by Laura Childs
Changing lanes, Suzanne caught her own reflection in the rearview mirror and thought, Correction, make that a modern-day witch.
Just a hair past forty, Suzanne was lean, square-shouldered, and still golden brown from puttering around her herb garden in the summer sun. Her hair was a shoulder-length silvered blond, her eyes a deep cornflower blue. Today she wore a white blouse, nipped tightly at her waist by a silver concho belt, and a pair of slim-fitting jeans. She had on her favorite cowboy boots, the well-worn brown ones with turquoise leather steer heads inset at the ankles.
Suzanne was the self-appointed purveyor of foods and the driving force behind the Cackleberry Club, a cozy little farm-to-table café she ran with her two BFFs, Toni and Petra. She was also recently engaged to Dr. Sam Hazelet, who had to be the most handsome and skilled doctor in the small Midwestern town of Kindred.
Suzanne smiled to herself as she drove along, the noon sun lasering down upon the windshield of her Taurus. Sam was quite a catch, she mused. Four years younger than she was, great sense of humor, and, most important, in love with her. (Okay, truth be told, he might even be a little besotted with her.)
If she hadn’t hit the boyfriend jackpot, she probably would have (horrors!) been forced to venture onto one of those Internet dating sites. Then her character sketch might have read something like, Overworked café owner, dog mom, and curiosity seeker hopes to meet fun-loving guy for wine dinners, occasional trout fishing, and long-term mischief. And after a few sketchy responses, someone like Sam would have popped up. Or not.
Suzanne drank in the scenery as the blacktopped country road dipped down and the woods closed in on either side of her. Late October meant the oaks and maples had erupted in a riot of crimson and orange, and every time a puff of wind came along, leaves fluttered down in perfect golden swirls. It made her think of bonfires and pumpkin spice muffins, and, of course, Halloween.
Coming up out of a valley onto a slight ridge, the road suddenly hooked right and ran alongside a rustic fence of silvered, weathered wood. That fence marked the property line for Mike Mullen’s dairy farm. Mike was Suzanne’s go-to guy for the homemade wheels of tasty cheddar and Swiss cheese that she served and sold at the Cackleberry Club. Tapping her brakes lightly, Suzanne coasted along until she spotted Mike’s familiar tilting mailbox up ahead. This behemoth of dented metal was surrounded by a tangle of bright red bittersweet and sat beside a hand-painted sign that read Cloverdale Farm—Farm Fresh Milk and Cheese.
Suzanne turned into the driveway and crunched her way down a narrow gravel road. A quarter of a mile later, her car rolled to a stop in Mike’s farmyard. The place was picture-perfect, an old-fashioned farm built in the early 1900s by hardworking German immigrants. Off to the right was a classic American Gothic farmhouse complete with finials, balustrades, and a rambling old front porch. Straight ahead was a faded red hip-roofed dairy barn. Several smaller buildings that housed bales of hay and farm tools were scattered off to the left, and a large, woodsy pasture butted up close to the house and barn.
Suzanne slid out of her car and scuffed the toe of her boot into the gravel.
“Hey, Mike,” she called out. “It’s Suzanne.” She let out a breath. “From the Cackleberry Club.”
The big sliding barn door stood wide open and she expected to see Mike’s broad, grinning face appear at any moment.
When, after a minute or two, Mike didn’t duck out and greet her, Suzanne decided he must be all the way back in the barn, tending his cows. Or maybe he was in the adjacent cheese workshop, a place with a pleasant, yeasty smell and gleaming stainless steel pipes, tanks, and tables. The place where all the cheese magic happened.
“No problem,” Suzanne said, striking out for the barn. She’d talked to Mike a couple of days ago and told him she needed to replenish her larder with a few wheels of his delicious cheese. He’d told her to stop by anytime. Well, now was anytime.
Suzanne ducked inside the barn, going from dazzling sunlight to a dim interior. She blinked hard a couple of times, trying to adjust her eyes, keenly aware of the mingled sharp scents of cows and hay.
“Mike?” she called again.
This time Suzanne received an answer. But it wasn’t from Mike. Instead, she was greeted by a cacophony of loud bellows.
“What?” she murmured.
A few steps down the center aisle and Suzanne was confronted by the urgent, upturned faces of four dozen cows bawling unhappily at her. Cows that clearly hadn’t been milked yet.
Haven’t been milked yet? But it’s twenty after twelve. These poor things have been waiting all morning?
Where was Mike? Suzanne wondered as she tiptoed through the barn. On either side, cows continued to blat anxiously as they stretched their necks out to greet her. To plead for help. And the farther in she ventured, the more the cows’ mooing turned to pitiful moans.
Where the stanchions ended there were two box stalls. Animals moved about restlessly in there, too. Horses that tossed their heads and banged their hooves hard against the wooden walls.
What was going on?
“Mike?” Suzanne called out, trying to keep a slight quaver out of her voice. “Are you back here?” She hesitated and peered into the dimness ahead of her where dust motes twirled lazily and worn leather halters and bridles hung on wooden pegs. Then she added, “Are you okay?”
Moving toward the wooden door that led into the cheese workshop, Suzanne felt a prickle of unease. The hairs on the back of her neck were starting to stand up straight. Really? Now, why was that? Then her heart did a little thump-bump inside her chest and her breathing became a little more rapid. Had something happened to Mike? Or was she simply overreacting to the agitation of the cows?
Suzanne tamped down her fears and rapped her knuckles sharply against the white wooden door of the cheese workshop.
“Mike? Are you in there?”
No answer.
Gathering up her nerve, Suzanne put a hand flat against the door and gave it a shove. Instead of swinging open on its hinges, the door creaked open a couple of inches and stopped. Frowning, she pushed again, this time with a little more force.
No way. Something seemed to be blocking it.
Suzanne leaned forward and touched her cheek to the door, the smooth wood feeling cool against her skin. Then she poked her nose in, trying to peer around the edge of the door.
The first thing she saw was a green rubber boot turned sideways on the damp cement floor. That boot was clearly attached to a leg.
Mike? Something’s happened to Mike?
Worry exploded in Suzanne’s brain. She drew a quick breath, took a step back, and then flung her full body weight against the door. The door creaked open another foot. Suzanne eased herself into the room, where Mike Mullen sprawled awkwardly on the floor. His white hair was matted with bright red blood as if he’d sustained a dozen deep scalp lacerations, and his gnarled hands were crisscrossed with bloody defensive wounds. The blue-and-white-striped overalls he wore were completely slashed and tattered, as if he’d been existing as a castaway on some remote South Seas jungle island. The fabric was also completely saturated with blood.
Dead? Mike’s dead?
Suzanne’s mind spun like a runaway centrifuge. Who? Why? A hundred questions churned inside her head. She lunged forward, somehow thinking she’d check his pulse or hopefully clear an airway. But her foot slipped in the slick pool of blood and she fell forward. If she hadn’t thrust her hands out to break her fall, she would have landed right square on top of his body. As it was, her ungainly fall put her on her hands and knees, looking directly into wide-open milky white eyes that stared sightlessly into a void.
“Mike?” Suzanne said again in a pleading, still-hopeful tone. Because she was still trying to make sense of how someone could cold-bloodedly murder this mild-mannered dairy farmer.
Watch for the Next Tea Shop Mystery
&
nbsp; PEKOE MOST POISON
Eighty years ago, fancy “rat teas” were all the rage in Charleston. Now a society doyenne has revived that quaint custom as a madcap homage to the city’s colorful past. Only problem is, a sip of the wrong brew and someone turns up dead. Theodosia may not be to blame, but she certainly won’t turn a dim eye to this affront against tea!
And Also the Next Scrapbooking Mystery
GLITTER BOMB
Mardi Gras means raucous parades, fantastical floats, and glittering galas. But when a fashion model is murdered, Carmela and Ava ditch their party masks for detective hats.
Find out more about the author and her mysteries at laurachilds.com or become a friend on Facebook.
Writing as Laura Childs, this author has brought you the New York Times bestselling Tea Shop Mysteries, Scrapbooking Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries. Now, writing under her own name of Gerry Schmitt, she has created an entirely new series of sharp-edged thrillers.
LITTLE GIRL GONE
AN AFTON TANGLER THRILLER
by Gerry Schmitt
On a frozen night in an affluent Minneapolis neighborhood, a baby is abducted from her home after her babysitter is violently assaulted. The parents are frantic, the police are baffled, and, with the perpetrator already in the wind, the trail is getting colder by the second.
As a family liaison officer with the Minneapolis Police Department, it’s Afton Tangler’s job to deal with the emotional aftermath of terrible crimes—but she’s never faced a case quite as brutal as this. Each development is more heartbreaking than the last and the only lead is a collection of seemingly unrelated clues.
Available in hardcover from Berkley!
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