Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  She’d retired to the bedroom with her fears. She’d coached Alexia to stuff the bed covers with pillows, like kids trying to fool their parents while they snuck out of the house for some truant tryst. She’d even secured two mannequin heads to add to the reality. She had hoped she would be proven foolish. She had hoped she’d never have to fire the 25th Anniversary Glock 17 she carried all the time in her purse.

  Her heart began to race when the kitchen door opened. She knew a door had opened, not by any sound, but by the subtle change in air pressure in the cottage, and the bedroom door going ajar on its own. She sat tucked into the corner shadows as a dark figure pushed through the door and raised its arm to a shooting position. Three spits. Suppressed fire. By the third, she’d raised her arms, triggered the laser sight, and replied with two thunderous burps of her own. With the lights on, she saw her reward for hours of range training - two tight holes in the man’s mid-sternum. He died before hitting the floor. And then she saw his face.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Myra looked up when Alexia repeated her question. She shook her head. “Hardly the time for tea now, is it?”

  Alexia frowned and wrapped her arms more tightly around her chest. Myra saw that the girl was shaking worse than she was. “Sorry. I … I … Tell you what, a glass of water would be nice. Thank you.”

  As Alexia returned with the drink, Myra noticed the first police officer approach the cottage with Angela talking and walking next to him. She stopped at the doorway while the officer entered.

  Myra pointed toward the bedroom. “H-he’s back there.”

  He returned to the living room a minute later.

  “My gun’s right there.” She pointed to the coffee table in front of the couch. “Chamber’s empty. The magazine still has 15 rounds. I removed it and laid it there.” He reached for the pistol as if unsure how to pick it up. “I’m the only one who has fired it in months. Mine should be the only fingerprints. Use gloves to bag it.” She smiled. Standard police protocols. She knew them by heart.

  The constable left it in place on the table. Myra heard the crunch of gravel outside from another car’s arrival. Rotating beacons of light filled the night like strobes at a rave. A tall, athletically built man in his mid-forties entered the building and the first officer deferred to him by stepping outside and standing at the door.

  “I’m Detective Akers with the Carroll County Sheriff’s Department.” He handed her a business card. Myra nodded.

  “He’s in the back.”

  The detective followed the deputy’s path to the bedroom and returned a moment later. To Myra, that made three confirmations that the man was indeed dead.

  He pointed to the pistol on the table, but Myra anticipated his question.

  “Glock 17. Chamber’s empty and you can see the mag is out. It’s mine. I fired it. I’m legally licensed for it in both California and Texas, with conceal carry permits in both states. Arkansas accepts the Texas permit in reciprocity.”

  “Why do you need a concealed weapon? You don’t look like –”

  “Detective, do you know who I am? Did the manager here tell you?”

  He shook his head noncommittally. “Myra Mitchell is the registered guest. That you?”

  “Yes. Myra Mitchell.”

  He looked unfazed.

  “New York Times bestselling author.”

  “Sorry, don’t read much. I’m more of a video gamer myself. What have you written?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. Of all the times to not be recognized. She threw out several names, mostly the books that became movies, and saw that something registered in him.

  “You don’t get to my level in writing the books I write without learning everything there is to know about handguns, assault rifles, and the like. They’re part of our tradecraft, so to speak. Also, I’ve been advised by more than one security group that I should never travel without protection. I tried a bodyguard once. That didn’t work, so that …” She pointed to the Glock. “… is my security detail. It was, by the way, a gift from a friend. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Ted Nugent?”

  Now he seemed impressed. Nothing like name-dropping at the right time, with the right name.

  “Those were two expertly grouped shots.”

  “You shouldn’t own a gun unless you know to respect it and learn how to use it. I’ve spent hours on the range. That’s what makes it such good security.”

  “We’ll need to take it.”

  Myra nodded. “I assume I’ll get it back at some point.”

  The man shrugged. “At some point, probably. So, tell me what happened.”

  “Have a seat, detective.” She began with her trip to Taos and the assault on Diana there. She gave him the Taos detective’s name and phone number. She followed with the trip to Eureka Springs, the suspicious call received by Maria at the Writer’s Retreat, and a car that had followed her back to the resort. She outlined her fears and then the events of the past hour. She presented him with a narrative even a non-reader could appreciate and left nothing out, except that she knew the man.

  By then, the county’s crime scene team of two tired-looking men had arrived, as well as the county coroner. The detective nodded toward the gun and one man bagged it, and then placed the magazine in a separate bag. Myra could hear a local reporter, who knew to keep his distance from the scene, peppering the other guests with questions. An occasional camera flash popped through the open cottage door. Myra was glad to be hours away from the nearest paparazzi, and their mid-south wannabes.

  “More water?”

  Myra looked up to find Alexia hovering next to her chair. The detective and investigators busied themselves in the bedroom. Myra knew everything they would find would corroborate her story. She also anticipated having to stay in town longer than she planned. She shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You don’t look well.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Still, Myra had to admit she wasn’t feeling so hot and her jaundice seemed to be worsening. “See if they’ll let you talk with Angela. We’ll need somewhere else to stay, and I might need to have my lab tests done somewhere around here.”

  Alexia went to the front door and talked with the constable, who allowed her to leave. A few minutes later, she returned to inform Myra the other cottage would become available later that morning. Myra laid back into the cushion. She hadn’t felt this drained since her seventy-two hour binge following the release of the fourth book-turned-movie. At that time, though, she’d had ample reasons, all physical, for the exhaustion. Her current fatigue was purely emotional. She hoped. But then she noted the darkening color of the skin on her forearms.

  Thirty minutes later, the detective emerged from the back and approached her.

  “Looks pretty much like you described it. The gun was still in his hand. We found two .22 caliber rounds in the bed and one in the mannequin head. The Walther’s magazine showed only three rounds fired. I’ll have to present this to the prosecutor and we’ll let you know his decision. You might get in trouble with some of our gun laws, but I can’t see anything but self-defense on the killing.”

  “Getting in trouble I can deal with. Getting dead is something I’m trying to avoid.” She stood up from the couch. “I’m told we can move to the other cottage later, if you’ll let us move our stuff when it becomes available. How long do you think we’ll need to stay in town?”

  He shrugged again. “Up to the prosecutor. You do have copies of your licenses and permits, I take it?”

  “I do. We might be able to make you copies at the office.”

  “I’ll have the constable handle that for us.” He sat down and motioned for Myra to do so. “So, do you know this guy?”

  Myra hesitated and shook her head. He looked at Alexia. “You?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.” She sat down next to Myra.

  “Your accent. The Carolinas?”

  Alexia nodded. “Western North Carolina.”

  �
��Is Franklin in that part of the state?”

  Alexia knitted her brow. “Yes, it is.”

  “The name ‘Dewey Hastings’ mean anything to you?”

  She hesitated. “Noooo, I don’t … I don’t think so.”

  “Ms. Mitchell, can you think of anyone who’d be out to kill you?”

  Myra took a deep breath. Yes, Dewey Hastings, she thought, although a reason for his coming after her now eluded her. “No one I can think of. Unlike some of my peers who get death threats for degrading Islam, or speaking badly of some fringe group, my novels don’t usually have much of a political message. I can’t recall ever getting any threats. My publisher might know more.”

  The detective looked at Alexia. “Ms. Hamilton? Anyone?”

  She looked puzzled. “Honestly, no, but before I received my graduate position at USC, I did some journalism back home. My apartment was burglarized once, about a week before I moved. Police thought it was a random event, kids looking for money or tech toys.”

  “Well, ladies, we might know more after looking into this guy, but I’d have to suggest that you, Ms. Mitchell, might not have been his primary target. I found this in his jacket pocket.” He presented the women with a picture of Alexia, with details on her height, weight, and more noted in pencil on the back.

  Thirty-seven

  **********

  By first light, the body and related evidence had been removed from the cottage. The investigation moved outside where the team focused on one area in the adjacent woods. By noon, Angela and Alexia had moved all of their possessions to the nearby cottage. Alexia, in particular, appeared to be looking for tasks to keep her busy.

  “Alexia!” Myra called upstairs looking for her assistant.

  The young woman appeared from the kitchen. “I’m here.”

  “I need to go to town, but I’m not up to driving. Let’s go.”

  “Right now? I …” She pointed to the kitchen.

  Myra shook her head. “I’m not hungry and I’d rather not wait.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I-I found something disturbing in one of the boxes.” She pointed again to the kitchen. Myra followed her into the room. Letters and notebooks littered the table.

  “I had to make myself busy, to, you know. So, I started going through the first box. I found one of Betsy’s earliest diaries. Angela was right; she had a rough life, and she mentioned a name that caught my attention. When I was a student in North Carolina, I volunteered with the Innocence Project. There was a man who was convicted of the murder of a girl in 1969. The teenager went missing. Blood was found at the man’s home and a female body washed up on the shore of Thorpe Reservoir a few weeks later. The father identified it as his daughter. The convicted man has consistently claimed his innocence to this day, but after we worked the case, we found no DNA evidence we could use to exonerate him. To this day, I’m convinced he is innocent. Our whole team is.”

  Myra felt nauseated. She didn’t want to hear anymore, but knew she had to.

  “Why wasn’t there any DNA if you had blood from the missing girl and a body?”

  “We had the blood, which he claimed was indeed the girl’s blood but that she had cut her arm and he stitched her up. We needed to compare that DNA with that of the girl found in the lake. We got an exhumation order and found the grave empty. Her body wasn’t there.”

  Myra felt like she had at the restaurant with Samuel. She struggled to stay on her feet and maintain her composure, but her insides roiled. “Wh-what was the man’s name?”

  “Umfleet. Curt Umfleet.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. In one fell swoop, her past was collapsing on top of her.

  Alexia stepped up to support her. “Are you okay?”

  A knock on the front door interrupted them. Myra took a deep breath, steadied herself, and walked to the door. She opened it to find two husky young men standing there in well-fitted chinos and polo shirts. Their crew cuts made a Marine look shabby, their upper torsos made Sasquatch look puny.

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, I’m Kenny and this is Gene. We’re your protection detail.”

  “What? I didn’t request a …” She turned inside to Alexia, who shrugged her shoulders in denial.

  “The man in New York said you might protest. He told us to ignore it, that he knew best.”

  Myra stood there dumbfounded. “Was this man’s name Samuel?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. DeMoss.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “How in the world did he find out? Has he planted bugs in my luggage?”

  “I believe, Ma’am, that someone in Taos, New Mexico called him. He mentioned an incident there. We’re with a security firm out of Little Rock.”

  “One moment,” Myra said and closed the door on them.

  She turned to find Alexia already on the phone. A moment later, she nodded. Samuel had hired them. If Samuel had his way, soon she’d have an entourage the size of the President’s. Yet, for once, she didn’t have the energy to argue. She opened the door and stepped back to let them inside the cabin.

  “Alexia, you’re off the hook. Kenny, can you drive a stick?”

  “Ma’am, I can drive anything on wheels, or treads for that matter. Also have fixed and rotary wing pilot’s license. If it moves, I can pretty much handle it.”

  “That I can believe.” She tossed him her car keys. “The Mustang outside. Your partner needs to stick with Alexia here.”

  “Sweeeet.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, Ma’am. That car’s classic. I’ll handle it with care.”

  “You sure will, and you might want to confer with the local sheriff’s department. You guys are a day late.” She wanted to add “and a dollar short,” but she hated clichés.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Pleeease. Stop calling me Ma’am.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Alexia’s chuckle ended with Myra’s glare.

  Fifteen minutes later, Myra and Alexia entered the Writer’s Retreat while their “protective” detail stood guard outside. Myra admired their work ethic and devotion to details. Had she been younger she would have admired much more, but then, that’s why her first and only other bodyguard hadn’t worked out. Hers wasn’t the body needing guarded.

  And she felt guilty for her thoughts. She had a much more important mission now.

  “I thought you didn’t want to come,” she whispered to Alexia once out of earshot of “the boys.”

  “I didn’t want to be stuck in that cottage with Gonzo there either. Besides, I’m curious as to why you needed to come back here.”

  Myra held up an envelope. “We’re on a new mission, dear.” She lifted the flap and opened the envelope like a fish mouth. Inside was a key. “It was in the third box.”

  Oni appeared in the reception area as soon as they stepped inside. “Oh dear Lord.” She rushed to Myra, crying, and smothered the author with a big hug. “Myra. Alexia. I am sooo glad you’re okay.” She paused. “You are okay, right?”

  Myra nodded. Alexia shook her head.

  “It’s time, Oni.” She held up the key. Alexia looked puzzled.

  “Are you sure?”

  Myra nodded again. “I owe a debt that I have to repay. I don’t want to wait and maybe die before I can do that.”

  Oni turned and led them through a back door. Myra was impressed to find “Gonzo” Gene standing guard there, scanning the surroundings. He followed them to an adjacent building after activating some kind of device on his sleeve. Before entering the next building, Gene stopped them. “Please wait until Kenny gets here. We need to secure the building.”

  Oni whispered, “Is he for real?”

  Myra nodded. “Very much so. Wait for Kenny.”

  Kenny arrived in seconds and entered the building. Three minutes later, he emerged. “Do you have a key for the locked room? Everything else is clear.”

  Myra handed him the key. A minute later, he gave them the ‘all clear.’
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  The three women entered the building, one of the old homes that had been converted to rooms for retreat participants. Except for one room that had remained locked for decades. Myra heard a faint gasp from Alexia. She turned and saw the young woman’s gaze fixed on the plaque above the door, “The Elise Kenwood Suite.”

  Myra entered first and Oni, waiting for Alexia to move, said. “Elise funded the creation of this retreat. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

  Myra moved among the furnishings, gently sliding her fingers over the old drawing table and its worn stool. A nearby table held piles of papers that closer inspection revealed to be yellowed ‘Sweetie and George’ cartoons with a twist. Sweetie and George were younger and new parents of a baby named Jimmy Bob. Alexia thumbed through several sheets and a smile emerged.

  “That would have been Betsy’s next book,” said Oni.

  Myra had been remarkably silent since entering the room, but tears flowed freely as she moved from one piece of furniture to another, finally stopping at an antique roll-top desk. She reached around the back and retrieved a key to the desk’s lock.

  Oni motioned to Myra. “Alexia, meet Elise Kenwood, aka Betsy Weston.”

  Myra turned and faced her assistant with a chagrined look. Alexia’s demeanor flashed anger, and then became smug.

  “Why? Why the big charade? You could have just told me.”

  Myra sat on the stool in front of her old drawing table. “As to why, well, I wanted you to experience something different. I wanted you to ferret out this story for yourself. I know we started off kinda rocky, but after a few days in Taos, I knew I wanted you to write my last book if I never got to. ‘The Death of a Diva’ was to be my life story. The ultimate rags to riches story, complete with sad ending. Plus, I didn’t really want to come out of hiding just yet. Only Oni, my dearest friend ever, knew the whole truth and kept my secret, even from Angela and Tammie.”