First Crush

by Ashley Ludwig

The roses had served a double purpose: to shield him from the security cameras and to adorn the old woman’s grave.

  White roses were for remembrance. He remembered every death. Every life ended from Amanda’s to the old woman’s—and it was all Marie Valence’s fault.

  The heavy addition of morphine he’d slipped into her IV had pushed her off the precipice into a deep, dark, oxygen-deprived sleep. She had suffocated in the land of dreams.

  And, his smile cocked a notch brighter, her granddaughter would die on the way home from mourning her.

  The knife that he’d used to slice through Natalie Turner’s brake lines rolled on the van’s floorboards by his feet.

  There were lots of hills between town and wine country. Steep ones. Especially the curve down to the stop sign. Once her brake pedal hit the floor and she didn’t slow, didn’t stop, maybe then she’d realize that he’d won.

  In that split second between this world and the next, she’d know he’d killed her.

  But for now, he parked in the employee zone and unclipped the assignment board. He moved with robotic motions.

  He shouldn’t be here. He should be so much more.

  But this was the hand he was dealt.

  He looked through his assignments. The day’s work list wasn’t long. He’d be going back to the flower shop. They must have finally given up on their compressor. Today of all days.

  He tallied the items he needed for the job and added them to his truck.

  “Rudy!”

  Sighing, he shouldered his tools and walked over to his supervisor. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got another job for you.” He shoved a new work order to Rudy, whose brows shot up at the address.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. He forced his hand to remain loose instead of crumpling the document.

  “These gals need help pronto. Ace didn’t make it out yesterday. Flu. You gotta be there before eleven or it’s gonna cost me.”

  Rudy nodded. “I can do that.”

  Turning, he sought the items he’d need for fixing the expensive refrigerator. Beneath his practiced nonchalance, Rudy’s heart surged with his good fortune.

  The only thing he would fix today would be the mistake he made twenty years ago.

  Today would be the final day of his purgatory.

  Chapter 29

  Dalton sat, elbows on his knees, next to the man who’d brought Valery to the hospital, listening to the last of his story. The man was in his early thirties, maybe. Suntanned, weathered face, blue collar guy.

  Could he be the Slayer? Maybe. But Dalton’s senses told him no. If he was the Slayer, no chance he’d be sitting around waiting. Unless he was making sure she died. But then, he was the guy who brought her here. That didn’t jive with the facts.

  “I heard this sound,” Valery’s rescuer said. “A helpless, urgent cry. Not a coyote—we get plenty out there by the lake. And not the cat—he’s been stalking campsites for months.”

  The waterworks guy shagged his hair, looked up, mournful. “My partner quit last year after he found that girl’s skull on the beach. It affected him more than he let on. Truth is, I’ve been jumpy as a jackrabbit since.”

  Dalton nodded. “So, she was walking?”

  “More like crawling. She was hurt pretty bad.”

  Dalton listened to the spray of expletives as the man explained just what he’d do whoever had hurt her.

  He pulled out the picture of Valery he’d taken from the law office. Her hair was windblown, a laugh on her lips.

  “Gorgeous lady.” The witness nodded. “That’s her. I’d know that hair color anywhere … like sunset fire. Beautiful … Or, she would be if she wasn’t all swollen and bruised … Who’d want to scar up a woman like that?”

  Dalton shook his head. “That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

  Two hours later, Dalton stood in the doorway of Valery Harper’s hospital room.

  Her rescuer had ducked in a few times, obviously hovering, making sure she would live. He was smitten, if Dalton knew anything about men.

  Valery was gaining consciousness. She was asking for water, the last nurse out of her room said. And she was muttering something about keys.

  Dalton scratched the word “Key” on his notepad. Circled it. His cell phone chimed with an incoming message from Corie.

  All by my lonesome. Making scones. Stop by and try one if you dare.

  Scones? He wasn’t a tea and crumpets kind of guy. Dalton almost declined before changing his mind.

  She was alone. Maybe she didn’t fit into the serial killer’s typical taste, but then again, neither did Valery.

  If the redheaded receptionist had been taken by that lunatic, there was a reason behind it. The Slayer was off pattern, indicating that the perp’s resolve was crumbling. Deviating from his usual targets showed he was getting careless, getting close to a breaking point.

  Corie definitely shouldn’t be alone.

  She was a gorgeous, raven-haired, modern gypsy. As if that didn’t make her interesting enough, she was outspoken and always ready to stand up for herself and her family. In truth, her direct and genuine nature made him a little nervous.

  He had some time, according to the doctor.

  So scones. Why not?

  Corie smiled at Dalton’s reply on her mobile, imagining the lean, rangy cop sitting on the other side of her kitchen counter munching butter-drenched scones.

  She’d sent him a sassy little text and he’d responded with an equally sassy reply.

  Dare accepted. See you in 1 hour. Tops.

  “Easy peasy lemon squeezy,” she sang to herself. “One more eBay post and then it’s scone time.”

  She’d make cranberry orange for him. A little sweet and a little tart—just like Dalton.

  Corie’s phone bleeped with another bid on her vintage bottle listing on eBay. She’d had a feeling about that twelve-pack of retro soda bottles in the wood case. That made three bidders, and there were still six more days until the auction ended! Her feet danced a happy kick. Not a bad way to start things off. She grinned, watching as the price ticked up beyond her original asking price.

  The gentle breeze became a gust, howling through the slat-wood barn and drawing her away from her computer.

  It was time to bake.

  Back in the kitchen, she chose an Internet radio station of ’80s tunes to fit her mood. Cindy Lauper begged for fun, but Corie’s work was just beginning. There was no better way to win a man’s heart than through his taste buds.

  Hands on her hips, she imagined scones the way she wanted them. Sweet, flaky, light, and a bit tart. Once Dalton tried them, he’d be back for more. A smile touched her lips as she realized she was counting on it. Uh-oh.

  The cleaned, organized cupboards made finding ingredients simple. She’d given Natalie a grocery list, and darned if she hadn’t bought exactly what was on it and nothing else.

  Figured.

  Passing a hand over the enamel stove, she spun the oven dial to four hundred degrees. In a bowl, she stirred flour, salt, sugar, and baking powder into a powdery mix.

  “I’ll have to get Nat to buy my mixer some way or another,” she mused as she pulled butter from the cooler.

  Corie worked the butter into the flour with a pastry blender, talking out loud in that way that drove Aaron nuts. “Nothing like working out while you bake.”

  The sound of tires on gravel caught her midway through zesting oranges. Corie brushed rind curls from her fingers and pulled back the white kitchen curtains.

  A white van from Heating and Air pulled up.

  “Must be the fridge repair man!” Corie stroked a loving hand across the Sub-Zero on her way to answer the door, cooing, “You’ll be humming in no time.”

  Heading to the front door, Corie imagined all the treats she would fill the fridge with. There would be a lot of hungry guests to feed. Lemon bars, charcuterie meats, cheeses …

  The service tech triple-knocked as she pulled open the door.


  “Rudy,” she said, reading his name badge. “Nice to meetcha. Come on in. The fridge’s in here.”

  He dragged off his cap. “Hard to believe this place is opening again.”

  “We won’t be opening unless the kitchen passes inspection.” She glanced over her shoulder where he stood under the chandelier, looking up the stairs.

  “That’s an awful mural, isn’t it? A little too on the nose for this place, what with the ladies-in-waiting and the knights.”

  He didn’t move. He just rubbed his jaw, staring at the banister. She followed his gaze toward the ornate chandelier.

  “Uh, don’t make them like that anymore, do they? It’s this way.” Again, she gestured toward the kitchen.

  “Lot of history here in this old building. On the property.” He followed her into the kitchen, tools clanging in his bag.

  Corie returned to the counter and set back to work crumbing the butter and flour mixture with the pastry blender.

  He watched her from the counter’s edge. “My grandparents used to work this land. I grew up out this way.”

  “Is that so?”

  He hooked a thumb on his belt as he watched her work. “Sure. My grandfather was the winemaker. Produced the first crush in the valley. Only one case was ever sold.”

  “What happened to the rest of it?” Cleaning the pastry cutter with her spatula, Corie’s mind dipped to the little journal of Natalie’s.

  She’d Google Translated some of it, but for the most part, it didn’t make any sense. It mentioned the first crush, the alignment of the stars, the comet that year … Maybe this guy knew something about that. She cast the question as she fished through the cooler for the bottle of cream. “That was a good year, wasn’t it?”

  His gaze was distant before he blinked himself back. “The best. Bottles would sell for over two bills each. A thousand a case. But it’s lost. And that was a long time ago. Ancient history.”

  She did her best to wrangle the conversation closed. “Well, it’s no good having a historical kitchen. We need it up and running as soon as possible.”

  Corie gestured toward the fridge while he laid out his tool bag. She cracked it open and wrinkled her nose at the vinegar smell from Natalie’s cleaning job.

  “This beast just won’t get cold. We cleaned behind it, unplugged it, reset it. But still nothing.”

  “Nice looking,” he said with a burr in his voice. He was talking about more than the fridge.

  Her shoulders skittered with the heebie-jeebies, but she didn’t turn. She just worked cream into her crumbles until the dough tightened into a golden lump.

  “Yeah, love those Sub-Z’s. They can hold enough food for a small army—or a B&B.” She pressed the dough ball to a wooden board, sprinkled fruit over the top, and kneaded it over.

  Whump, press.

  Whump, fold.

  She pressed out the dough to the ’80s beat playing on the radio. Could there still be wine around here from that fated year? If so, they could auction it off for a small fortune. Maybe they could even invite collectors from all over the world.

  But they’d searched the barn and the castle from top to bottom over the past weeks. If there was any wine left, it was well hidden. Maybe even lost forever.

  Taking out her biscuit cutter, she pressed rounds out in rapid succession. With the last scone cut, she glanced over at the repairman.

  Rattling through his kit, Rudy dragged out a test unit. He tinkered on the fridge while her gaze remained trained on his tool bag. The cap he’d been wearing when he arrived at the house, inscribed with “Eat at Joe’s” rested on top of it.

  A memory started to spin.

  “Here’s your problem.” He smiled when he caught her looking. “There’s a leak in the coolant line.”

  She moved with forced, practiced motions to hide her jumping nerves as she dragged out parchment paper and laid it on the baking sheet.

  “Can you fix it?” She wished her voice didn’t tremble.

  The beefy tech gave a thoughtful rub to his jaw. “Absolutely. Today’s my day for fixing things.”

  Something about his toothy smile and the way he watched her from the corner of his eye set her inner alarms off. The only sound was their mutual work: the whoosh of the gas oven preheating, the echoes of his tools in the huge kitchen. He was the only other person around for a mile.

  He spoke at last. “So, how do you know Natalie Valence?”

  Corie laid the last cranberry lemon scone on the tray. “Her last name’s Turner. Not Valence.”

  “Right.” He blinked and reached into his tool bag for a shiny wrench. “Turner.”

  Ignore him.

  She turned her back and pep-talked herself through her anxiety. But she couldn’t stop thinking of the wine. And the fact that he claimed ties to this place.

  Just put the scones in, shut the oven, and walk away. Your cell’s on the counter. Text Dalton to come ASAP.

  But Rudy wasn’t working anymore. “You didn’t answer my question. Who is she to you?”

  He was watching her, turning that silver wrench over in his meaty hands.

  “My sister.” She dropped her gaze to his tool bag and the cap.

  Her mind sifted through Natalie’s parking garage story. The man who’d stalked her there wore a cap. A cap from a fish restaurant. Joe’s Crab Shack.

  Eat at Joe’s.

  Sweet mercy. It’s him.

  Calm. Be calm! She grabbed a fistful of sugar and dusted the tops of the scones with a sprinkle of white.

  The knife block was too far out of reach. She had no way to defend herself should he strike.

  How long can I keep this up?

  By the clock, Dalton’s text said he’d arrive in no more than thirty minutes.

  Corie felt the air shift as he moved into the space behind her. Sour breath heated her neck and gooseflesh skittered on her exposed arms.

  She wiped off the stove, evaluating her position before she turned around to face him.

  He was built. Solid neck. Barrel torso. The guy was strong, but so was she. Crossfit training saw to that, but a woman’s strength was in her legs. By his breath on her neck, he was too close for her to use her legs to her advantage.

  She turned to face Natalie’s stalker.

  “When’s your sister coming back?” His tongue crossed his lips.

  “Any time now,” she lied, fighting revulsion. “She just ran a few errands.”

  I’m alone in the house with someone who may be a serial killer.

  “She went to the hospital, didn’t she?”

  His eyes were a flat shade of black, shark-like and just as cold. Blood rushed rapids in her ears, air squeezing in her lungs.

  “To see the old lady one last time? It’s okay. You can tell me. I know all about her.”

  “I-I … I don’t see how that’s possible.” Adrenaline fueled her fight or flight instinct. Sugar was sticky in her palm.

  This was not paranoia.

  The Lakeview Slayer stood in her kitchen.

  This was real.

  Her phone lit up with an incoming message, drawing both their attentions with the green glow.

  She lunged toward the phone, but he stepped into her path. His body-block was a wall of brute force.

  His hand tightened on her forearms, twisted. Pain shot from wrist to elbow as she tried to wrench free.

  Corie whimpered, fell back against the counter, and stopped struggling. She shuddered as he let her go.

  “Let’s hope your sister has more fight in her.” His grin was cold as he stepped close. “Now you and I are gonna get to know each other.”

  Corie hurled the fistful of sugar she had been holding into his eyes. His scream punched the air, hands flew like birds over his face, swiping away the stinging white. She grabbed her cell and ran across the kitchen toward the safety of the pantry, punching in 9-1-1 with shaking fingers.

  A hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her back.

  Her shoulder popped—
wrenching the wrong way—as he slapped her phone away with an animal growl. It skittered to the back door, and the glass pane shattered into a spider web.

  His steps boomed as she crab-clawed away from him. With a clink of tools, he selected a silver wrench. Curses flew from his lips.

  Panic, pain, and a torrent of adrenaline pounded as she backed toward the pantry. Door within reach, Corie reached out and fought the sticking knob while he advanced in her peripheral vision. He raised the wrench in an arc of flashing metal.

  She dragged herself inside and attempted to shut the door, but the wrench caught her.

  Pain zinged where her neck met shoulder. Brilliant white light flashed across her vision. She saw stars.

  Dalton. Please come.

  Then, all went dark.

  Chapter 30

  Dalton checked his watch. Corie would be expecting him soon. Attempting to reach Valery’s room, he was halted at her door by a nurse in neon scrubs.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. We have to limit visitation. Miss Harper needs rest, not interrogation.”

  “I just need a minute.”

  She went back to her desk, tucking raven hair behind her ear. Ignoring him.

  “I just need to ask her one question, and then I’ll be on my way.” He ground out a smile, giving his best impression of Nick’s charm. “Please.”

  She eyeballed his forced smile and crossed her arms. “Well, just for a minute. But if the doctor comes in, I don’t know anything.”

  Dalton went in before the floor nurse could change her mind.

  The redhead lay silent. The only noise in the room was the beeps and whirs of machines. Clear tubes dripped saline into her arm.

  Her head, arms, and hands were a nest of wrapped gauze and tape. Her jaw was swollen, eye patched, and her exposed skin mottled with bruises.

  “Miss Harper?” He kept his voice hushed as he walked in. His elbow brushed the slat blinds around her bed, setting them clacking. With a hand, he stilled them.

  Her cracked and parched lips worked with no sound. He took a pink cup and held it to her mouth.

  With a grateful hum in her throat, she sipped at the straw. Then drank some more.

  “I remember,” she rasped.

  Dalton shot to attention. Questions flew to his mouth, but he bit them back. He stayed quiet while she worked out her words.