Fighting for Anna (What Doesn't Kill You, #8): A Michele Romantic Mystery
Pamela Fagan Hutchins
SkipJack Publishing
Fighting for Anna (What Doesn’t Kill You, #8): A Michele Romantic Mystery Copyright © 2016 Pamela Fagan Hutchins. All rights reserved. Printed in the United State of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review.
SkipJack Publishing books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, address SkipJack Publishing, P. O. Box 219, Burton, TX 77835.
First U.S. Edition
Pamela Fagan Hutchins
Fighting for Anna (What Doesn’t Kill You, #8); A Michele Romantic Mystery/Pamela Fagan Hutchins
ISBN-13 978-1-939889-39-3 (SkipJack Publishing)
To my one and only: no Rashidi for me!
Contents
Dedication
Accolades
Foreward
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Excerpt from Saving Grace (What Doesn’t Kill You, #1): A Katie Romantic Mystery
Chapter One
Excerpt from Heaven to Betsy (What Doesn't Kill You, #5): An Emily Romantic Mystery
Chapter One
Excerpt from Puppalicious and Beyond
I am not a whackjob.
Froggy Went A' Courtin'
Excerpt from How to Screw Up Your Kids (Parenting and Blended Families)
Despite Our Best Efforts
How did the Bradys do it?
Excerpt from How to Screw Up Your Marriage (Successful Relationships)
Bring me a bucket.
There's nothing under the canoe, honey.
Excerpt from The Clark Kent Chronicles (Parenting ADHD & Asperger's)
"My mother is ruining my life."
Where It All Began: Lacrosse Gloves Make Sense to Me
Excerpt from Hot Flashes and Half Ironmans (Women's Health and Athletics)
I don't ask much.
Putting The Fun Into Dysfunctional
Excerpt from What Kind of Loser Indie Publishes, and How Can I Be One, Too? (Writing, Publishing, & Promotion)
1 • EARN (NO) MONEY ALL BY YOURSELF {On the financial implications of traditional versus indie publishing}
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by the Author
Other Books from SkipJack Publishing
Fighting for Anna
(What Doesn’t Kill You, #8):
A Michele Romantic Mystery
by Pamela Fagan Hutchins
Accolades
For Pamela Fagan Hutchins:
2015 & 2016 WINNER USA Best Book Award, Cross Genre Fiction
2014 USA Best Book Award Finalist, Cross Genre Fiction
2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarter-finalist, Romance
2013 USA Best Book Award Finalist, Business: Publishing
2012 Winner of the Houston Writers Guild Ghost Story Contest
2012 WINNER USA Best Book Award, Parenting: Divorce
2011 Winner of the Houston Writers Guild Novel Contest, Mainstream
2010 Winner of the Writers League of Texas Manuscript Contest, Romance
What Doesn’t Kill You: Katie Romantic Mysteries
“An exciting tale . . . twisting investigative and legal subplots . . . a character seeking redemption . . . an exhilarating mystery with a touch of voodoo.” — Midwest Book Review Bookwatch
“A lively romantic mystery.” — Kirkus Reviews
“A riveting drama . . . exciting read, highly recommended.” — Small Press Bookwatch
“Katie is the first character I have absolutely fallen in love with since Stephanie Plum!” — Stephanie Swindell, Bookstore Owner
“Engaging storyline . . . taut suspense.” — MBR Bookwatch
What Doesn’t Kill You: Emily Romantic Mysteries
“Fair warning: clear your calendar before you pick it up because you won’t be able to put it down.” — Ken Oder, author of Old Wounds to the Heart
“Full of heart, humor, vivid characters, and suspense. Hutchins has done it again!” — Gay Yellen, author of The Body Business
“Hutchins is a master of tension.” — R.L. Nolen, author of Deadly Thyme
“Intriguing mystery . . . captivating romance.” — Patricia Flaherty Pagan, author of Trail Ways Pilgrims
“Everything about it shines: the plot, the characters and the writing. Readers are in for a real treat with this story.” — Marcy McKay, author of Pennies from Burger Heaven
What Doesn’t Kill You: Michele Romantic Mysteries
“Immediately hooked.” — Terry Sykes-Bradshaw, author of Sibling Revelry
“Spellbinding.” — Jo Bryan, Dry Creek Book Club
“Fast-paced mystery.” –—Deb Krenzer, Book Reviewer
“Can’t put it down.” — Cathy Bader, Reader
Fighting for Anna (What Doesn’t Kill You, #8): A Michele Romantic Mystery is a work of fiction. Period. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, things, or events is just a lucky coincidence.
Fighting for Anna
(What Doesn’t Kill You, #8):
A Michele Romantic Mystery
Chapter One
An airborne string mop charged at us, a white curtain of deranged fringe. But of course it wasn’t a mop—it was a dog, and its squatty legs pumped hard, propelling its low, elongated body, with its tummy barely clearing the ground. I smelled it, too—a coppery, foul scent—and I tensed from years of experience with animals in my father’s Seguin veterinary practice. Yet, the dog looked familiar, and I was more respectful than scared.
“Get back.” I put my arms out to either side of me, as if that would protect my teenagers from whatever the terrified little dog brought our way. “A scared animal is a dangerous one.”
I heard the eye-roll in my seventeen-year-old son’s voice. “We’re not babies anymore, Mom.”
I glanced at Sam. He had the Lopez coloring but his father’s height. Over six feet and muscular in a zero-body-fat kind of way. He had on khaki shorts and an Astros T-shirt, and his dark brown hair flopped across his forehead.
The dog panted and darted in front of me, and I caught a glimpse of one eye open wide, its white rounded. “Hey, I know you, don’t I?” I said, as if she would understand me.
I did remember her, from the neighbor’s. Gidget. That was the name of the neighbor. An oddly seventies-sounding name for an oddly endearing woman. The dog’s name also started with G. I ran through possibilities quickly. Gretel. No. Gretchen. No. Gertrude. Yes, that was it. Which was another oddity, like the names for the woman
and the dog were reversed. I’d fallen in love with Gertrude last spring, when Gidget invited me over to her little white farmhouse. She’d asked me to help her write her memoirs, since I was an editor and a published author. I’d agreed—charmed by the woman and intrigued by her years as the force behind a hip Houston art gallery—then forgotten about it in the wake of my mother’s death.
Until now. A flush rose toward my face. Ugh, memory problems, on top of hot flashes, fatigue, and allover body pain. But no, my gynecologist insisted it couldn’t be early onset of menopause at forty-one. He’d offered me birth control pills and antidepressants, but no empathy.
Annabelle spoke in the high pitch of a teenage girl, although at eighteen she was rapidly approaching womanhood. “Is it hurt?”
Okay . . . add trouble focusing, like on the crazed dog and my kids, to my list of symptoms.
Sam snorted. “It’s so ugly it hurts. What is it? Some kind of mash-up between a wiener dog and a sheep dog?”
I raised a brow at Sam, but secretly added pug to his list. “She might be hurt, Belle.”
The dog stopped in front of me, yapping frantically, like it was talking directly to me. Something was wrong with her eye, really wrong, but the little canine was whirling in circles by then. Between that and all her hair, I couldn’t get a good look at it. Was the reddish brown in her dreadlocks blood?
“What is it, Gertrude?” I crouched and held my hand toward her, palm up.
She reversed course with her back end turning separately from her front, like an articulated bus.
“Oh my God, did you see her turn?” Sam leaned over, laughing.
“She’s so cuuuute,” Annabelle squeaked, clapping her hands.
Gertrude sprinted into the woods, away from the three of us and the dilapidated summer camp travel trailer dubbed the “Quacker” by Sam because of the brand name Mallard emblazoned on its side. Stopping once, Gertrude looked back at us—one eye wonky—as if to say, “Hurry up, already.”
She tugged at my heart. “I’d better go after her.”
“I’m coming, too,” Sam said.
“You dropped your phone, Michele,” Annabelle said from behind me. “Some guy named Rashidi is texting you. Who’s Rashidi?” she called.
I pretended not to hear her, because I sure wasn’t going to tell her that a gorgeous Virgin Islander I’d met at my friend Emily’s wedding in Amarillo wouldn’t quit texting me. I hadn’t answered him, so I’d hoped he’d stopped. I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready again.
“Aren’t you coming?” Sam yelled back to Annabelle.
I heard her feet start up after us. Breakfast and too much coffee sloshed in my belly. I had a head start on them both, but even though I’d done an Ironman triathlon less than a year before, my conditioning was no match for their youthful athleticism. Sam played elite high school baseball, and Annabelle was headed to the University of Texas on a swim scholarship. And both were about to leave me alone for the summer, as of today—Sam working a summer baseball camp that moved around the country, and Annabelle getting a head start on the fall in Austin. I couldn’t think about it without my eyes leaking, so I forced it away.
The little dog had wheels, and the distance between her and us grew. We thrashed through the bushes and brush like a herd of stampeding cattle, my snake-proof pink-camouflage cowboy boots adding to our thunder. I tried not to think about snakes. Snakes in the grass, snakes hanging from trees, snakes under bushes. Copperheads, rattlesnakes, water moccasins, and coral snakes, all native to south central Texas, something I’d have to get past if I was going to make it through my summer in the country. Mongoose, mongoose.
Gertrude dashed under the bottom of the barbed-wire strands at the three-way juncture of poles and fences that marked the edge of our property and the two parcels adjoining it. A new metal sign had been affixed to the outside of Gidget’s fence, but facing the next property over from ours. It read FUTURE SITE OF HOU-TO-AUS LONESTAR PIPELINE.
We skidded to a stop, and I put my knee-high boot on the bottom wire and pulled up on the middle one. “Here.”
Annabelle ducked through, using one hand to hold her mass of long, curly blonde hair off her pink tank top and out of her face. Sam followed. They started running again.
“A little help, please?”
Annabelle understood me first. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Sam,” she teased. She mimicked my actions with the barbed wire.
I’d never been past our fence, and only up to it once or twice. When I’d visited Gidget, I’d driven on a dirt road that wound an extra two miles before cutting back to her place. I crouched, my butterfly pendant falling out of the top of my shirt and swinging forward to smack me in the teeth. I lunged under the higher strand into new territory, catching the back of my shirt on a barb. I heard a tiny rip, but I pulled through anyway. A piece of trash on the ground caught my eye, and reflexively I grabbed it and stuck it in my jeans pocket to throw away later.
“You’ve got a hole,” Annabelle informed me.
It was an old Hotter’N Hell Hundred T-shirt from a bicycle race I’d done with Adrian, Annabelle’s father. The ruined shirt was just another piece of him slipping away, a tiny sliver of my heart excised and gone.
Gertrude had stopped, and she was barking at us, her voice a cattle prod.
“Hold on, Lassie, we’re coming,” I said.
Neither kid laughed, my humor a few decades removed from theirs. We ran on through gray-trunked yaupon holly trees that scratched us up as much as the barbed wire, and I wished I had a coat of fur like Gertrude’s to protect me from it. The thick vegetation was pretty from a distance, but up close it gave me the willies. Poison ivy, spiders, and the aforementioned snakes and yaupon. It was dark back there, too, the cedar, mesquite, and oak creating a canopy made denser by thorny vines and bee-attracting honeysuckle.
Sam turned around and ran backwards. “So, where are we—” His words were interrupted when he hit the ground with an “oomph,” butt first, palms next.
“Are you okay?” I extended a hand to him.
He lifted one of his up, and it was covered in something brown and mushy. He waved it back and forth in front of his face, sniffing. “Gross.”
I withdrew my hand.
“What is it?” Annabelle leaned toward him, then backed away quickly. “Ew, poop.”
“Help me,” Sam said, shaking his hands to fling it off.
Gertrude started barking at us again.
“Sorry, son. I’ve got to see about the dog.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Annabelle giggled.
I zigged and Annabelle zagged around him.
“No fair!”
“Wipe it off on the ground and the leaves.” I laughed, and Annabelle skipped. Literally, she skipped, and it warmed me inside.
Sam caught up with us. The scent of something rotten flooded my nose. At first I thought it was Sam, but it was dead animal stink, not manure stink. A few running paces later it started to recede. I didn’t want to know what it was. There were lots of critters out there, and all lives had an expiration date. We just didn’t have to face it personally in modern society very often. Or at all, most of us. Another thing I’d have to get over to survive my summer.
My breaths were coming in short pants now, and I couldn’t hear anything except the yips and barks of Gertrude. She broke from the tree line, and I saw Gidget’s clapboard house in the clearing. Gertrude scrambled toward it, running full-out. I wanted to stop and put my hands on my knees, but I kept going. Sweat trickled down my temple and onto my cheek. Annabelle was in front of me and Sam a good ten yards in front of her. A gate was ajar in a picket fence that could have used the attention of Tom Sawyer. Gertrude entered with Sam hot on her heels. The dog bounded onto the porch and disappeared.
My stress meter inched up. What had the dog so frantic?
Sam stomped up the wooden steps and came to an abrupt halt. He leaned forward, then stood. “You guys, there’s a broken window with blood on it, and the dog
jumped through it and ran inside.”
Annabelle joined Sam, and I caught up with them. The porch sagged under our weight.
My heart was booming, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions that would upset Sam and Annabelle. I knocked but there was no sound from the house, and no one came to the door. “Gidget?” I called.
Nothing.
I took a step to the left and pressed my nose against the intact upper half of the window, my feet crunching the broken pieces on the porch. I shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to see past the glare of high morning sunlight against glass.
“What is it?” Annabelle asked.
I scanned the room. Gertrude suddenly appeared and rushed the window pell-mell, her bark piercing. I jumped back, falling into my stepdaughter. She stumbled a little, and I righted myself.
“I’m not sure,” I said. I braced myself, hands on the window frame, paint coming off in dry flecks on my palms. I brushed them off on my jeans and tried again. This time I was able to follow Gertrude with my eyes, and they led to the right, in front of a coffee table and faded tweed couch. A bundle of worn clothing lay piled on the wood floors, twitching. Hands and feet and a gray-haired head protruded from the bundle, and blood trickled from Gidget’s forehead into a pool beside her.
***
The sight of Gidget was like a jolt of electricity, short-circuiting my brain. “Adrian.” I exhaled, frozen. My forehead slumped against the glass. “Mom.”
“What?” Annabelle asked, her face right beside mine. “Michele, are you all right?”
I sucked in a deep, careful breath. For a moment, my mind had filled with macabre pictures from my nightmares, a flash of my husband, Adrian, crumpled lifeless beside his bicycle on the side of the road, murdered a year ago by a crazy stalker in her car. Then one of my own mother, puddled, dead, alone. She’d had a massive stroke only six weeks ago, and Papa had found her.
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