Touch of Light
A Baylee Scott Paranormal Mystery
April Aasheim
Dark Root Press
Contents
1. ONE
2. TWO
3. THREE
4. FOUR
5. FIVE
6. SIX
7. SEVEN
8. EIGHT
9. NINE
10. TEN
11. ELEVEN
12. TWELVE
13. THIRTEEN
14. FOURTEEN
15. FIFTEEN
16. SIXTEEN
17. SEVENTEEN
18. EIGHTEEN
19. NINETEEN
20. TWENTY
21. TWENTY-ONE
22. TWENTY-TWO
23. TWENTY-THREE
24. TWENTY-FOUR
25. TWENTY-FIVE
26. TWENTY-SIX
27. TWENTY-SEVEN
28. TWENTY-EIGHT
29. TWENTY-NINE
30. THIRTY
31. THIRTY-ONE
MORE FROM THE AUTHOR
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by April Aasheim [email protected]
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to Phil “Alexander”
My brother, and my friend.
ONE
REED HOLLOW: A Typical New England Town
(Baylee)
There are many beginnings to the same story.
Perhaps mine began two years before my return to Reed Hollow, when my husband, Ryan, went on a weekend hunting trip and never came home. His friends all testified that he was there one minute and simply gone the next.
Or maybe it began on the evening of my parents’ demise. Edward and Vivi Bonds, married thirty-five years to the day, were driving home after an evening out. A flash of blinding light illuminated the gray winter sky and my father lost control of his truck, plunging into a steep ravine.
My mother died on impact; My father’s body was never found.
It could possibly be traced back to the morning I received a phone call from my brother. After six months of incarceration, he was finally eligible for release, but only if I took responsibility for his supervision.
But these events were only the catalysts that brought me to my current story – a montage of prologues to a much deeper and longer tale. For in the nine months since my return to Reed Hollow, there has been nothing noteworthy to report.
The sleepy New England town functioned as it had for the last three hundred years. Quaint shops opened and closed like clockwork. Children went to school, parents went to work, and then everyone gathered around the dinner table to discuss their day. Church bells rang on Sunday mornings and police sirens interrupted bar fights on Friday nights.
The only difference between this year and any other in Reed Hollow was the unpredictable weather. Winter was especially harsh, coating the world in a thick layer of white, too deep to venture out into without full Eskimo attire. The frost persisted well into spring, robbing gardens of their normal color and ushering in a summer that was inhospitably warm.
Even the tourists that kept Reed Hollow’s economy churning reacted to the heat, grumbling over store prices and the terrible cell phone reception. We all breathed a sigh of relief as the last of the summer visitors packed up their campers and boats. Now, in early autumn, we were holding our breaths again, awaiting the next round of invaders - weekenders carrying baskets and cameras, eager to capture the town’s famous autumn foliage.
And though I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my new story began, I think perhaps it was on a Thursday. It was early September, of that I am certain.
I stood inside The Aunt-Tea-Query, at the end of the coffee line, watching maple leaves swish across the cafe’s large front window. The leaves had already begun to yellow and crinkle at the edges. The heady scent of ripened apples wafted through the door whenever a customer entered or exited. And the children in the cafe toted shiny new lunchboxes as they held the hands of their caffeine-inhaling mothers.
The line inched painfully forward, as there was only one person manning the latte machine. I listened to the conversations ahead of me – most regarding the pumpkins and squash growing in their gardens.
“It’s gonna be a bountiful harvest this year,” someone declared.
“Yup,” someone else agreed.
Dreadfully boring, I thought, stifling a yawn. But that was Reed Hollow. There was so little to talk about that even pumpkins were interesting after a while.
“It doesn’t matter,” I reminded myself, stepping forward. I wasn’t planning on staying much longer than the new year, anyway. Let the locals be happy with their pumpkins and squash. I had my eye on the future.
That, and a large blueberry muffin in the center of the glass dessert tray, dusted with powdered sugar.
“My stars,” I whispered, tapping the glass with my pinky finger. “Where have you been all my life?”
I’m normally a woman of discipline, but when I took ownership of my parents’ business - complete with illegible ledgers, mountains of debt, and shoddy inventory management - I rediscovered my childhood sweet tooth with surprising ease. It was cheaper than alcohol, I reasoned, even as my skirts began to feel the strain of my addiction.
I surveyed the muffin, studying its sugar-to-bread distribution, before moving on to the strawberry shortcake beside it. The presentation was magnificent - topped with homemade cream and garden strawberries - but not exactly what I was looking for.
When the line finally dispersed, I stood up straight, pulling my vintage gray hat with its raspberry rosettes down over my ears. Looking the barista in his sleepy brown eyes, I asked, “Might you have any crumpets?”
“Now what the hell’s a crumpet?”
“It’s like an English muffin, but from England.”
“Wait, aren’t all English muffins from England? Never mind.” He shook his head. “Do you want an English muffin?”
“They’re not the same. Are you sure you don’t have any crumpets?”
“No, Baylee. I don’t have any crumpets.”
“How about scones?”
“Not today.”
“But you said that yesterday.”
“And I’ll say it again tomorrow.” He leaned over the counter, planting his knuckles on the glass like a gorilla. “In fact, here is my official statement on the matter: Baylee Scott, I don’t have any crumpets or scones. I never have and I never will.”
I touched my gloved finger to the name engraved on the man’s gold-plated badge. “Alexander,” I said, batting my lashes. “If you have a customer who asks for something every day, perhaps you should oblige. It’s smart business sense.”
“Don’t call me Alexander.” He yanked the badge from his chest and tossed it into the nearest waste bin. “You know I hate that name.”
“And I hate that you don’t have any crumpets or scones. It seems that we are at an impasse, doesn’t it, Alexander?”
“Damn it, Baylee. I would take your abnormal love of crumpets and scones more seriously if you helped me make them, or even worked the counter, for God’s sake. But since you’re my sister--”
“I’m also part owner! I while
away my life here, sorting through boxes and cataloguing people’s things and…sniff...my hands get calloused…and…. sniff…”
“You’re so dramatic, Baylee. I know for a fact that you don’t ever cry. Still, great performance.” He clapped twice, slowly. “Your eyes misted up that time. You should have been an actress, like Mom.”
“But then I’d be in Hollywood and you’d have to run this place alone.” I waved my arm, to demonstrate the enormity of my sacrifice.
“I’d get by.”
Alex crossed his arms and gave me his sternest look, though it melted almost immediately. He had a reputation in Reed Hollow for being gruff but he couldn’t wear that mask around me for long.
“I’ll think about it, but I’m pretty swamped right now with running the tea shop and my current laundry situation.” He leaned across the counter. “Between you and me, I think the squirrels are stealing my socks from the clothesline. I’ll have to either hunt them down or find new ones.”
“You’re going to hunt the squirrels?”
“I’m going to hunt down the socks! Not the squirrels. Never the squirrels!”
Alex wiped his hands several times on a nearby towel, cleansing away the horrific idea. “What I’m saying is, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to learn how to make scones.”
“Have you tried Pinterest?”
“Now what the hell is Pinterest?”
“A place where all your dreams come true.”
I took my phone out of my Italian purse and pulled up the website. After typing in a few words, I handed it over. “I just set up an account for you. You’re welcome.”
Alex backed away as if I were handing him a vial of poison. “No.”
“Just no?”
“Hell no.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“Now you’re mixing your movie quotes with some real emotion. Why Scarlett, you’re not a robot, after all.”
We exchanged smiles, softer ones without guile or agenda. We hadn’t lived or worked together since childhood and we were still trying to figure it out as adults.
I knew Alex would never use Pinterest or learn to make crumpets, or do anything else contrary to his stalwart nature. He was a creature of habit and ritual and was slow to change. When he took over our parent’s tea shop, he swore on a stack of American-authored books there would never be any “English froufrou crap in the cafe.”
So far, he had stuck to his guns, but I was wearing him down.
“Would you like anything I actually have?” he asked.
“A cup of mint tea and a plate of cucumber sandwiches, please.”
Alex knocked his head against the old-fashioned cash register that guarded the bagel basket. “Seriously?”
“Pretty please.”
I beamed innocently, knowing my last request would send him rooting around our sun-scorched garden, searching for the last edible cucumber. It was a fitting punishment, after his refusal of my Pinterest help.
“Fine.” He brandished a butter knife inches from my nose. “But don’t tell anyone cucumber sandwiches are on the menu. I can’t manage the shop, find my missing socks and keep up the garden. I’m only one man, Baylee.”
“There’s always the grocery store,” I reminded him.
“No. Grocery store produce is swimming in toxins. I won’t have you growing a third eye or an extra limb. I’ll go dig up your cucumber.”
My brother exited through the large solarium to the right of the café that also served as the High Tea Room in the afternoon. He soon returned with a limp, withered vegetable dangling from his fingers.
“Pathetic,” he said, slapping it onto a cutting board. “It’s El Nino, I tell you.”
“Can you remove the seeds too, please?”
With that, Alex stormed into the kitchen, where he could finish the task in private. I remained at the counter, calling out helpful instructions, until I felt a firm tap on my shoulder.
A quick jolt shook me and I grabbed onto the nearest barstool to steady myself.
When the shock subsided, I turned and leveled a finger at the man who had tapped me. He was tall and handsome with wide blue eyes set against an overly tanned complexion.
“Never touch me without my consent again,” I said, dusting off the shoulder where he had made contact.
“Sorry about that miss, but I think you may have dropped a twenty.”
The stranger opened his hand to reveal a crumpled bill, presenting it with a smile as white as The Aunt-Tea-Query’s finest bone china.
“It’s not mine,” I replied, conducting a more thorough inspection of the man. I had seen him before, but never up close.
He was good-looking, in a contrived way, with moussed hair and eyebrows shaped at a spa. The color on his cheeks and the scruff on his chin advertised him as rugged and outdoorsy, though his perfectly white sneakers argued otherwise. He was in his mid-thirties but could pass for younger, if he shaved.
“Are you sure it’s not yours?” He stepped closer. He smelled of bar soap and expensive aftershave, the kind my husband only wore on special occasions.
“Quite sure, thank you.”
The twenty-dollar bill fluttered between his fingers. “How do you know?”
He lowered his gaze and took my hand, wrapping the bill in my palm. As we made contact, the letter “J” flashed in silver light above his head, then fizzled out.
“You would be wise to keep your distance, Josh or James or whatever your name is,” I said, yanking my hand away. “I already warned you not to touch me without asking. You won’t get another chance.”
“J” blinked and retreated a step, clearly caught off guard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to appear creepy.”
“Oh? How did you mean to appear?”
“Helpful?” He smiled with one side of his mouth, a look he had no doubt mastered in front of a mirror over the course of many hours.
“Can we start again? My name is Jake.” He nodded towards the twenty. “How do you know this isn’t yours? We’re the only two people here.”
Despite Jake’s intrusiveness, I didn’t sense he was dangerous. Plus, I had time to kill while waiting for my cucumber sandwich. “Alright, Jake, I’ll tell you how I know it isn’t mine. It’s all in the details.”
“What?”
“Listen closely. I never wad up my money. I’m very careful with my things, especially money. It doesn’t grow on trees, Jake.”
“No…”
“And I rarely carry more than ten dollars in cash. I have a tendency to indulge myself, especially in accessory shops and bakeries, and it’s too tempting to carry more money than I need. After time and good health, money is our most valuable resource.”
Jake’s eyes glazed over as my words rolled around in his head like the mismatched socks in Alex’s washing machine. After a long pause, he grinned. “You’re honest. I appreciate that in a woman.”
“Do you appreciate honesty in men, too?”
“Yeah, men too,” he amended, scratching his jaw. “It’s just that women…well, they are…” He waved both his hand in front of him and clenched his teeth.
“I’ll just surmise that you’ve had some bad experiences with the opposite sex.”
“Boy, could I tell you stories…”
“Please don’t.”
My brother returned and handed me a scattering of thin sandwiches on a cracked plate.
“The Queen’s meal is ready,” Alex said, bowing. “Now let me get back to my work, Baylee.” He glanced at Jake. “You need something, too?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ve got dishes to do.” Alex returned to the kitchen and I took my sandwich to a small table near the front window, where my mother, Vivi Bonds, sat waiting.
“Who’s that coming our way?” Mom asked, smacking her lips appreciatively.
Sure enough, Jake had left the counter and was sauntering over. “Ignore him,” I said, as he took the chair between us.
“I heard th
at guy call you Baylee,” Jake said, tapping his knuckles against the table. “It’s a pretty name.”
“It is a pretty name,” Mom agreed, patting herself on the back. “She was named after the bay leaf, which is a plant of protection. Tell him, Baylee.”
I ignored my mother and dropped my sandwich, giving my full attention to my new stalker. “Let me save you the trouble, Jake. I’m not interested in you or any other man at the moment.”
“Why not?” Mom asked, her eyes taking in Jake’s muscled arms.
“Because Ryan’s not dead,” I said.
“Who’s Ryan?” Jake asked.
“My husband.”
“Ex,” Mom corrected. “Or maybe estranged? What do you call it when your husband goes poof?’”
“Missing,” I said to them both. “My husband, Ryan, is missing.”
For once Jake’s eyes showed real emotion, as well as some confusion. “I’m sorry. That’s terrible. How long?”
I looked down at the table, blinking into my tea cup. “Two years, ten months, four days.” Nearly three years, but I couldn’t say that out loud. Two sounded more manageable.
“Are you over him?” Jake pressed. “I don’t see a ring underneath those silky gloves. Classy touch, by the way.”
“You’re still hitting on me after I told you I lost my husband? And people accuse me of being insensitive.”
I removed my wool hat and silk gloves and arranged them neatly beside the vase on the table. Then, I turned my chair towards him and looked deep into his eyes.
“Jake, you said that I was honest, but that isn’t an accurate assessment of me. I’m a writer and have been known to have quite an imagination.”
His dark brows knit together. “Yeah?”
“Though I may not be a pillar of honesty, I am quite blunt, which I suppose is a form of honesty.”
I stood and motioned for Jake to do the same. He rose uncertainly, and we faced one another. With my heels on, we were nearly the same height. “Would you like to hear my honest assessment of you, Jake?”
Touch of Light: A Baylee Scott Paranormal Mystery (The Reed Hollow Chronicles Book 1) Page 1