by Becki Willis
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. I was opening it just as you knocked, and between the sudden noise and the feel of something wet... I- I sort of panicked. I flung it across the room.” She indicated the scattered mail strewn about on the floor. Bending down, she began to search for the mysterious object. Soon she was on all fours, looking in earnest.
Trying his best to be a gentleman and not stare at the delightful view she presented as she crawled around the floor in a dress, he diverted his attention by asking what she thought it might have been.
“Whatever it was, it was wet and wiggly.” She crawled past him, completely ignorant of the tantalizing words and view of her upturned bottom.
With a little groan, Lange decided the only thing to do was to help her. Dropping down onto one knee, he ran his hand over the carpet, his eyes still lingering on her. Would she feel this soft, this plush, if he ran his hands over her body, the body she so innocently offered a view of? Would her skin heat with friction at his touch, the way the carpet did? Hell, would he be able to think of her in a strictly professional manner?
His fingers touched something beneath the chair, something wet, and his wayward thoughts immediately snapped to attention. “I think I found it,” he announced.
“What is it?” She scooted closer to him as he turned over his palm and offered the object for inspection.
“A goldfish!” she cried in relief, having expected something much more sinister.
Then, as confusion set in, she repeated, “A goldfish?”
“A goldfish. A practically dead goldfish.”
“What does it mean?” she asked in utter vulnerability.
She looked at him with big blue eyes rimmed by unbidden tears, and he knew then that he would do anything in his power to keep those tears from falling. He thought of several things a dead goldfish could mean; a stupid prank, an ill-chosen joke, a subtle warning from a slick and twisted mind. He reminded himself not to overreact as the last thought sent a chill of fear to his heart.
“I don’t know what it means,” he told her honestly, getting to his feet. “But I need to dispose of it. Where’s your bathroom?”
“Corner, beside the stairs.”
As Lange went into the small powder room and disposed of the goldfish, Ashli continued to crawl around on the floor, collecting her scattered mail. She was unaware that her dress had inched its way up as she moved, until he came out of the bathroom and stopped with a sudden intake of breath.
He saw two flashes of pink, one in the form of silky nylon, the other in her cheeks. Ashli hurried to her feet, painfully aware that the man had just seen her underwear. Covering her embarrassment with a sudden flare of indignation, she whirled on him and demanded, “Now do you believe that someone is watching me?”
“I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t already believed you,” he told her quietly.
“Why on earth would someone send me a half-dead goldfish?”
“Maybe it was supposed to be a completely dead goldfish. Are you earlier than usual getting home?”
“No, a little later, actually.”
“Is that the envelope it was in?” He nodded to the one she held in her hand. When she offered it to him, he inspected its blank front and empty contents, finding nothing whatsoever to even suggest a clue. “Was it on your door?”
“My mailbox.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, dismissing the goldfish for the time being. He was more interested in the balcony, where the Peeping Tom had been. A wall of French doors opened onto the outdoor space, offering plenty of light and extended living space, and, perhaps, very little privacy. Typical for homes of its day, the veranda was long and wide, projecting out at least fifteen feet.
“The balcony runs the length of the house?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So it’s all connected, giving anyone access?”
“More or less. We each have our own space. Mine runs the length of my apartment and is accessible from these doors only. Same for the other back unit. The two front units each have a smaller space in the center, accessible from the French doors in the hall, which are electronically coded. Each space is divided with a lattice panel.” She nodded, indicating the white lattice wall. Hers was covered in potted plants, strategically placed decorative tin panels, and clinging vines. Though not completely covered, the arrangement offered adequate privacy from her neighbors.
“So basically anyone with a sense of adventure could swing out around the panel, or shimmy up a rope from the ground floor,” he surmised.
“Basically. Assuming they had access to the other balconies or to the grounds.”
“Privacy fence?” he asked, jotting notes into his little notebook.
“No,” she admitted.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“Upstairs.”
Not bothering to ask for permission to see it, Lange started for the stairs. Ashli followed behind, reluctant to let a stranger see the core of her privacy without being there to somehow defend it.
Twisting and turning its way up to the third floor of the grand old mansion, the staircase opened directly into her bedroom. The oversized room was spacious and light, but as she tried to look at it through someone else’s eyes, it seemed such a lonely room. Only one body slept in the bed meant for two, only one night stand stood by its side. The room’s soft colors of pink and green were intended to make it appear cool and refreshing, but suddenly to Ashli it just felt cold.
Lange walked past her bed, headed for the set of doors leading outside. This balcony was much smaller, by both length and width, and was exclusive to her apartment. With no center balcony, just its twin on the far end of the house, there was no need for a privacy panel up here. A wrought iron chair and side table nestled into one corner of the balcony, a cushioned chaise lounge stretched out in the other. He noted the singular chair, meaning she probably did not make a habit of bringing men to her bedroom.
“Do you keep these windows covered?” he asked.
“If I’m up here during the day, I might open the blinds. At night I pull the curtains shut.”
From where he stood, he surveyed the room, all visible from the balcony. Opposite the wall with the bed, a comfortable reading chair and cluttered side table created a cozy scene around the fireplace. One corner housed an entertainment center filled with a flat screen television and a collection of digital movies; the other held a bookshelf, overflowing with books and magazines and assorted trinkets. Ashli was glad he did not survey the titles too closely, else he would know her weakness for romance novels. She rather doubted Lange Sterling would appreciate a tender love story.
Lange glanced through the opened bathroom door, spying a lacy bra on the granite counter. “Keep those curtains drawn at all times,” was all he said as he turned curtly and left the room.
Ashli followed him back down the staircase. She descended two steps behind, but she was practically level with his dark hair, which was still slightly damp from a recent shower. It left him with a fresh, clean, totally masculine scent. She was acutely aware of the knit sports shirt he wore, and the way it clung to his broad shoulders.
The stairway, just to the right of the front door, emptied into what was originally a sitting room in its former life. It now served as the entry/dining room, and was occupied by a small antique oak dining set and china cabinet. Sectioned off by wide pocket doors, the sitting room flowed into the bedroom-turned- living room, which boasted an elaborate old fireplace at its far end. Built-in bookcases surrounded it, housing everything from a television and photographs to dried flowers and a stack of patchwork quilts. The floors were hardwood, covered by a large red and cream wool carpet with an intricate pattern. The room was uncrowded but somehow cozy, inhabited only by an antique sofa, wingback chair, an odd table with a lamp, and an old trunk that served as a coffee table. Against buttery yellow walls, all the woodwork was painted white, including the louvered wooden blinds over the French doors.
Lange roamed about freely, concluding his tour in the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a granite-topped island.
Seeing the space, he let out a surprised whistle.
“There’s not a kitchen like this in any apartment I’ve ever seen,” he said.
Read more now, He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GUNU45W
Sample: Chicken Scratch, Book 1 of The Sisters, Texas Series
CHAPTER ONE
Finding a dead body was not a good way to start a new job. Finding the dead body of your newest client was decidedly worse.
Ten minutes after making the horrendous discovery, Madison Reynolds sat outside the commercial chicken houses, waiting for the police to arrive. She was still trembling, but the shiver working its own down her spine had nothing to do with the wind whipping around her. Never mind that she had spent the entire morning sweating profusely; thermostat-controlled heaters kept the inside of the houses at a balmy eighty degrees. The cold seeping into her bones now had less to do with temperature, and more to do with shock. She could still see his face, so gruesome and distorted in death. And with that chicken perched upon it so proudly, as if staking its claim…
Madison shivered again and forced the image from her mind. She considered calling her best friend for some much-needed support, but the wail of an approaching siren drew her attention. She struggled to her feet, found that her knees were too weak to support her, and fell sharply back onto her rumpus.
Less than a minute later, a fire truck arrived on the farm amid a swirl of white dust and red lights. Madison was thankful to the driver for turning off the siren and strobe lights as he approached where she sat in front of House 4.
The truck barely stopped before the driver opened the door and jumped out.
“Are you all right?” the man demanded immediately, his eyes already probing the area for potential danger.
Madison opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. With eyes that were large and swimming with sudden tears, she merely nodded.
The firefighter seemed to recognize her distress. The quality of his voice changed, as if he were speaking to a frightened child. He even crouched down in front of her to be at the same eye level. “You’re Miss Bert’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” he asked.
Again, she could only nod. She thought she recognized the young man as one of Tug Montgomery’s boys, even though his slim frame bore no resemblance to his father’s famous ‘tug-boat’ build, the one from which Texas football legends were made. But he had Mary Alice’s eyes and was certainly handsome enough to be the former beauty queen’s son. She thought she recalled her grandmother saying something about one of their sons being on the fire department. Her guess was that this was little Cutter Montgomery, all grown up and setting women’s hearts aflutter, with or without the uniform.
He confirmed her suspicions with a smile. “Cutter Montgomery.” He extended a hand that was large and calloused.
Madison tugged off her filthy leather glove and placed her trembling hand into his. He immediately cocooned her icy fingers within the warmth of both his palms, his brows puckered in concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am? I don’t want you going into shock.”
It took two attempts, but she finally found her voice. “I’m- I’m okay. It’s not every day I find a … dead body.” In spite of herself, she shivered at the mere words.
“Would you like to sit in the fire truck, ma’am, until the police arrive? You might be more comfortable.”
Madison shook her head. She looked over her shoulder, toward the long metal building that housed the body. “I feel like we should do something. The chickens are- are pecking at him.” Again she shivered, this time in revulsion.
Cutter Montgomery rocked back on his heels and deliberated for less than a minute. “We need to preserve the scene,” he acknowledged. “I don’t want to disturb anything, but you’re right, we need to stop the chickens from doing even more damage.” With one smooth movement, he shot to his full height of just under six feet.
Madison’s attempt was much less graceful. As she lumbered to her feet, she wavered for a moment like a leaf in the breeze. Squaring her shoulders and digging in her heels, she took on a battle stance as she made a brave offer. “I’ll help.”
“Are you sure?”
No, she was not at all certain, but she felt obligated to see the mission through. “It’s the least I can do.”
“What were you doing out here, anyway?” Despite his friendly tone, the first responder’s eyes were speculative.
“Mr. Gleason hired me to walk his chicken houses for him this week while he was out of town.”
Cutter Montgomery looked down at her with obvious surprise. His gaze flickered over her, as if noticing her attire for the first time. Hazel eyes took in the raggedy t-shirt streaked with dust and perspiration, the filthy jeans smeared with Heaven-only-knows-what, the plastic sleeves over muck boots at least a size too large, and the disposable respirator dangling from her neck. He bit back the smile, but amusement still sparked in his eyes as he questioned his hearing. “You?”
Madison lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes, me,” she fairly snapped.
“Sorry, ma’am, I meant no disrespect,” the younger man apologized. He reached around to open and hold the door for her. “I’m just surprised, is all. I didn’t realize Ronny had hired anyone to work for him.”
“He didn’t, not exactly. I own In a Pinch Temporary Services,” she explained. With a brave gulp, she stepped over the threshold and into the chicken house.
She immediately regretted the deep breath without interference from the respirator. The stench of twenty-five thousand chickens and high levels of ammonia burned her lungs and assaulted her nostrils. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she quickly put the breathing apparatus back in place.
Cutter Montgomery murmured something as he backed out of the doorway and disappeared into the adjacent control room. Madison had a moment of panic at the thought of being alone with the body, but when the long barn brightened, she realized the firefighter was merely adjusting the lighting. Seconds later he was back beside her and asking which way to go.
Madison motioned to the fan end of the five-hundred-foot building. When he waited for her to take the lead, she reluctantly pushed forward, wading through the dense maze of white birds.
Less than one week ago, she joined Ronny Gleason on rounds through the houses where he grew commercial broilers for Barbour Foods. Although the houses were fully automated and run by a computer program, some things still needed personal inspections. He taught her how to ‘walk’ the houses, which entailed looking for trouble spots and picking up dead or inferior chickens. Water lines needed adjusting every few days as the chickens grew, and feed lines had to be free and flowing. The list of potential problems was overwhelming —everything from broken fan belts and stalled motors to leaking water nipples and disease among the chickens— but surprisingly enough, the massive process was generally smooth and trouble-free. The crash course in chicken growing taught Madison more than she ever intended to know about the feathered fowl, but at this point in her life, a job was a job. She needed the meager amount Ronny Gleason was paying her to tend his houses for the week.
To her chagrin, a sudden thought crossed Madison’s mind. Who will pay me now? Do I even still have the job? She knew it was in poor taste to be thinking of a paycheck when a man lay dead just a few dozen feet away, but she had a lot riding on this job. It was her first ‘real’ service. Walking Glitter Thompson’s dogs while she was out of town, carrying Leroy Huddleston back and forth to physical therapy in Bryan, and running small errands for some of her grandmother’s friends were such meager jobs they hardly qualified; unless, of course, she was putting together a resume. In that case, her agency had experience in transportation needs, personal shopper assistance, and pet care.
Even though the odd jobs brought in a small amount of income, they were more like
kid work than actual temporary services. She had not been blind to the evil looks ten-year-old Trey Hadley gave her at church last Sunday; after all, he usually walked the Thompson poodles when their owner was away. Madison found no pleasure in stealing jobs from the local youth, but she was just desperate enough to do it anyway.
That was why this job was so important to her. If Ronny Gleason gave her a good recommendation, other chicken growers in the community might call her when they needed help, and her agency would finally get off to a solid start.
The sickening sweet, rancid smell of death permeated the respirator as she approached the end of the house, reminding Madison that there would be no recommendation from poor Ronny Gleason. She stared at the mound of chickens that now roosted atop his prone body and was ashamed of herself for worrying about her own plight at a time like this. When her feet stalled, unwilling to carry her closer, Cutter Montgomery bumped into her from behind.
The first responder stepped around her and plodded forward. He shooed the birds away with sweeping movements of his arms. The action set off a flurry of noisy activity as chickens squawked and flapped and scurried away, but it cleared a direct path to the body. Stopping within a couple of feet of the dead man, the young fireman assessed the situation without touching any evidence.
He said something, but the words drowned under the noisy cluck of the disturbed chickens. Madison reluctantly stepped forward so that she could catch his next statement. “Looks like he’s been dead several hours. In this kind of heat, though, it’s hard to tell.”
A shiver of repulsion shimmed through Madison. She had only been in the chicken business for one day, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Even she had no trouble telling which chickens had died within the day and which ones had been missed on the last walk-through. The chickens could quickly deteriorate into a gooey, disgusting mess when left in these conditions; she supposed a human body would be no different.
As Madison bit back a gag reflex, Cutter looked around the huge building and continued to speak. “We need to section off this area to keep the chickens away. If you’ll stay here, I’ll move those divider fences this way.”