by Ritter Ames
A soft groan escaped her lips, and Mel clapped her hands together under her chin.
“Amy?” I tried again.
Her eyelids flickered. “Barn. Have to get to the barn. Jess…”
And out she went again.
I raised my eyes to Mel’s, then Parker’s. “Cryptic quotes for four hundred, anyone?”
“The barn, she said?” Mel’s brow furrowed. “And something about the dead woman?”
I sat back on my heels, my eyes going wide and unfocused. The barn.
Bears. The clipboard.
Jess was always early. “I wonder…” I waved Mel over, letting her take control of holding pressure on Amy’s head wound. I snatched up the clipboard, scanning the margin notes next to the building descriptions.
Jiminy Choos.
Dropping it again, I whirled for the big stucco structure, calling a “be right back” over my shoulder when Parker protested.
I ran the whole way, pain be damned, a million questions running through my head on fast forward. Had Drew killed Jessica Fanelli in some sort of lover’s quarrel? Five minutes ago, I’d have said absolutely.
But what if I had it all wrong?
Moving to the door, I peeked inside the barn.
Same scene, different angle, and the hay smelled as rotten as it looked. I stepped inside and stopped when a tingle shot from the roots of my hair to my toes.
Something doesn’t want us here, Amy had said.
This bloody curse, Drew screamed before he ran off.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I whispered, but I paused and shivered just the same.
Deep breath. Think, Nichelle. There’s a story here. One with a real world killer.
First question: What if Jessica didn’t die in the pub?
I crept across the floor, pulling out my phone and tapping up the flashlight.
Nothing but dirt, dust and stray pieces of rotting straw for a dozen yards.
Then, a pile of hay on the floor. Hay spattered with liquid. Not much. Definitely red.
I knelt, picking up one piece of the straw with two fingers and waving it under my nose, the stinky rotten grain smell not covering the coppery tang.
Damn.
I stood, turning a slow circle and panning the light. A few drops toward the little side door, in a foot-wide path strewn with occasional bits of straw.
Jessica’s neck was broken, though. Nobody said anything about blood.
I walked over my footsteps back to the center of the room, my eyes floating up to the loft above.
And the rotting hay hanging over the edge.
Crumbling bales lined the sides of the loft in both directions, except right above where I stood. Where it looked like something had broken through them.
“She fell,” I whispered.
Probably to this very spot. I shivered and stepped backward.
So whose blood was this?
The fat white bandage on Mrs. McIntosh’s arm.
I wondered if she’d ever even seen a cat. Or a bear.
“Leaping Louboutins.” I whispered. “The caretaker did it? All we need is the psychedelic van, the pothead, and the dog.”
I turned for the door, ready to grab everyone and get the hell out of Elizabethan Dodge, freezing in my tracks when I saw Mrs. McIntosh halfway between me and outside. My flashlight glinted off something metal in the hand hanging at her side, but it was mostly obscured by a flowing white apron. The “ghost” Amy had spotted in the woods earlier.
I squinted, trying to get a better bead on her weapon.
Gun?
Knife?
How much did it matter?
Why did this kind of crap keep happening to me?
The questions flashed through my head at lightning speed, but it was the next three that made it out of my mouth. “You? How? Why?”
There was nothing sweet or helpless about her smile. Maybe it was the dim lighting. Or the dead body thirty yards west of us. But she’d gone from cookie package to downright menacing.
I took a step back, and she took one forward. “Come now, child. I’m old, but I’m not stupid. I can’t let you leave here.”
“That remains to be seen.” I kept my voice even and clear. I was hurt, but she had fifty years on me.
Though she was no frail little old lady if she’d hauled Jess over to the pub and set her up at that table. I swallowed hard.
“It was all such unfortunate timing,” she said, turning her watery eyes on the hay. “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to tell them not to come. Came out here early to talk to Ms. Priss I’m So Important Cable TV Producer.”
“Early? They said her car wasn’t here when they got here.” My eyes darted between the doors, both of them behind her because of the angle, as I stepped backward.
“It wasn’t.” She pulled a set of keys from the apron pocket with her left hand. “I moved it, thinking I’d just dump her out in the woods somewhere. But then I decided maybe I could run them off if they thought their friend was killed by the curse. Might’ve worked, too.”
I blinked, waiting for the line about us meddling kids. She didn’t say it, sighing instead. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Terribly sorry to crash your murder scene,” I said. “What is it you don’t want people to know about this place?”
“The curse has been all but forgotten, except for a few places on the computer,” she said. “The property is in escrow, reopening as a destination family resort next winter. Luxury hotel, indoor waterpark, horses, skiing…it’ll be lovely. The buyers offered me a pretty penny to get rid of these kids when they found out about the show. They don’t want their resort having a haunted house reputation before they even get the doors open. It’ll hurt their business.”
Money. Of course. Who’d have ever thought I’d be so sorry I hadn’t gotten hold of a banker?
“They paid you to kill her?”
She rolled her eyes. “My, but you have a flair for the drama. They paid me to get her to leave. She went up in the damned loft talking about cold spots and readings with her little gizmo, and I followed her up there telling her how I’d never seen anything in all these years, and there were better places for them to film in Virginia, but she got nasty. Told me she didn’t have time to explain the TV business to an old broad, and to get out of her way.” She shuffled her feet like the memory unnerved her. “Her tone was so dismissive. Like she thought she was better than me. I swung at her, not even really thinking about it, and she stumbled backward. She fell.”
I nodded to her arm. “And you?”
“I went to move her and cut my arm on the metal zipper on her sweater. I bleed like a stuck pig from the littlest scratch anymore. Skin like tissue paper.” She shook her head. “I got a bandage from my truck and another sweater from her car, then I shoved the bloody one in her suitcase and buried it. By the time I was done there, I’d figured out that putting her in the pub was the best chance at getting rid of her friends.”
“And then you left and came back after we got here.” I didn’t bother with the question mark.
She nodded, taking two steps to half-close the distance between us. “I’m sorry you figured it out, sweets. Truly I am.”
She raised her arm, metal flashing in the light filtering through the roof. Clenching my teeth, I pulled my elbow to my hip and let an ap’chiagi kick fly, thankful for the umpteenth time for all those hours of sweating in body combat.
Warmth trickled over my skin when my stitches ripped, a scream tearing from my throat as my foot connected solidly with her hand and sent her mystery weapon flying.
She screeched, whirling for it. “You little b—” the back half of that dissolved into a scream when I lunged to grab a handful of her silver bun, yanking her backward. Her knee cracked as she tried to keep her footing, but my good arm was strong enough to steal her balance. Arms flailing, she clocked my ribs pretty good on her way to the dirt.
I scurried to the metal thing—a
big ol’ jack o’ lantern worthy butcher knife—and kicked it further away as she howled about a broken ankle.
My hand went to my shoulder, my eyes not leaving her. “I have no sympathy,” I said through my teeth, pulling bloody fingers from my surgical wound. Between Bob and Joey, I might never get to leave my house again.
The door banged into the wall behind it, Parker’s broad shoulders outlined by soft autumn afternoon sun.
“What in the name of?” His eyes skipped from my bloody sweater to Mrs. McIntosh, who’d fallen to whimpering, and back again. “Clarke?”
“The caretaker did it. I’ll fill you in on the way to the vineyard. For now, can I have a sock or your belt or something we could use to tie her up?”
Mel pushed past him waving her bloody scarf, her eyes widening when they landed on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve had worse.” I waved a hand.
“Bob’s never going to let you hear the end of this.” Parker knelt next to Mrs. McIntosh with the scarf in his hands. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began, his manners clearly offended by the idea of restraining her.
“Don’t let her fool you, Parker,” I said. “She’s not all apple pies and gardening.”
“This way, officer.” Drew’s accent was practically musical, coming from outside.
“Perfect timing,” I said, walking out to meet the state troopers. I introduced myself and filled them in as I led them from the pub to the barn, Drew on my heels and hanging on every word.
“She must’ve dropped that lighting rig on Amy, too,” he said. “I pulled the tube off of her before you came outside. Is she okay?”
“Mel said she’s still unconscious, but the bleeding has stopped and she’s breathing fine.” I put out my good hand. “I owe you an apology.”
“No worries, love. It wasn’t the curse, after all, I guess.” He shook my hand, a single tear hanging on his lower lashes. “I’m going to miss her.”
I waved off the passing paramedic who lifted an eyebrow at my shoulder, turning back to Drew. “Money is a curse for a lot of folks. And greed is a powerful motive. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Drew’s voice caught between the simple words. He swallowed hard and turned to Parker. “Keep her safe, man.”
Parker looped an arm around Mel and pulled her to his side. “Always.”
They stayed that way as a pushier medic dressed the hole in my shoulder. Since the bleeding had slowed, he said I could see my surgeon in Richmond on Monday without a problem as long as I kept it covered and medicated.
We climbed the hill to the car, the light starting to slant through the trees at an angle that said we’d long since missed lunch at Calais Vineyards.
“Nobody can ever say a day with you is boring, Clarke,” Parker said.
Mel laughed. “I can’t wait to see what she brings to this whole maid of honor thing.”
I settled myself in the car, twisting to look at her when she slid into the back. “As God is my witness, you two are going to have the most perfect, boring, happily ever after worthy wedding in the history of ever,” I said as Parker started the engine. “What do y’all say we go see if your friend’s place has decent fairy tale potential?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LynDee Walker is the author of six national bestselling mysteries featuring crime reporter Nichelle Clarke. Her debut, FRONT PAGE FATALITY (2013), was nominated for the Agatha Award for best first novel.
Before she started writing fiction, LynDee was an award-winning journalist. Her work has appeared in newspapers and magazines across the U.S.
She adores her family, her readers, and enchiladas. She often works out tricky plot points while walking off the enchiladas. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she is either playing with her children, working on her next novel, or admiring beautiful shoes she can't wear.
You can find more about Nichelle Clarke and the Richmond Telegraph gang here: https://www.amazon.com/LynDee-Walker/e/B009PD6PKW/ or visit LynDee online at www.lyndeewalker.com
Contents
A vegetable-loving chef finds he’s cooked his way into trouble when a Halloween treat leads to murder. If he wants a happy future, he must first make sure the police don’t have him down as the main ingredient in a recipe for a prison sentence.
SALAD DAYS, HALLOWEEN NIGHTS
By Eleanor Cawood Jones
RUDY, JUST TURNED six, wasn’t able to reach the knocker, and his little fist hammering on the front door was a familiar sound to Jackson.
“Can you get it, Sherri?”
Jackson, standing in the kitchen, had his hands in the colander, rinsing lettuce for the evening’s entrée—chef salad. Organic, of course. He wasn’t one to mess around with his health.
He heard Sherri grumble something unintelligible, but she got up and headed to the front door anyway. God forbid, he thought, she should have to interrupt one of her Saturday afternoon television romances to actually get into motion.
He tried to quash such an uncharitable thought, but her inactivity and overall laziness was starting to get to him. In the last year, he’d completely taken over the cooking duties, and recently the vacuuming and dusting chores had fallen his way as well.
The cooking wasn’t so bad. After all, he was a professional chef, so, other than the feeling he was bringing his work home with him, it was easy. And he could select his own fresh produce from the best the distributor brought to his restaurant and bring it home to try to entice her to eat better.
Her own cooking, when she’d deigned to do it in the first few years of their marriage, was haphazard at best. She could care less what fertilizer or chemical was on the vegetables or meats she brought home. He shuddered and reached for a carrot, running it under the spigot with one hand and reaching for the carrot scraper in the other. These carrots were prime, big, and juicy, surprising for late October, but he knew they were grown in an organic hothouse.
He sighed, longing for the early days of their courtship, when she seemed interested in him, his cooking, his restaurant, and, best of all, his prowess in the bedroom. Their salad days, he thought to himself, and smiled a grim little smile, which turned to a genuine grin when little Rudy walked into the kitchen.
“Hey, Red, what’s shaking?”
Rudy smiled up at him, blue eyes shining and red curls peeking out from under his bright blue knitted cap. Not for the first time, Jackson thought he could win a starring role in a “Visit Ireland” tourism film.
“Not much. What’s cookin’, Chef?”
It was their standard greeting and they grinned at each other before Rudy slid out of his coat and hung it neatly on one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
“Any particular reason you’re wearing a sheet over your clothes, Red?”
“Oh, Mom’s working on my Halloween costume but she had to go take a call. I don’t know about being a ghost and all, but she says it’s easy and she’s tired of me being a cowboy every year. She said I could wear a mask if I pick ghost or clown.” Rudy wrinkled his nose.
“Fair enough.” Jackson grinned to himself. He’d heard all about Rudy’s poor opinion of clowns after his mom took him to the circus over the summer. Plus, the kid looked hilarious with his head poking out of the sheet and topped by that silly hat. Must be nice to still be young enough not to care what people think of your wardrobe, he thought.
“Do you have any cookies?” Rudy looked up at him with eager eyes.
“Oh, no small talk? Right down to business, then? Try on the counter in the tin. I think you’ll like what you find.”
Rudy clumped over to the counter in his snow boots, picked up the entire tin, and set it on the table.
“No more than three, Rudy. Your mom will kill me if I spoil your dinner.”
“I’m only in kindergarten. I can’t count to three.”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” Jackson knew Rudy was already pegged for the gifted and talented track in elementary school. He didn’t have any kids of hi
s own yet, so he didn’t know exactly what that entailed, but it didn’t surprise him Rudy was excelling in school. Bright kid. Asked lots of questions about everything. He was especially interested in cooking, strangely enough. Or maybe he was just sucking up to Jackson so he’d get to lick the pan when it was cookie dough time.
“Chocolate chip!” Rudy announced gleefully. “And shaped like pumpkins! All right!” He grabbed a napkin from the holder on the kitchen table, took out three cookies and pressed the lid back on the tin. He really was a good kid.
With a good mama, Jackson thought to himself. He tried to ignore the sudden shiver sliding up his back, much the same way he’d tried to ignore the increasingly obvious advances from Rudy’s mom next door every time she saw him outside. She always seemed to have a reason to be in her driveway when he was headed out for his morning jog. Lately she’d taken to inviting him in for coffee, looking at him with those big, blue eyes. Eager eyes. And that trim little figure of hers, practically beckoning.
The television blared from the living room and he thought of Sherri sitting there, sluglike, in leggings and a bulky sweater. He sighed again.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Chef?”
He shook himself out of his stupor and turned to smile at the little boy. “Nothing much, just what’s for dinner.”
Rudy chewed thoughtfully. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“Chef salad.”
Rudy made a face. “Gross.”
“Ha! You’ve just never had a chef salad made by a real chef. And you probably never had really good vegetables grown by magic winter elves in the secret hothouse on the other side of town, either.”
Rudy grinned around a face full of crumbs. “No such thing.”
“Oh, ho, ho, don’t be so sure. Where do you think I go shopping every day?”
“Oh yeah? Get me a picture of them, then.”
“Rudy, you know perfectly well magic winter elves would never allow themselves to be photographed.”
Rudy giggled and started on his second cookie, and Jackson turned around to wash another carrot.