Xmas Marks The Spot (Merry Summerfield Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Kris Pearson

  I saw Denny swallow before he continued.

  “When he started to fall, he somehow released the safely and yanked back on the trigger. The shot hit the loader arm and ricocheted straight back at him.”

  Denny raised a hand, pushed his sunglasses up, and covered his eyes with one hand. Clutched his chest with the other. “Got him right here.”

  I stood, silent and shocked, remembering the bullets hitting the helicopter skids on the day we filmed the TV commercial. In truth I was going to carry that memory with me forever. At least they’d bounced away harmlessly after the frightening impacts.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “Dead instantly. Got himself right in the heart. There was nothing I could do, Merry, except get the heck away and take my family safely to Fiji so we could see Caitlin married while Lorraine was still alive.” He uncovered his eyes and looked straight at me before the sunglasses fell down into place again. Weary brown eyes, filled with pain. “I didn’t want any hold-ups. We were cutting it horribly fine already but I’d needed to block a piece of the boundary where thieves had got in. Hence I had the big bucket on the tractor so I could pile some rocks up. You can see the nick in the steel where the arm was hit.”

  “Oh Denny…”

  “Yeah – not a good set of circumstances. The boy lying dead. Me being hassled to get to the airport to fly out. Caitlin the bridezilla to beat them all. Lorraine almost dying on her feet and trying to hang on bravely. I couldn’t help him, but I could help my family get through the wedding madness so that’s what happened.”

  “You should have told someone.”

  He grimaced. “I was barely keeping my nose above water. Hanging onto my sanity by a thread. Jim let me know they’d found him when I rang. Found him up here on the tree,” he added, patting the smooth wood. “That wasn’t where I left him, and there was no way he could have got up by himself, so someone interfered with him. Why didn’t they let the cops know? I wanted to be back here with my wife safe before I put myself in jeopardy for something that was none of my fault.”

  “It was Beefy Haldane’s son,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose above his sunnies. “Had about as much sense as his father, then.”

  I shook my head. “Beefy’s dead too. I saw it happen.”

  This time it was Denny’s turn to try and console me. He held out a big hand, and for some reason I took it, and I also took a step or two closer to the awful tree and leaned on it, even without being given the million bucks.

  The spaniels started to whine and fuss and I clicked my tongue at them. “I was in a chopper with some other people. Beefy came galloping out of the bush, screaming and shooting. I think he thought he was back in Afghanistan.”

  “What a mess.”

  I nodded, and let out a long, slow sigh. “Okay with you if I phone the cops? DS Bruce Carver, who I know a bit? They’re going mad trying to work out who shot this boy. All they know so far is that the men who heaved him up onto the tree weren’t the ones who killed him. Wrong guns.”

  “Jim’s asked me to get rid of this tree,” Denny said, avoiding my question. “That’s what I’m doing here. Working out what needs to be done. Not anything else.”

  I kept hold of Denny’s hand as I dug my phone out of my pocket and scrolled for Bruce Carver with my thumb, hoping for once he’d be there.

  “Ms Summerfield,” he grated. “What a pleasant surprise. What would you like to tell me this time?”

  If I could have reached through the phone and slapped his snarky face, I would have. However, it was going to give me almost more pleasure to tell him he could stop looking for the murderer because I knew how David had died. “It would be good if you could come out to Drizzle Farm and talk to Denny McKenzie.”

  “You’re saying Denny McKenzie knows what happened?”

  “He’s just come back from his daughter’s wedding in Fiji and he’ll show you where a bullet hit the big loader arm of his tractor and bounced back and hit David. David effectively shot himself – not that he meant to.”

  There was total silence from the phone for several seconds.

  “I’m right here on the beach with Denny. He’s just told me. Would you like me to send you a photo of the impact?” I raised an eyebrow at Denny and squeezed his hand. The poor man was white as a ghost. “Tomorrow, maybe? His wife’s extremely unwell.”

  “Could I speak with him?”

  I gave Denny an apologetic glance, held out my phone, let go of his hand, and took the spaniels for a short walk to give him some privacy. The last thing I heard was Denny saying, “Yeah – in the gun-safe at home.”

  Epilogue

  “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” Paul said. “No point taking two cars.”

  “Or using twice the petrol,” I agreed. “Bye.”

  Ten minutes. Time to do really good smoky eyes and attempt an elegant up-do with my abundant hair. Heather makes it look so easy – she lifts and twists and then pushes that comb-thing in and it’s all tidy and stays that way. I’m more of a messy bun girl, and after a couple of French twist attempts I knew I’d be giving in and making a messy bun again.

  The doorbell rang sooner than I expected. I ran a brush through my hair a couple of times and raced to the front door. Already the spaniels had heard the giveaway noise and were barking their displeasure at not having a visitor at the back gate. Their gate. Bad luck, I’d give them a good long walk later.

  I swung the door open and found Paul. Early. He must have been ready to leave when he rang; there’s no way the vicarage is ten minutes away from here. Not even ten minutes on foot.

  His smile of greeting was surprisingly shy. “Are you wearing it down?” he asked.

  “This?” I asked, grabbing a double handful of hair and flapping it like wings.

  He nodded. “It’s not windy.”

  He looked so hopeful I grinned and said, “What is it with men and long hair? I was brushing it out for another attempt at making it look like Heather’s.”

  “No…” he said, eyes suddenly darker and more intense. “ Leave it like that. And let me brush it.”

  “What?” The late Sally Summerfield would be rolling her eyes at my rude reaction.

  “Let me brush it,” he repeated, taking a step inside. In that instant he turned from dependable friend and parish vicar to someone else entirely. The hot man I’d had occasional glimpses of had broken through the careful screen we’d always kept between us.

  Or had we? Maybe I’d been sending signals when I hadn’t intended to? Perhaps he’d seen the admiring glances I’d given his very good legs that first time I found him painting the railings outside Saint Agatha’s? Or he knew I’d enjoyed myself a little too much on the evening we’d gone to the Burkeville to make it look as though he definitely wasn’t gay?

  He’d been happy enough to hold my hand for the TV filming, and he’d slid his arm around my waist of his own volition and not removed it until we broke apart for lunch. Had Paul been quietly courting me while I hadn’t noticed?

  Clamping my teeth onto my bottom lip, I turned and walked back toward my bedroom. Paul in my bedroom! But there’d definitely be no hanky-panky today. I’d already waved to Heather who was waiting in the car. She’d expect both of us back straight away.

  Silently I handed him my big hairbrush and stood in front of the mirror so I could watch him. In our joint reflection I saw how much taller than me he was. How his bicep swelled below the short sleeve of his navy polo shirt as he lifted the brush and drew it down through my long, thick hair with evident pleasure.

  How he closed his eyes for a few seconds and inhaled before he resumed brushing. There was nothing exotic about my fruity shampoo but then I saw him bow his head and bury his nose against the strands for a deeper sniff.

  After another half dozen slow, careful strokes he said, “Beautiful hair. First thing I noticed about you.” Then he caught my eye in the mirror, laid down the brush with obvious
reluctance, and said, “Better go.”

  I locked up the house in a kind of dream. Paul had done that? And I’d let him?

  Beefy Haldane’s death and Paul’s traumatic reaction to the gunfire were a month in the past. He seemed fine. Business as usual. Or was it his iron will and unflagging self-discipline holding him together? I really couldn’t tell.

  It was now late January. Pupils were pouring back to school. The Coastal Courier had run the story about the demolition of the huge tree on the beach. They had their own before-and-after photos, but it was my spectacular shots of the actual explosion that had grabbed the most space. Bob Burgess had been hopping mad I was the only one who knew exactly when to turn up for the photo shoot.

  “Friends in high places,” I’d said, tapping the side of my nose. But it hadn’t been Lord Drizzle. It was Denny who’d given me the time and date – maybe as thanks for easing the way with Bruce Carver. Not that I’d done much apart from making the initial phone call and explaining the circumstances and the stress Denny had been under. Was still under. Poor Lorraine was clinging grimly to life.

  But today was intended for happier things. We were off to the Burkeville for a repeat of Heather’s first brunch there before she headed back to England. Her time in Drizzle Bay had rocketed by.

  “Hiya!” she said as Paul opened the car door for me. “Look!” She thrust out an arm in my direction. “That’s a genuine suntan. Who’d have thought? Pale old me.”

  “It’s a good summer. Nice for you to get outdoors. We’ll miss you.”

  She didn’t reply, and I thought that indicated regret. “How do they feel the TV commercial is working?” I asked to fill the uncomfortable silence.

  She shrugged. “We’ll get an update in a few minutes. I know they’ve been busy.”

  I was sure they had. Now my ears were tuned to even the faintest note of a helicopter and I often wondered, when I heard them in the distance, if Erik was dropping a load of adventurers off with John, or if he was collecting wealthy tourists to show them some of his secret and most spectacular beauty spots.

  Paul pulled into the parking lot. We were earlier than most of the crowd, and Erik came out from behind the counter, showing us to the same table we’d had brunch at the first time. “Continuing the tradition,” he said when I expressed surprise.

  “Good tradition,” Heather murmured.

  From behind the fence Fire and Ice added their own comments. I heard John’s distinctive whistle and they fell silent again.

  Brunch was fancier this time. Glasses and a carafe of juice were already arranged in the center of the table. A small jug held some pretty flowers.

  Paul and I sat. Erik slid his hand down Heather’s arm before pulling out her chair and making it plain the one next to it was his.

  “Same as the first time?” he asked.

  “You can’t have remembered what we all ate,” I protested.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Try me.” And sure enough the same choices were soon set down in front of us.

  “Is he doing his party trick?” John asked as he joined us with the final two plates. “This guy has a memory like nothing you can imagine. Tell him once and it’s in his brain forever.”

  “Yeah, I don’t forget anything important.” Erik glanced sideways at Heather, his lips quirking. “Haven’t forgotten anything about you.”

  I saw Paul sit up a little straighter. He almost bristled.

  “How are the heli-tours going?” I asked, hoping to dispel any tension.

  Erik kept his gaze fastened on Heather as he said, “Swell. More successful than we expected this early. Good future ahead.”

  I thought of Paul watching me in the mirror as he brushed my hair. Had he looked at me that intensely? As though he could ignite me with a glance or a touch?

  Heather picked up her fork. Bowed her head. Was she saying grace or was she avoiding Erik’s incendiary gaze?

  He reached across and took the fork from her with one hand. Tilted her chin up with the other so she had to look at him.

  “Stay,” he said. “Change your booking.”

  Her lips parted and her brow furrowed. “What for?”

  There was a moment’s absolute silence. I swear the surf stopped roaring and the coffee machine noise died away and there was no more clatter of knives and forks on plates.

  He slid his hand in under her jaw so she couldn’t look away. His black eyes were more serious than I’d ever seen them. “Me.”

  THE END

  A NOTE FROM KRIS

  Thank you so much for choosing to read my book! And thank you even more if you write a review.

  I want to acknowledge here the encouragement of two of my writer friends, Diana Fraser and Shirley Megget. We’ve been making each other laugh for a very long time and initially planned to write cozy mysteries as a threesome so we could produce books faster for you.

  But life gets in the way sometimes and we each got tied up with other projects. However, Shirley keeps poking plotlines in my direction and I can’t resist taking over and writing them. MURDER IN THE AISLE was the first. DEAD AND DISORDERLY will follow next. (There’s an excerpt of that just below.)

  More are planned. I have the fun covers already designed, and I’m enjoying myself very much. I hope that shows? But be warned – the Merry Summerfield cozy mysteries are totally different from all the contemporary romances I’ve written up until now.

  I’d also like to thank my friend Serenity Woods for reasons too numerous to mention. I’m sure you’d love her sexy contemporaries – especially her new Billionaire series.

  Big thanks to the members of my local chapter of Romance Writers of New Zealand, and The Ngaio Writers Group. It’s great to have people to bounce ideas off.

  And most of all, I want to thank my husband, Philip. He’s so good at putting up with my eccentric queries and late dinners and computer hassles.

  *

  I began my working life as an advertising copywriter at my local radio station. After living in Italy and London I returned to my capital city of Wellington and worked in TV, radio again, several advertising agencies, and then spent happy years as a retail ad manager. Totally hooked on fabrics, I followed this by going into business with Philip as a curtain installer, working for some of the city’s top designers. Quite a turnaround! It was finally time to write fiction. In twenty years I haven’t fallen off my ladder once through drifting into romantic dreams, but I’ve certainly seen some beautiful homes and met wonderful people, some of whom I may just have stolen glimpses of for the books.

  To see all my titles, go to http://www.krispearson.com

  If you click on the book covers on the right hand side of the home page there, you’ll be taken to the stories behind the books, and photos of the settings. Hope you visit me soon.

  Thank you,

  Kris.

  BOOK 3 – DEAD AND DISORDERLY – JUST A TASTE

  There’d never been a whisper about Matthew Boatman being a hoarder. Dapper bespectacled Matthew – who always mowed his small front lawn with a push-mower, and was often seen clipping his six privet bushes into perfect globes. Woe betide any rogue shoot trying to spoil their perfection.

  It seemed odd, on the day when I was collecting for the Red Cross, that his front door swung open when I knocked and a cat gave a loud and plaintive yowl from somewhere around head height.

  “Matthew,” I called, pushing the door further open after no-one had appeared after thirty seconds or so. Maybe he was in the bathroom? Perhaps he’d just popped inside from a snipping expedition to make a cup of tea?

  The cat yowled again. Then there was a blur and a loud thump, followed by the rapid tattoo of furry feet on bare floor-boards. The cat had gone. But where had it been? I took a step forward, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  It was very dark inside after the bright sunny day. Drizzle Bay in springtime can be dazzling. Blue skies, hard, low sun. I took another step. Something crunched under my foot.

&nb
sp; I bent down to see what I’d damaged, and the light from the doorway behind me revealed the head of a small bird. Euw! The body had been eaten, and a swirl of grey-brown feathers drifted along the narrow hallway. Narrow, I realised an instant later because the walls on either side were stacked solid with old newspapers and magazines. The head-high barricade ran past closed doors and blocked access to those rooms. The cat must have been perched on top. No wonder it had made a thump as it jumped down.

  There were no other sources of light. No doors open, so no windows illuminating anything from the outside. No lamps on. Just a faint glow from the far end of the right angled paper-stacked space.

  “Matthew!” I really bellowed that time. This was weird and spooky. I didn’t like it at all. My hair was up in a pony-tail and the back of my neck was chilled and prickling as the little hairs there rose up.

  My voice brought no human reply, but another cat howled. I’m sure it was a different animal because its voice was low and raspy, unlike the high panicked tone of the first one.

  This was fairly nasty. Should I call the Police? I stood there dithering for a few moments, then pulled out my phone, turned its torch on, and took three or four resolute steps forward. There was an open door behind me only a few yards away, so whatever I found around the bend I could easily escape.

  Even so, the heels of my ankle-boots sounded loud on the bare timber floor. Matthew had no carpet, no rugs, nothing to soften the noise of my slow steps.

  I peeked around the corner just as at least three cats made a dash for freedom. My torch made their shadows look enormous and distorted against the stacked-paper walls. A tail brushed past my leg, paws raced over my feet and off down the hallway. I’m ashamed to admit I screamed. Only a short, surprised squawk, but still…

  Matthew Boatman sat at the cluttered kitchen table, leaning at ease in his chair, a half-opened can of cat-food in front of him. A can opener drooped from the rim.

  A long gleaming arrow was neatly imbedded in his back, right between the slats of the chair, but I didn’t see that to start with. In fact I was fully into the kitchen, asking him if he was okay, before I noticed it. He definitely had a strange expression on his face.