Identical Death

by Alexa Padgett

  Identical Death

  A Reverend Cici Gurule Mystery

  Alexa Padgett

  Sidecar Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by Alexa Padgett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Emma Rider at Moonstruck Cover Design & Photography

  Contents

  Identical Death

  Identical Death Synopsis

  Author Note

  1. Anna Carmen

  2. Cici

  3. Cici

  4. Cici

  5. Cici

  6. Cici

  7. Cici

  8. Cici

  9. Cici

  10. Cici

  11. Cici

  12. Cici

  13. Cici

  14. Cici

  15. Cici

  16. Sam

  A SNEEK PEAK AT A PILGRIMAGE TO DEATH

  Identical Death

  A Short Story Companion Prequel to the Reverend Cici Gurule Mystery Series

  Alexa Padgett

  Copyright © 2018 by Alexa Padgett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Nicole Pomeroy

  Cover Design by Emma Rider at Moonstruck Cover Design & Photography

  Created with Vellum

  For Niki and Harold. I always hear you cheering me on. And I’m so thankful for your enthusiasm.

  Identical Death Synopsis

  ***This is a short story prequel companion to the first novel A Pilgrimage to Death.***

  Few people ever experienced a connection like Reverend Cici Gurule had with her sister. The women weren’t just twins; they were identical.

  Yes, were.

  Cici knew the exact moment her sister had died because Cici had passed out in her apartment. She’d swear until the day she died her sister said her name in a soft, broken voice as her own mind had switched off.

  Now, Cici must learn to live without her sister . . . and deal with a cold trail and unsolved murder.

  Author Note

  First off, I’m beyond thrilled with the positive response to A Pilgrimage to Death. You, dear readers, humble me with the kind words.

  Some of you asked me for more . . . more of Evan, more of the immediate aftermath of Anna Carmen’s death. Simply more of the story. That’s what I’ve sought to do in this prequel. It’s short—meant to be a companion to the first book in the series. Is it not a full-fledged novel nor is it even a full-fledged mystery.

  Yes, I know it ends on a cliff hanger (wince—I’m not a huge fan of those myself).

  I hope this is what you’ve craved. I hope you enjoy this short story.

  As always, be sure to touch base and let me know.

  Want to sign up for my mystery-only newsletter? Then click here.

  1

  Anna Carmen

  Words without thoughts never to heaven go. —Shakespeare

  Such a large crowd for the Pilgrimage to Chimayó this year. She looked around at the sea of bobbing hats, ignoring the chattering voices and clicks of cameras and phone screens as the throngs of people continued up the narrow, paved road to the large parking lot and past sand-colored adobe outer walls of the sanctuary.

  The fear receded slowly as the people’s excitement at reaching the end of their pilgrimage heightened and the mood turned festive as the cool afternoon breeze feathered over her skin. If only he hadn’t been here . . .

  No one paid her any attention. Good.

  She pulled out her phone and leaned against the rail near the Santuario de Chimayó. She wasn’t sure, exactly, why she’d come. Well, she did know—Cici and she used to make this pilgrimage each year with their mother. Anna Carmen missed her sister. She missed being called Aci. She grinned at the tiny representation of Cici’s face smiling back at her from her phone. The women shared the same thick dark hair, the same hazel eyes and pale skin. They were both average height and thin, but no one who knew them well confused their personalities.

  Sometimes Anna Carmen wished that she was more like her sister—then she wouldn’t be in this terrible predicament. Anna Carmen stared down at her sister’s last text next to the thumbnail picture of Cici’s face. The time stamp was from this morning.

  Miss you, Aci. I want a long chat soon.

  Just as Anna Carmen hadn’t been able to pronounce Cecilia when they were little girls, Cici hadn’t been able to pronounce Anna Carmen. By the time they were old enough, they’d created pet names to go along with their ability to communicate silently.

  Anna Carmen began to type back: Miss you, too, Cici. So much. Would love that long chat.

  She stared at the words. If she sent them, Cici would worry. Then, she’d call and nag. If she did that, Anna Carmen would tell her sister everything.

  She couldn’t. Not until Miguel Sanchez came forward . . . Anna Carmen deleted the text and pocketed her phone. She shuddered, hating how hard it was to keep such a huge secret from her twin.

  But Anna Carmen had to help the Sanchez family. Somehow, she’d make sure their losses weren’t in vain.

  A faint, familiar scent wafted toward Anna Carmen’s face as people milled around. Someone pressed close to Anna Carmen’s back.

  “You should have stopped pushing when you received the letter.”

  The voice whispered low and vicious in her ear, causing Anna Carmen to shiver. The voice sounded deeper than most females’ but not the low baritone of many of the males Anna Carmen knew. Hard to place, possibly on purpose.

  “Powerful people want you to stop fishing for information. Don told you, too. I saw you talking to him. You should have listened.”

  No one turned toward Anna Carmen when she bowed back as a searing pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before ripped her ability to breathe, to scream, to stand.

  Anna Carmen turned even as she sank to her knees. Someone screamed. Another scream. People rushing toward her. Too late, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. Her vision dimmed.

  She tried to breathe through the searing pain in her side and back. She tried to see who had hurt her.

  Someone’s back, clad in a leather duster long enough to form an androgynous shape. Hair hidden under a beige felt cowboy hat. A quail feather stuck out at a jaunty angle.

  Cici. She’ll be hurt by my death. And Evan.

  The man Anna Carmen planned to marry. Evan should be here. No, Anna Carmen shouldn’t be here. She should be with Evan at La Casa Sena, drinking some nice wine on the patio.

  She never needed to get involved. She should have backed off when she received the first note.

  Oh, Evan, you were right. I’m so, so sorry.

  2

  Cici

  What's done cannot be undone. —Shakespeare

  Few people ever experienced a connection like Cici had with her sister. The women weren’t just twins; they were identical.

  Yes, were.

  Anna Carmen died six hours ago. Cici knew the exact moment because she’d passed out in her apartment. She’d swear until the day she died her sister said her name in a soft, broken voice as Cici’s mind switched off.

  Thankfully, Cici’s boyfriend Lyndon was there. He must have caught her and lowered her to the sleek, black leather sofa she’d purchased with help from Anna Carmen a few months before.

  Anna Carmen’s name leaked pa
st Cici’s stiff lips as she tried to pull free from the thick, mucky haze clouding her mind. She shivered, body aching, as if she had the flu.

  “What’s wrong?” Lyndon asked, his blond brows scrunched together in a worried frown.

  “Aci,” Cici gasped. She fell to the floor between the couch and her coffee table as she lunged for her phone.

  “What are you doing?” Lyndon asked, his blue eyes widening with shock as Cici sobbed and shook, barely able to hold the device in her hands.

  Cici managed to press the buttons and lifted the phone to her ear. It rang. Cici’s breath shattered as the ringing continued. Her sister’s voice spoke, sweet and soft, asking Cici to leave a voice message.

  “Aci . . .,” Cici moaned. She dropped the phone, her forehead landing on her pulled up knees.

  Anna Carmen, Aci . . . don’t leave me.

  The place Anna Carmen used to be, just moments before, remained black, blank, silent no matter how many times Cici struggled to reconnect.

  Cici stood, managing to right herself against the sofa’s cushion. The world wobbled and she squinted at her phone. Nothing

  “What the hell is going on, Cecilia?” Lyndon asked, worry and anger deepening his voice.

  “My sister . . . something’s wrong with my sister.”

  “And you know this how?” Lyndon asked.

  Cici whirled toward him. “I can’t deal with any sarcasm right now.”

  “I’m not—”

  “She’s . . . I don’t know,” Cici murmured, the horror of the moment washing over her again. “Something bad has happened. Something very, very bad.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” Lyndon said, settling next to her and taking Cici’s frigid fingers between both of his hands, chafing them a little to help her regain some circulation. “Just take a breath. We’ll figure it out.”

  Typically, Cici liked Lyndon’s tall, rangy frame. His confidence and intelligence. Now, though, she wished he’d stop trying to soothe her.

  Cici ignored Lyndon’s words as she tried again, searching out that spot where Anna Carmen always was in her head . . . nothing. Black. Like a wall. But, no . . . worse. Like a . . . void.

  Horror caused Cici to gasp for air. She managed to dart to the bathroom where she grabbed both the toothbrush and the paste from her sink. She snatched up her deodorant and sprinted into her bedroom.

  “You’re sick, Cee,” Lyndon said, his voice placating. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  “While I appreciate your concern, really I do, I have an identical twin sister who is at best very hurt right now.”

  “Think about what you’re saying.”

  Cici darted around him to lug out a small carry-on from her closet. She tossed it on the bed, unzipped it and dumped in her toiletries. Shaking her head as she realized the items were full-sized, too big for a carry-on, she flung them back out of the case and went to her dresser. She grabbed a handful of underwear and a couple of bras, tossing them into the case as she opened the next drawer. A few shirts fell mostly into the bag.

  “Cici, you need to calm down. Think this through—”

  All her patience fled as he tried to grip her shoulders again. “Either you help me pack and get to the airport or you get out of my way.”

  “Airport?” His confusion mounted. “But we need to finalize plans for our trip—”

  “My sister is gone!” Cici shrieked. The reality of the words caused her eyes to widen and tears to stream down her cheeks.

  “My sister is . . . is . . .” Cici stuttered. She shook her head once. What was she doing? Right. Packing pants. She grabbed a couple of pairs of jeans and threw them at the carry-on. She ran to the closet and grabbed some shoes, tossing them on top of the messy tangle of clothes. After a moment’s hesitation, Cici grabbed a black dress and heels, trying to ignore her shaking hands.

  “Cici,” Lyndon said again.

  “A cab. I need an Uber, Lyft. Something.”

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “I need to find my keys. We can collect my car. It’s at the university.”

  Cici shook her head. “I need to go now.”

  “All right.”

  She could tell that Lyndon thought she was crazy. Not only did she hear the censure in his voice, his posture became more disapproving the longer she rushed around. She shoved the last of her clothes into the bag and stood back, eyes wild. What else did she need?

  Hair brush. She darted over to her bathroom and grabbed it. Lyndon stepped back into the living room, hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval.

  Cici grabbed her things and headed toward the door.

  “You’re really leaving?” Lyndon said, his voice tinged with irritation.

  “I’ll let you know when I land,” Cici said, opening her front door.

  She headed out, opening the Lyft app as she hustled down the hall. The black place in her mind was new, a gnawing ache she already hated.

  Cici darted out into the street, struggling to right herself, both mentally and physically.

  3

  Cici

  Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger. —Shakespeare

  She tried her sister’s phone multiple times on the ride to the airport. Straight to voice mail.

  The call she dreaded came as she stood, as impatient as a three-year-old who needed a potty break, in line at the ticket counter.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice cracking.

  The people around her eyed her with concern. A ticket agent waved her forward. Cici grabbed her bag’s handle and moved toward the counter.

  She heard the words. Each one slammed into her, a separate blow. Stabbed. Transported to the hospital. Loss of blood. Dead on arrival.

  Cici raised her eyes to the ticket agent’s, who stared back in growing concern. Terri. Her name tag read Terri and she had nice brown eyes. Lighter than milk chocolate with a few small crow’s feet at the corners.

  Cici opened her mouth, but no words came out. She lowered her phone to the counter, unable to hold it another moment.

  “I need a ticket to Albuquerque,” Cici managed to stammer. Her voice sounded far away. Or maybe Cici disconnected from the situation. People did that during shock—she’d read about it. Focus, Cee. “Immediately.”

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” the agent asked.

  Cici shook her head. She’d never be all right again.

  “There’s a plane leaving in about an hour,” Terri said, her voice growing more nervous. “But it’s full.”

  Cici leaned forward, her lip trembling, tears pouring from her eyes. “Please,” Cici said. “Anything . . . anything you can do. My twin sister . . .” Cici scrunched her eyes shut. She tried to breathe deeply through her runny nose. She forced her eyes open and looked at the ticket agent. “My sister was murdered tonight.”

  The ticket agent’s mouth fell open in a shocked “o.” Her eyes also filled with tears and her lip quivered.

  “I’ll get you on that plane,” Terri said, her jaw locking in determination.

  * * *

  Terri, being the kind-eyed woman she was, called in a supervisor who walked Cici through security and to her gate. Now, Cici sat in the last row of the airplane, her body aching and shivering. She held her phone and stared at the last picture taken of Anna Carmen.

  Her sister had snapped it earlier today as she’d walked into Chimayó from Santa Fe. She wore a large pair of designer sunglasses, her long, dark hair threaded through a red Lobos cap. She looked fashionable, comfortable.

  Cici worried over each small detail in the photo. Why wasn’t Anna Carmen’s smile bigger? Why couldn’t Cici see her eyes? Did she know she’d die?

  Was this her way of telling Cici goodbye?

  The pilot asked the passengers to prepare for take-off. Cici laid the phone on her knee and stared out the window. The lights of Boston’s Logan airport glared back, causing Cici to wince.

  For weeks now, Cici waited fo
r Anna Carmen to tell her what was wrong. Earlier today, she’d texted her sister, part of her wanting to call, to beg, to demand answers. But that wasn’t their way. So, Cici settled for a text.

  Now, now, though, Cici would never get the chance to learn the secret Anna Carmen had carried—that preoccupied her to distraction—from Anna Carmen’s own lips. She’d never even hear her sister’s voice again.

  Evan texted Cici two words: Call me.

  She did.

  “Cici,” he said, his voice broken.

  “I-I know. I got the call. She’s . . .”

  “But she can’t be!” Evan exploded. “She can’t. We were supposed to . . . she wasn’t supposed to go today. Do you know why she went on the pilgrimage?”

  His voice held desperation and pain—so much pain.

  Cici’s nose stung with the effort to suppress more tears. “She . . . she said we needed to talk. What was she worried about, Evan?”

  “You noticed, too?” Evan mumbled. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t talk to me.”

  A flight attendant motioned for Cici to get off the phone. “Evan, I have to go. I’ll call you when I get to Santa Fe.”