Dead Man's Carve (A Tickled to Death Mystery Book 1)

by Kym Roberts

  “Suppose this Army guy’s death was somehow connected to Ryan’s death. What do you think they could have in common?”

  Dad surveyed my work before he answered. Signaling his sign of approval over the job with a nod of his head, he replied, “I take it Ryan had never been in the service?”

  “As far as I know he wasn’t.”

  Dad was looking at me over the top of his glasses, a semi-frown crossing his face. “Both were drunk?”

  “One reason the first case was ruled a suicide was because of the victim’s blood alcohol level. Ryan wasn’t drunk, but did have alcohol in his system.”

  “I take it they were both drinking at Woody’s before they died?”

  “I believe so. I know Ryan had been there, and Stone said Max had been the working at Woody’s.”

  Dad’s frown deepened. “Stone. Isn’t he the guy Myrtle saw running from the parking lot when her car was damaged? The same guy that undressed you and carried you out of the woods naked?”

  For some reason Dad’s assessment pissed me off. For the first time that I could remember, Dad was totally off base. Yes, I believed Stone could be dangerous in the right setting, and yes, he carried me out of the woods, but he neither undressed me, nor was I naked.

  “Cutting my clothes off for medical purposes is not sleazy, and wearing my bra and panties while wrapped in Stone’s coat is not naked. The man saved my life. I would think you, of all people, could appreciate his bravery.”

  Dad stared at me. His face so blank I couldn’t tell if he was gearing up for an argument of a lifetime or if he was going to walk out the door and never look back.

  Regret and remorse seized my vocal cords. I wanted to apologize. Beg forgiveness for my behavior. Instead fear, and maybe a little bit of misplaced pride, kept me still and silent.

  Dad broke the silence. His voice softened with disbelief. “You like this guy?”

  Yeah, I kinda did. “I’m not ready to say that. I just know that for the first time in two years, nine months and twenty-six days, I feel — something. I don’t know that Stone is the reason.” Verbalizing my feelings was harder than I thought. “I just don’t want him, or Ryan’s fiancée to walk through life with the same regrets I have — not pursuing the questions about the death of someone they loved.” A lump the size of Mount Hood started growing in my throat. I choked past it. “I should have pursued mine when Jacob died.”

  “Is that why you haven’t left town? You were actually afraid of getting the answers to your questions?” Dad was giving me his full attention.

  I fidgeted under his scrutiny while putting away my tools. “Maybe. I think I was afraid the answers would bring more pain. I just wanted to turn it all off. Stone made me realize I can’t do that. The questions never go away, they just fester.” Standing up a little taller, I confessed to my father. “I went to Sandy the other day.”

  “I heard that at the coffee shop. Rumor has it you got caught by the sheriff necking in the park across from city hall. I didn’t believe it — I guess I was wrong.” Dad pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping down the glass.

  “You weren’t wrong.” Part of me wished he had been wrong, that I’d actually done something with Stone to feel guilty about. But I wasn’t ready for it. “Yes, I was with Stone, but nothing happened.”

  ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ mirrored in my Dad’s face. No matter who you were or how true it was, since Clinton’s speech to the entire country about not having sex with an intern, everyone sounded dishonest in their denials. Including me.

  Another political trick — diversion — seemed like a good tactic at this point in the conversation. I closed the lid on the toolbox and carried it to the hallway. “So why would someone kill two patrons of Woody’s?” Apparently the tactic was the right one.

  Dad’s brow furrowed. “There are those who hate the type of people that Woody’s has brought to town.”

  Our eyes strayed to the town photo on my mantel. During last year’s annual Tickle-fest, a group of us business owners gathered together for a portrait, in front of Brendan’s newly remodeled Lucky Drugs Pharmacy, one of the festival’s biggest sponsors. Dara stood on the far left with Dan the barber, then Lori from our only diner, Whistle Burger, stood next to him with our town mechanic, Bruce — who refused to work on hybrids. Shea and his wife Kati were on the right with their tow truck off to the side and several other townspeople gathered behind them, all of us smiling and happy. Center stage — Mayor Bob with one arm wrapped around my shoulder and the other wrapped around Dad’s. He was honoring us with the annual Tickle Creek award for community service. We’d spent over a year carving a bald eagle soaring above a Ranger Station with a surrounding forest. The bird’s wings spanned six feet, and the eagle kept watch over the forest, like the rangers in service. It honored those who had given their lives in the U.S. Forest Service, “Caring for the land and serving the people.” A motto the mayor had capitalized on during his campaign.

  “Mayor Bob?” Disbelief – and – recognition of the truth collided.

  “Bob has become somewhat unstable with his hatred of everything associated with Woody’s.” Dad’s head shook with disappointment.

  “But murder? Can you honestly see Bob killing someone?” Images flooded my mind. Bob sneaking around the back parking lot the morning of the Ryan’s death. I’d frightened him, but then he’d recovered. Then Bob’s attitude toward Tommy in my store. Tommy getting his tires slashed after that and Bob’s giddiness about the offense. And Bob’s anger when he realized that our insurance rates would hike with the rising crime rates.

  “We’re all capable of violence.”

  Dad’s veracity always caught me off guard. Throughout my life he’d awakened my conscience with simple statements that delivered shocking blows. I suddenly wondered how much violence my Dad was capable of. Could he commit murder?

  “No, I didn’t kill that poor man.” Dad’s eyes twinkled.

  “I didn’t think you did!” My quick response sounded a little too defensive and I added, “I was just wondering what type of violence you are capable of.”

  “Unfortunately, too much for you to know.” Dad turned his back to me and picked up his coat to leave.

  “Wh — what? Aren’t you going to stay for dinner?” He always stayed for dinner. How was I going to pick his brain for more information if he left?

  “Can’t. I got a date.” Dad was at the door with it open before I could even formulate a question.

  “Wh — wait! You can’t drop a bomb like that and then leave!” I ran toward the door.

  But dad was faster. He had it open and was through it before I could even get to the handle. “Actually I can, and I am.” Dad smiled and closed the door behind him. He bent over and looked at me through the pane of glass we’d just replaced, then gave me the thumbs up before turning and walking away.

  My seventy-one-year-old father had a date. And I was staying at home alone with a borrowed dog. Something was very wrong with that picture.

  Chapter Twenty

  The night was abnormally chilly, and my fireplace was as worthless to me as piece of wood without a carving knife. My soft-pile flannel PJ’s and my hubby’s thick, oversized socks weren’t enough. I went into the shop, where I’d left my hoodie earlier that afternoon. The parking lot between my shop and Woody’s was busier than usual for a Sunday night. Cars were honking at each other, two drivers yelled back and forth in an obvious dispute over a parking spot. The neon boobs were flashing, their light illuminating the entire store.

  Was it my imagination, or were those boobs getting bigger and brighter? I could have sworn they couldn’t light up the store last week. Can you get implants on a sign? Maybe double OO was their new bra size.

  I snickered and grabbed my jacket. Slipping my arms into the sleeves, I watched the different type of men going into the bar. It was amazing. There were guys from all walks of life. Guys who obviously couldn’t afford to go in,
to guys who shouldn’t need to go in. Single men who came by themselves, a group of guys out for a night on the town, young guys, old guys — eewww — I suddenly wondered if my Dad had ever been a patron of Woody’s.

  Shaking my head to rid myself of that image, I started to turn back to my house when a familiar limp caught my eye. It couldn’t be.

  Instead of ignoring it and walking back toward the cabin like I should have, I scurried across the floor to the front window, my fuzzy socks making my feet slide across the wooden floors. My face hidden behind a wooden train display in the store window, I watched Stone approach the front of the bar.

  Tommy stood at the entry checking guys out and patted a few down who looked like they might be trouble. If I were him, I’d pat down Stone. He had a hard look on his face, I couldn’t see his eyes, but the neon boobs highlighted the tight set of his jaw, and in my mind, he looked pretty damn dangerous. My heart accelerated as I leaned forward to get a better look around the large caboose in the window.

  Stone looked up before reaching Tommy. Our eyes connected. His in the dark, mine hiding behind a train, but there was no doubt about the connection. We both felt it. But Stone looked away, leaving me feeling alone and abandoned. Why did it seem that all the men in my life (except one) sought companionship with other women?

  I hoped Tommy would turn him away. He didn’t. With a nod of his head, Stone passed by without another look back. I couldn’t help feeling disappointed and my shoulders slumped forward. I’d expected more from Stone — thought he was better than the type of guy who hung out at strip bars. I guess I was wrong.

  Hell, I’d worn makeup for the guy, but he’d walked away from me and into a strip bar.

  My butt started to burn. At first the insult was like a startled, ‘Ouch,’ causing a sharp inhale. Then it morphed into thoughts of, ‘Shit, that hurt,’ as I flung my hoodie over my shoulders. But its growth didn’t stop there. Oh, no.

  It blossomed into a verbal, “Son-of-bitch! How can he do that?”

  By the time I got my arms through the sleeves, I was stomping upstairs and stripping my hoodie back off. I was on a mission now, one that no one in this town would ever expect. I exchanged my PJ’s and Jacob’s socks for some clothes I had hidden in the back of my cedar closet — a tight black mini-dress with capped sleeves and strappy sandals. I topped the outfit off with a set of dangling antique silver earrings and bangle bracelets. Brushing my hair until it glistened from my angry force, I refreshed my makeup and finished off with body spray. One last glance in the mirror, and I found myself looking at a stranger. My hair flowed down across my shoulders, accentuating the dress’s deep V-neck and a cleavage that surprised even me. My chin jutted out with indignation, but softened with blush pink lipstick and the wide arch of my brows. My green-gray eyes shimmered with anger and something I didn’t want to name. And my legs really did go on for miles, something Jacob used to love.

  Bogart watched the whole time with a curious tilt to his head. Probably thought ‘She’s done lost her mind.’ I probably had, but at this point I didn’t care.

  I took the steps a little more carefully than I had on my way up and then turned to the dog following me. “You can’t go with me on this trip.”

  “Arrrrrggg,” he complained. But I patted him on the head, grabbed my extra store key and slipped it into the interior fold of my wallet before heading through the shop and out the front door.

  The parking lot was packed. Clearly Woody’s was in full swing because there was no one outside. Music thundered through the air, a dull rumble I’d learned to block out from the inside of my house. I approached the front of the bar and saw a bouncer I didn’t know elbow Tommy and nod his head in my direction. Tommy turned to look at the cause of his partner’s nudge, his eyes starting at my feet and traveling up to my face. I could tell from the appreciative perusal that he hadn’t recognized me, but the moment he did, his expression changed. He scowled at his co-worker and met me a few feet away from the front door.

  “What are you doing, Ms. Rilee? This ain’t no place for a woman like you.” He grabbed my arm and started to steer me back home, but I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  “Tommy.” I stopped in my tracks and dug in my heels. Literally. “I’m a grown woman. There’s nothing in there that I haven’t seen before.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “—No, Tommy. I’m going in.” I covered his hand on my arm and gently squeezed it. When he didn’t release me, I said, “It’s okay, really.”

  “But—,” finally, Tommy released my arm and let me pass. Now, his buddy had no problem letting me go into the bar. In fact, I think he would have gladly given me a very friendly pat down, if Tommy hadn’t backed him off with a chest bump.

  Once inside, I discovered a very different atmosphere altogether. I had no idea what I’d just brazenly walked myself into. Not one guy was looking to warn me about being in the wrong place. Tommy tried to stay close on my backside but disappeared when a fight broke out toward the bar. Apparently someone had grabbed a dancer when they shouldn’t have and needed to be ejected from the bar.

  As soon as Tommy was gone, I immediately wished I’d taken his advice and headed home. A hand pinched my ass. An arm brushed my chest. Pushing my way through a forest of hands groping and trying to slide their way under my dress, I delivered a few elbow strikes to the rear and smacked at the hands reaching from the front. The smell of smoke and alcohol slammed into my nose almost as bluntly as the wayward hands attacking my body.

  I’d lied to Tommy. There was plenty in this place I’d never seen before. I’d never seen nearly naked women grating on poles. I’d never seen oiled breasts bouncing to the beat of music. And I’d certainly never seen a woman grab money with that part of her body.

  Oh. My. God. This was a mistake.

  Ready to give up Stone to the raunchy side, I quickly turned to leave faster than I came in. But between my haste and the latest pull on my arm, I lost my balance. Stumbling, I grabbed at the air desperately trying to steady my heels. The pull on my arm continued and I ended up across someone’s lap. I looked up to see a toothless grin in the midst of a tangled gray beard. The man was every bit my father’s age, if not a decade older. Something began grinding on my ass as I sat sideways across his legs and a hand snaked up my thigh. I smacked at the offending appendage. Mortified by the semi-hard lump on my backside, I tried to stand up. But the floor, slick with beer, and God knows what else, refused to allow my heels any grip and I plopped back down.

  Don’t ever think things can’t get worse. They can and they will.

  Before I could utter a word, the man pulled my head toward him and stuck his tongue down my throat. The putrid taste of his mouth mixed with the rank stench of his body, nearly made me barf. But I yanked on his beard instead. Then slugged him across the cheek to dislodge my face from the vile hot taste of beer and cigarettes that assaulted my mouth. He grinned at me, his lips curling around his gums and I realized he wasn’t as old as he appeared. The arm encircled around my waste had the muscles of someone in his forties, and his lap, no doubt, had just started to get worked up.

  “How much ferr a lap dance, sweet thang?” His words weren’t as Southern as they were slurred from his lack of teeth and consumption of alcohol. I suspected he’d started drinking before he’d arrived at Woody’s.

  But I was done with the unwanted abuse even before I was hauled to my feet by a blonde woman much smaller than my five foot seven inches.

  “Carl. She’s a customer, not a dancer. You come for a lap dance, sweetie?” Huge pasty-covered breasts rubbed against my rib cage as her talon-like nails entrapped my buttocks. A cheer broke out around us as the men slipped bills in the back of her G-string. A couple bills made their way down the front of my dress before I had the presence of mind to push away the woman who hadn’t come to my aid at all. She was using me for bigger tips — like a sex toy in a freak show.

  “I’m looking for a man.” I blurted out.

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nbsp; Several volunteers pushed their way forward, but one man stood above the others, his strong leg tripping those who tried to get in his way. His shoulders barreled against anyone trying to jockey into position. Then he was next to me, pulling me against his body in a welcoming embrace that I melted into.

  Stone saved me. Again. But this time I wasn’t being swallowed up by the creek’s rushing water. This time Stone saved me from drowning in a sea of slimy hands.

  “The lady’s spoken for.” He announced in a deep rumbling voice that challenged anyone to think otherwise. The men backed away, some sneering, others whining, while the dancer protested that she hadn’t gotten paid for our dance. Stone made a bill materialize out of nowhere and stuck it down the G-string at her hip. I’d be mad if I wasn’t so grateful for the shelter he’d offered me.

  What had started out as an innocent trip to a strip club, had turned into a sexual assault nightmare. Did these women put up with this type of treatment on a daily basis? Did they dish it out in return?

  “Have you seen enough?” Stone asked in my ear.

  “I need a drink to wash away the taste in my mouth.” I yelled above the noise.

  Stone nodded and guided me toward the bar, my backside completely covered by his body, he had one arm around my waste the other blocking anyone from coming close. I was grateful he chose a spot away from the woman gyrating on the pole, her dance somewhat obscured by the hanging glasses above the bar.

  The bartender approached and Stone ordered a couple shots of whiskey and the glasses slid to a stop in front of us a short time later. Stone’s hand reached between my breasts and for a moment I couldn’t believe his arrogance. Then he pulled out the bills that had been stuffed in my cleavage moments earlier and smiled. They weren’t a memento I wanted to savor. Good riddance. With a wave of his hand he told the bartender to keep the change. The bartender gave a nod of thanks and moved on down the line to the next customer.