The Marquesa's Necklace (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1)

by P. J. MacLayne

  There was an on-line system, but I enjoyed the physical act of flipping through the cards. The feel of the paper lightly scraping across my fingertips, the almost musky smell of the older ones connected me to the books in a way the keys on a keyboard never could. It’s almost like I found the books I needed through a mystical relationship.

  When the reminder on my laptop popped up to point out it was quitting time—yes, I set myself an alarm so I don’t end up staying until closing—it took me fifteen minutes to re-shelve the accumulated books. The simple act of placing each book back where it belonged was a prayer offered to the spirits that protect the library. As I adjusted the spine of the last book to meet the edge of the shelf, I whispered a plea that they would protect me as well. It seemed my ghost had deserted me. Like all the men in my life, he had betrayed me.

  I forced myself to show up at the Pink Flamingo for girls’ night out. I didn’t want to face the questioning I knew I deserved, but I figured it would only make things worse if I made excuses and didn’t go. I even dressed up—my best jeans, a shimmery pale blue blouse and those sandals with the spiked heels. I looked the part of a woman who didn’t have a care in the world. As I climbed out of Dolores in the parking lot of the bar, I heard a wolf whistle coming from one of the men standing near the back door. Unsure if the whistle was for me or the car, I smiled and waved before I went inside.

  The girls were waiting for me, and I barely sat down before they pounced. What was going on between me and Detective Thomason? Would I be staying with him while he recuperated? For Pete’s sake, they didn’t even give me time to order my beer first. Luckily, the waitress’ arrival forced them to concentrate on their menus.

  The relief was short-lived, but at least it gave me time to craft my response. “We’re going through a rough patch right now,” I answered.

  “Ooh. You gonna tell us about it?” Merrilee grinned. For an English teacher, she sometimes used the worst grammar.

  “Let’s just say he has a hard time turning off the cop.” I gratefully took my beer from the waitress and took a sip. Just a plain old domestic draft for once. “I understand, but I’m not sure I can handle it.”

  “Frankly, I was surprised you hooked up with him at all,” Merrilee said. “You didn’t seem to be too fond of him last year.”

  “I wasn’t. And that’s part of the problem. I keep expecting him to whip out his handcuffs.” I decided to play the trump card and batted my eyes. “I might not mind if we were in the bedroom.”

  My friends howled with laughter until our food arrived and we got down to the serious business of feeding our faces. I almost forgot to watch the front door. Almost.

  I was the first to notice when Eric Wolff walked in and scanned the place. I kicked Sarah. “Guess who just showed up?”

  “Not Detective Thomason? I thought he was out of action for a couple of weeks.”

  “Nope. Guess again.” I grinned as she twisted in her seat.

  “I didn’t know he was back in town,” she gasped as she turned back around. She ran her fingers through her hair and her tongue across her lips. “Do I have anything stuck in my teeth?” she asked anxiously.

  “You look fine,” Merrilee assured her. “And he’s spotted us, so take a deep breath.”

  Sarah did a good job of acting surprised when he paused by our booth. “Any room for me?” he asked. I must admit, he had a nice voice. But I still didn’t like those eyes. He must have sensed it, because he avoided looking at me.

  “Eric!” she squealed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I missed you,” he replied, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “Okay if I join you ladies?”

  “Of course not!” Janine laughed as she pushed over on the bench to make room for him to sit next to Sarah.

  He hung out with us for about an hour, and insisted on paying all of our tabs when he left. I couldn’t figure out one valid reason not to like him, but I didn’t trust him enough to buy a used car from him. I just smiled when Sarah ran on for the next half hour about how wonderful he was. By the time I got home, I was too tired to deal with the police reports sitting on my kitchen table.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unfortunately, I forgot to set my alarm, and I woke up too late to tackle the reports. It was the day of my monthly meeting with the authors’ group, and I needed to clean up some of my research before we met for lunch. We took over the back room in an all-you-can-eat restaurant, the Wrangler, for these get-togethers. They would critique each other’s writing, share potential plot ideas, and gossip. They gossiped a lot. I would take notes on what they were working on, and suggest ideas for research topics. We’d been doing this for almost two years now, and I liked to think my work had contributed to several books making the best-seller list. Low on the list of best sellers, but better than no mention at all.

  We left in time for the staff to set up for the evening rush. Standing by Dolores, showing her off, I noticed a black car cruising down the street, going slower than the speed limit. Because of the tinted windows I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Eric Wolff driving. I started to wave, but the car sped up and disappeared around the corner. For a brief moment, I thought I saw some scratches on the back bumper. I tried to convince myself it was just a trick of the sunlight and shadows from the trees that lined the street, but suddenly I was in a hurry to get home to those manila envelopes on my coffee table.

  *****

  I started with the most recent one—Detective Thomason’s crash. I wanted to find out how accurate the newspaper article was or wasn’t. Pushing aside the stack of postcards on the coffee table, I settled down on the loveseat and pulled out the paperwork.

  While doing research, I’d read my share of police reports and knew what to expect. Just the facts, Ma’am. The incident occurred at nine at night, so after dark. Detective Thomason was off-duty, driving down the 500 block of Spruce Drive—that would have put him about a block from my place, I wondered if he was checking up on me—he lived on the other side of town. It was a public street, so I couldn’t object. At a stop sign, a car pulled up behind him with its headlights off. He’d tapped his brakes several times, hoping to alert the other driver to the situation.

  At the next intersection, the driver of the car still hadn’t turned on its lights, so Detective Thomason put the Mustang in park, figuring he would check and see if there was a problem. About the time he opened his door and swung his leg out, the other car rammed the Mustang’s rear end. Not an accidental, gentle tap, either, but hard enough that the door of the Mustang slammed against his leg.

  He’d pulled his leg back into the car and reached for his cell phone. Yet another hard bump made him drop it, but this time the other car accelerated around him.

  Ignoring the sensation of a warm liquid running down his calf, Detective Thomason gave chase. In my mind, I could see it—the other driver would have made unexpected turns, cut through alleys, sped through red lights, and Detective Thomason would have stuck close behind. When the vehicle left town, he stayed glued to its tail.

  Once they cleared the subdivisions south of town, he stomped on the gas pedal until the front bumper of the Mustang almost touched the rear bumper of the other vehicle and flashed his lights several times. The driver had slowed abruptly, causing the two cars to bump, and Detective Thomason’s chest hit the steering wheel. The driver then pulled into the other lane and adjusted his speed so that the two vehicles were side by side.

  The detective tried to ram the side of the Mustang into the passenger’s side of the other car, but wasn’t able to push it off the road. The other vehicle fell back slightly, then, with a sudden burst of speed, rammed into the rear quarter panel of the Mustang, knocking it into a spin. Detective Thomason remembered hitting the brakes, the car sliding, his head hitting the steering wheel, and a barbed-wire fence rushing at him.

  The description of the car and its driver was meager. A dark-colored sedan, with out of state plates. Its driver was probably m
ale, but a baseball cap, worn low on the forehead, made identification doubtful if not nearly impossible.

  Shaken, I dropped the report on the table and draped my afghan over me.

  Sure, cops make enemies. Detective Thomason wasn’t exactly my most favorite person anymore, but to try to kill him? Things like that don’t happen in our little town. Besides, the report said the plates weren’t local. I couldn’t access the police department computers—I’m no hacker—but the newspaper printed a list of everyone who got busted each week. And they do have a nice on-line archive. Two years ago seemed like a good place to start.

  Either I was losing my research skills or I was approaching the problem all wrong. The biggest crime news in the past year was me and Jake. Neither of us tried to run Detective Thomason off the road. I did learn a few things. Darla Smith, who was only a few years older than me, had been arrested twice for drunk driving. It made me sad—ever since her seven-year old got run over by an old lady who stepped on the gas instead of the brake, Darla had been falling apart. And Harry, an old friend of my mother’s, got busted for possession of drug paraphernalia. He’s getting up there in years, but still dresses like its 1968. I got distracted and traced down the court report. Thankfully, the judge who handled the case let Harry off with a good talking to.

  There was one interesting report. A guy from Chicago got busted for stealing a car. He was out on bail, but that would explain the out-of-state plates. And if he was smart, he would have used a stolen car. Pure speculation, because the reports didn’t even mention if Detective Thomason had been involved in the case. I needed to find out more. I made a mental note to drop by and visit the detective the next day. At least I had hope that the attack had nothing to do with me.

  When I propped my feet up on the table, I’d knocked over the stack of postcards, and they lay scattered on the floor. I knelt down to gather them up and stopped at the one from the Grand Canyon. Had Jake picked up a woman while he had been there? A tourist, or one of the college girls that work there during the summer? I flipped the card over to check out the date. September thirteenth. But as I studied the postmark, I noticed something. Something that didn’t add up.

  Why would a postcard from Arizona be postmarked in San Francisco? And the one from Seattle was stamped in Chicago? I should have called Detective Thomason right then. Instead, I opened up my spreadsheet and added several new columns. By then, the battery on my laptop was running down. After plugging it in to recharge and starting a pot of coffee, I tucked myself into one corner of the loveseat and went to work.

  Adrenaline and caffeine kept me going long past my normal bedtime, but I woke mid-morning curled up on the loveseat with the laptop on the floor.

  Even with a late start, the parking spot I found near the library was one of those that let you load the meter for long-term parking, so I wouldn’t need to run outside every two hours to feed it. A good way to start the day, especially if the dark clouds carried through with their threat. As I slid the laptop out of the passenger side seat, a stray sunbeam escaped the heavy cloud layer and lit up the front of the building.

  I’m rather proud of our library. It’s one of the Carnegie libraries, and although Oak Grove has shrunk, population-wise, the town has managed to keep the library going, and not turn it into a museum like some cities. The original building is an imposing four-story sandstone structure. The town has added on to the building, but managed to retain its character.

  Even as a little girl, I felt awed by the steps leading to the main entrance. Most of my time was spent on the fourth floor, which housed the children’s books. Now, I practically lived on the first and second floors, where the non-fiction books are shelved. Once in a while, a trip to the basement, where the old magazines and newspapers are kept was necessary. The space served as a bomb shelter back in the 1960’s, but all that old food is gone now, and the space has been remodeled and made useful again.

  I climbed the stone steps, smiling, counting them as I had habitually done all those years ago. As a teenager, the library became my second home. One, two, three…fifteen. There is now a wheelchair ramp in the back, but the steps are unchanged. It might be a good day to make a trip to the fourth floor for old times’ sake.

  Janine was busy with a customer at the front desk, but waved as I settled into one of the tables in the back and went to work. This promised to be interesting—helping one of my authors figure out how to write a romance that takes place entirely at the Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station. This would be a more collaborative effort than normal, because she wanted it to be as realistic as possible, and would be coming to me frequently to figure out details. Not my usual style of work, but I looked forward to the challenge.

  The pavement was wet when I strolled back outside, tired but happy with my progress. The rain had switched to a slow drizzle, and I buttoned up my sweater before hurrying down the stairs. Dolores’ happy little chirp when I pushed the button to unlock her sounded like a friend welcoming me home.

  I wasn’t paying attention to the sparse traffic on the street or the car that pulled in beside me, so it was a surprise to hear my name called.

  “Harmony! Just the person I needed to see!”

  I smiled automatically. “Hello, Eric.”

  He climbed out of his car and leaned on the roof. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need some help in picking out a gift for Sarah. You know her better than me. Can you give me some ideas?”

  We both ducked as a loud clap of thunder rolled across the sky.

  “Not here,” I said.

  He grimaced. “Definitely not here. How about meeting me at the Wrangler Buffet? They do a dessert only option in the afternoon, I hear.” He grinned. “My treat.”

  There went my grocery shopping expedition, but for Sarah, I agreed. She had been my friend forever and I knew how she felt about Eric. Besides, I wasn’t going to pass up free brownies and chocolate ice cream.

  I was licking the last of the syrup from my spoon while he refilled my ice tea and his soda at the counter. “Want some more ice cream?” he asked as he set down the drinks.

  “No way. I’m going to overdose on sugar if I eat any more.” I took a sip of my tea. It tasted off, but the ice hadn’t had time to chill it to the perfect temperature. That wouldn’t take long. I stirred it idly to speed up the process. “So what are you thinking about buying for Sarah?”

  “Just a little gift, nothing expensive. I thought about a nice bracelet or something.”

  I took another sip of my tea. It was colder already. “She would like that.”

  “I can’t remember if she wears more silver or gold.” He coughed. “I’m usually not looking at her jewelry.”

  Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. “So what are you looking at?” I teased.

  “Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes.” he answered without having to think about it.

  Bonus points scored. “Well, she wears both but silver is her favorite.”

  He nodded. “I hoped so. I spotted the perfect bracelet at a store in Pittsburgh. It’s delicate chains woven together into what reminds me of Celtic knots.” He leaned forward. “You won’t tell her, right?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.” I picked up the ice tea and drank some more. My throat was dry all of a sudden, and there was a furious buzzing in my ears. It must have been the ice cream. And then I got hit by a massive headache, but it was no brain freeze.

  He leaned across the table. “Harmony?”

  Why was he leering at me? I stood, wobbled a bit, and he was right beside me, grabbing my arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked

  No, I wasn’t. I was dizzy and started to sweat. He slipped an arm around my waist. “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Sarah can come get your car when she gets off work.”

  I remember wondering how he knew where I lived, but I allowed him to take me out to his car. He opened the door for me and when I slid into
the passenger seat he fastened my seat belt for me. I needed to close my eyes for a moment and make the pinwheel in my head stop turning. And why was he chuckling?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cold, I reached to pull my blankets up around my neck, but my arms wouldn’t respond. I tried wiggling my fingers, and they worked, but something bit into my wrist when I tried to move my hands. The world wasn’t spinning anymore, so I cautiously opened my eyes.

  And closed them again. I needed to wake up. I tried to turn over and look at my alarm clock, but nothing moved. All I saw was a bare tile floor when I opened my eyes. I blinked rapidly trying to focus, but the dim light made it hard to see anything. If I put my glasses on, things would be clearer. I closed my eyes for a second, hoping that would help.

  When I woke up again, I realized my legs weren’t responding. Nothing happened when I tried to move them. On the edge of panic, I sat back, took several deep breaths and tried to calm myself.

  Wait—I was sitting? I looked down at my legs. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I tried to raise my left foot, but my ankle was attached to the chair. My right leg was in the same predicament.

  Reality slowly made its way into my addled brain. My wrists, too, were bound to the chair with some sort of plastic strap, pulled so tight I had no wiggle room. And a cord of some sort wrapped around my chest and held me snugly against the back of the chair.

  But somehow I was falling off a cliff while a neon-pink sun shot a kaleidoscope of orange and green flames towards a purple ocean. I jerked awake and opened my mouth to yell for help. At the same time a bright light burned into my eyes, blinding me. The yell turned into a scream, which turned into a muffled grunt when something was jammed into my mouth.