Dog Days
Page 1
Dog Days
A Maggie Mercer Mystery
Jill S. Hehe
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction
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
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
… COUPLE THINGS BEFORE WE SAY “ADIEU.”
About The Author
Maggie Mercer Mystery Series
Also From DevilDog Press
Thank You!
Copyright © 2016 by Jill S. Hehe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Rob M. Miller
Cover art by Dane@ebooklaunch
Created with Vellum
For Dad and Mom—
* * *
Without whom I would not exist.
* * *
Thank you.
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Proverbs 22:6 – Train up a child in the way she should go, and when she is old, she will not depart from it.
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KJV, slightly adjusted.
Preface
“The dog days are upon us, hotter than hell and twice as humid.”
—Jonas Talbot, Borough Council Member
Acknowledgments
THANK YOUs going out to:
* * *
RENI – For being the one to answer the phone when I called Kimber America with questions concerning Kimber 1911 handguns. You do your company proud.
* * *
JOE – For being my friend, for your help, support, insightful suggestions, and great computer skills … among other things.
* * *
SCOTT – For your expertise with firearms (long and short), and knowing who to ask about fingerprints. And for being one of the best cousins around.
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ROB – Friend and editor, for your continued belief in my talent, your exceptional proficiency with the way you go through every single line to make sure it’s … just right, and for the reminders that: We Are Warriors.
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TRACY and DEVIL DOG PRESS – There aren’t words strong enough to describe how much I appreciate you and your press for your leap of faith, and for taking such good care of me, and my babies. So glad we were introduced.
* * *
THE REBEL’s FANS – I couldn’t do this without you in my corner.
* * *
To all my family, friends, and acquaintances not mentioned here specifically, please don’t feel slighted. I appreciate every single one of you.
* * *
—Jill
Introduction
The Dog Days of summer have descended on Mossy Creek. Days so hot the sidewalks sizzle and the sweat drips like a leaky faucet, sliding into steamy humid nights.
The weather only adds to the pressure.
There are five new officers, and a temporary office to adjust to. The stalker continues to persistently harass our Miss Maggie, and is still evading capture. A friend’s well-liked husband is murdered. An incomplete wedding plans list is causing panic-mode (well-disguised) palpitations in our heroine.
If the outside temps, and Maggie’s inside stress levels don’t drop soon, there’s going to be a major meltdown.
Grab yourself some sweet tea, have a seat here by the fan, and I’ll tell you all about it.
Chapter 1
… 2009…
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… MONDAY…… August 10th…
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“COURT!” I COVERED the phone with my hand and yelled because Officer Stone was on his way out to get lunch, having just asked if I wanted anything from Annetta’s Diner.
He stopped and turned.
“Stall out on Mulberry near the old buggy crossing. You know where that is, right? Miz Jameson tried to plow through a puddle, and it turned out to be not a puddle, and much deeper than she expected. Caller says she’s not hurt, but he needs some help to get her out of the car. The creek’s current is pulling at it, slow, but still … she’s understandably in a panic.”
He nodded. “Did this caller say how deep the water actually is?”
“No, but Miz Jameson is eighty-three.”
“Eighty-three? Damn, she shouldn’t even be driving.”
I frowned. “She’s very spry for her age.”
“Spry doesn’t have anything to do with thinking she could drive through a pond.”
“Be a nice officer and go help a little old lady.” I waved him out. “Now.”
He opened his mouth, but must have decided not to comment. Hat smooshed on his head, he pulled the hood of his slicker over it, and left.
With a mental shrug, I told the caller whom to expect and hung up to type the initial report.
A storm front had stalled over our area, and it had been raining steady for four days. And then, this morning around ten, we’d had a gully-washer that dumped a massive amount of water on already saturated ground.
Six inches of rain in less than half an hour.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite that much (sure seemed like it). Mossy Creek, swollen from the previous days and days of rain, couldn’t drain fast enough to handle that much input and was way, waaay over its banks.
There’d been several calls about wrecks involving water and vehicles, some a little more serious than others. People just don’t seem to understand that they aren’t in a boat, and cars don’t do well once wet stuff gets higher than the bumper.
Common sense should—
Never mind.
I’d heard chatter on the scanner about flooded basements, too, which meant the fire department was just as busy as we were.
The phone rang again.
“Mossy Creek Police Department, this is Maggie. How may I help you?”
“There’s a body floating down Mossy Creek.”
Breath caught in my throat.
The mention of a body does that to me; has ever since Miranda Richards was found last summer, hanging from a tree at the swimming hole.
“Miss Maggie? You still there?”
“Um, yes. Sorry. What part of the creek?”
“Out near Miller’s Pond, where the Blue River dumps into Mossy. Current’s going at a pretty good clip, so I’d say you’d best hurry and get somebody downstream fast.”
“I need your name for the report.”
“Rauley Sommers. I run the Sunoco on—”
“Yup, I know where you work. You’re sure it’s human?”
“Well, uh, I couldn’t see much of it ’cept a bit of the back. Had on a plaid shirt, so, yeah, it’s human.”
Crap.
“Sorry, just making sure. Rauley, can you stay on the line for a minute? I’ll need more information.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” I put him on hold and rolled to the radio. “Unit six, this is dispatch, do you copy? Declan? You there?” I’d sent him in that general direction to untangle a couple cars that collided. I keyed the mic twice and waited thirty seconds. He didn’t respond. “Unit four, this is dispatch, do you read?” Ranger was out that way, too, but farther down.
I had a cheat-sheet of the new vehicles and their drivers posted on my monitor. Not that it was all that hard to memorize. Unit one was Wyatt (of course), two was Ricky, three Gus, four Ranger, five Becca, six Declan, and seven Court.
No, there is no eighth vehicle. The borough didn’t figure it was a necessity for me to have one.
Cheap meanies.
“Unit four. Go ahead, dispatch.”
“Hey, Ranger. Got a report of a floater heading your way. Plaid shirt. Over.”
“Roger. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Out.”
I went back to the phone. “Okay, Rauley. Now, at what number can we best reach you, if necessary?”
It was going to be a very bad day for someone’s family.
I’m Magdalena (Maggie to friends and family) Susannah Elizabeth Maria-Louise Donovan Mercer, soon-to-be Madison, dispatcher and admin-specialist for the Mossy Creek Police Department.
Yes, I have a lot of names.
Why?
I asked my mom that question, once upon a time. She confessed that within hours of my birth, she found out there would be no more children in her and Dad’s future. So when they brought her the form to fill out for my birth certificate, she decided to not only give me my own name, but to tack on all the names she would have given any future daughters.
My dad, sympathetic to his wife’s plight, had no objection.
Growing up, I learned fast what kind of mood Mom was in by the name being called. When mad, she used the whole big long mess of them, and believe it or not, she never transposed a one. On a lot of Sundays, I was Maria-Louise for the whole day. On hot days, Susannah—probably because of its southern connotation. Elizabeth, when she was feeling especially romantic. And at her most melancholy, I was Magdalena.
My favorite and hers—and thankfully, solely since I graduated high school—just Maggie.
I suppose, in retrospect, by using my other names at odd times, she felt there were more little girls in her life than just me. Sometimes it hurt; made me feel like I wasn’t enough for her. But I know better. She has always loved me—and all my personalities—equally.
Back to my story:
We’re a small force, compared to some boroughs with the same population, but recently increased from three personnel to eight. Okay, seven and a half. They don’t count me as an official officer. I do, however, have a peacekeeper’s badge that gives me a certain amount of authority.
The chief of police—and my fiancé—is Wyatt Madison. (Did you just snicker?) After serving two tours in the Navy as an SP, he came back and applied for the chief’s job. In a unanimous vote by the borough council, he replaced his Uncle Mort.
Though we were the talk of the town for several weeks this past winter, our relationship status took second place to all the commotion from a couple shootings, and the death of a young woman. As we are still actively seeking the perpetrator, the townsfolk have more than enough to keep them occupied. Not that they don’t murmur about us at odd moments.
Our wedding is just a couple weeks away.
More about that later.
Ricky Anderson had been the sole officer since graduating from the academy—about a year and a half ago—and taking over for Walt Prescott after the man suffered a stroke. Rick played high school football with my eldest, and when his parents moved to Florida a few years ago, we sort of adopted each other. He’s currently engaged to the cheerleading coach, Lancy Farnsworth.
Our old police department building is in the midst of a major overhaul/remodel, and will, upon completion, have room for all of us that now make up the Mossy Creek police force. We’d had to endure the architects, with their tape measures and clipboards; and inspectors, pulling out ceiling tiles and floorboards; and potential plumbers, electricians, and construction foremen looking for a lucrative borough contracting job. At the recommendation of Elias Heckman, acting mayor and borough council president, the council moved us—approved the move—from our miniscule operational headquarters to the former library building (six blocks west and two north of our original location) until construction was complete. That set off another flurry of activity, to get the transitory building ready for eight of us to be temporarily installed.
Talk about disorganization.
But it beats working in the middle of all the noise, dust, and noise of a construction zone, believe you me. Yes. I did say noise twice, because there’s also the impossibility to hear callers over the racket of nail guns, saws, and the ever-present music blaring at full volume.
Even with Elias’s suggestion, it took us a while to convince them. But, when we started ticking off all the points in favor of the transition, and as they’d just forked out a whole big bunch of money for the new hire’s computer equipment (that don’t like dust, or plaster, or grit much), and desks, and phones, etcetera, they were more than agreeable with finding us a temporary home. For the first two weeks after our move to the library building, we had council members dropping in unannounced (I’m told they’re still visiting the construction site), making sure their money—well, the townsfolk’s tax dollars—is being spent wisely. Too bad that scrutiny didn’t get a fire lit under the construction crew, to get us moved back ASAFP (that’s As Soon As Frickin Possible—in case y’all aren’t familiar with that acronym).
As glad as I am that I don’t have to put up with the hassle of a working crew, and all it entails in the same space as me, I can’t wait to move back. This place is okay, but I keep reminiscing about when it was a library, expecting people to pop around the corner with a book in their hand. It does have a lot more room, but with the ceilings so tall, it can get noisy, especially with phones going off, the base radio crackling, and an extra five people’s voices talking (seeming to) all at once.
Guess I should just be grateful there’s a roof over my head.
And so we’re here, though not completely moved in. On the word of the project foreman (who promised that the renovation would only take eight weeks, and then we could move back) we decided it wouldn’t be prudent to unpack everything.
Yeah, right.
It had already been a month and a half, and the little old building was still windowless, and one exterior wall was missing.
I was skeptical, to say the least.
Driving by the work-in-progress to our new work location every day, the sound of 107.5 Classic Rock can be heard blasting from inside, along with all the other … hullabaloo, associated with an active work zone. Sounds like progress is being made, but….
Highly doubtful we’d be moving in at the end of next week.
But there were more pressing concerns.
I’ve got five new police officers to figure out, and get used to having around. Wyatt, though cleared to return to full time, was on desk duty, desk duty only. Rick was pretty much back to a hundred percent, except for the slight limp—that every day got less noticeable.
Declan, Gus, and Court had been brought in as soon as Wyatt and Rick landed in the hospital. Becca came three weeks after that. Ranger was a relatively recent addition, arriving only two weeks ago.
So, how do I introduce the NUGS without it getting tedious?
Guess I’ll just run it down.
Declan Hawkins Gearheart was the first. He’s a nice mix of Jamaican and American, coming to us from the DC area. A linebacker in college, headed for a pro career, but blew out—not his knee—but his ankle (badly) in the final game of his senior season. Still gives him fits, so he says, when it storms. He’s a big guy, bigger than Ricky, but not by
much. Always seems to be grinning about someone or something. Usually because they got pranked … by him.
He’s also become our resident go-to guy when we need a calm presence. Told us he’d almost gone the psychological route in college.
Since our move, and we haven’t been able to find the coffee pot, he’s been bringing me a twenty-ouncer from the Sunoco gas-and-sundry he passes on his way in from Jasper.
An apple for teacher?
Gus is a girl, woman, female. (I really don’t like politically correct jargon.) Gretchen Augusta McGee moved up here from Philly after seeing the borough’s ad posted online. She came with a glowing reference and a great record from her former precinct captain. Owns a multi-colored pit bull named Buddy, and keeps us all entertained with tales of his antics. Has a guy pining for her back home, too. She’s trying to persuade him to move out here.
Court is a guy, a geeky nerdy guy, but in a cool macho way. Harcourt Kennedy Stone, the fourth (I know, right?) is an absolute genius with computers. Glasses, red and square—no tape—go well with his spikey hair. He’s not afraid of hard work or dangerous situations, but prefers research, online crimes, or giving out parking tickets. He’s a marathoner (go figure) and has scars like you wouldn’t believe—on his chin, along his jaw, and down his left arm and leg, all from one bad fall during a race.
And still he runs.
Becca Jo Barrows. A newly minted officer, she came straight here after graduation from the academy. Looks like a sweet fragile kitten, but growing up with four brothers—three older—it was toughen up or stay on the porch swing. Her claws are sharp when they need to be. Doesn’t back down from anything if she thinks there’s a chance to win, or she’s right. Girl knows her way around weapons, too. Was recommended for sniper school, but turned it down. She’s very organized with file folders, graphs, pictures, clipboards, etc., and her mind is sharp and quick to analyze situations and give possible solutions. Softball and volleyball keep her in shape. And, she’s an avid mystery reader!