Bed & Breakfast Bedlam (A Logan Dickerson Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Bed & Breakfast Bedlam Copyright © 2015 Shondra C. Longino

  All rights reserved.

  This eBook is intended for personal use only, and may not be reproduced, transmitted, or redistributed in any way without the express written consent of the author.

  Bed & Breakfast Bedlam is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, organizations, real people - living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. All other events and characters portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For more, visit my website: www.abbylvandiver.com

  Follow me on Twitter: @AbbyVandiver

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorabbyl.vandiver

  Cover Design by Shondra C. Longino

  Prologue

  Every day is the first day of the rest of your life.

  Or so the saying goes. But most times, I’d say ninety-nine percent of the time, your life goes pretty much as you plan it – or don’t plan it. Mundane everyday sort of stuff. You go to college, you get married, have kids – or not. On a small scale the daily happenings in a person’s life are pretty much inconsequential and certainly not leading to anything monumental. But when viewed through the backdrop of history, sometimes, some of those insignificant, trivial day-to-day kinds of things have colossal after-effects.

  For instance, the Archduke Ferdinand deciding to visit injured patients at a local hospital, and Gravilo Princip just happening to visit a certain café at the same time. Those innocuous decisions ultimately led to Princip assassinating Ferdinand and the start of World War I. Or, the small chunk of space debris innocently traveling through space that found Planet Earth in its path a few million years ago. It, in a one-in-four-hundred-billion chance, struck in the exact spot where its impact could cause the extinction of all the dinosaurs (although my mother has a different theory about that), making us have to spend tens of years and thousands of dollars to dig them up just to find out what they look like.

  Archaeologists, like me, mark time around such events. Like BCE or AD (before the Common Era, although I prefer BC, and Anno Domini). Or like denoting an age, or period (like Victorian and Jurassic). Usually though, such history marking events happen over long periods, and are not classified as distinct times in our history until long after they occur.

  But for me, the mammoth event that completely changed the course of my history, happened over the period of just one week. And it only took me one day to realize it.

  What marked the complete and utter change in the course of my ordinary life? It was the death of a complete stranger.

  Chapter One

  Track Rock Gap

  Gainesville, Georgia

  Wednesday Night, BGD (Before Gemma Died)

  My heart was beating out of my chest.

  I stood with my back against the outside wall of a small wooden shed, sweat dripping down my face, and tried to slow down my racing heart. I knew if I didn’t, the sound of it thumping would give away my position.

  “How am I going to get out of this?” I muttered

  I felt my legs trembling, my palms were clammy, and my whole body was reeling in a flood of fear. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, and prayed. It seemed as if I could almost hear God saying in response, “That’s what you get, Logan.”

  I should have listened to my mother.

  My mother had told me not to go poking my nose (or the rest of me for that matter) into federally protected lands. But still, at nearly thirty, I had to rail against her advice just to prove I was capable of managing my life without her interference.

  Look where that got me.

  I peeked my head around the shed and tried to focus my eyes through the darkness.

  Two U.S. Forest Service officers were shining their flashlights on the metal heap I had upended. It seemed that I didn’t have the criminal savvy or cat-like moves that I thought. Clumsy didn’t even start to describe the maze of mishaps that led me to my current predicament.

  I slid down the wall, crouching I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead, and narrowed my eyes searching for a way out.

  Hopefully, there was one.

  I was at the Track Rock Gap ruins in Gainesville, Georgia. I had been here before – on the other side of the locked gate – as an archaeologist looking for ancient Maya ruins with my mother.

  At some point, thousands of years ago, the Maya population disappeared from Central America. Many archaeologists believed that they died en masse. But being more like my mother than I ever cared to admit, I had a different theory. While excavating in Belize, my mother and I discovered clues that lead us to believe that the Maya may have migrated to, and lived in, Georgia. At Track Rock Gap to be exact.

  When we checked it out, word had gotten around the area that Maya ruins laid up the side of a steep mountainside inside Track Rock Gap that was comprised of more than a hundred and fifty stone masonry walls with Mayan-like inscriptions, evidence of agricultural terraces, and remains of what could have been a sophisticated irrigation system. Just like what was found in the jungles of Mesoamerica at every Maya site excavated.

  But if the Maya had settled in America, the U.S. government didn’t want anyone to know about it.

  When my mother and I first arrived we found Track Rock Gap locked tight with big “KEEP OUT” signs plastered everywhere, so we left. My mother’s scientific need to know not even stirred, mine, however, was screaming for answers. I just had to know why anyone would keep possible proof of a Maya civilization in Georgia secret. So I decided to come and check it out – trespassing laws be damned.

  Now I was being chased by two federal officers for my callous disregard of my government’s edicts. And to top it off I still didn’t have any more information about the Maya-American occupation I came to out. But, at this moment, I realized that I no longer had any interest in where they lived, whatsoever.

  I’m sure that had to do with the fact that now my curiosity was going to get me thrown in jail. Or worse, a federal prison.

  My recon skills were nowhere as good as my excavation ones. I hadn’t been able to get a map of the area, and I came armed only with a flashlight and my iPhone 6. Neither one turned out to be any help. Before I was more than a hundred yards into the site, I had knocked over the shed. A metal one that creaked and clanked as it fell with a loud thud spitting dirt everywhere. It scared me and I took off running. As it turned out, I ran in the same direction the guards were emerging from. I did a one eighty and slid the last few feet behind the shed where I now stood. Thank God they hadn’t seen me.

  I peered around the shed. The two guards were still examining the metal pile of heap. They were kicking it with the toe of their shoes.

  Maybe they’d think some vermin knocked it over. Or, maybe they’d think it fell by itself. It hadn’t been very sturdy. I had barely touched it.

  “Is anyone there? Show yourself,” one of the guards yelled.

  Crap.

  I turned back around and closed my eyes. I knew I couldn’t just stand still and let them catch me, I had to make a run for it.

  Plus, I had to pee.

  That was going to make running anywhere pretty difficult.

  I opened my eyes and surveyed what was close and spotted a trailer about thirty yards out. From the light that emanated from the trailer, I could see that just beyond it was a tangle of bushes and trees. A place I could escape in darkness and the noises of the night, and through them, I hoped, was the road out.

  But I needed to distra
ct Uncle Sam’s watchmen.

  I closed my eyes and asked for strength. Even though my mother was a lot closer to God then I was, and I was one to always go against her, I was hoping He’d give me some slack.

  Pulling in a quick breath and holding it, I threw a rock as hard as I could in the opposite direction of where I needed to go.

  “Did you hear that?” one guard said to the other.

  “What?” the other said.

  “Thought I heard something over there.” He pointed in the direction where I threw the rock. “We’d better check it out.” They took off in that direction and I took off running in the other.

  I landed behind the small camper-like building. There was a dim light on inside. I peeped through a window and discovered that the place must be the guard station. There were two desks, some chairs, a microwave and a coffeemaker. The light I’d seen was from a computer screen.

  Yep. This was where they hung out when vandals, like me, weren’t on the prowl in their protected lands.

  I wonder what kind of jail time federal trespassing carries? I let out a sigh.

  Looked like my recognition wasn’t going to come from brilliant work in the field of Maya archaeology but from my stupid mistakes off the grid. This was going to ruin my reputation as an archaeologist. The small one that I had.

  I looked up at the darkened sky and thanked God there was little moonlight. Darkness was a good cover. I spied the start of the dense bushes that lined the perimeter only a few yards away, then took one more look in the direction the guards had gone. After I felt I was clear, I fell flat on my belly and slithered across the dirt and patches of grass to the trees. I rolled over on my back once I reached them, I raised up my hand at the pale moon and said softly, “I will, in no way, shape, or form, ever break the law again. I absolutely and solemnly swear.”

  Now to get out of Track Rock Gap and walk – nay – run the mile and a half down the road to where I had parked my car.

  Chapter Two

  Itza, Georgia

  Early Thursday Morning, BGD

  I had settled my bill at the small motel I had stayed first thing. After nearly getting caught trespassing the night before, I didn’t want to waste any time beating it out of town. Not that I thought they knew who I was or that they could find me. Still it made me a little nervous being so close to the memory of my illegal activities.

  I headed out to the parking lot, knapsack over my shoulder, pulling my luggage behind me, I walked at a brisk pace. I slowed down as I passed the glass encased office. The door to the small room was open. Eyes straightforward, I wanted to appear calm – normal. I’d smile and wave if the clerk looked up at me. That’s when I heard “him.”

  “Logan Dickerson,” he said. “You said her name is Logan Dickerson?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  What the hey?

  “That’s right. She came in last night. Covered in dirt,” the woman at the counter was talking. “She looked real suspicious like.”

  My heart stopped. How did that woman see me come in? That little . . . Toothless . . . Old snoop. She had a big mouth. Telling this unknown man stuff about me. He could be a stalker. Someone out to kill me. I tried to peek through the door and get a better look at him.

  Who was he anyway?

  My heart started beating again – pounding – in my ears. It was so loud that I couldn’t hear a word they were saying. So I moved in closer, stilled myself, and tilting my head I listened.

  “Last night you say?” he asked.

  I couldn’t hear her answer. But she must have said, “Yes.”

  “What does she look like?” he said.

  Don’t tell him, big mouth. Don’t. Tell. Him.

  “She’s black, like you. Shoulder length hair. Light skinned. Not skinny. Not fat.”

  Crap.

  “And how long has she been here?”

  Was there no end to his questions?

  “Two nights,” the woman blabbed.

  Oh my goodness, I thought. She’s gotta be breaking some kind of privacy law telling that man all my business.

  “Did she kill somebody?” Blabbermouth asked.

  “No,” he said and chuckled.

  “Then how come the FBI is looking for her?”

  FBI? Oh my God! I’m going to jail.

  “Where is she now?” he asked, seemingly ignoring her question.

  “Don’t know. Still in her room I’m guessing ‘cause that’s her jeep over there. The white one.”

  I looked over at my car.

  Now I’m going to have to dump it.

  “Yes. I know that’s her vehicle,” he said. “We have it on video. That’s how we found her.”

  Video?

  “Well, you better hurry up if’n you aim to catch her.”

  “Why is that ma’am?” he asked.

  “She paid up her bill right before you showed up. I think she’s getting ready to make a run for it.”

  Oh, she was so right about that.

  I couldn’t listen anymore. I had to get out of there. But I wasn’t sure if I should run for the car – the one they had on video – or just start running.

  I saw a dumpster.

  I could jump into it and hide.

  I looked down at myself. I had on jeans, a navy Polo jacket with a white shell underneath and tennis shoes.

  Definitely dumpster diving clothes.

  I put my knapsack on the ground and took off my jacket. Using the sleeves, I tied it around my waist. I took the ponytail holder off my wrist and pulled my long hair back, looping it around. I needed to be aerodynamically poised to make my get away as fast as possible.

  I was just going to run for it. Head to the car I decided. He didn’t know what I looked like. Just that I was black. He wouldn’t know it was me until I got into my car.

  I stepped off the sidewalk onto the asphalt of the blacktop parking lot. I was sure I could make it to my car before he noticed me. I kept my eyes on my Jeep.

  Why did I park so far?

  I twisted my neck slightly to the left and from the corner of my eye, I saw FBI guy come out of the office door. He headed right, toward the room I had just vacated.

  I picked up my pace.

  Not much farther. I can do this.

  I can do this.

  I turned my neck to the right, looked over my shoulder, and just then his gaze caught mine.

  Crap.

  “Logan Dickerson,” he shouted.

  I started running.

  Maybe he’ll think I’m hard of hearing.

  Trying to break into federally guarded lands had been a bad idea, just as my mother had warned. But who was she to talk? She had probably broken all kinds of laws and been involved with federal cover-ups and murders over the past few years.

  I looked over my shoulder and there was FBI guy gaining on me. Yep. My mother was certainly no shining example and, to be honest, it was probably her fault that I had turned out to have these criminal proclivities. Bad parenting.

  “Hey! Stop!”

  I ran toward my car, my luggage hitting every bump and hole, turning over off its wheels. Fumbling, I pointed the clicker and unlocked the door. I grabbed the door handle and turned to see that he’d practically caught up with me.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  Before I could get my door open I felt his hand on my arm. Even though I knew he had caught up with me it startled me and I jumped.

  “Hey. Didn’t you hear me calling you? he asked.

  I was breathing hard. He didn’t even seem winded. “No,” I lied. My legs felt like they were going to buckle. I leaned up against the car.

  “You didn’t hear me?” He had an amused look on his face.

  “Well,” I started to stumble over my words. “I-I did . . . Sort of . . . I guess. I mean. I did.” I swallowed hard. “But I didn’t know who you were . . .”

  Yeah, I’ll go with that . . .

  “You frightened me,” I said with some mustered up bravado.
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  He reached in his back pocket.

  Lord, was he going for handcuffs?

  I knew this was it for me.

  Chapter Three

  “Where are you headed?” he asked. “He” was tall, with honey-colored skin. Dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and paisley tie. It was easy to notice the fit, firm body underneath that filled out his clothes.

  “When?” I said.

  “Now. You seemed in such a hurry.”

  “I told you, you scared me.” I licked my lips. “That’s why I started running.”

  He looked at me and took in a breath.

  “Sorry about that. Okay? I just was trying to get your attention.” He bit his bottom lip and stared at me for a moment. “I’m with the FBI,” he flashed me the badge he had pulled out of his pocket. “I just needed to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Whew! No handcuffs.

  “FBI?” I pretended I hadn’t known.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Oh, okay then.” Now I pretended I was much calmer. I really wasn’t. I was, in fact, more nervous than I’d been the night before when I was doing the actual crime.

  Suddenly, I had to pee.

  “So where are you headed?” he asked again.

  “Stallings Island.” The place just popped into my brain and I let it out.

  A half-smile crept across his face. “Really?” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen.

  “Yes.” I stumbled forth with my lie. “It is an archaeological site in the coastal region of Georgia.” I tried to speak more casually. “I’m an archaeologist. I’m doing research on the people that lived there approximately 4000 rcybp. R-C-Y-B-P. That’s radio carbon years before present,” I said in my most professional voice.

  Figured I’d throw a little sciencey stuff in, maybe I’d sound less like a criminal.

  “What kind of archaeologist are you, Ms. Dickerson?”

  “It’s Doctor Dickerson.” I squared my shoulders and tried to stand up straighter. I had a Ph.D. in Anthropology and History, hopefully it would make me seem more like a law abiding citizen. And flaunting it might help me appear more unfettered. Although, I still had to put my hands behind my back because I couldn’t seem to control them from trembling. My mouth wasn’t having a hard time spilling lies, but the rest of my body seemed to rebel against it.