Crimson Eve
Page 1
PRAISE FOR BRANDILYN COLLINS’ KANNER LAKE SERIES
“. . . fast-paced … interesting details of police procedure and crime scene investigation . . . beautifully developed [characters] …”
— Publishers Weekly for Violet Dawn
“. . . a magnificent storyteller. Ms. Collins has written another fantastic mystery and Violet Dawn is a great beginning to a new series.”
— FreshFiction.com
“Collins’ ability to bring characters to life rivals that of Barbara Kingsolver [The Poisonwood Bible]. If you’re afraid of the dark, live in a house that squeaks, or are terrified by things that go bump in the night, try reading Coral Moon in broad daylight.”
— TitleTrakk.com
Other Books by Brandilyn Collins
Kanner Lake Series
1 | Violet Dawn
2 | Coral Moon
3 | Crimson Eve
Hidden Faces Series
1 | Brink of Death
2 | Stain of Guilt
3 | Dead of Night
4 | Web of Lies
Bradleyville Series
1 | Cast a Road Before Me
2 | Color the Sidewalk for Me
3 | Capture the Wind for Me
Chelsea Adams Series
1 | Eyes of Elisha
2 | Dread Champion
HELP CREATE THE KANNER LAKE WORLD
Write a Post for Scenes and Beans—And Win a Signed Copy of Any Kanner Lake Novel!
Scenes and Beans, the Kanner Lake character blog, features many of the Java Joint folks you’ll meet in Crimson Eve. Their entertaining posts are written in real time, according to events in this story. And they’re created by you — the readers of the series!
Visit Scenes and Beans at www.kannerlake.blogspot.com.
For details on auditioning a post, go to www.kannerlake.com/ scenesandbeans.html.
Want to Discuss Crimson Eve with Your Book Club?
Insightful questions about the story and how it
applies to your life can be found at www.kannerlake.com/discussions
ZONDERVAN
CRIMSON EVE
Copyright © 2007 by Brandilyn Collins
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition January 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-31718-0
This title is also available as a Zondervan audio product.
Visit www.zondervan.com/audiopages for more information.
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Collins, Brandilyn.
Crimson eve / Brandilyn Collins.
p. cm.
ISBN-13:978-0-310-25225-2
1. Women real estate agents—Fiction. 2. Resorts—Fiction. 3. Idaho—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O4747815C75 2007
813'.6—dc22 2007012727
* * *
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
* * *
07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Sister #3,
Sandy Sheppard,
a.k.a. “Perfect Sister.”
Because you are.
(It helps that you prayed for me to be born.)
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
INTRODUCTION
PART ONE : Exposed
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
PART TWO : Driven
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
PART THREE : Collision
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
SEVENTY-SIX
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SEVENTY-NINE
EIGHTY
EIGHTY-ONE
EIGHTY-TWO
PART FOUR : Reparation
EIGHTY-THREE
EIGHTY-FOUR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Be sure to read book four in the Kanner Lake series, Amber Morn.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS
“Shall we never, never get rid of this Past?” cried he. . . .
“It lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.”
— Nathaniel Hawthorne,
The House of Seven Gables
What is past is prologue.
— William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Whatever is has already been, and what will be has been before;
and God will call the past to account.
— Ecclesiastes 3:15
INTRODUCTION
Dear Reader,
Back for more, are you?
In Coral Moon (second in the Kanner Lake series), I warned you that the wheels of the roller coaster on which you were about to embark just might leave earth. For Crimson Eve, I issue a warning of another kind. This roller coaster stays on the track, all right. But it is frighteningly long, its cars stretching so far that the front one catches up to the back. Or is it that the back circles
around to meet the front?
Imagine being on a ride in which you do not know the start or the end. Which car is pushing, which is pulling? Which one drives the rickety climb to the top, the stomachless plunge to the bottom? Which one determines when you stop? Whether or not you’ve made it to safety?
If you find your way off this thing, you might look about you, check your possessions. Not everyone who boards leaves with all that was brought. I’ll let you decide if that is a good thing.
And now — you know the drill. Keep your hands inside the car, strap yourself in tight, and don’t forget to b r e a t h e . . .
CRIMSON EVE
PART ONE
Exposed
ONE
“Really, is a heinous murder any reason to devalue such a glorious piece of real estate?”
The words rolled off the man’s tongue in a luscious British accent and with a hint of tease, lending him a cocky James Bond air. He was dashingly handsome (a good British description, what?). Dark hair, rich brown eyes, a jaw cut just so — not too square, but firm. Carla Radling glanced at his left hand. No ring. But then he’d already intimated he was single. A real-estate developer, he’d said over the phone yesterday. And apparently rich, although no proper English gentleman would say so. He was “seeking a beautiful and private piece of property near water as a second home,” and the half-page ad in Dream Houses had caught his eye. If he liked the place, he’d pay cash.
To think she’d complained about the high cost of the ad.
Behind them, the heavy wrought-iron gates of the estate that once belonged to the late actress Edna San closed with a muted clang. Carla steered her white Toyota Camry down the impressive driveway curving through forest. Her client, David Thornby —although James Bond fit so much better — dignified her front seat. His legs, in impeccable beige trousers, were confidently apart, his left arm draped over the console, fingers casually drumming. His navy sport jacket boasted a thousand-dollar weave.
Carla laughed at Thornby’s “heinous murder” remark. “No devaluing here. But often that’s what happens to the homes of celebrities caught in a scandal — or murder. Gives potential buyers the willies to picture the crime occurring in their living room.”
“Technically, it didn’t occur here, correct? Edna San was taken out of the home, with no one being sure exactly where she was killed.”
That accent was just to die for. “Right. The news was where they found her, not where she was killed.”
But enough of this morbid topic.
“The property has only been for sale a little over a year,” Carla said. “That’s not a long time given its price for this area. I told Edna’s heirs I fully expected that someone out of the area would buy it.”
Carla rounded a curve in the wide driveway, and the actress’s magnificent two-story home of wood and stone swept into view. A front porch with thick round pillars ran its entire length, the arched and mullioned windows giving it a castlelike quality. Surrounded by twenty acres of forest, it included a smaller home on the property for a full-time caretaker or perhaps a gardener, whatever a well-bred English gentleman might prefer.
Thornby drew in a breath. “It’s stunning. And look at that view.”
Kanner Lake sparkled some three hundred feet beyond the backyard of the main house, its waters tinged crimson in the sunset. Carla caught a glimpse of it through the side yard as she pulled up to the front of the house.
“Yeah, isn’t it great? Like the ad said, a large dock and two hundred feet of sandy beach. Plus, with the forest all around you, it’s completely private. And you’ll see plenty of wildlife. Deer, with their new spotted fawns each year, wild turkeys.” No need to mention the skunks, coons, and occasional bear.
Carla slid another look at Thornby. He leaned forward, anticipation on his face. The man liked what he saw.
A vague warning twinged in her stomach. Such obvious excitement didn’t fit the demeanor of a suave British gentleman, did it?
Carla pushed the thought away. Pure stereotype.
She stopped close to the wide porch steps and cut the engine. “Wait till you see the inside.”
He smiled at her, and his eyes twinkled. Twinkled. Carla hadn’t known a pair of eyes could do that — outside the romance novels she used to read as a teenager.
How old was this guy? Maybe forty? Not so much older than her thirty-two years.
Please, oh, please, buy this house, you handsome thing. Then marry me quick.
“Thanks for letting me leave my car outside the gate,” he said.
“This was a treat, being free to ogle while you drove in.”
“We aim to please.”
They mounted the three curved flagstone steps side by side, Thornby a good eight inches taller than her five-six frame. Power and control emanated from him, his back straight, chin high, and eyes alert. He ran his knuckles down the huge carved door as Carla, trying her best to appear unaffected by his charm, slid her key into the lockbox. She removed the lock, pushed back the door, and waved him inside. “After you.”
He stepped over the threshold onto gleaming tile floor, Carla following. Thornby’s head tipped back to admire the grand curving staircase to their left.
“Truly stunning.”
Carla hung back, giving him time to admire the sights — a formal living room on the right, furnished in leather couches and Persian rugs, rich wood wainscoting on the walls.
“Of course if you don’t like Edna San’s taste in furniture, you could always — ”
“I do like it, very much. Makes it easier to buy a second home when it’s turnkey.”
“Well, that’s good.” Carla dropped her keys into her purse. “Since Edna’s son and daughter didn’t seem to care a whit about taking anything. Other than the crystal and china, that is, and the photos of Edna with Bette Davis and other movie cohorts.”
“I thought Edna San hated Bette Davis.” Thornby stepped into the living room and leaned down to inspect the fifteen-thousand-dollar rug.
Carla shrugged. “Didn’t all the legendary female movie stars hate each other? It’s a cat thing.”
“Cat?”
“Yeah, you know how women can fight over . . .” Carla eased up beside him, and he looked at her with those incredible eyes. Carla pressed her lips together. “Never mind.”
He flashed another smile, sending a tingle down Carla’s spine.
“So.” She pointed toward the entryway. “How about if I show you the kitchen and dining room?”
“Yes, certainly.”
In the large kitchen Carla pointed out the amenities. Thornby stood back while she opened cabinets, the refrigerator.
Odd. Prospective buyers typically inspected every nook and cranny.
Must be a man thing. The guy probably didn’t even cook.
He glanced at his Rolex watch more than once.
Carla tilted her head. “Are you in a hurry?”
“No, no, sorry. Just the habit of a businessman.”
Down a short, wide hall off the kitchen they stepped into the formal dining room. A highly polished cherrywood table lay beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier, the matching hutch elegant despite its emptiness after Edna San’s children had claimed its dishes and goblets. On the hardwood floor spread another luxurious Persian rug. Carla walked around to the other side of the table, gesturing toward the large back windows. “Great view of the lake.”
Thornby put his hands on his hips. “Splendid.” He gazed at her, mouth curving. “And so are you.”
Carla blinked. Was he talking about her skills as a realtor?
Huh-uh — the look on his face said something far different.
He sighed. “It’s such a shame.”
Carla was half tongue-tied. This man was so . . . mesmerizing. “What is?”
He spread his hands. “You. This place. That I can have neither beauty.”
Whoa, where had that come from? She searched in vain for one of her typical witty comebacks. “You can�
�t?”
“No. You see, unfortunately things aren’t quite as I represented.”
It took her a second to realize the glorious accent had vanished. The guy now sounded as American as her coffee-guzzling pals down at Java Joint.
Carla stared at him. What was going on? She thought of the things she’d chosen to ignore — his request to leave his car outside the gate, his obvious anticipation of . . . something, the refusal to touch anything, the glances at his watch. Her spine tingled, but this time it didn’t feel so exciting.
“You’re not British.” She would not let her voice tremble, even though the ten-minute drive to town suddenly seemed like a trip to the moon. What was she thinking, coming out here alone near dusk? After all the trauma Kanner Lake had seen in the past year.
But good grief, he’d sounded so normal. Not to mention anxious to buy.
His lips spread in a slow smile. “No.”
Fear flushed through Carla — and that ticked her off. She raised her chin. “Well, how about that. So tell me how much you told me is true. Are you a real-estate developer?”
He shrugged. “It seemed like such a respectable line of work at the time.”
“At what time?”
“When I called you.”
She stuck her tongue between her lip and top teeth. “Okay, let’s cut the games. Just what are you?”
His graceful right hand slid into his coat pocket. “To use the vernacular, vulgar though it is” — his voice carried a light, engaging tone — “I’m a hit man.”
He pulled out a handgun and aimed it at her heart.
TWO
As the last of a glowing sun dipped below the horizon, forty-seven-year-old Tanya Evans drove through the small town of Terrin, Washington, contemplating death.
Not physical death — in her former career she’d seen enough of that, and at very early ages. Spiritual/emotional death was another matter.
Tanya Evans had died at thirty-one.
She turned onto the road leading to her five-acre property, barely noticing the wooded, semirural scenery for which Terrin was known. The sun spilled a bucket of blood red in her rearview mirror, making her squint. The color plunged that bucket deep into her memory well, refilling it with the dark, roiling waters of remorse.