Murder Makes it Mine (Masters & McLain Mystery Book 1)

by Christina Strong

  Samantha was decidedly out of sorts. McLain, with his amazing talent for doing so, had put her there by his overbearing manner. Pushing past her into her home had definitely not made any points with her. Calling her lovely caftan a ‘get up’ hadn’t helped his image, either. As a result, she wasn’t going to give anything away. “About what?” she asked innocently.

  “You know damn well about what. I saw you go to the Chamberlains’s this morning. Wha’ja find out?”

  “You certainly see a lot from that tower of yours, Colonel McLain.”

  “Yeah, well it overlooks most of this end of the neighborhood.”

  “I must speak to the Garden Club about planting something fast-growing along that wall.”

  “Never mind the wall. What did Chamberlain know?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Whadaya mean, you have no idea? You were there half the morning.”

  “I was there long enough to have a cup of coffee, not half the morning.”

  “Will you get to the point.” His comment was a criticism, not a question. Samantha smiled to herself. She could see that McLain was fast losing patience. It felt delicious.

  “The point is that I was there,” she paused for dramatic effect, hoping to drive him to distraction, “but . . .” she checked the coffee with elaborate care, then turned to look at him.

  He looked as if he could cheerfully strangle her! She even saw his fingers twitch.

  Samantha felt an immense satisfaction. Finally she finished her sentence, “. . . Arthur Chamberlain was not.”

  “What?” McLain took his hand off the lid to the cookie jar and turned to stare at her. “This is empty,” he informed her.

  “I know. I only bake cookies when my children are coming.”

  “Oh.”

  Samantha relented. She brought out and sliced a piece of her special apricot pound cake for him.

  McLain’s attitude improved perceptibly. “Thanks.” He smiled briefly at her and got right back to his topic, frowning again. “So where was he? Where’d he go?”

  When Samantha had finished telling him about Chamberlains’s trip to Atlanta, he demanded, “Why’d he go?”

  Samantha felt a distinct touch of annoyance. “How should I know? Even his wife doesn’t know.”

  “Then it wasn’t a planned trip?”

  “No. Mr. Chamberlain told Agnes his brother had called early this morning and that he had to go to him.”

  “The battle-axe accepted that?”

  “Evidently she has no reason to mistrust her husband.” It was Samantha’s turn to frown. She couldn’t believe she’d just let this man call her neighbor a battle- axe. Association with McLain must be dulling her social conscience.

  “Huh! Wonder how she’d feel if she knew he ran around town all night getting sloshed.”

  Samantha lost all patience with McLain. “Taking a sip or two here in your and Laura’s backyards does not constitute galloping around the entire city getting inebriated!”

  “You don’t have to get huffy.” He waved his fork at her. “This is good.”

  “I am not huffy.” She put McLain’s mug down in front of him with such force that coffee popped up out of and plopped back down into the mug.

  “You coulda fooled me.”

  “I’m so glad you like the cake.” Again it was sarcasm wasted. The man was impervious!

  “Temper, Sam.”

  Samantha felt her molars grate. Smiling with her teeth clenched, she placed her own coffee on the table with infinite gentleness and sat down across from him. “I must tell you, Colonel McLain, that I prefer that people refrain from shortening my name to ‘Sam.’”

  “Z’at so?”

  “Yes, that is so. It’s one of my little peculiarities.”

  He studied her a long moment, his blue eyes glinting with something that might have been humor. “We have to figure what’s going on here, Sam.”

  “Samantha,” she corrected. Heavens! It would serve him right if she told him to call her Mrs. Masters!

  He ignored her. Frowning, he searched his mind. “There’s got to be more to this vandalism than we’re figuring. Kids aren’t this consistent. You said it’s been going on a while. I know that doesn’t seem significant to you, but these days kids want more excitement. Trust me. I’ve seen enough raw recruits to know kids.”

  Samantha didn’t like the idea of doing it, but she had to admit that he was probably right. She herself hadn’t had a lot of experience with young people lately, not since her daughter Karen had been in Girl Scouts and she’d had lots of interaction with the girls. Heavens! Was it really that long ago?

  The Virginian-Pilot certainly supplied her with enough horror stories about carjacking and youth gangs lurking around the malls, but she just didn’t believe that the good kids were so far outnumbered. They just went unreported, she was sure. It was a shame, but only bad news sold newspapers, it seemed.

  Her neighborhood had always been fortunate. Why it had to suddenly get a spate of bad teens was simply beyond her. Personally, she’d no doubt that it was teenagers, for if it wasn’t, then who was it? It certainly wasn’t her dear neighbor Art Chamberlain!

  She heartily resisted the thought that any grown- up in their right mind would do such senseless damage. Why would they?

  Of course, when she’d seen the wreckage in Laura’s greenhouse, she’d been uncertain that the vandal was actually in his right mind. The damage had seemed a little organized to her. That thought brought a shiver. It could be a deranged adult.

  McLain interrupted her unwelcome thoughts. “Look, Samantha. We need to find a reason for this. It has to have some sort of pattern.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door. Samantha jumped, then rose to answer it. She let Alison in from the terrace. “Alison, this is Colonel McLain, our new neighbor,” she introduced them. “This is Alison Fulton, Colonel McLain, Laura Fulton’s niece.”

  McLain rose for the introductions. Samantha was inordinately pleased to see that he did, evidently, have a few manners.

  After the amenities, Alison grinned apologetically, and said, “Sorry, Aunt Samantha, but Aunt Laura is making her famous chocolate chip cookies and has run out of nuts. She sent me over to see if you had any pecans.”

  Samantha smiled warmly at the girl, glad to see her taking time to do something with her aunt. Lately, work and her new beau — Randy Hale, the young man Laura disliked so, and if truth be told so did she—had kept her too busy for much time with Laura.

  She opened a cabinet and handed Alison a bag of pecan pieces. “Tell Laura she’s lucky. These would have been long gone if I’d had time to bake cookies and mail them to the kids.”

  Alison smiled brightly to acknowledge Samantha’s remark and nodded to McLain. “Nice to meet you, Colonel McLain.”

  McLain inclined his head and grunted somewhat affably.

  “Oh, Alison, dear.” Samantha put out a hand to detain her young friend. Aware that Alison knew most of the young people in the neighborhood she asked, “Colonel McLain and I are trying to puzzle out who might be able to shed a little light on our vandalism. Can you think of anyone who might have done such things . . . or seen something unusual? Try as I might, I can think of no one.”

  “No.” Alison colored and seemed a little agitated. “No, I don’t have any idea.” She bobbed her head apologetically. “Please excuse me. Aunt Laura will have a fit if I don’t get right back. You know how she’s been about me going out at night since all this started. And her oven’s on, too. I’d better get going.” Alison backed to the terrace door. “Thank you for the pecans, Samantha. Aunt Laura will be glad you had them. Nice to have met you, Colonel.” She turned when her hip hit the French door, pushed it open, and was gone like a shot.

  McLain looked after her thoughtfully. “Never had quite that effect on a girl before.”

  “Alison is usually a little more self-possessed,” she understated mildly. Allison had certainly been flustered. “Guess she was sh
ocked to see a man at my table.”

  McLain looked momentarily uncomfortable until Samantha said, “The young always put a romantic interpretation on such things, you know. And she is, of course, unaware of how unpalatable you are.”

  “Unpalatable! Now see here . . .” Then he saw the expression in her eyes.

  “Gottcha!”

  “Shi . . .”

  Samantha threw out her hand. “Don’t you dare use that word in my house, John McLain!”

  McLain took refuge in his coffee cup, draining it and holding it out to her for more.

  Samantha, who prided herself that she was never one to rub it in, dutifully poured him a second cup.

  When the last of his third slice of apricot pound cake had disappeared from McLain’s dessert plate, he looked up and asked, “Well, I suppose I have to go home now?”

  “It’s still well before nine.”

  “Then we need to get our heads together on this vandalism thing. So whadaya waiting for?”

  Samantha resisted saying she’d been waiting for him to finish making a pig of himself. Instead she removed his plate from the table and rinsed the crumbs off it into the disposal side of the sink before slipping the dish into the dishwasher. “I’ll get a tablet so we can make a list.”

  As she moved away, she heard him grumble, “Better bring a pencil, too.”

  Always with the orders! Obviously, she could count on being bossed around, now that she’d made the acquaintance of this charming man who was her new neighbor. Well, Samantha promised herself, she would just see about that!

  ***

  McLain arrived at Samantha’s terrace door promptly at seven-thirty the next evening, as they’d finally agreed the night before.

  Samantha opened the French door with a distinct feeling of resentment. She’d meant it when she’d told him she’d rather he came at eight. Drat the man! He didn’t have to wash dishes. He had Frank Takamoto, the lucky dog. McLain, not Frank.

  “You’re looking cheerful this evening.” McLain observed with a hint of malice.

  “You’re just fortunate I had a dishwasher that was almost full.” Samantha was pleased that her annoyance showed in her voice.

  “What’s an almost full dishwasher got to do with it?

  Samantha gave him an indignant look. “You don’t think I’d run it half-empty, do you?”

  “No clue, Sam. Never gave it much thought, somehow.” He cocked an ear toward the machine under discussion. “Sounds like it’s doing just fine to me. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Samantha said in a frost-edged tone, “is that it is extremely difficult to finish dinner at an enjoyable pace, clear the table, clean the kitchen, do the dishes and be ready for,” she forced herself to refrain from using the words ‘an invasion,’ “a guest,” she made the word ‘guest’ sound anything but welcoming, “by seven-thirty!”

  “Oh, stow it, Sam. We have something important to discuss. We don’t have time for you to stand there jawing at me over a little half-an-hour.” He plopped down at the kitchen table and picked up the pad they’d used for notes the night before.

  Samantha pushed the aggravation she felt at his disrespectful speech down into the same place in her mind that she’d already shoved her peevishness at his first use of her detested nickname. She had to clench her teeth to keep it there.

  Determinedly, Samantha gave herself over to the interest she felt in what he had to say. She handed him a mug of coffee.

  “Hey! I thought I’d been invited for hot chocolate.”

  “No. You invited yourself for chocolate. But you didn’t leave me time to prepare it properly, and I’m out of instant.”

  McLain looked at her in open admiration. “God, Sam. When you put that prissy little mind of yours to it, you can really be a bitch.”

  “Colonel McLain! I’ll thank you to moderate your language in my presence.”

  “Okay, so you’re shy about compliments.” He watched with satisfaction the two high spots of color in her cheeks, then decided to stop jerking her chain.

  One last yank. He couldn’t resist it. “Maybe we can make chocolate later?”

  “Perhaps.” Samantha said the word with a snap.

  McLain looked into Samantha’s level, narrowed eyes, and changed the tone of the conversation. He didn’t want it to crash before he got it off the ground.

  “Look,” he told her. “This sketch we did of the places the vandal has done his dirty work shows a definite pattern.” He studied her briefly. She’d overcome her irritation and was clearly interested in what he had to say.

  Just then, Rags tore in from the living room, went to the terrace door, and pawed the door frame. When he didn’t get an instant response, he let out a single sharp bark.

  “I believe that mutt of yours wants out.”

  “Coming, Rags,” Samantha said vaguely, her mind still locked on McLain’s statement that there was a pattern. With a pattern, maybe they could . . .

  Rags was having a fit. Flinging himself against the door repeatedly he increased the volume of his barks.

  “Stop that, Rags! You know better than that. You’ll scratch the door.”

  McLain rose. “Come on. Let’s take the mutt for a walk. Maybe fresh air will clear some of the cobwebs for you.” Very softly he told Rags, “And maybe we can get you run over.”

  “Yes. Fine.” Samantha obviously hadn’t heard his last remark. McLain watched her grab her sweater off the back of her chair and the key from its place on the key board next to the pantry door. Stupid place to keep a key, he noted. The way she left doors open, anybody could take one. Instead of telling her so, however, he opened the door for her.

  Rags shot out.

  Samantha and McLain had hardly crossed the terrace, when Rags disappeared, yapping off into Laura’s gateway. His barking took on a quality that alarmed them both.

  McLain broke into a dead run after the little dog, Samantha right behind him. Tearing around one of the pair of huge brick pillars that marked the entrance to Laura’s drive, they skidded to a halt. Just inside, a car stood idling.

  Rags was barking ferociously at the driver’s door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Slow, curling mist creeping up from the river mingled with the car’s exhaust, muffling the sound of the smooth- running engine. The steady purr of it in the almost- silence was eerie.

  Samantha felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

  Rags was barking ferociously at the driver’s door. Clawing frantically at the driver’s door.

  Samantha’s mind filled with dread.

  “Hey, Mutt!” McLain admonished, “That’s good paint.” But his voice lacked force, and he didn’t look as if he was worried about the paint on the outside of the dark green Jaguar. He looked as if he were apprehensive about what he’d find inside. In two long strides he was at the door of the car. A quick glance and, “Sam! Call an ambulance. Hurry!”

  As she ran past the car, Samantha saw a graceful arm, its hand limp, dangling from the driver’s window. Her heart was in her throat, the car looked like Olivia Charles’s!

  Samantha’s fear filled her voice as she flew across the gravel drive to the house. “Laura!”

  She slammed into the door, twisting the knob frantically. The door was sensibly locked. With her balled fist, she pounded on it.

  Laura tore it open. “Samantha! What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  Samantha pushed past her to the telephone. “It’s Olivia.” She punched 9-1-1. “Something’s happened to Olivia. Colonel McLain’s out there with her.” She turned her attention to the person on the other end of the phone. “We need an ambulance. The address is . . .”

  Laura flew out the door before Samantha finished speaking.

  In a flurry of footsteps, Alison came down the butler’s back stairs into the kitchen, her face full of concern. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Samantha replaced the receiver and headed for the door, urgency driving her. “O
livia Charles’s car is standing in the driveway. She’s been hurt.”

  Alison jumped down over the last three steps of the back stairs and ran across the kitchen. By the time Samantha had made it back to the gravel drive the girl had passed her.

  In the dim light from the Jaguar’s interior, Samantha saw that McLain had lifted Olivia from her car and placed her flat on the ground. He was tearing strips from the pretty cotton robe that Alison had had on a moment ago. Alison stood above him in her bra and half slip, transfixed with horror.

  Making a pad of the strip he’d torn, McLain pressed it to Olivia’s chest, looked up and ordered Samantha, “Hold this here. Press down hard.”

  It was then that Samantha saw all the blood. Faint with the sight of her friend’s life spilling out, she dropped to her knees and did as she was told. To her horror, blood seeped up at an alarming rate, coming through the pad she held tightly against Olivia’s chest.

  Rags shoved his muzzle into Olivia’s limp hand. When she didn’t respond, he whined pitifully.

  Samantha felt sorry for the little dog and would have attempted to comfort him had her own need for comfort not numbed her mind. Oh, when would help come? Her feeble effort to help her dear friend was doing nothing to halt the steady flow of blood through her own pressing fingers. Tears blurred her vision as she looked frantically toward the gate.

  In the distance a siren wailed. The ambulance. Thank God!

  Nerves stretched to the breaking point, she strained to hear any hint that it was approaching the scene. The sound of its squealing tires as it rushed toward them was the most welcome sound Samantha had ever heard.

  Laura rushed out of the mist, back from wherever she had gone to find a flashlight. “Here. This is the one from my car. I didn’t dare go into Olivia’s.”

  “Good head.” McLain praised her, making another pad. “The cops’ll want to see her car.”

  The ambulance paused down the street and flashed its spotlight on the facade of Samantha’s house to read the number. McLain cried, “Go get ‘em, Sam. Hurry!” and put his great hands where Samantha’s had been on Olivia’s chest.

  Samantha ran out of Laura’s gate waving her blood streaked arms in the glare of the ambulance’s bright headlights and shouting, “Here! We need you here!”