Tall Pines Mysteries: A Mystery/Suspense Boxed Set

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  I smiled at him. “Thought you would.”

  Copper reached down to help Callie up. Her hand brushed Callie’s cheek, lingering just a few seconds longer than normal. My heart leapt.

  I knew I was right.

  I stood up, cradling Dak in my arms. “Anybody hungry? I made fresh salsa.”

  We traipsed inside to find Quinn fiddling with a connector that hooked my MacBook up to the flat screen TV.

  “Everybody, have a seat. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Callie and Copper squeezed onto one end of the sofa with Beau at their feet. I settled beside Sky with Dak. My mother took one armchair and Quinn perched on the other, playing with the remote. “It’s that video file Sky sent us that we couldn’t open. Remember?”

  I’d completely forgotten. It had been on the memory stick.

  Quinn clicked the remote again. “I downloaded a free program so we can now see Windows movies on your Mac.”

  The blue TV screen became my desktop. Impressed by my husband’s new technical skills, I sat back with Dak snuggling against me and watched.

  “Here we go. Now. I thought we should all watch this together. I sent it to Roberta, and she saw it last night.”

  A rugged looking man appeared on the screen, wearing camouflage pants and a black tee shirt. With broad shoulders and a narrow waist, I imagined he worked out every day. His wavy reddish-brown hair glinted in the sunlight. When he smiled, the world seemed to tilt just a little, in a good direction. The cameraman sat opposite him, and both were on a dock near a flat, calm lake. The hills across the way looked like the Adirondacks to me, but it could have been any lake in America.

  “So, John. Tell us your story.”

  John smoothed his mustache and squinted a smile at the camera. “It was a miracle. A freakin’ miracle.”

  The man had a strong Boston accent. He picked up a fishing pole and cast into the water, turning a profile to the camera. “The cancer came when I was still teaching. I was gettin’ more and more tired every day. And then I got these lumps on my neck.”

  He pointed to a flat spot on his neck, just above his collarbone. “You can’t even see ‘em anymore, can ya?”

  “How long have you been cancer-free, John?”

  The camera panned across the lake, then back, zooming in on John’s strong hands.

  “It’s been seven years.” His voice cracked a little, but he went on. “To think the weeds I love to fish in had such power all along. The power to heal me.”

  The cameraman pulled back and settled on John’s face. His light brown eyes showed peace, health, and promise. He held up a hand and waved it in the direction of the camera. “That’s all. I’m better, and it’s all because of you guys and your research. Now let me get back to my fishin’, will ya?”

  Quinn turned off the television, but before we could react to the inspiring video, the phone rang. My mother was closest to it, and picked it up. With a frown, she handed it to me. “It’s for you. I don’t recognize the voice.”

  I took the handset from her and answered tentatively. “Hello?”

  “Marcella Hollister?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Gary Young.”

  My heart started to thump behind my ribs. “Dr. Gary Young?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m just calling to thank you for your bravery. Sky told me what you did and how you and your husband saved him, his sister, and the sample vial.”

  I still couldn’t speak more than a few words and hardly noticed that he called me ma’am. Did Sky actually tell him I killed two men? Or had he watered it down a little? “Um. You’re welcome.”

  “Project Hope is moving forward, Marcella, thanks to you. All of us at Young Living want to thank you. Sky is a very important part of our organization. If it weren’t for him, we probably wouldn’t have pushed so hard to distill those lake weeds.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I finally regained some composure. “Dr. Young, we love your oils. We’re obsessed with them.”

  He laughed. “You and me both. Have a great night, Marcella.”

  I hung up and floated back to the couch. “Quinn. I think it’s time to open that champagne. That was Dr. Young, calling to tell us Project Hope is underway.”

  Sky smiled a secret smile. I wondered if he’d known the call would come this afternoon.

  My husband opened two bottles and poured generous amounts into six glasses. Callie lifted her glass first. “A toast.”

  We crowded in a circle and clinked glasses.

  Callie’s voice was steady and calm. “To freedom. To hope. And to new beginnings.”

  I took a sip of the bubbly liquid and glanced down at my puppy. Dak would be like the baby I’d never had, and I’d smother him with affection, whether he liked it or not.

  I locked eyes with Quinn and lifted my glass again in Dak’s direction. “To new beginnings.”

  - The End -

  Afterword

  The Story

  I so wish my story would come true.

  It happened before, when I wrote my first book, Double Forté: a Gus LeGarde Mystery. Even though I loved the lunches and conversations I had with my three adult daughters, I missed that cuddly stage. So I invented Johnny, Gus’s little two-year-old grandson. A few years later, Julian, my first grandson, was born. He looked EXACTLY like my little Johnny.

  So, I sort of willed him into being.

  Now let’s see if I can do it with this book.

  A cure for leukemia, set in one of my favorite regions, solved by Young Living, using natural God-given products from the earth. Sigh. It would be perfect.

  Acknowledgements

  To my dear wife Dale: thank you for reading this on your new Kindle, and for finding the silly errors that always seem to escape my brain! I love you forever, honey.

  Huge thanks to Sonya Bateman, my long time critique partner, for her constant and unwavering support. Sonya has encouraged and mentored me since my very first book, and I’ll always be so grateful for her guidance.

  Heartfelt appreciation to Sonia R. Martinez, for her good-natured assistance and insightful edits. Sonia is my favorite food writer who hails from Hawaii. See her articles and photos at http://www.soniatasteshawaii.com/.

  And thank you to Nancy Luckhurst, my super editor, who always knows when it’s time to suggest a better sentence construction or change a scene with a slight twist of her magic wand to make it perfect.

  And thank you to my new, superb beta reader, Nancy Robinson. Nancy, you did a perfect job on this and I look forward to working with you on the next book.

  To my newest beta reader, Sheila Deeth: your insights regarding characterization are superb. Thanks for reading and catching inconsistencies so thoroughly and welcome to the inner circle.

  Much appreciation to Joan Miller, who read and found numerous areas to improve and correct. Thank you, Joan, for becoming one of my prized beta readers.

  My deepest gratitude also goes to Lisa Marie Losey for introducing me to Young Living Oils. My life has been fundamentally changed since I’ve discovered these wonderful oils, and I’ll always be grateful to Lisa for teaching me about the joys of natural healing.

  Many thanks also go to Jill Young and Kathy Kouwe for their educational conferences and meetings that teach about the benefits of Young Living Oils. Kathy, thanks for reading the story up front and for your encouragement.

  To my friend, Thomas Fortenberry, thank you for entering my “name the evil drug company” contest and suggesting the name of MedicuRX.

  A very special thank you to Dr. Gary Young, for his insight, strength, fortitude, and vision. The world is a decidedly better place because of you.

  To my good friend Anne K. Edwards, I thank you for always being there, always reading my stuff, and consistently writing great reviews. Please check out her books here: http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com/Authors.html#Edwards.

  Thanks to my original Twilight Times editor, Jen
nifer Styskal, from the first version of this book in 2012. I’m trying to learn from your patient corrections. Maybe some day I’ll learn when to use farther and when to use further. ;o)

  And finally, thank you to my original publisher of this book, Lida Quillen. Twilight Times Books is a shining example of how to achieve and maintain excellence. I salute your passion for doing things right and for the relentless pursuit of great stories.

  Aaron Paul Lazar

  Sanctuary: a Tall Pines Mystery, #3

  Sanctuary

  A Tall Pines Mystery

  Aaron Paul Lazar

  Dedication

  This work is dedicated to my great, great, great grandmother, who was reportedly from the Metis tribe near Quebec, and all native peoples, past and present. May the soft sweet wind blow through your hair and the sun forever shine on your brow.

  Chapter One

  I had just started to heat a mug of milk in the microwave when Dak scooted to the side door and began to whine. Now I’d never get back to sleep.

  “Dak. It’s three o’clock in the morning. You sure you have to go out?” I peered into the darkness blanketing Honeoye Lake. “It’s raining, schnookums. Really hard.”

  At four months old, my Bernese Mountain Dog had already grown too big to play lapdog, although he still tried. He turned to look at me with his huge brown eyes and started digging at the rug near the side door. A sharp bark followed.

  “Okay, okay. Let me get a coat. And don’t wake Ruby.” I shot a glance toward the covered cage in the back of the living room. All I needed was Ruby squawking “gimme cookies” in the middle of the night, waking up my husband and mother. I’d never hear the end of it.

  September in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York had ended with a few nice days in the eighties, but in this first weekend of October the temperatures had plummeted to the fifties. Quinn and I had both been in denial. He’d gone swimming a few times, coming in the house with blue lips, and I’d been shivering in shorts and halter tops, hoping it would warm up again.

  No such luck.

  With a sigh, I hiked up my flannel nightgown, slid into my UGG boots, and shrugged into my coat. “Come on, then. Let’s go.” I snapped on his leash.

  The wind-driven rain pelted my face, and Dak pulled me hard into the night. He didn’t head for his usual spot, but veered around the corner toward the lake.

  “Where are we going, pup?”

  Quinn still hadn’t put our bass boat away for the season, and I heard it rocking on the waves by the dock. The wind was stronger here, and I pulled up my hood.

  Dak, named for our beloved Adirondack Mountains, had a mind of his own. He dragged me toward the front door of our house.

  Just enough light was cast by the lamp in the living room for me to see the steps and not fall on my face.

  What I didn’t expect was to see someone huddled against the door.

  I nearly screamed, but when Dak approached the figure, throat rumbling ominously, his growl quickly turned to puppy love. He began to lap the hand of our unexpected guest, his tail wagging madly.

  The girl moaned, looking up at me with panicked eyes.

  I crouched beside her, wondering if she’d partied too hard and gotten lost on the lake shore. In the dark, all the houses looked the same.

  “Hey. Are you okay?”

  She pulled into herself, as if hiding from me.

  “I won’t hurt you.” It was then I noticed the blood on her face, and the bruises on her wrists. “Come on. I’m taking you inside.”

  She let me help her up. The poor thing could barely walk. Slowly, with Dak wiggling between our legs, we made our way indoors.

  I plopped her onto the couch, pulled back her hood, and peeled off her jacket. It was soaked through.

  The girl reminded me of my husband, or at least his Seneca Indian half. Thick black hair hung loose around her face, dripping wet. Dark eyes pleaded with me, but no words came from her lips. Blood and scratches streaked her coppery skin. A large purplish lump rose on her forehead.

  “Are you okay, honey?”

  She shivered and pulled her feet under her.

  No shoes. No purse. Ragged jean bottoms.

  What happened to her?

  I ran to the closet and grabbed a thick blanket. “Here, put this around you. Then we need to get you out of these soaking wet clothes and into a hot tub. You’ll catch your death.”

  Although she moved with deliberate slowness, she let me wrap her in the blanket. I tucked her cold, bloody feet with another throw we kept on the couch, and ran to the kitchen to get the hot milk from the microwave. I re-heated it for thirty seconds and carried the steaming mug to her.

  “Try this.” I handed it to her. “Careful. It’s hot.”

  With trembling hands, she reached for the mug, but it seemed almost too heavy for her to hold. I helped her bring it to her lips.

  “Easy now.”

  She took one sip. Then another.

  “There you go.”

  After she’d finished half the milk, she fell back against the couch. I set the mug on the side table and watched her. Her eyes closed and she loosed a shuddering sigh. Damp hair fell across her face.

  Dak jumped onto the couch beside her—muddy paws and all—and snuggled against her legs.

  I was just debating whether or not to call an ambulance when Quinn appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His boxers were awry and his glossy hair fell in long waves over his bare shoulders. He rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on, Marcella?”

  “I found this girl on our doorstep. She’s hurt.”

  More alert now, he hurried to my side. “What happened to her?”

  The girl moaned and turned. Her hair slid aside to reveal her bruised face.

  Quinn dropped to his knees and took her hand. “Oh my God. Kitty?”

  I looked at him as if he were nuts. “You know her?”

  Concern settled in his eyes and he looked her over, taking in her injuries. “Know her? This is my little cousin, Catori. We call her Cat. Or Kitty. She’s from the rez.”

  I looked back and forth between them. He’d mentioned a few relatives when we first were married, but he’d never contacted them. He’d left the reservation under a dark cloud. Although he never told me the details, I knew he didn’t want to go back.

  Quinn’s father was a long-dead British playwright, and the only feature he’d bequeathed to his son was the turquoise color of his eyes. Other than that, Quinn resembled a proud Indian brave, one of the first reasons I’d been attracted to him when we met years ago at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. He’d grown up with his Seneca mother on the reservation not far from Buffalo. She’d passed away before we met.

  Kitty looked very much like Quinn, with the same high forehead, strong jawline, supple mouth, and long-lashed eyes. Hers were a rich chocolate brown. Beneath the bruises and blood, she was striking, probably beautiful.

  “She hasn’t said a word. I think maybe she’s in shock, Quinn. She needs a doctor.”

  Kitty bolted upright and shook her head, eyes flared and wild. Her mouth formed the word no, but no sound came out.

  Quinn took her hands and looked into her eyes. “Are you in danger, Kitty?”

  She nodded, tears streaming from her eyes. Help me, her lips said. Again, no sound.

  “It’s okay, honey.” I stroked her arm. “We’re here for you.”

  A piece of paper fell from her hand. I picked it up and flattened it out, frowning. “It’s our address.”

  Quinn went to the window and scanned the shoreline. He checked the sliding glass doors on the sun porch, locking the side door. “We’ve got to get her cleaned up. Come on.”

  I turned to the girl, who once again seemed to pull into herself. “Honey? Kitty? Who did this to you?”

  No answer. With a shuddering, soundless sob, she fell trembling against my chest.

  I exchanged a worried glance with my husband.

  He looked o
utside again. “Catori.”

  At the use of her full name, she looked up.

  “Do you know if they followed you?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  Galvanized into action now, I went into high gear, racing around the room to close all the blinds.

  Quinn stopped me, his arm on mine. “We should call the cops.”

  “Good idea.” I patted my pocket for my cell, but realized I’d left it in the bedroom. I’d just started upstairs when the sound of breaking glass came from the back of the house.

  Chapter Two

  Before I could react, Quinn grabbed his baseball bat from the closet and sprinted toward the back bedrooms.

  I watched him go in what felt like slow motion, then yelled at his retreating back. “Quinn! Be careful.”

  He uttered two words in a raspy whisper over his shoulder. “Hide her.”

  The lights went out.

  My mother screamed from her bedroom upstairs, followed closely by Ruby’s shriek of “gimme cookies!”

  My pulse pounded hard in my throat. Sweat slicked my armpits.

  Hide her.

  But where?

  Another sound of splintered glass came from the sun porch, not ten feet away. Dak barked ferociously. In the dark, I couldn't tell whether someone had broken the sliding glass doors or the side window.

  Cautiously, I dropped to the ground and slithered toward Kitty, who shivered on the couch. I whispered to her. “Come on, honey. We have to get out of here.”

  A loud crash came from the back, followed by swearing and more thumps. Worry pooled in my stomach, shooting acid into my throat.

  A softer more insidious sound came from nearby. The sound of shoes sliding across the carpet.

  Someone was headed toward us. Someone who apparently could see in the dark, unlike me.

  My eyes started to adjust to the blackness, and I saw a dark form approach behind the couch. Just as I was about to roll Kitty off the cushions to the floor, the man’s arm dropped in a swift motion over her. She moaned, slumping toward me.