by Curry, Edna
She pulled away and threw a pillow at him. “You don’t need to laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing,” Mark said, turning serious. “If you only knew how scared I was when you took off across that lake without me.”
“I knew how to handle the boat. I used to drive Dad’s all the time.”
He pulled her back into the crook of his arm and kissed her hair, stroking her arm with slow circular movements. “That wasn’t what worried me, and you know it. I took those hairpin curves at breakneck speed. It’s a good thing that Aunt Martha couldn’t see me. I’d never get to borrow her car again. Then I thought my worst fears were realized when I found Scamp dead, your cabin a mess, and you gone. I thought sure I was going to find you dead, too. Especially when I found shell casings that still smelled of gunpowder lying near the steps.”
“Sorry. I know how you hate guns. But I thought you might have left your cabin unlocked so I could get at a phone or your car keys. So I found a flashlight and ran to your cabin.”
Mark stroked her hand, then turned it over to kiss her palm. “I thought I might never see you again, and I hadn’t even told you that I how much I’m starting to care about you.”
Lacey froze. “What did you say?”
“I’m starting to care about you. I should have told you earlier, but I guess I’m still a bit nervous about commitments.
“Oh, yes, Mark. I care about you, too.” She tipped her face up to his. “I’ve known since the night we went dancing and I was so jealous when I saw you holding Nell in your arms.”
“In that case I forgive her for interrupting our evening.”
“Oh, Mark!”
“Does this mean you won’t make me go back to my messy cabin, tonight?” He trailed a kiss along her earlobe, and cuddled her more comfortably in his lap, letting her feel his arousal.
“If you let me sleep in your arms. My nerves are shot after everything that happened tonight.”
“Don’t mention words like ‘shot.’ It reminds me of guns and I just want to think of pleasant things tonight.”
Lacey smiled dreamily. “I know you don’t like guns much. But they’re a normal part of the investigations business.”
“You use them at your job?”
“Not usually, no. Most of my time is spent on the computer doing research for others. But someday, when I get some money saved and can start my own business—”
“Yeah? You’d want to have your own PI business?”
“And why not?”
Mark shrugged. “No reason. How much money do you need to do that?”
She laughed. “More than I’ve been able to save, even living in a crappy apartment and driving an old car—”
“But now you have the money from Henry’s antique store, don’t you? And this cabin to live in?”
“Oh, my God.” Lacey sat up straight and stared at him, then jumped up and danced a little jig. “I can do it. I don’t have to go back to my job in Minneapolis. I could start my own business right out of this house! Can you believe it? I’m free.”
Mark laughed. “And I’m happy for you. But you’re not excited or anything, are you?”
“Oh, you.” She picked up a pillow and swatted him with it again. “How can we celebrate?”
“How about this?” He trailed a finger down the curve of her breast, then followed it with his tongue. “You have far too many clothes on.”
“So do you,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt and slipping her hand inside to enjoy the sensation of furry hairs and warm skin over rippling muscles. “Let’s take them off.”
“Better yet, let’s go upstairs and get more comfortable. I don’t want to have to hurry.”
“Mm. First, turn out the lights.”
~The End~
***
If you enjoyed this story, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d take a few minutes to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or any of the other sites. http://amzn.to/1nUDnMU
About the author:
Edna Curry lives in Minnesota and often sets her novels there among the lakes, evergreens and river valleys. She especially enjoys the Dalles area of the St. Croix Valley, gateway to the Wild River, which draws many tourists who give her story ideas. Besides non-fiction articles, she writes mystery, romance and romantic suspense novels.
Edna is married and is a member of the Romance Writers of America and two of its chapters: Kiss Of Death and Northern Lights Writers.
Circle of Shadows (half of Deadly Duos #1) was a finalist in RWA's prestigious Golden Heart Contest.
Visit her webpage at http://www.ednacurry.com
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/Edna.Curry.author
Twitter: @Edna_Curry
Blog:
http://ednacurry.blogspot.com/
***
Recent or upcoming books by Edna Curry:
My Sister’s Keeper
Best Friends
Lost Memories
Mirror Image
Hard Hat Man
Double Trouble
Flight to Love
Circle of Shadows
Secret Daddy
Never Love a Logger
I’ll Always Find You
Meet Me, Darling Melange Books
Wrong Memories
***
Short stories:
5 Children’s Stories
7 Short Stories
Non-fiction:
The Jam of all Jams
The story of the world’s largest logjam ever.
Lady Locksmith Series:
The Lilliput Bar Mystery -- Book 1
Body in the Antique Trunk -- Book 2
The Missing Banker -- Book 3
Lacey Summers’ PI Mystery Series:
Yesterday’s Shadow -- Book 1
Dead Man’s Image -- Book 2
Dead in Bed -- Book 3
Eccentric Lady -- Book 4
***
Lin
Links to Edna Curry:
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1ZVCvXP
Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/search?Query=Edna+Curry
B& N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/%22Edna%20Curry%22?Ns=P_Sales_Rank&Ntk=P_key_Contributor_List&Ntx=mode%20matchall
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bookworm777
Excerpt of Book 2:
***
Dead Man’s Image
By Edna Curry
Lacey Summer’s Mystery #2
Copyright 2001 by Edna Curry
________________________________________
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. All names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.
Chapter One
Paul Menns entered the crowded truck stop for a bite to eat and coffee. A delicious mixture of food aromas met his nose, and the warmth of the cafe felt wonderful after working outdoors in the chilly spring air. He sat down at the counter, wrapped his long legs around the base of the stool and placed his order.
Picking up the Minneapolis Star-Tribune from the end of the counter, he scanned the headlines, then turned to the Metro section. For a long, confused moment, Paul thought he was looking at his reflection. That looks like me. What is my picture doing in the paper? Then he read the caption through bleary eyes and realized it was a computer image, not a photo. It was someone the police were looking for --a sketch made from an eyewitness's description of a murder suspect. What the hell?
Reading further, Paul discovered a body had been found upriver. The unidentified dead man was white, about thirty-five, six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds, brown eyes and hair, and had no ID, scars or tattoos. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he reached up to rub them. Jeez, the descr
iption of the dead guy sounds even more like me. This is weird.
A creepy feeling slid up his back and he wondered if others in the room would notice how much he looked like the guy in the paper. He didn't like this at all. The waitress set his plate of toast in front of him and refilled his coffee cup. Now he imagined she was looking at him strangely. Or was he the one who was acting strange?
He pulled his cap down farther over his eyes and stared at the picture as he downed the toast without tasting it. The more he looked at the paper, the more sure he became that the sketch was a picture of him. The cops thought he was a murderer! Who in the hell was he supposed to have killed? And who was this woman who had described him? Did he know her? He gulped the rest of his coffee and pushed his cup away.
His first instinct was to go to the sheriff's office and tell the sheriff he was nuts, that he hadn't killed anyone, so there couldn't be any evidence against him.
On the other hand, the sheriff had this eyewitness. If she stuck to her story, he'd end up in jail for a while. He couldn't be off the road very long or his trucking business would be ruined.
He wondered how he could find out who the dead guy was. Getting an idea, he paid his bill and went out to the pay phone in the café entrance. After finding the police department's number, he dialed it, then looked in the newspaper again for the name in the article's byline.
When a woman answered, he said, "This is Johnson, again, from the Tribune. Have you identified yesterday's murder victim yet?"
"Yes, sir, we have. It's Paul Menns, of Canton, Minnesota."
Paul almost dropped the phone. He swallowed, and tried to keep his voice even. He couldn't have heard her correctly. "Can you spell that name for me, please?"
She did, and he closed his eyes against the welling shock and disbelief. Good Grief, I'm supposed to be dead! He brought himself back to attention when the woman said impatiently, "Will there be anything else, sir?"
He thought fast, then stammered, "Uh, yes. Was that a positive ID? I mean, uh, who identified the body?"
"A Mrs. Anderson called first thing this morning. She's the manager of the apartment house where Mr. Menns lived in Canton. She claims to have known him well."
"Thanks." Paul hung up with trembling fingers. His own landlady had identified that body as his. How could that be? He hardly ever saw Mrs. Anderson, of course, but surely she knew him well enough to know this other guy wasn't him. She must have seen the sketch in the paper and come forward. Hadn't she seen him in her building just a couple hours ago? Or heard his truck when he drove away? This is so mixed up. How can I be the murderer and the dead guy, too?
Paul felt a headache coming on as he tried to sort it all out. He needed help with this. And he certainly couldn't go to the cops. He didn't trust those guys at all. They'd probably believe the damn birdwatcher lady instead of him.
He picked up the phone book again and looked up private investigators. Not much choice. The yellow pages covered several small towns in the area, but listed only one private investigator.
***
Standing at the window of her home office, sipping hot coffee, Lacey stared out over the Minnesota lake surrounded by tall evergreens. Sunshine sparkled off the blue water and a breeze stirred up enough waves to slap the shore. They made her little fishing boat bounce where she'd tied it at her dock. Living here in the woods a few miles from town isolated her, but she loved it.
The phone rang and she went quickly back to her desk. She steeled herself not to pick it up on the first ring, not wanting to appear too anxious. "Summers' Investigations."
"Let me talk to the investigator."
"Speaking." Why did people always assume she was only the receptionist?
"You are? A woman investigator?" The deep voice at the other end of the line registered surprise and dismay.
Great, she finally got a possible client and he was a male chauvinist. She reminded herself that she hadn't had any cases except snooping on a couple of cheating husbands for weeks. She was broke and needed the business. That was the trouble with working in a small town like Landers. They were great to live in, but the money wasn't always so hot.
Trying her best to keep the irritation out of her voice, she said, "That's right. I'm Lacey Summers, a licensed private investigator. How can I help you?"
"I'm Paul Menns. I want to hire you to investigate something for me."
"What kind of something?"
He was silent a moment, then said, "The sheriff had my picture in the paper this morning. Maybe you saw it? The guy that woman saw dumping the body by the St. Croix?"
"The Trib?" Lacey glanced at the morning paper still lying on her desk where she'd been reading it. Everybody had been talking about the murder at the Flame when she'd stopped for coffee yesterday and again this morning when the computer image of the suspect had been printed.
"Yeah, that's it."
Over the telephone, Lacey could hear the noise of people talking in the background, as in a restaurant or bar. Maybe the guy was drunk. He wasn't making much sense.
Yesterday an eyewitness had claimed to have seen the guy who dumped the body by the river and described him for the police artist. A nice looking guy too, if the image of the suspect was accurate. In Lacey's experience, it usually came pretty close.
Then this morning, the scuttlebutt at the Flame claimed the woman had seen the victim, not the murderer. She'd described the dead guy for the artist. What a hoot. They didn't need the artist, they could have just gone down to the morgue and taken a picture of him. 'Course that wasn't in the paper, they'd figured that out after the article in the paper had been written. So, how could he be talking to her on the phone?
She swallowed. "The artist's image? I thought that picture was of the dead guy?" Had the Flame's gossip been wrong? Wouldn't be the first time if it was, of course.
"Yeah. Well, as some guy said, the reports of my death have been exaggerated."
"Samuel Clemens," Lacey said automatically, trying to take in what he'd said.
"Really? I thought it was Mark Twain."
"Same guy. You mean the Sheriff misidentified the body? Then who's the dead guy? Does he really look like you?"
"How would I know? That's what I want you to find out." His voice sounded doubtful that she could do it. "I don't dare go home 'til I know it's safe."
"Why not, for Pete's sake? All you have to do is show them you're not dead. That they ID'd the body wrong."
His laugh rang harshly over the wire. "Yeah, right!"
Something didn't add up here and her heartbeat sped up in excitement. She really loved puzzles and this sounded like an interesting one. She asked cautiously, "What makes you think Sheriff Ben has identified the body as you?"
"I just called the sheriff's office, and asked if they'd identified it yet. They gave me my own name. If I go to him, he'll slap me in a cell for murder."
"Why would he do that?"
"You aren't listening, lady. That woman gave him a description of the guy she says dumped the body. Just 'cause the dead guy looks like me isn't going to stop him from arresting me. He'll still think I killed the guy, whoever he is."
Caution lowered her voice. "Could this dead guy be anyone you know? Do you have any idea of what's going on here?"
He barked, "Hell, no! I just got in. I never heard of the guy 'til I saw the sketch in the paper a while ago."
Lacey jerked the phone away from her ear. Why would the sheriff think he killed a guy he didn't know? Must be more to it than that. "Got in?"
"I'm an over-the-road trucker. I just got back from a run to the East Coast." He lowered his voice. "The weird thing is, I really do look like that sketch. So the dead guy must look like me, too."
Lacey's thoughts whirled. "Oh."
"So, will you take my case?"
"I'd like to talk to you in person before I decide. Where are you?"
"At a truck stop, but I'm leaving here. Everyone's reading the paper and someone might have recognized me a
s the guy in it. I'll meet you at a fast-food place just over the Wisconsin border." He gave her directions. "I'll be at the last booth, back by the rest rooms."
"I know the place. Okay, fine. I'll be there in about thirty minutes," she said, and hung up.
She went to the little half-bath off her office, then glanced in the mirror to see if she looked at least presentable. Picking up her hairbrush, she ran it through her short hair, brushing it back. It fell neatly into place, thanks to a good cut that was her one concession to fashion. Touching up her lips with a natural lipstick, she sighed and let her primping go at that.
A guy accused of murder wasn't going to be too fussy about her looks anyway. He'd be thinking about saving his own neck. The blue slacks and sweatshirt she wore were enough for the warm May day.
She grabbed her navy leather purse. Then on impulse, she picked up the paper, tore out the story of the murder, folded it and tucked it into her purse. Dashing out to her little red Chevy, she drove the three miles into Landers in record time.
***
Paul tucked the newspaper under his arm and left the truck stop. He glanced toward his freshly washed silver box semi sitting in a long row of semis out in back as he walked quickly across the parking lot.
If the police had his name, they would soon be checking out his apartment and vehicles, investigating his "death." When they didn't find his truck, they'd probably think the murderer took it. Then the sheriff would probably put out an APB on it. Damn! He wouldn't be able to go back out on the road. Or even go back to his apartment house and claim his car.
He didn't want to be asked why he looked like the dead man or questioned as a suspect for murder. Neither sounded like a good option, especially with this migraine headache. He certainly couldn't run his business from a jail cell. The fast food place where he'd told the PI he'd meet her was just a couple of blocks down the highway. Far enough so that if they found his truck, they wouldn't immediately find him.