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Keep reading for an excerpt from Gadfly: Book Two in the Ricky Steele mystery series by M. Lee Prescott.
Sample: Gadfly, Book 2 of Ricky Steele mystery series
Chapter 1
Many would say that fifty-eight is old. Young, old or somewhere in between, fifty-eight was still much too young to die. As the minister droned on about the deceased, Ron Harp’s civic mindedness and his “life of the mind,” I wondered how long a fidgety atheist like myself could survive without breathing. My name is Ricky Steele and I am fifty-eight, a sort of jill-of-all-trades, mistress of none. Some months ago, following my involvement in a murder investigation, I applied for a private investigator’s license. I’m still very much in training. I’m single, of average looks and build and no longer in possession of the breasts with which I was born. So far, I’ve survived breast cancer, mastectomies, reconstruction, divorce, and numerous relationship breakups. Still standing and still an optimist, even on a dark day such as the present one.
“Freak biking accident” was how Karen’s mom described it. What kind of accident? What manner of freak? And where was his helmet? These questions pounded “rat-a-tat-tat,” drawing my attention from the minister’s homily as I sat wedged between a trembling octogenarian and a ruddy-faced teenager. Granny’s eau de mothballs clashed violently with junior’s “fresh scent” aftershave.
The sanctuary’s austere wooden pews were packed with mourners. At the front of the church, I spied Ron’s wife, Karen, my dearest childhood friend, sitting motionless and straight, flanked on either side by a Harp brother. To the left, at the far end of the pew, was Milly Spenser, Karen’s mom. Where was Alex, Karen and Ron’s twelve-year-old?
Ronnie dead. Incomprehensible. I thought back to four years earlier when we’d run in the Ocean State Marathon. Ron’s stolid silence had been both a comfort and an annoyance. I like to think it was my incessant chattering that got him through mile twenty-six, when he doubled over, seeing stars. Despite twinkling asteroids dotting my own vision, I had mopped him up and dragged him onward, biting back the urge to scream “I told you so” for his refusal to drink anything at our previous three water stops. I slurped like a water buffalo at every stop, necessitating two detours into the woods during the final five miles. As we limped toward the finish line, I recited every joke and amusing anecdote my depleted brain could dredge up. Ron never again mentioned that mile, and my almost carrying him through the chute. Maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing, including Karen at the far end, holding up my birthday/survivor’s cake, fifty-four candles burning merrily in the sweltering heat of a breezeless day.
Gazing around the church, I spied a few familiar faces in a sea of strangers. As is often the case in small towns, everyone looked alike. Out the east window, the church cemetery stretched for a quarter mile. The graveyard dated back to the 1600s and held many of the village founders including Libby Chase, daughter of Simeon Chase, one of the town founders. Beyond the graveyard, Rushing Brook road wound two or three miles to Nauset Point and Nauset Light perched at edge of the cliffs.
For an oceanfront village within commuting distance to Providence and even Boston, Windy Harbor was remarkably unspoiled. In fact, its longtime denizens worked round the clock to conceal its existence from the rest of the world. A number of times, Hollywood had come calling, approaching the Town Council and church deacons about using the village or church as film settings. Such offers were always rejected. Bunny Stark, a childhood friend who owned a real estate company fifteen miles away, once made the mistake of featuring a Windy Harbor property as the Providence Journal’s “House of the Week.” For months afterward, she was besieged with hate mail and nasty phone calls.
As we filed out of the church, I heard murmurings from the throng behind me. “What’s Karrie gonna do? Alex, almost a teenager, and that big place to keep up? Ron might not’ve been a real go-getter, but he did do most of the work. Not to mention taking care of Alex. What in the world will she do? And by the way, where the hell are Alex and Jolie?”
When I turned back, a sea of strange faces greeted me. Just ahead, I spied Karen Spenser Harp patting the arm of her brother-in-law, Jay as she stepped away to greet a fellow mourner. Circles lined her hazel eyes, her skin pasty white, light brown shoulder-length hair limp. Her black sheath hung from her body like a gunny sack and she looked as if one gust of wind would blow her away. As mourners came forth to hug her, I cringed, afraid their hardy embraces might snap my friend in two.
His velvety voice caught me off guard and I almost toppled over. “Ricky Steele, isn’t it? Been a while.”
I swung around to find chestnut eyes studying me, hand extended. “Jay, hi. Yes, it has.” I reached out to grasp his hand. “I’m so sorry about Ron.”
He nodded. “A real shocker for all of us.”
When I gazed up, I found eyes glistening with mischief, not grief. All three of the Harp brothers were tall and good-looking, but Jay was downright gorgeous and he knew it. He held on to my hand, all the while drawing me close enough to be surrounded by his scent, a spicy cologne that might have intoxicated a lesser mortal.
As I watched Karen stroll off in a cluster of women, my hand grazed the soft black cashmere of his overcoat. I gathered my strength and pulled back, exhaling with a whoosh. He smiled, delighted at my discombobulated state. Nineteen years and the man still made my knees turn to jelly. Irritated, I turned away, pretending to search for my friends. Fortunately, at that moment a well-wisher embraced him and gave me time to escape. I really did need to date more often.
Nineteen years ago, in our roles as best man and maid of honor for Karen and Ron, Jay and I had worked closely in the weeks leading up to the wedding. During that time, we had enjoyed a brief, passionate affair. However, once the festivities ended, Jay returned to his fiancée, Sheila, and I to the single life I did so well.
I watched as a blonde fortysomething in a short, tight-fitting black business suit seized Jay, pressing herself against him, ostensibly in grief. Had she no shame? I spied Karen standing alone and moved to her side, my arm circling her waist. “How you doing?”
Pale eyes lit up, her expression haunted. She grabbed hold of my wrist and steered me away from the crowd. “Ricky, can you stay?”
“Yes, of course. I’m coming back to the house. Can I help with something? Food? Serving, anything?”
“No, I mean, can you stay overnight?”
“Well, I—”
Her fingers dug into my skin. “Please! I really need to talk to you, alone.”
“Karen, what is it?”
“I can’t talk here…but it’s—”
“Karen, for heaven’s sake.” Milly Spenser appeared out of nowhere to lay ahold of her daughter’s wrist. Even at seventy-nine, she was a force. “Come along, dear. You and Dorothy can catch up later. Your guests will be waiting.”
Karen hugged me. “Please say you’ll stay.”
“Of course, but what’s wrong?” A stupid question considering that we had just come from her husband’s funeral.
“It wasn’t an accident. Ronnie, I mean. It wasn’t an accident.”
I started to speak, but Milly pulled Karen from my grasp, steering her toward the waiting limo. As I watched their retreat, I spied Bobby Harp, Ron’s younger brother, helping his wheelchair-bound father down the steps. Bobby’s much younger wife, Betsy, trailed behind, a towheaded child on each hand. Tan and weathered from his life as a lobsterman, Bobby didn’t look a day older than he had a decade earlier.
The Harp boys had inherited millions from their maternal grandparents. The money allowed each to live the life he wanted. Bobby had chosen the sea, Jay the law, and Ron the life of a country farmer. Ron also ran the Harp Foundation, a charitable trust based in Providence that gave away millions to educational and community service projects every year.
As the limo pulled away, I headed to my car, an ancient Jeep Grand Wagoneer.
Chapter 2
By the time I reached
Macomber Lane, cars lined the drive a quarter mile from the house. Undaunted, I putted down the tree-shaded drive until the house came into view. On a farm, there was always room to squeeze in one more all-terrain vehicle. I spied a nice, open spot beside the barn and maneuvered in next to Karen’s dark green Land Rover.
I soon discovered why my convenient spot was empty when I stepped into a mudhole, sinking ankle deep, my hundred-and-sixty-dollar pumps disappearing with a slurp.
Stuck fast, I grabbed the cane I keep for my unsteady knee, flailing against the side of the jeep, hoping for leverage. My knee twisted painfully, and I stopped struggling. “Shit!” I said aloud.
“You’re lucky that’s not what it is.” I looked over my shoulder to find a vaguely familiar person. He chuckled as he extended his hand. “Here, grab hold and I’ll pull you out.”
I grasped his hand. After several minutes of sloshing and slurping, my knee wrenching painfully with every move, I broke free, scrunching my toes so as to bring my new heels along with me. I needn’t have bothered since one look at them told me they were ruined. That’s what I get for buying expensive shoes. Ordinarily I pay no more than fifty dollars for dress shoes since I’m apt to wear them once and throw them to the back of my closet, never to be seen again. Probably for the best. With my unsteady knee, I had no business wearing heels.
“Better get in and wash those off.”
“Beyond hope, I’m afraid.” Gingerly, I took a step.
“You okay? Your leg, I mean?”
“Fine, just feeling a bit foolish.”
“You’re Karen’s friend, Ricky, the detective, aren’t you?”
“Private investigator, yes. Hi.”
“Will Ramsey. My wife and I live in town. Karen needs you, that’s for sure.”
I studied his expression. The Ramseys were new friends of Karen and Ron’s. When she had mentioned them last summer, Karen referred to Will as “one of Ron’s activist buddies.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he was part of IMPACT, the group Ron had started to work with on various civic projects, when we were interrupted by the appearance of a short, mousy woman who emerged from behind a maroon minivan laden with baskets and bags. “There you are. Willie, I could use some help, please.” She smiled, first at her husband, then me.
Will rushed to her side, taking several bags and the largest of the baskets. “Val, guess who this is. Ricky Steele, Karen’s detective friend.”
“Oh, yes, hi. What a relief for Karen to have you here.” She stepped forward to shake my hand, then spied my shoes. “Oh dear, what happened?”
“Dumb parking. Luckily your husband came to my rescue.”
“Will’s very gallant.” She patted his arm, pretty when she smiled. “Can they be salvaged with soap and water?”
“Doubtful.” A sloshing sound made me turn round just in time to see the jeep’s tires disappear, mud lapping at the door frames.
Will laughed. “They don’t call this area Quicksand Pond for nothing. But don’t worry. The garages in town are used to it. They’ll have you out in no time.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“Give Billy Mederois a call when you get inside. Come to think of it, he’s probably in there. He works on Karen and Ron’s cars. They’re pretty good friends. Come on. I’ll see if I can spot him.”
I tossed the ruined pumps into an open trash barrel and hobbled after the Ramseys into the house. My gray linen suit was now wrinkled and dotted with mud and my legs sported lovely mud anklets. Will introduced me to Billy Mederois. If he was horrified at the vision standing before him, Mederois never let on. He promised to arrange for a tow as soon as he got back to the garage. I thanked him and excused myself to go in search of a private spot to remove my blackened panty hose, wash my feet, and ponder what Karen had meant about Ron’s death not being an accident.
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Acknowledgments
Thank you to my friend and neighbor, Sgt. Jason Pacheco of the Fall River, Massachusetts, Police Department, for talking with me about police procedures. Any missteps in this area are entirely mine as he is always clear and professional.
I would also like to thank my publisher, Larry Anderson at Quicksand Chronicles, for his generosity and willingness to take my books “on.” To Dona Burke, I am indebted for her formatting prowess and good humor as we grappled together to bring forth the first version of Prepped to Kill. If not for Dona, my novels would still be languishing on my computer or in my basement. Thanks also to the wizardry of the Formatting Fairies, who have taken over from Dona and helped me to bring out beautiful books, while holding my hand and offering sage advice along the way.
Most important, I would like to thank my dear family and friends, who are always there, no matter where life’s travels take me. They make every day a miracle.
About the Author
M. Lee Prescott is the author of dozens of works of fiction for adults, young adults, and children, among them Prepped to Kill, Gadfly, Lost in Spindle City, Poof! (Ricky Steele Mysteries), A Friend of Silence, In the Name of Silence and The Silence of Memory (Roger and Bess Mysteries), Jigsaw, and Song of the Spirit, and her newest contemporary romance series, Morgan’s Run. Three of her nonfiction titles have been published by Heinemann, and she has published numerous articles in the field of literacy education. Lee is a professor of education at a small New England liberal arts college, where she teaches reading and writing pedagogy. Her current research focuses on mindfulness and connections to reading and writing. She regularly teaches abroad, most recently in Singapore.
Lee has lived in southern California (loved those Laguna nights!), Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and various spots in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Currently she resides in Massachusetts on a beautiful river, where she canoes, swims, and watches an incredible variety of wildlife pass by. She is the mother of two grown sons and spends lots of time with them, their beautiful wives, and her amazing grandchildren. When not teaching or writing, Lee’s passions revolve around family, yoga (Kripalu is a second home), swimming, sharing mindfulness with children and adults, and walking.
Lee loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected], and visit her website to hear the latest and sign up for her newsletters!
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A Note from the Author
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my Ricky Steele mystery, Prepped to Kill! I had a great time writing it, remembering my boarding school days, and especially my dear friends, who made the monastic life bearable and fun. The book is dedicated to them for countless moments of laughter and camaraderie. I was happy to set this adventure in my beloved Berkshires at the fictional Whitley School. Although I live on a river near the ocean, I return to the Berkshires several times each year as the rolling green mountains hold a special place in my heart. It was fun to drop in a few local details, as I do in all my novels, even if actual persons and places are figments of my imagination!
Many authors have a favorite character, and I must confess, Ricky is mine, although Roger Demaris from the Roger and Bess Mysteries is right up there. Ricky’s strength, spunk, resilience, and tenacity at this stage in life make me smile, laugh, and applaud her sometimes bumbling but always heartfelt investigative style. I’ve always envisioned the Ricky Steele series as films and can think of some wonderful mature actresses to play Ricky and her cohorts. The physical comedy would come alive on screen in the way it does when I picture scenes in my mind, but perhaps am not quite able to capture on paper.
If you liked Prepped to Kill and would be willing to write an Amazon review, I would very much appreciate it! If you would like to sign up for my newsletter to receive word of future book releases and other news, please email me at [email protected] and I will add you to the list. I promise I will not share your address, nor will I flood you with emails. Do visit my website at www.mleeprescott.com and follow me on BookBub to read more about my books
and to hear what’s next.
Finally, this book has been revised, proofed and edited many, many times, but I, and my intrepid assistants, are human, so if you spot a typo, please email me at [email protected] and I will fix it. If you’d like to know more about my other books, please scroll ahead to the next section, which is followed by two sample chapters of Gadfly!
Warm wishes,
M. Lee Prescott
Contemporary romances and mysteries by M. Lee Prescott include:
The Ricky Steele Mysteries
Book 1: Prepped to Kill
Book 2: Gadfly
Book 3: Lost in Spindle City
Book 4: Poof!
Also featuring Ricky Steele:
Jigsaw
Roger and Bess Mysteries
Book 1: A Friend of Silence
Book 2: In the Name of Silence
Book 3: The Silence of Memory
Contemporary Romances
Well-Loved Romances
Widow’s Island
Hestor’s Way
Morgan’s Run Romances
Book 1: Emma’s Dream
Book 2: Lang’s Return
Book 3: Jeb’s Promise
Book 4: Rose’s Choice
Book 5: Hope’s Wonder
Book 6: Ruthie’s Love
Young Adult Historical Romance
Song of the Spirit
Table of Contents
Prepped to Kill (Ricky Steele Mysteries Book 1) Page 22