day?”

  “By herself? Alone? Didn’t you ask? Weren’t you the least bit curious? What kind of shoddy investigations do you run out of this office anyway? What exactly are you doing about finding the two missing women in town? What about Collette Whittaker? What about Marnie Hightower? You remember Marnie? We went to school with her. What kind of police chief are you?”

  Lando’s eyes turned fiery. “Those are ongoing investigations which I’m not allowed to discuss.”

  “That’s convenient for you, isn’t it? I’m not the freaking press, Lando. I want to see those photographs and the autopsy report from the night my grandmother died.”

  “Fine,” he spat out as he moved toward a row of file cabinets on one wall. Shuffling through a few folders, he pulled out one and slapped it down on the desk. “There. But don’t say I didn’t try to shield you from the gruesome sight or the details. That’s the full police report. The county coroner didn’t feel the need for an autopsy because he deemed it an accidental fall. It says so right on the top portion of the form.”

  Gemma flipped through the pages until she got to the pictures. She sucked air into her lungs at the sight of her grandmother’s body sprawled out on the concrete floor, her limbs gnarled and twisted at two different angles. Strands of her gray hair showed dried blood. There was a head wound about the size of a quarter near the temple. To Gemma, that alone would’ve killed her. She studied the pictures and set them to memory. She noted the location of the rake and the hoe lying a few feet away that Lucinda had mentioned during her phone call.

  Shuffling the pages backward to the first page of the police report, she read every line, then reread them all again. Fat tears formed in her eyes but she blinked them back, refusing to give Lando the satisfaction of watching her cry.

  “Satisfied?” Lando asked after several long minutes had gone by.

  “Not nearly. But it’ll have to do for now,” she answered, handing the folder back.

  “Any other questions I can answer for you?”

  “Maybe later after I’ve had time to digest the fact someone may have murdered my grandmother and you allowed them to get away with it.”

  Lando put his hands on his hips. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? I’m not like Reiner Caulfield with a habit of doing things the easy way.”

  “Chief Caulfield was a jerk. Pardon me if I’m not seeing a difference between the old and the new right about now. I’m not sure what I believe. Right now, I have to get home to Rufus.”

  Lando felt a pang of jealousy rear its ugly head. “Who the hell is Rufus?”

  “My dog. He hasn’t gone out since lunchtime and for some reason refuses to use the doggie door I had installed.” She turned to leave and stopped. “Thanks for letting me see the file, even if I did have to bully you into it.”

  “I don’t let anyone bully me these days, not even you. I’m sorry Marissa fell, Gemma.”

  She narrowed her gaze and stared at him. “I see it differently. I’m convinced someone put that gash on her head and caused her to fall…on purpose.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Fine. But I’m not seeing the accident part like you. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Gemma?”

  “What?”

  “I forgot to tell you…welcome home.”

  4

  Gemma walked the two blocks to where she’d grown up in the house Marissa Sarrazin had lived in for almost five decades. Her grandparents had owned the modest place since moving to Northern California back in the early 1970s.

  The house sat on the cul-de-sac known as Peralta Circle. The building didn’t start out as a place to live but rather had an auspicious start as the home of the first government offices in town. It still had the words Coyote Wells written in stone above the front door.

  Built on a rising slope in 1908, the one-story hacienda was barely thirteen hundred square feet, but over the years her grandparents had added a series of rooms to the main house. Which made for an interesting fusion of architecture. Some of the contractors hadn’t seen fit to stay with the original Pueblo influence or the hint of Spanish Colonial, even though those were the two characteristics that stood out the most.

  There were other design features like the ranch-style solarium on one end that added a degree of whimsy to the main building. In most instances the adobe blended into the surrounding lush landscape by using warm colors in golds and reds, complete with its terra cotta roof and a series of rounded archways that made it look more like an old mission than a private residence.

  Despite that, the house had a stately quality to it, albeit a bit rundown. But given the fact that the building was more than a century old, its condition wasn’t all that surprising. It
was, however, a daunting task for an elderly woman approaching seventy to cope with such upkeep, but thanks to some remarkable DNA coursing through her veins, Marissa had managed to stay active right up until the day she’d died.

  Gemma had come to realize that her grandmother’s weekends must’ve been spent in busy mode, working in the massive gardens, trying to maintain the grounds and the walled courtyard out front. The plaza included a wobbly three-tiered fountain and a European-style cairn in the center. Surrounding that were loose hand-laid bricks along the pathway that would have to be fixed. Not to mention the flower beds were sprouting a new crop of weeds every other week.

  Marissa’s precious red and gold perennials had been at risk that spring---crabgrass, thistle, and stubborn buckhorn had set out to overrun the grounds. Gram had apparently fought to save those favored flowers and added dozens of new scarlet and amber varieties that showed off her love of plants.

  Since her Gram’s death, Gemma had taken over the gardening, dropping a small fortune at the local nursery. She’d paired big-blossomed fuchsia in rich vermillion alongside dainty monkey flower. She could only hope those golden swaths peppered with crimson attracted the hummingbirds. She’d used desert mallow as a backdrop, dotting the pathways with red and yellow poppies, planting them next to corn lilies she hoped would become a haven for the Monarch butterflies. Golden trumpets held a place of prominence next to scarlet bottlebrush. From seeds, she’d proudly watched patches of simple ruby-red pentas sprout up, clustering next to creamy yellow daisies.

  After moving in and seeing the condition of the gardens, Gemma had made a promise to her grandmother. Never again would she let the plants and flowers end up in such a sad state of neglect. She wanted them to stay beautiful and thrive in memory of a woman who’d been such an integral part of Coyote Wells for well over forty-five years.

  Gemma’s grandparents had arrived separately in New York City---Marissa Delgado in 1968 from Zaragoza, Spain, and Jean-Luc Sarrazin in 1969 from Saint Veran, France. The two had met while working at the same restaurant in New York’s East Village. Jean-Luc manned the grill while Marissa created delicious desserts.