Once She Knew

by Sheila Connolly

  Cover

  Books by Sheila Connolly

  Orchard Mysteries

  One Bad Apple

  Rotten to the Core

  Red Delicious Death

  A Killer Crop

  Bitter Harvest

  Sour Apples

  Museum Mysteries

  Fundraising the Dead

  Let’s Play Dead

  Fire Engine Dead

  “Dead Letters”

  Monument to the Dead

  County Cork Mysteries

  Buried in a Bog

  Writing as Sarah Atwell

  Glassblowing Mysteries

  Through a Glass, Deadly

  Pane of Death

  Snake in the Glass

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly

  Material excerpted from Relatively Dead copyright 2013 © by Sheila Connolly.

  Material excerpted from Monument to the Dead copyright 2013 © by Sheila Connolly.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-46-2

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  When my daughter attended Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, she began writing poetry. Along the way she introduced me to Anne Sexton’s works, in particular the bittersweet poem “Just Once,” which was the catalyst for this book.

  I am grateful to my agent and now partner in self-publishing, Jessica Faust, for giving this book life.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Excerpt from Relatively Dead

  Excerpt from Monument to the Dead

  About the Author

  1

  “Crap!” Claire Hastings said loudly, although no one could hear her. “Crap, crap, crap. Unmitigated hogwash! Silly, shallow, and demeaning!” How did I get myself into this? But she knew the answer: to finish writing her book, the one that would clinch her tenure at Sophia College, that would assure her future. If she ever finished it.

  “Gah!” she said, more loudly, and flung the paperback book over the edge of the sleeping loft. It flapped and fluttered its way to the floor beneath, landing with a satisfying thud. Claire looked contemptuously at the notes she had just made on her data form.

  Author’s name: Felicity Wellborn. What kind of an idiotic name was that for an author?

  Cover art: The people on the cover had no heads, and their clothes seemed to be falling off, assisted by various hands that might or might not have been attached to the people in the picture. Nothing to do with the book, so far.

  First meeting: Protagonists meet cute, p. 1

  Physical characteristics: Heroine: short, 32C, fashion-trendy. Hero: tall, buff, fashion-smart. Both: Caucasian, upper middle class.

  Character traits: She: perky, feisty, busty. He: laconic, alpha male.

  First sex: steamy kiss, quick grope, p. 2

  External conflict: Male protagonist hired to fix what was wrong with a Fortune 500 company—but what was wrong was that the CEO, who happened to be the female protagonist’s father, had just been stabbed to death with a Tiffany paperknife, while his Darling Daughter and the hunky consultant were groping each other in the storage closet next door. Yeah, right.

  Internal conflict: How to keep these dimwits, who so obviously deserve each other, apart for the next 250 pages.

  At this point Claire had flung the book. Now she lay back in her bed and pulled the down comforter more tightly around her shoulders. What the hell had she been thinking when she decided to camp out in this cabin in the Maine woods? In January? It was a summer cabin! Which meant no heat, except for the fireplace that she had to keep feeding, and power that went out at the slightest provocation. Which it did at that precise moment, leaving her in the dark—again.

  Claire sighed. It didn’t make much difference. She had learned to keep her flashlight nearby, and she was sick to death of what she had been reading anyway. It was too cold to leave her sleeping loft: she was already wearing several layers of clothing and had heaped every blanket she could find on the bed. She could hear the scritch of ice crystals against the roof, only two feet above her head. Great, another ice storm, which was probably what had taken out the electricity. Claire knew from a month’s experience that no one was going to do anything about that until morning—if then—especially in this stretch of empty cottages along the lake. Maybe she should just go to sleep. Maybe everything would look better in the morning, and she would come up with some piercing insights about the role of romance fiction in contemporary society, and she would finish the damn book and be done with it.

  As she burrowed under the covers, Claire heard a scuffling on the front porch. Raccoons? A branch broken off by ice and wind? No—whatever it was kept moving. There was a thud as something hit the front door. Then a crash as the door flew open and hit the wall. Claire could feel a blast of icy air, matched by the chill in the pit of her stomach. Hadn’t she locked it? Maybe, but it was a damn flimsy lock, appropriate to a summer cabin with no valuables.

  She held herself very still. Maybe whatever it was would just go away. If it was a bear, she would be hearing more noise—wouldn’t she? Were there bears in this part of Maine? Didn’t they hibernate in winter? It couldn’t be a thief—she had nothing worth stealing, and surely there were more promising places to break into closer to town. Maybe it was some poor transient, looking for a warm place to sleep. But why here? In the time she’d been here, she had yet to see another human being on this deserted road. That was why she had come here, because it was so peaceful and quiet and . . . isolated.

  Cell ph
one—where did I leave the cell phone? And then she had a crystal-clear picture of it—sitting on the counter. Downstairs. On the far side of the room. Damn.

  Apart from the eddies of cold air, nothing was stirring at the moment. Huddled under her quilt, Claire strained to catch any sound. Nothing. Claire, it’s time to investigate. Cautiously she slipped her sock-clad feet out from under the blankets and tiptoed to the railing. By the dim light from the dying fire she could make out the body of a man on the floor, and he wasn’t moving.

  2

  This isn’t happening. Heart thudding, Claire peered over the edge of the loft at the inert body below, sprawled facedown. She shut her eyes, but when she opened them again the man was still there. The door was wide open and cold wind swirled around her ankles. She was going to have to do something—but what?

  Phone. If she could get to her phone before he came to—assuming, of course, that he wasn’t dead—she could call 911.

  She backed away carefully, then fumbled among the bedcovers for the large Maglite flashlight that she kept handy. She hefted its reassuring weight in her hand: if she whacked somebody over the head with this baby, he’d stay down. Not that she had any intention of getting close enough to the man to whack him. Summoning up her courage, she crept down the stairs, avoiding the boards that squeaked, and tiptoed across the room toward the phone on the counter. She grabbed it gratefully and turned to examine her intruder by flashlight from a safe distance, in case she needed to give the 911 operator details. He still hadn’t moved, but he did seem to be breathing, if the rise and fall of his back was any indication. White guy, dark hair. Covered with mud and soaking wet, creating his own puddle around him.

  And where he’d skidded on the floor as he fell, there was a smear. Bright red, in the wavering light from her flashlight. Blood?

  Claire’s mind slowed. Earth to Claire! Do something! Call 911! Get help! Claire stared at the phone in her hand: no light. No nothing. Damn it—she’d forgotten to charge it again. Stupid, stupid.

  “Don’t. Please.”

  She jumped violently and dropped the phone. Oh, God, he was awake and moving—but not very fast. He had pulled himself up to lean against the couch, and now he was looking at her, his eyes pleading.

  The sight of his face struck her with a near physical blow: she knew him. Better than she wanted to. “Jonathan Daulton,” she said slowly, as she picked up the phone from the floor.

  He stared back at her. “Yes.”

  Even from across the dark room she could see his teeth chattering. She looked at the useless phone in her hand, then tossed it on the counter. “You need help. Let me—”

  “No, please, wait,” he interrupted, struggling to get up.

  Claire stared at him: Jonathan Daulton, the author of a contemptible popular quasi self-help book about gender relations, published a few years earlier. Genderal Relations, that was its title. She’d read it. She hated it. Why was he lying here on her floor?

  “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?” she demanded.

  “I can explain. Well, some parts. Listen, can you close the door? I’m freezing.”

  He was right: the precious heat in the cabin was escaping by the moment. She skirted his legs, giving him a wide berth, and slammed the door shut, then leaned against it. Jonathan Daulton. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world . . . What was he doing here? But whatever the reason, she had to do something. He was wet and cold, and was bleeding from somewhere. She felt her mind shift into a higher gear. First things first: light. She felt along the mantelpiece for the oil lamp and matches she’d left there after the last power failure, and fumbled to light it. Jonathan looked even worse by its yellowish glow.

  “Look, you should get out of those wet clothes and get warmed up. Do you know you’re bleeding?”

  He was visibly shaking now. “Somebody shot at me. I don’t think it’s bad. If it was, I’d be floating out there in the lake.”

  Someone had shot at him? Jonathan Daulton, mild-mannered misogynist author? That made no sense. “Can you get out of those wet clothes, or do you need help?”

  “I’ll do it.” He managed to sit up, but he was shaking too hard to deal with buttons or zippers or laces. Claire knelt beside him.

  “Let me.” She gently tugged the sleeves of his sweater off—why on earth wasn’t the man wearing a winter coat? This was winter in Maine!—and tossed it to one side, where it landed with a splat. Crawling around to his feet, she struggled to untie the wet and tangled laces of his shoes, and finally she pulled them off and threw them on top of the sweater. But stripping him to the skin in this drafty room was probably a bad idea: she needed something to put back on him.

  “Hang on a sec.” She darted up the stairs to the loft and grabbed a couple of blankets from the bed. When she returned, he was still struggling ineffectually with his shirt buttons. Without comment, she finished the job for him and pulled off his shirt, easing it off his arm, which appeared to be the source of the blood. She wasn’t ready to look at that yet. Hurriedly she wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and he clutched it gratefully.

  She looked him in the eye. “Pants?” He nodded. She grabbed at the legs of his soaked jeans and began wrestling them off. On the pile they went. Claire unfurled another blanket and draped it over his lower body. Jonathan slumped against the couch with his eyes closed. His lips were still bluish, and his breathing was shallow. Not good.

  What next? Claire wondered. Was it more important to get something hot into him or would he bleed to death before the water boiled? Maybe she should worry about the blood first. She grimaced: she really, really didn’t like the sight of blood.

  “Okay, let’s deal with the bleeding.” To her own ears, she sounded a whole lot more authoritative than she felt.

  He opened his eyes again and looked blankly at her, then looked down at his left arm. Claire took a deep breath and pulled back the blanket.

  A shallow furrow slashed across the fleshy part of his upper arm. Claire shut her eyes for a moment. Claire, you can handle this. It’s only blood, and . . . yellow stuff and brown stuff. Ick. She took a deep breath and wrapped the blanket back around him.

  “I think you’ll live. Basically, whoever was shooting missed. I’ll bandage it up in a minute, but you need something hot first. I’m going to boil some water. Understand?”

  Some intelligence crept back into his eyes. “Bandage. Hot.”

  Claire sighed. “Can you make it onto the couch?”

  He struggled to clamber onto the couch, his movements clumsy.

  “Hold on.” Claire slid his undamaged arm over her shoulder and with his awkward help managed to wrestle him onto the couch. He was still wet and bloody, but Claire figured that no one would notice a few more stains on this much-abused secondhand piece of furniture. Then she turned to the fireplace, where a few coals glowed dully. Thank goodness she’d brought in a good supply of wood earlier. She tossed fresh logs onto the fire, and it flared into life.

  Now that the immediate crisis was over, the aftermath hit her: she was a little shaky herself. Maybe they both needed something hot and sweet. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil—thank heaven the stove ran on propane. She fought back hysterical giggles: if this was one of those crappy romance novels, her intruder would turn out to be a macho hunk with lots of muscles and shadowy CIA connections, pursued by swarthy evildoers. It would most definitely not be Jonathan Daulton, erstwhile journalist. She tried to imagine any scenario that would lead to this situation—and failed.

  What on earth was Jonathan Daulton doing in her cottage? Much less a wet and bleeding Jonathan Daulton? Wait—hadn’t she seen a flyer on a bulletin board at nearby Greenferne College announcing Jonathan Daulton’s stint as artist in residence for the January interterm period? The college was distinguished only by its possession of the incomparable Abigail Greenferne Collection of Feminist Literature, donated by a prominent nineteenth-century feminist groupie—which was on
e of the primary reasons Claire had set up camp in this freezing cottage. Of course she had wondered at the time why Jonathan Daulton was at the college; the sexist drivel he had spewed out in that blasted book hardly qualified him as a feminist scholar.

  But while his book might explain what he was doing at Greenferne, it did not explain what he was doing in a bloody puddle on her floor in the middle of the night.

  When the kettle boiled, Claire filled a teapot and threw in some tea bags. Juggling the handles, she carried teapot, sugar bowl, mugs and spoons to the table in front of the couch. She filled a mug, added two heaping spoons of sugar, and handed it to Jonathan.

  “Careful, it’s hot.”

  He wrapped both hands around the mug, and despite his shaking managed to lift it to his mouth. Claire watched warily. So far, so good. The patient is conscious and taking liquids. Actually, she thought his color did look better, although it was hard to tell under all the mud.

  But she was putting off the part she dreaded. “Hey, uh, Jonathan—I think it’s time to do something about your arm. Not that I’ve got a lot to work with,” she added dubiously. The Murrays hadn’t stocked their cottage for anything more serious than scratches and bug bites, and she was going to need more than a Band-Aid.

  “Do your best. Or your worst.” He definitely was reviving. He was also staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Maybe he didn’t like the sight of blood either, particularly his own.

  Claire stood up again, trying to look like she knew what she was doing, and went back to the kitchen. She found a clean towel, wetted it, then returned and sat next to Jonathan. She took a deep breath.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  Once again she peeled back the blanket. The ugly gash didn’t look any better. She dabbed at it tentatively, and Jonathan’s breathing quickened. At least it had all but stopped bleeding—thank heaven for small favors. The flesh along the edges looked a little raggedy, but at least there was nothing dangling. The yellow stuff was . . . fat? She swallowed hard and kept swabbing until she had cleaned away all the blood.