Death Knell In The Alps (A Samantha Jamison Mystery)

by Peggy A. Edelheit

  Samantha

  * * * * *

  I felt like I was losing it, as my fingers flew across my computer keyboard, typing away, still wondering if my obsession for the truth would be the death of me. Little did I know when I first started this book that it would be the death of him instead. I paused to sip my wine, thinking it through. I wasn’t writing the great American novel, just another book about commitment and making choices. Pretty straightforward, right?

  No. Not this time. All bets were off. My concentration stunk. I looked up. That damn clock was ticking away and my novel was behind schedule. I tried typing once again…

  (My book)

  …Doubt and fear shadowed me, as I proceeded down the hall with more courage than I felt. Listening carefully, I moved slowly past the first room, then the second, stealing a quick look in each. Old houses settled and creaked, right? But his death did that to me, made me uneasy, ever since I discovered there were no lifetime guarantees on anything or anyone. There were just words that made you feel safe and secure. I flicked the landing light on and the hallway switch off, tentatively glancing back, but all I heard was that same conversation rebound from the past.

  “I don’t have time right now!” snapped Stephen. “I’ve got to catch that plane. Let’s get a move on, or I’m going to miss it. We’ll sit down and talk when I get back.”

  “Don’t you see? You always say that!” I knew the drill.

  He turned back to me, grabbing my shoulders. “I’m sorry. I swear, this time I mean it. I have to tie up a few loose ends and have a feeling that everything will go my way. And if it doesn’t, well, you know me. I still manage to cover all my bases.”

  I searched his intense, unreadable eyes. I wasn’t willing to let it go. “But what about me? What about us?”

  Stephen smiled. “We’ll always have us,” he reasoned.

  Was I overreacting? I tried yet again. “But, Stephen….”

  His smile abruptly vanished, and he released me. “Samantha, don’t push. This is important to me. Now, drop it!” He glanced down at his watch. “Let’s go!” He turned, grabbed his bag and walked out toward the car, calling over his shoulder, “Are you coming? You have to drop me off at the airport, remember?”

  I stood there, staring down that hallway, recalling his words. How could I forget them and all the anger that still lingered? I closed my eyes briefly, took a deep breath and moved on.

  I knew how many times I had gone this way and it was always twenty-four, and then six footsteps, so predictable, just like our arguments. I descended to the landing and was about to swing to the right and go down those last steps, but stopped. Something caught my eye and I turned to the left.

  There on the wall hung a familiar picture, another reminder of my life, the one that used to include Stephen and me. I was still trying to piece together what I may have overlooked. How could I have been so oblivious? Suddenly, what I thought was secure was unexpectedly reduced to nothing. Poof! Right for the jugular! Just like that!

  Stephen, why did you lie? Were you dishonest with me from the beginning?

  These considerations were long overdue since I was finally questioning his motives and confronting mine. How could I change my future if I didn’t understand his past?…

  Chapter 2

  The Book Of Revelation

  I slammed my laptop shut, tapping my fingernail in frustration. This whole thing was driving me crazy. Yet again, it was happening, figuratively and literally. I glanced down at my computer. Where was my book going? Leaning forward, I rested my forehead on crossed fingers, as if in prayer, and then sat upright, annoyed. For the life of me, I couldn’t think straight.

  Restless, I shoved my chair back and began pacing. My neck was killing me. I tried massaging my muscles, as though that would ease all my uncertainty. I knew full well what was affecting my writing: Stephen’s death and that unknown factor just waiting in the wings. They influenced every word I typed. My life and my novel were becoming one. I couldn’t stop it.

  Stuck on replay, my mind kept returning to that point in time when I had made deals with God to give my life back. And as usual, denial, pain, grief and doubt all found their target, and like clockwork, anger showed up and slapped me out of it. I remember standing there in shock…

  (My past)

  …“What?” I had asked the police, stepping back from the door. “My husband?” In minutes, I was practicing denial, refusing to acknowledge their sympathy, and stunned as they explained Stephen’s fatal accident.

  In a heartbeat, my life shifted. I reached out, trying to latch onto reality, as I knew it should be. What did they just say? Surely I hadn’t heard correctly.

  “Sorry that it took so long. His identification, rental info, and plates were all missing.”

  “It’s not…He couldn’t…” Dead? Car rental? Their information wasn’t registering. None of it made any sense. What happened to the plane he was taking?

  Doubt lingered at the edges as Stephen’s picture, sitting on my desk, vied for my attention. Every time I passed it, more questions began to surface. I felt his eyes follow me, as though he was trying to…

  I leaned in closer, confused and upset, demanding, “What are you trying to tell me, Stephen? What were you thinking? Where were you going?” Silence. No response, real or imagined.

  That nightly ritual grew unsettling. No matter how I struggled to walk away, I felt certain he was trying to communicate something. What? Then I gradually began to consider what other unknowns might be out there.

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Days later, the police said his brakes were tampered with, and told me to be “available.” For what? More pain? My frustration sat there, right beside my former blind acceptance and ignorance.

  I had never considered foul play. That changed everything.

  Anger simmered, as I gave them a newly memorized address and my cell number. I really didn’t have any choice. Unwilling to wait for their answers, and with nothing holding me back, I decided to pack up what was left of me, go back to North Carolina and find out for myself…

  Now I stood there thinking about that decision. I should really start that packing instead of getting more frustrated and going nowhere with my book. But then I glanced down at my laptop and reluctantly sat back down to try and concentrate once more on my book. I had a deadline to consider. But my fingers, poised over the keyboard, wouldn’t move. It was like a disconnect had taken place between my hands and my brain. I stared at the lettered keys and then at the screen, thinking about what I continued to do day after day.

  Why was I compulsively interjecting our lives into my book? My fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, working freelance, asking questions, but where were they leading me? After five years of marriage, it only took one fatal accident to find out I didn’t know Stephen at all. So many questions remained unanswered. What was he involved in? Why was he driving without identification? He was so meticulous. After I dropped him at the airport, why didn’t he board that plane? Why did he rent a car?

  Our marriage, his accident, and my future were all tied up in knots and needed unraveling. I leaned back in my chair, considering what to do, and then it hit me, a possible way to solve everything, one I had never considered. And it just might work.

  I stared at the computer screen. Since my life had taken an unexpected turn, why not my book, too? Why should I go in another direction when my fingers had just dropped me in my own narrative? Granted it was a bit unusual, but what was usual about my life anymore? Not one damn thing. I considered my odds on pulling this off. To tell you the truth, they didn’t look too good; more like slim to none, because I would probably be kept guessing all the way down that uncertain road I had decided to travel. Would I find myself scrambling just to keep up? Would my life be put at risk like Stephen’s?

  What do you think?

  Chapter 3

  Expecting The Unexpected

  As the wind whipped past me, I looked up at the clo
uds and felt the predicted cold front threatening. Armed with caffeine, I pulled my jacket collar close while I hurriedly walked down Main and turned at the next corner. The side street was tree-lined with a few leaves still clinging to the branches. Several aging cottages, now used as shops, fronted the uneven sidewalk. Stopping at the second one, I unlocked the door, quietly flipping the sign to read “Open,” and then cautiously entered my own antique shop in this small town from Stephen’s past: Highlands, North Carolina. It was my cover for being there to find out what happened to Stephen.

  I glanced around, looking for any kind of disturbance. I was always uneasy at first, expecting the unexpected. Stephen’s death had changed me in so many ways. I took nothing for granted anymore, certainly not my life.

  I ventured further in and called out, “Sneakers? Are you around here somewhere?” Occasionally, I left him overnight in the shop for a change of scenery.

  His choice.

  A black cat with white paws silently tiptoed from behind the curtained front window, stretching. He sat and stared.

  I made eye contact. “There you are! Any uninvited visitors last night?”

  He replied with a contented meow as I reached down to scratch him behind his ear. He licked my hand in greeting, and then, dismissing me, sauntered back toward his cozy hideaway. I hated to admit it, but I sort of envied his “I could care less” attitude.

  “Well, I’ll take that as a no. Just try and stay out of trouble. One of us has to.”

  I continued my surveillance. Months had slipped by, but to me, time was meaningless. It stopped the day Stephen was killed. Murder and deceit were now my second skin. Had I also acquired a taste for distrust? Yes. Would my true objective be recognized? Hopefully, it wouldn’t. Still, it was days before I felt sure no one in town knew my real intentions. People offered words of sympathy, assuming the widow needed to get away to the mountains after the death of her husband and that my new shop was therapy to deal with my grief.

  Good. That’s what I wanted them to think.

  After Stephen’s death, I swore I would never return to this place. That is, until I learned his death was not accidental. That changed everything, even the air I breathed. I came looking for answers and wasn’t leaving until I got them. Period. I had to stay focused on whose agenda had turned deadly and why if I was to solve this thing.

  When I first got there, I tried to create a life in Highlands that appeared ordinary and predictable, but it wasn’t that simple. There were several hurdles. One was the ever-challenging Martha, who constantly complained and verbally ran over everyone in her path, including me. She drove me crazy, but after a while, she settled into a routine of working Thursday through Sunday. She was a force to be dealt with, brandishing a laser-sharp mind that missed nothing, and I mean nothing.

  She came to me by way of a recommendation from Jack, a local developer and my builder. Jack warned me ahead of time about his cousin’s eccentric ways. It’s amazing what you overlook when you’re desperate, and believe me, I was. Besides, she had business experience and was willing to work part-time. The final deal clincher was that Martha knew most everyone in town.

  At the spry age of seventy, Martha was tireless, offering advice whether you asked for it or not. She just loved chewing on the latest town gossip. No, nothing went by Martha unnoticed, and I was willing to catch anything thrown my way, playing all sides.

  I jumped at the opportunity to hire her, and so far, was pleased with my decision. She was pushy, but I could live with that. What was off-limits I avoided, talking my way out of probing conversations. I evaded issues that were no one’s business, perfecting the art of observation and deception, while silently acknowledging my former mentor, Stephen.

  My intuitive antenna, sensing an imminent disturbance, shot up. Martha energetically burst through the door, weighed down with a heavy bag. She flung it on the counter in front of me. Startled, I jumped back. Much like her personality, her silvery hair was airborne in all directions.

  “Hells bells! I just stopped by to drop off an antique quilt from the flea market. I thought I might forget it on Thursday. Boy, when will this tourist traffic let up? I just about got myself run over. Thank the Lord I am agile. I can’t stay. I have to pick up medicine at the pharmacy. My arthritis is kicking up. The weather is changing and I feel it in my bones. Even at my age, anything kicking up, I’m grateful for. I might have an ice cream at their soda fountain though. I heard there’s a cute new soda jerk behind the counter serving up all that ice cream. Got to check him out. You know, you’re never too old to look, I always say! Well, I’ve got to go. See you on Thursday, Samantha.”

  She paused, turning back to me. “By the way, you keep your mouth open like that and you’re sure to catch some flies.” She abruptly spun around and left, slamming the door behind her, as dust motes flew wildly about in the air.

  Yes, that was Martha, I thought, then promptly closed my mouth, realizing I never got the opportunity to utter one single word. That woman was intense, but I wouldn’t change a thing about her. She was the best gossip, spilling a wealth of information that I was so desperate for. Yeah, she was a keeper.

  Luckily, no one suspected Stephen died from anything other than failed brakes. The detective said the investigation was ongoing and saw no need to tip his hand while the perpetrator was still out there. He methodically interviewed Stephen’s acquaintances in the town, and then inexplicably left. Why? Was there a person of interest? If so, who was it? Here I was, surrounded by people I didn’t trust, people who might not trust me, and possibly, a potential killer. Hopefully, I’d manage to stay one step ahead of any threat that might be out there.

  I soon found out that in small towns, news travelled quickly, gossip even faster. You didn’t need a phone. Someone was always watching and listening. That could be a good thing and a bad thing, depending on who you were. Even though Stephen had a history here, I would always be considered somewhat of an outsider and didn’t need any suspicious behavior added to the mix. I had to remain vigilant without drawing attention to what I was trying to do: find out the truth.

  I did inform my agent about my relocation. Of course, my past book sales helped play in my favor. I wasn’t a top name, but I did okay. Fortunately, no one in town knew I was an author because I wrote under a penname name. Stephen, for some reason, insisted on that from the start. I never really gave it much thought, but now that he was dead, maybe I would.

  To him, my writing was more of a hobby than a job. So I humored him, going along with the anonymity so I could write. Maybe in a way, he was right. It didn’t seem like work to me. Initially I was lucky, got published, and as they say, the rest was history. No blockbusters, but I did pretty well, my book sales gradually increasing every year with each new novel.

  I turned to the mirror to tie my long blonde hair back from my face and tried to concentrate on my best features, my hazel eyes and long lashes, and not my stress-related weight loss. I quickly smoothed on lip gloss. Then I heard the bell on the front door, swung around, and smiled as Jack Thompson entered.

  A year and a half earlier, he had sold Stephen and me the property where he built our log home. Jack’s coarse features softened as he greeted me in his usual friendly manner. He pulled his knit hat off and smoothed down his wiry gray hair.

  “Well, look what the wind just blew in!” I greeted him.

  “Hey there, good lookin’,” he shot back, smiling.

  At first, I kept my distance with people, but Jack was the exception. His stature, like his personality, could be intimidating to some, but not to me. He became a self-appointed protector of mine since Stephen died. Besides, I figured I could use an ally. On his insistence, he personally helped me finish the house, and his influence helped ease my transition into small town life. Also, it was a well-known fact about town that he had a substantial network of friends in high and low places, and I had no qualms about using that to my advantage either.

  “Speaking of the wind,” J
ack said, “Martha just flew by me on the sidewalk, like she was on some kind of mission.”

  “Drug store, ice cream, and new soda jerk, and not necessarily in that order. Need I say more?”

  He laughed. “Oh! Well, that explains it! She’s a bundle all right, uncontrollable and totally unpredictable.”

  I chuckled. “I’m never quite sure what to expect from Martha. And I want to personally thank you for recommending her. I’m still recovering, though.”

  “Isn’t that what friends are for?” he said still laughing. He made his way over to one of my glass display counters. “Listen, Sam. I want to surprise the love of my life with a present for her birthday. Help me pick out something extra special.”

  “Sure. By the way, how is Barbara?”

  “She’s still trying to refine my rough edges, complaining I’m a bad-tempered old coot. Barbara always boasts that she considers me a formidable challenge and might even accept my marriage proposal one of these days. I like a woman with spirit, and usually try to expect the unexpected, but with Barbara, everything’s a surprise. Maybe I need that at my advanced age.”

  “Then consider yourself a lucky guy. Now, let’s see what we can find…”

  And so I proceeded to fill my days with just such everyday tasks.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter 4

  The House That Jack Built

  That fall slipped by, more or less uneventfully. I ran the shop, stayed focused, took notes, and resumed my writing. By the end of November, between the locals and weekenders, the town seemed quieter. A seasonal area, it overflowed with tourists during the summer and fall, but then slowly prepared to hibernate as the locals looked forward to reclaiming their town. The air got cooler, the pace a little slower, and the echo of traffic and people became somewhat muted.