by Jeff Shelby
Gunnar swore under his breath. “Where is he?”
“In the shed,” I said, trying to catch my breath. But I was close to hyperventilating. “He…he was going to burn it down. With me in it.”
He gripped my shoulders. “Stay right here. Do not move.” He straightened. “And call 9-1-1.”
“Gunnar, wait!”
The last thing I wanted him to do was go in search of Davis. What if something happened to him? I would never be able to forgive myself.
But he was gone before I could stop him.
I sat there in my smashed car, staring numbly out the windshield. I waited for sounds of yelling, for the impact of an explosion as the shed erupted into flames, but there was nothing, just the slow hiss of a radiator losing steam.
Gunnar reappeared a few minutes later.
I somehow managed to undo my seatbelt and got out of my car. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” he said wryly.
“What? What do you mean?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Davis Konrath was knocked unconscious in the shed.” He held up the Bible that I'd apparently dropped in panic. “By a Bible. It was next to him and I saw the imprint on the side of his face.”
I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle. It was the stress, working its way out of me in the most awkward of ways.
Gunnar reached for me and wrapped me in a hug. I stayed there in his arms, laughing and crying and soaking his shirt.
“I didn't know you carried a Bible with you,” he said.
“I don't,” I told him. “Not usually.”
“Not usually? So today was Bible carrying day? Because it's Sunday?”
“No. No. It's...a long story.”
“Then I guess there's just one thing to say.”
“What's that?”
His arms tightened around me. “Thank God it was your Bible carrying day.”
FORTY THREE
“It’s beautiful.”
I was admiring the chicken coop Gunnar had finished, a beautiful, two-story wooden structure with ramps and nesting boxes and roosts, all surrounded by chicken wire.
“Eh, it’ll do,” Gunnar said, frowning as he crouched down to study one of the nesting boxes.
In answer, a beautiful black and white Wyandotte clucked and strutted toward us. She was a loaner chicken, one of six Gunnar had given me to “get me started,” as he put it.
“Thanks again for building it for me,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“These girls should start laying as soon as tomorrow,” he said. “Thought it would be fun to see some return right away. We can still get you chicks. We’ll just build a smaller coop for them before we introduce them to the other ladies.”
It was the middle of the afternoon, almost 24 hours after my run-in with Davis. We’d stuck around the Konrath house until Sheriff Lewis showed up. He cuffed a dazed and surly Davis, asked me a few questions, and then told me he’d be in touch. Somehow, Gunnar had gotten his truck working and, after watching the tow truck hook up my car, he’d given me a ride home. After pouring me a full glass of wine, he’d said his goodbyes and left.
And was right back over in the morning, working on the coop as if yesterday had never happened.
“And thank you for coming to look for me yesterday,” I added quietly. “If I didn’t already say it.”
“You did.” His eyes were on the chickens. Another one had joined Winnie, the name I’d given the black and white girl. This one was brown and black, a Rhode Island Red, Gunnar told me. I was just planning to call her Red. “Just had a weird feeling when you left. Glad I didn't talk myself out of it.”
A familiar car pulled into the driveway, a shiny white Prius, and Declan Murphy stepped out from the driver’s side. He offered a wave as he walked across the lawn to join us.
He nodded at Gunnar and then turned his attention to me. “Rainy, I just heard the news. I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday.”
“Thank you. I’m fine. Everything turned out okay.”
“Good, good.” He held out his hands, reaching for mine. “I was worried about you.”
“Gunnar came and the sheriff came and everything is fine now,” I said.
“And Davis?”
Gunnar spoke up. “We won’t be seeing him around here for a long, long time. Between arson and attempted murder, I think he’s going to be locked up for a while.”
Declan paled. “Attempted murder?”
“You don’t know?” Gunnar asked. When Declan shook his head, he continued. “Davis confessed to Rainy about the arson and planting the bones. And then he was going to set fire to the shed. With Rainy in it.”
Declan gasped. “Oh my word. How awful!”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “Everything turned out okay.”
“How on earth did you escape?” Declan looked from me to Gunnar. “Did…did you rescue her?”
Gunnar grinned. “She rescued herself.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“You did,” Gunnar said. His eyes, full of warmth, were on me. “All I did was get in your way while you were trying to leave.”
“That isn’t all you did.”
Declan broke in. “How did you manage to escape?”
I turned to look at him and smiled. “I had a little divine intervention,” I said, and told him about the Bible.
His chuckle turned into a full-fledged laugh. “Well, there you go. God does indeed work in mysterious ways, now doesn’t He?”
I smiled and nodded.
I didn’t know what I believed as far as a divine entity. But I did know one thing, standing between those two men, watching my chickens scratch and peck at the grass with my house and my land as their backdrop, the afternoon sun shining and the birds chirping and the wind rustling my hair.
I was right where I needed to be.
I hadn’t made a mistake in moving to Latney.
I was home.
THE END
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Here's the first chapter from the next Rainy Day mystery, WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS.
ONE
“I don’t hate it.”
My daughter Laura was sitting across from me at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and gazing out the wall of windows that faced the back of the property. It was a beautiful June day, the humidity low after an evening round of thunderstorms the night before. Birds and crickets chirped in unison and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and clover wafted through the open windows.
“Good,” I said, picking up a shortbread cookie from the plate of treats in front of us. “I don’t hate it, either.”
She turned her attention to the room we were sitting in, scrutinizing the red-tiled floor and wooden cabinets. I hadn’t done much work in the kitchen, loving the rustic feeling of it, and I was suddenly curious as to whether or not she liked it, too.
“The colors in here are good,” she said. “Earthy. Warm.”
I smiled. I thought so, too. It was one of my favorite rooms in the house but, honestly, I was falling in love with every square inch of the house I’d moved into only a couple of months earlier.
Yes, I’d bought it on a whim. Decided, after more than twenty years, to chuck my life in the city, sell the townhome I’d called home for nearly two decades, and buy a property a hundred miles away, smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
Well, Latney wasn’t exactly nowhere. But sitting about thirt
y miles to the north of Charlottesville, it could pass for nowhere, a tiny little dot on the map of Virginia, one of those pencil-point dots that might make people wonder if it really was still a town or of it had been abandoned long ago.
Latney was very much a town. Small, yes, but with a cute little downtown area, complete with a local tavern and a boutique and its very own bank, and neighborhoods that fanned out from the main drag, housing most of the town’s 2,000 residents. There were other properties, too, within the confines of the city limits, small hobby farms and larger dairy operations. Mine was one of those properties.
“Of course, you haven’t gone through a winter here,” Laura commented. She sipped her coffee, then set the mug back down. It was one she’d given me when she was little, one of those pieces you paint at a pottery place and they fire and glaze it for you. It was pink, and covered with lopsided purple and red hearts.
“Well, no,” I said, biting into the cookie. I’d made them a couple of days earlier, craving homemade shortbread, and they were still as buttery and crisp as they had been fresh out of the oven. “But it won’t be much different than Arlington. Actually, it will probably be even milder, considering I’m further south.”
“Yeah, but this house is older.” She scanned the walls, the windows, her blue eyes drinking in every detail. “Could be drafty. And the pipes could freeze.”
I suppressed a smile. Leave it to my worrywart of a daughter to fret about those kinds of things. Sure, the house was old, and I’d already noticed the A/C didn’t quite manage to cool off the upstairs bedrooms as well as the main floor. And yes, a couple of the windows leaked during the wicked rainstorm from the night before—I made a mental note to ask Gunnar how I should handle that—but I’d expected those things. The house was old and with the charm I wasn’t naive to the fact that a certain amount of work would be required to maintain the house or bring it back to an acceptable living condition. But so far, it was working for me.
I let the smile come through this time. Because it really was working for me. Yes, the first week or so in my new home had been rocky, what with finding the bones and the subsequent fire. I’d gotten off to a rough start with Sheriff Lewis and Gunnar, and a few of the other townspeople, too. But once we’d figured out what was happening, that Davis Konrath was the one responsible for the series of mishaps, life had slowly settled into a sense of normalcy. I’d found a rhythm to my days: unpacking a few boxes at a time, cleaning up rooms, doing minor cosmetic repairs; and I’d made headway with the property itself. I’d found a used ride-on mower and, after a few pep talks and a quick read-through of the owner’s manual, taught myself how to use it. Gunnar had set me up with a few chickens and I’d learned how to take care of them. I’d spread fertilizer on the front lawn and pulled weeds and even managed to clear out a square patch of earth in the backyard for a vegetable garden. Lettuce and radishes were already ready to harvest, and the other plants were growing well.
Life was definitely good, and living in Latney was giving me exactly what I’d hoped for. A new place to call home.
There was a knock on the kitchen door, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning.
Gunnar Forsythe, my handsome handyman of a neighbor, stepped over the threshold with a grin. His short brown hair was damp with sweat, as was his forehead. He had a hat in his right hand, some sports team logo that I couldn’t identify.
“Oh,” he said, his eyes moving from me to Laura. “Didn’t realize you had company. I can come back another time.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, standing. I turned to Laura, who was watching Gunnar suspiciously, as if she expected him to try to lift something off the kitchen counter. “This is my daughter, Laura. Laura, this is Gunnar, my next door neighbor.”
Gunnar offered a wave. “Nice to meet you.”
Laura nodded stiffly, her long ponytail barely bouncing.
“Heard an awful lot about you,” Gunnar said. “You’re a teacher, right?”
Laura nodded again.
“She has one more week of school left,” I told him, since my daughter had apparently turned into a mute. “This is her first visit here.”
“How do you like it?” Gunnar asked.
Laura finally spoke. “It’s…nice.”
“It sure is,” Gunnar replied, a friendly, beaming smile sweeping across his tanned face. His hazel eyes twinkled. “And it’s even better now that your mama lives here.”
Laura’s and my cheeks colored in unison.
“You’re making me blush,” I told him.
“And me, “ Laura muttered under her breath.
Gunnar chuckled, and I wasn’t sure if he heard Laura, too, or if he was just reacting to my comment. “I just wanted to pop in and see how the chicks were doing.”
Laura’s head whipped up and she frowned. “Chicks?” She turned to look at me, an accusatory expression on her face.
I knew exactly where her mind was going, the product of years of being schooled by a feminist mother.
“Real chicks,” I said quickly. “Baby chicks. I bought some a couple of days ago.”
Her expression cleared a little. “You have chicks?”
I nodded. “Gunnar gave me a few hens when I first moved in and I had so much fun with them that I wanted to expand the flock. I have a dozen new ones out in a tub outside.”
Her brow wrinkled. “A tub? They swim?”
“No, not that kind of tub,” I explained. “It’s a dry tub, someplace to keep them warm and safe when they’re little. They have a few more weeks before they can be introduced to the rest of the ladies.”
She still looked confused, and I realized that my city-raised daughter probably thought I was speaking in a foreign language.
“I’ll peek in on them when I leave,” Gunnar said. “And I’ll check out the mower, too. See about that engine leak you were telling me about.”
“You don’t have—”
But he cut me off. “Nonsense. I’ve got tools, and I know how to use them.” He grinned, and I still marveled at the way it made his whole face light up. “Nice to meet you, Laura. See you later, Rainy. Save some of those cookies for me, will ya?”
“Sure thing,” I called as he walked back outside, closing the door behind him.
Laura stared at the closed kitchen door. The breeze he’d let it ruffled the red valances and they billowed like sails on a ship.
“Who is he?”
I polished off my cookie, dusting the crumbs from my hands. “I told you. Gunnar, my neighbor.”
She turned to look at me. Her eyebrows were drawn together, a frown etched on her face. “He feels very proprietary of you and this house. Marching in here unannounced, ordering you to save him some cookies…”
I rolled my eyes. “He is neighborly, Laura, not proprietary. That’s how things are done out here. We’re friends. We look out for each other. Period.”
I could have told her that the way my burly, brawny neighbor looked at me often times left me weak-kneed. That I’d thought a lot about what it would be like to touch those sculpted biceps, to run my hands through his salt and pepper brown hair, to feel those lips…
I swallowed, feeling the skin on my neck and cheeks begin to flush. I shouldn’t be having thoughts like that, thoughts that made my skin heat up. Maybe it was a hot flash—I should be having those soon, right?
“Mother?” She looked at me expectantly.
“What?”
“I think he has the hots for you.”
I managed another eye roll, even though my pulse quickened at the thought. “We are friends, sweetheart. Nothing more.”
The front doorbell sounded, saving me from saying anything more. I leaped from my chair, grateful for the distraction. This was not a conversation I wanted to be having with my daughter.
Sophia Rey stood on the front porch. She wore a pretty white sundress that accentuated both her curves and her tanned body. Her blond hair had been recently styled, flowing in soft waves to her shoulders,
and enormous dark sunglasses hid her eyes.
“Sophia,” I said, opening the door and gesturing for her to step inside. “What a nice surprise.”
She lifted the sunglasses and settled them on top of her head. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit,” she began, then stopped, her eyes drifting to the kitchen.
Laura stood in the doorframe, her coffee cup cradled in her hands. The suspicious look on her face had lessened, but she still eyed the woman in my living room, warily, as if she were a suspect she was sizing up.
I made quick introductions. “Sophia’s husband owns the bank in town. She was the one who brought me the scones and bread when I first moved in,” I said, trying to prompt Laura’s memory.
Her expression cleared a little as recognition dawned and she managed a smile. “Nice to meet you,” Laura said.
It was already going better than her exchange with Gunnar.
“Listen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I sort of have an emergency,” Sophia said, lowering her voice.
“An emergency?”
She nodded. “Yes, Vivian…well, let’s just say she needs some help.”
I’d met Vivian Sumner a total of two times, both at St. Simon’s. We’d never exchanged more than a few polite words, so I wasn’t sure why Sophia was coming to me. She and Vivian were members of the Latney Ladies Society, a group of women that did…well, I didn’t know what they did, but they were a group and I wasn’t part of them.
“Help?” I repeated.
Sophia nodded again. “Yes.”
I frowned, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m happy to talk to her, but I don’t know how much help I can be…”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Trust me, Rainy. You’re the only person who can help her.”
WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS is now available at Amazon!