Sins of the Mother

by Megan Mollson

  “Sins of the Mother”

  Cozy Mystery

  A Morris Agency Mystery

  Volume One

  Megan Mollson

  © 2021

  Megan Mollson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

  Edition v1.00 (2021.01.25)

  Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Julie Pope, Dick B., Kari Wellborn, RB, Blue Savannah and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.

  “The Sins of the Mother”

  Cozy Mystery

  A Morris Agency Mystery

  Volume One

  Megan Mollson

  © 2021

  Megan Mollson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.

  Edition v1.00 (2021.01.08)

  Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: (your name here if you help with proofreading suggestions) and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  If I die now no-one will know what happened to Clarabell… If I die now…

  Evelyn Turner kept repeating these words like a mantra, using the implication to propel herself forward. There was blood dripping down her face, obscuring her vision and making her task all the more difficult. She had climbed this same water tower a million times before. Only last week she had joked that she could probably do it with her eyes closed. She never thought that the opportunity to prove her words would come so quickly.

  The tranquil air of the farm seemed at odds with her terrifying new reality. The air was hot, and it was a typical sultry summer afternoon. How many of these afternoons had she enjoyed with her younger sister? The cows were grazing in the distance, the occasional moo echoing over the too-silent farm.

  Evelyn didn’t feel the heat as she climbed up the water tower, one rung at a time. Her heart had become an icy block, sending shivers over her skin with every new beat. Her fear felt surreal. Bad things were supposed to happen in the dead of the night, or in the middle of a storm, not during an ordinary day when she was supposed to be setting the table for lunch.

  “If I die now, no-one will know what happened to Clarabell,” Evelyn repeated under her breath.

  The hot iron burned her skin, leaving red imprints on her hands as she climbed. A stiff breeze blew her skirt up, and if her father could see her now, he’d give her a stern talking to.

  “Good girls don’t let their skirts blow past their knees, Evelyn,” he’d tell her with that familiar deep crease on his forehead. She often wondered if there had been a time when his forehead didn’t look like an old saddle. “What would the Preacher say if he saw you now?”

  He’d raise his bushy eyebrows and purse his thin lips together, waiting for her reply. She could see it as if it were happening right in front of her. Her Daddy often warned her that she’d find herself in some trouble one day. She always hoped that he’d be around to help her out when that happened. Little did she know that trouble would come waltzing into their kitchen one Saturday afternoon while Daddy was away at the market.

  “He’d tell me to survive, Daddy,” Evelyn said firmly, trying to blink the white spots of light out of her vision.

  Nausea welled up inside her, and she resisted the urge to throw up. She’d already left a blood trail. If her attackers wanted to find her, she didn’t want to leave them any more clues. Or maybe, and she hoped this against all hope, they thought she was dead.

  A high-pitched whistling cut through her hopes. No. In a few moments, they’d go back into the kitchen to survey their handiwork. They’d see that there was one less body than before, and they’d connect the dots. This spurred her on, moving her to go faster. Up ahead, the windmill creaked loudly in protest. Evelyn’s bare hands and feet were in pain as she hauled herself up the old ladder, but it didn’t compare to the pain in her head. She knew that she needed to get medical attention right away, but none of that mattered if she didn’t survive this first.

  “I know you’re out here, little girl,” they called out.

  The voice was sticky-sweet like molasses. She knew that voice, the whole town did. It wasn’t supposed to be the voice of a killer.

  Evelyn found herself at the top of the tower. She opened the hatch and looked down into the dark depths as a gust of cool air fanned her sweaty face. Her father’s words came back to her in a rush.

  “Never go down there,” he warned her, his dark eyes full of warning, “you won’t be able to get out on your own. No matter how hard you try.”

  For almost twenty years she had heeded his warning, but now she wav
ed his words away. Evelyn took a deep breath and climbed in feet first. Her heart was heavy as she plunged into the icy water. As the hatch closed above her, she was bathed in darkness so black that she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her. The water soothed her scratched hands and feet, but burned her wounds. Evelyn knew the farm better than anyone. She knew that this was the only place she’d be safe.

  All their lives, Evelyn and Clara had joined the local kids at the watering hole. Everyone in the area knew that Evelyn could swim with the big boys because she didn’t get tired quickly like the other girls. She was counting on this fact as she treaded the water, looking for any sort of handhold. There was none.

  “Where are you, Daddy?” Evelyn asked, her raspy words bouncing off the sides of the water tank.

  Her limbs felt heavy, and she was already struggling for breath. She’d been weak when she’d climbed into the tank, and now the freezing water was sapping the last of her reserves. Soon she wouldn’t be able to hold her head above water anymore.

  When she was five years old, Evelyn had gone with her father to check up on some of the new-born lambs. They’d found one lying in the water trough, its head bobbing lifelessly. The sight had haunted Evelyn’s nightmares through the years. She’d always imagine how that little animal must’ve struggled for air while fighting against the water that wouldn’t let it out. She’d imagined the situation so many times that she thought she’d know what to do if it ever happened to her. Now that she was in the situation, the terror overwhelmed her, and she felt powerless.

  The hatch overhead opened up, causing the sudden light to sear her eyes. Evelyn let out a surprised cry and swam to the side of the tank, her hands clawed at the slimy wall for some sort of ledge, but they kept sliding down into the water.

  “There you are, princess,” the sticky sweet voice said.

  Chapter One

  Once you move on, you can never go back.

  Zasha Cole’s mother had drilled these words into her daughters’ heads from the moment they were born. They always managed to fill Zasha with a vague sense of dread. She never dared to ask Mama what she had meant. There were some things that were off limits when it came to Mama. Sometimes she’d say things with that faraway expression of hers, and her daughters had to nod along solemnly. They learned a long time ago not to ask her what she meant.

  It was a balmy summer afternoon when Zasha started to understand what her mother meant. She was cycling down a lonely country road, one that she had taken hundreds of times before, when she saw something that would change her life forever.

  There, on the old dirt road that led from her house to her best friend Evelyn’s farm, was a sight so unusual that it stopped her in her tracks.

  There, parked on the side of the road was a brand-new car with smoke billowing from the front. A woman was bent over the hood, working on something in the engine. This was unusual for multiple reasons, mostly because New Hope wasn’t accustomed to seeing any strangers. And this woman certainly was strange. Her long legs were clad in a pair of trousers, and her bright red hair was tied back with what looked like a handkerchief.

  “Excuse me,” Zasha said cautiously, after a moment’s hesitation. “Are you lost?”

  The woman looked up with a frown, a grease smudge marring her otherwise perfect skin. She arched her thin eyebrows as she looked Zasha up and down with a critical look.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix a flooded engine, would you?”

  The woman’s accent was odd, and paired with her lilting voice, made Zasha feel as though she was talking to a foreigner even though the woman was undoubtedly American. Zasha shrugged and shook her sheepishly, suddenly feeling guilty for never learning about cars even though she could count the number of times she’d been in a car on one hand.

  “My friend’s daddy has a truck,” Zasha said slowly. “He might be able to help you fix it. He lives down the road there.”

  “Well, honey, that’s nice of you to suggest but I don’t think your friend’s daddy is going to know what to do with a roadster,” the woman said in amusement. “What about a telephone? Do you folks have one of those around here?”

  Zasha’s chest puffed out indignantly at this. She resented it when people assumed that they were out of touch hicks simply because they lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

  “As a matter of fact, we have one at our house,” Zasha said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sure Papa wouldn’t mind letting you use it. You could call a mechanic in the city.”

  “Looks like my problems are all solved,” the woman said, grinning widely and showing off her pearly white teeth.

  Zasha blinked in surprise. She wasn’t used to seeing people wearing red lipstick. Sure, Mrs. Hayworth wore it on special occasions, but Mrs. Hayworth used to be an actress and was afforded certain liberties. This woman was unlike anyone Zasha had ever seen before, and she wondered what such an exotic creature was doing in New Hope. She was probably what people called a flapper. Zasha wished that her best friend Evelyn were around to meet the woman. Maybe if Zasha got a chance, she could go over to the Turners’ farm and tell Evelyn about this surprising turn of events.

  “You can follow me,” Zasha said, reluctantly getting off her bicycle.

  It wasn’t often that she got some time to herself, and her weekly rides down this deserted road were what got her through the week. She knew that when she showed up at home with a guest in tow, her mother would immediately give her a list of chores as long as her arm. The woman’s expression changed to one of doubt, and Zasha grimaced. She immediately felt guilty. Was this any way to treat a guest? What if the woman mentioned to her mother how unfriendly Zasha had been?

  “You can ride on my bicycle, if you want,” Zasha offered charitably, “it’s quite far away.”

  “Don’t sweat it, darling,” the woman said, shoving her hands in her pockets and swaggering toward Zasha. “It’s a good day for a walk.”

  “O-okay,” Zasha said, drawing the word out as she thought of something to say. “My name is Zasha, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “Zasha?” The woman said, tilting her head so that her helmet of red hair glinted in the sunlight. “That’s unusual. Pretty- but unusual.”

  Zasha fought the urge to roll her eyes. Although she’d been born in New Hope, she always stuck out like a sore thumb. Her foreign name and unique features meant that she’d never truly fit into New Hope’s mold. That didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to try and was the reason why she let her peers call her “Sasha” while her little sister Tatyana became “Tati”. She hated the way her mother always flinched when Zasha’s friends called her Sasha, but Zasha forced herself to ignore it. If her mother wanted Zasha’s friends to get her name right, then she should’ve given Zasha a normal name.

  “Sounds Russian,” the woman commented. “Your mama a fan of Russian literature?”

  “Given the fact that she’s Russian, she’s been known to be partial to some of it,” Zasha said wryly. Her eyes widened when she realized what she said, but to her relief, the woman started chuckling.

  “Well, well, who would’ve thought I’d find a Russian national in the middle of the sticks?” the woman asked in amusement. “That’s my mistake, honey, I’m sorry. My name is Ivy.”

  Zasha pursed her lips. Ivy was such an ordinary name, and Zasha was jealous of it. The woman with the bright red hair and fancy clothes should have a strange name while Zasha, with her faded dress and plaited hair, should have had the ordinary one.

  “I like you, Zasha, you’ve got spunk,” Ivy said with a firm nod.

  Zasha looked up and was surprised to see Ivy’s brilliant green eyes sparkling in amusement. Zasha considered asking Ivy how she did her eye makeup but thought the better of it. There was no way her mother would let her wear makeup like that.

  “How did someone like you end up in a place like this?” Ivy asked, gesturing around to the wide-open fields around them.

  “You�
��re pulling my leg, right?” Zasha asked incredulously. “You’re the one who sticks out. I don’t know if Papa’s going to let you into the house looking like that.”

  “I knew I should’ve put on a dress today,” Ivy said with a sigh, looking down at herself regretfully. “Although, I’d like to see your Papa try and drive with a skirt.”

  Zasha snorted despite herself. She quickly covered her mouth and looked around with wide eyes, her shoulders only relaxed when she remembered that no one else was around. Besides, Ivy didn’t seem like the type to lecture her about respect.

  “Is this one of those places where they judge a lady for wearing pants?” Ivy asked curiously. “My, I have lost touch, haven’t I? It’s been so long since I left New York.”

  “You’re from New York?” Zasha interrupted, feeling a thrill of excitement pass through her.

  As she spoke, the sound of an engine approaching interrupted her. She looked up quickly, surprised to see Mr. Turner’s truck barreling toward them in a cloud of dust. Zasha lifted her hand to wave, but he drove past without acknowledging her. She lowered her hand sheepishly, her cheeks burning. So, he was still angry about what happened last weekend. Zasha looked away in shame.

  “Who’s that?” Ivy asked curiously, looking at Zasha intently.

  “That’s my best friend’s daddy,” Zasha said simply. “He’s the one I told you about, the one with the truck.”

  Zasha braced herself for the inevitable onslaught of questions. If that was her best friend’s father, then why had he ignored Zasha’s greeting? She had a feeling that Ivy wouldn’t judge her over what happened last weekend, but Zasha didn’t want to talk about it. She would be in enough trouble when she got home, on account of the fact that she was technically still grounded.