Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3)

by Jeff Shelby

  Crack of Death

  By Jeff Shelby

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Crack of Death

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2016

  Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Books by Jeff Shelby

  The Joe Tyler Novels

  THREAD OF HOPE

  THREAD OF SUSPICION

  THREAD OF BETRAYAL

  THREAD OF INNOCENCE

  THREAD OF FEAR

  THREAD OF REVENGE

  THREAD OF DANGER

  The Noah Braddock Novels

  KILLER SWELL

  WICKED BREAK

  LIQUID SMOKE

  DRIFT AWAY

  LOCKED IN

  The Moose River Mysteries

  THE MURDER PIT

  LAST RESORT

  ALIBI HIGH

  FOUL PLAY

  YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL

  ASSISTED MURDER

  DEATH AT THE DINER

  The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)

  STAY AT HOME DEAD

  POPPED OFF

  FATHERS KNOWS DEATH

  The Rainy Day Mysteries

  BOUGHT THE FARM

  WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS

  CRACK OF DEATH

  Novel for Young Adults

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Short Story Collections

  OUT OF TIME

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  ONE

  Declan Murphy was in a hurry.

  I’d never seen him move so fast. I was at Toby’s Market, just starting my run through the store as I did my weekly shopping. It was Monday afternoon, which I’d discovered was the very best time to shop. Everyone who was employed was back at work, and all of the families with kids were either napping or spending their afternoon cooling off at Lake Dorothy or the community pool over in Winslow.

  I’d grabbed my cart and, after fishing out my shopping list, dropped my purse in the front basket. I started in the produce section and was in the middle of squeezing mangoes, trying to find a ripe one, when Declan breezed past me, pushing his cart like he was a contestant on the old television show Supermarket Sweep.

  He didn’t notice me as he grabbed a bunch of bananas and tossed them in the cart. He plucked a bag of grapes from a bin and a bag of oranges before heading to the vegetables.

  I frowned. It wasn’t like Declan to ignore me. But he hadn’t ignored me; he literally hadn’t even seen me.

  And that wasn’t like Declan, either.

  He paid attention to everything and everyone. That was his job. As the pastor of St. Stephen’s, the only church within the city limits of Latney, he’d made it his responsibility to know as much as he could about all of the townsfolk. He didn’t do it in a nosy way—not like Sophia Rey, the banker’s wife, who pretty much stuck her nose everywhere it didn’t belong—but through truly listening and being available.

  It was one of the things I liked best about him, that ability to be completely attuned to the folks in town.

  “Declan?” I said, turning my cart so I was headed toward the wall of lettuces and cruciferous veggies. It was mid-August and every type of produce imaginable was sitting on the shelves.

  He didn’t hear me. He tossed a head of iceberg lettuce into his cart, much like how you might throw a football, and picked up a bag of carrots before pushing deeper into the store, heading toward the dairy section.

  I picked up my pace, navigating my own cart with renewed purpose. “Declan?” I called again, louder.

  This time, he stopped.

  He turned around and for one brief second, a look of annoyance flashed through his eyes. But then he rearranged his features to a more welcoming expression and smiled at me.

  “Oh, hello, Rainy. I didn’t see you. How are you?”

  I stopped my cart next to his, effectively boxing him next to the dairy case full of yogurt.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I looked him up and down. “The better question is, how are you?”

  He looked fine. Normal. His reddish-brown hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in pressed khakis and a blue polo that mirrored the color of his eyes. His cheeks were freshly shaved, and his nose was tinged pink, as if he’d spent a little too much time in the sun the previous day. Considering there’d been a picnic at the church yesterday afternoon, I figured this was probably the case.

  “Just fine,” he said. His smile was warm and friendly, like always, but it seemed to stretch a little too wide, as if he might be forcing it.

  I leaned against the handle of my shopping cart. “You sure?” I paused. “You seem a little…frazzled.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced into his shopping cart and surveyed the haphazard pile of produce. I was happy he hadn’t reached the eggs yet. Perhaps there’d be a bit more of a cushion by the time he got there.

  “Declan?” I said, gentler this time.

  He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be short with you.”

  “You’re not,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  He nodded. “Yes, everything’s fine.” He turned his attention to the yogurt and selected a few containers before putting them in the cart. He was more careful, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I was standing next to him now or because he realized just how roughly he’d handled the other items already in the basket.

  “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t used to him not asking questions, not making polite conversation. Declan often got flustered during our conversations, but he’d never gotten tongue-tied, never run out of things to talk about or say to me. This was new territory.

  “Well,” I said, pushing my cart forward, “if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

  I headed toward the milk and cheese but Declan’s words stopped me.

  “Rainy, wait.” The wheels on his cart squeaked as he hurried to catch up to me. “I…I’m sorry. Yes, I’m a bit frazzled. I have a lot on my plate right now and I’m just trying to get caught up. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “You didn’t take anything out on me,” I told him. “I was just worried about you. You don’t seem yourself, that’s all.” I smiled, what I hoped was a reassuring one. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He hesitated.

  A woman pushed past us, murmuring a hello to Declan. I didn’t recognize her but he clearly did because he smiled and returned the greeting.

  After she rounded the corner, he turned his attention back to me. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I was short with you.”

  I shook my head. “You weren’t short with me and you don’t need to apologize. Besides, we’d already covered all that. I asked if there was anything I could do to help.”

  His eyes drifted to the white tile floor. It was shiny and spotless, just like the rest of Toby’s. I’d never been in a cleaner, more welcoming grocery store.

  “Declan?”

  He looked up at me. “I need volunteers.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What?”

  “Volunteers.”

  Instinctively, I took a step back, bringin
g my cart with me.

  He must have noticed my reaction because he reached out a hand, steadying the back of my cart. Or maybe he was trying to keep me there so I couldn’t leave.

  “Not for St. Simon’s,” he said quickly.

  Even though I’d lived in Latney for over four months now, I still wasn’t a regular presence at church. It wasn’t because I didn’t like Declan’s sermons or because I had a massive aversion to church. I just had never been a churchgoer, and after forty-some years of not needing formal religion in my life, I didn’t think I needed to incorporate it now. That didn’t mean I didn’t occasionally swing by for a Sunday morning service—after all, I was friends with Declan and they did serve some mighty good donuts in the foyer after the service—but that was pretty much all I did.

  I kept my hands on the handle. “Not for the church?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. And then he added, “Well, technically, it is, but it’s not at the church.”

  I frowned. “I’m not following.”

  He sighed. “Look, we run an outreach group. For seniors and other folks who are homebound. We’re called Simon Says.” When I gave him another raised eyebrow look, he explained. “Because whatever people say they need, we do. Like the kid’s game. Simon Says. Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “So, anyway, a few of my regular volunteers are on vacation and things are a little hectic. I’ve got a bunch of people who need their visits and I’m just not sure how I’m going to cover them.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “Which is why I’m tearing through the grocery store like a bat out of you-know-where, trying to get all of my shopping done.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for him. It was just like Declan to overextend himself, to try to take on the additional responsibilities and take care of everyone. It was what he did, all the time.

  “What kind of help do you need?”

  “Oh, nothing too terribly taxing,” he said. “Mostly just someone to take some of the weekly visits.”

  “Visits? What do you do on these visits?”

  “Well, it depends. Some folks get daily visits because we bring meals to them. Just bag lunches—we’re not exactly Meals on Wheels, but we do try to provide a nutritious cold meal delivered by a friendly face. Other people we stop by for well-checks or just to visit with.”

  “Well-checks? Isn’t that the police’s responsibility?”

  “We don’t have a police department,” he reminded me. “We have the sheriff.”

  I tried not to groan at the reminder.

  “We call them well-checks because we want to make sure our neighbors are okay,” Declan said. “I guess it’s a non-traditional use of the term.”

  I nodded. I understood what he meant by it.

  “And so you just need help this week?” I asked. I didn’t mean to sound cautious, but I knew it was audible in my voice.

  “Yes. Clyde is out of town on a fishing trip and Mabel is in North Carolina until Thursday, I think, visiting family. Both will be back next week.”

  I didn’t know who Clyde was, but I was familiar with Mabel. Mabel, the tiny powerhouse singer at St. Simon’s. The old woman was almost a century old but still baked pies, cooked meals for Declan, and drove herself around town. Apparently, she was also an active member of Simon Says. This didn’t surprise me in any way.

  “And you just need someone to help with visits? That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I looked past Declan, at the refrigerated cases ahead of us filled with milk and juices and cheeses. I was perfectly capable of helping. I had no reason not to do it. I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t have anything pressing that might prevent me from venturing out for an hour or two each day over the coming week. I’d be helping Declan out, and I’d be helping other people, too.

  And I’d be helping myself.

  I’d gotten over my pity party from earlier in the summer, when I’d despaired over my lack of friends. That had gotten me mixed in with Vivian and Leslie and a whole cast of crazies as we tried to figure out what had happened to Vivian’s surly stepsister. My motivation had been to create some friendships, but what I’d learned in the end was that those kinds of relationships couldn’t be forced and they couldn’t be bought.

  By the time everything was said and done and Leslie had been returned to her family, Vivian and I were not friends. I wasn’t sure Sophia and I were, either. And I was okay with that. I had Declan and Gunnar, my handsome neighbor, and even Mikey, the cook at the Wicked Wich. And I realized that that was enough. I wasn’t going to try to force the issue anymore; I’d be happy with whatever came my way.

  And here I was, standing with a friend in the middle of Toby’s Market.

  A friend who needed my help.

  I wasn’t keen on going to strangers’ houses and making small talk. But I was even less keen on seeing a friend stressed out.

  “Alright, I’m in.”

  It was Declan’s turn to look surprised. “You are? I mean, you will? You’ll help?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Just tell me what to do.”

  TWO

  Declan was ready for me the next morning.

  It was just after ten o'clock, and I’d driven to the church for my training as temporary volunteer with Simon Says.

  The day was overcast, the air thick with humidity. If the sun popped, it was going to be a scorcher of a day. And if the heat built, we’d be in for some whopper storms late in the afternoon.

  “The bagged lunches are ready to go,” Declan told me as soon as I walked into his office. He pointed to a small bookshelf. There were three brown paper bags on top, each of them labeled with a name. I could immediately tell it was Declan’s handwriting.

  “You’ll be visiting Calvin Simpson, Eleanor Dans, and Greta Hedley.”

  “Just those three?” I asked.

  He nodded. The humidity gave a little wave to his otherwise straight locks, and this, coupled with the jeans and short-sleeve plaid shirt he was wearing, made him look even more boyish than usual.

  “Greta lives a couple of blocks behind the bank. Small house, corner lot. She’s partially deaf and sometimes forgets to put her hearing aid in. If she doesn’t answer the door, just go in.”

  “Okay.” It didn’t sound okay at all, walking into someone’s home unannounced, but I didn’t think I had much choice, especially if the homeowner might not hear me knocking or ringing a doorbell.

  “Eleanor is a church member here. You might have seen her around. Bright red, curly hair, very tall. She has no physical disabilities but just appreciates having a visitor a couple of times a week. Besides church, she doesn’t tend to get out much. She lives a block away from the Wicked Wich. The only brick home on the block.”

  I wondered if I should be taking notes.

  “Calvin is the last one for today. He and Greta are the only daily ones you’ll have this week. You’ll stop by Eleanor’s one more time, but it’s completely up to you which day. She’s flexible.” Declan smiled. “Calvin lives behind the hardware store, in the apartment above the garage. He’s a bit of a character, but he’s harmless.”

  Harmless and character were two words that instantly made me suspicious. “A character?”

  “He used to be a…performer.”

  “Like an actor or something?”

  “That and a bunch of things,” Declan said. “Actor, singer, juggler, you name it. He likes to relive his youth so he sometimes reprises some of his old roles.”

  “So he sings and juggles and stuff?”

  Declan nodded. “It’s quite entertaining.”

  I wasn’t sure that was the word I’d use for it, but I just smiled and nodded.

  He slapped the desk with both hands and looked at me. “And I think that’s everything. It shouldn’t take you more than a couple of hours to make the rounds.”

  I was thinking it would be more like an hour. Latney was a small town, and they all lived within minutes of each other. How long coul
d it take to say a few quick words and drop off a bag lunch to all of them?

  “Sounds good,” I said as I collected the bags from the bookcase. “Do you need me to stop back by here or anything afterwards?”

  “I don’t need you to stop back by, but you’re welcome to. You’re always welcome here, Rainy.”

  I felt the heat creep into my cheeks. Declan made sure to remind me how welcome I was at his church. Not in a pushy way, or a way to make me feel guilty: he genuinely welcomed everyone, whether they had intentions on being a permanent part of his flock or not.

  Of course, he’d also indicated over the past few months that his interest in me extended beyond wanting to share his church. I thought back to the pastor dinner we’d attended in June. We’d had a lovely time, and when he dropped me off that night, he’d given me a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek and I’d immediately wondered where our relationship might go if either of us pursued it.

  But we hadn’t. Because between my sporadic church attendance and his trips this summer—one to a week-long convention in Atlanta and then another week-long trip to a kid’s Bible camp—we’d barely spent any time together. The day after he’d returned from camp, I’d left for my own trip. I spent a week back in Arlington, bunking with Laura in her apartment, splitting my time between catching up with her and spending some much-needed time with my old girlfriends.

  So even though a couple of months had passed since the dinner we’d shared—and the subsequent hug and cheek kiss—we really hadn’t spent any time alone together since then.

  Declan must have mistaken my silence for…something, because he suddenly began to ramble. “I mean, it would be nice to visit with you, of course, but if you don’t want to come back here, I understand. Maybe we could meet somewhere else or something. Or maybe you don’t want to meet at all. Which is totally fine. I—”

  I interrupted him. “I’ll come back by,” I said, cutting him off.

  He swallowed, then nodded. His own cheeks were now flushed, almost the exact same shade of pink as his nose. “Well, okay, then,” he said, a slow smile drifting across his face. “Then I’ll be here.”