Lonesome Lake
Page 1
Lonesome Lake
Lesley Appleton-Jones
A Jakes and Raines Murder Mystery: Book One
Lonesome Lake is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Plumridge Press, LLC
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, distributed, transferred, stored in a retrieval system, downloaded or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Published by Plumridge Press, LLC. Cover design by Plumridge Press, LLC. Cover Photograph: andreiuc88/Photodune
eBook ISBN: 978-0-692-15385-7
For my parents, Peter and Anne, who always believed
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Acknowledgments
A Letter From Lesley
For the soul is dyed by the thoughts
Marcus Aurelius
Chapter One
A flash of light woke Mimi Milbourne.
Typical, she thought. The weatherman failed to mention a storm.
Groggy with sleep, she stared out of the window into the dark of the moonless night and waited for the rumble of thunder. The curtains were open so she could wake to the view of the White Mountains. This far from town, privacy wasn’t a problem. Dense forest surrounded her cabin, and her nearest neighbor lived more than a mile away, but a storm would keep her awake. Throwing back the covers, she rose to close them.
The pine floorboards felt chilly under her bare feet. She sniffed the air. A faint hint of smoke had wafted into her room. The scent freed a forgotten memory of her father roasting marshmallows over a campfire on her thirteenth birthday.
Still sleepy, she wondered why someone would burn leaves in the middle of the night. And why so close to her cabin?
She’d almost reached the window when a brittle clink pierced the silent night.
Mimi jumped as if someone had kicked her.
That wasn’t thunder.
It sounded more like a spoon striking crystal or ice hitting the bottom of her husband’s favorite highball glass. The only problem was that he’d stayed in Boston to attend a business dinner, so it wasn’t Charles fixing his favorite scotch and soda. He planned to drive up first thing in the morning. She was alone—or more importantly—she prayed that she was alone.
Blinking into the darkness, Mimi held her breath to listen for a telltale creak that someone was creeping around the cabin. All she could hear, though, was the pounding of her heart as her body prepared itself to either run like hell or fight for her life.
Instinct urged her to move, to go check she’d locked the front door, but her training as an insurance broker kept her rooted to the spot. Death statistics were her trade. Aware of the unnecessary risks people took with their lives, she wasn’t about to go looking for trouble.
She stood in the middle of her room, counting the seconds all the way to five minutes. Hearing nothing else, she scurried back to bed and chided herself for being a coward. It didn’t get much safer than North Caxton, New Hampshire. For reassurance, she ran through the crime statistics for the area. There were drunk-driving accidents, a fairly recent domestic homicide and several larcenies, but that was about it. Except for Nancy Taggart, she remembered with sadness. She’d been killed in a hit-and-run. But there were no home invasions. No monsters lurking in closets.
It must have been a branch hitting the window or a chipmunk trying to get into the attic, she decided. After all, it was cold for October. Snuggling under the comforter, she let her thoughts meander to her husband and the delicious, overstuffed cannoli he always brought up with him from the North End. The image of creamy, ricotta-stuffed pastry shells dusted with confectioner’s sugar made her mouth water.
Then someone tapped on her window.
Mimi jerked upright—heart in her throat. But she could see nothing in the panther blackness.
Without warning, a lighter sparked and flared. To her horror, the flickering flame revealed the bulk of a man standing outside her window.
Frozen, all she could do was watch as he leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the glass and peered in at her. A ski mask hid his face, but his eyes—dead as a shark’s—fixed on her.
She screamed, the sound of it terrifying her almost as much as the sight of the man. Yanking the comforter up to her chin, she tried to protect herself from his cold, blank stare.
He responded by wagging his finger at her.
She trembled in fear.
Then the light went out.
Mimi could see nothing, hear nothing.
She waited, her eyes never wavering from the window as the seconds passed with the menace of a ticking time bomb.
Suddenly, another flame burst into life. This one was bigger and so bright she could clearly see that the man had vanished. Relief flooded through her before her befuddled brain could figure out what was happening. A second later, the flame exploded like napalm into a fireball with a terrifying whoosh.
Cha
pter Two
Blue lights strobed into Caxton’s darkened stores, momentarily transforming the window mannequins into robotic dancers at a disco. Detective Sergeant Holly Jakes, though, didn’t notice the effect the Crown Vic’s emergency lights had on the passing town. Her focus was on the road ahead.
Caxton blurred into North Caxton, and the slew of premium outlets, ski shops, motels and restaurants gave way to the National Forest. Once she cleared town, Holly stomped on the accelerator. Gunning it down the highway, she followed Route 16 as it curved through the White Mountains like an arthritic spine.
All day the leaves had fallen in a fanfare of color, announcing autumn’s arrival. Although beautiful, Holly knew a blanket of them on the road could be treacherous, especially after the rain they’d had earlier that morning. Despite that, she didn’t slow down. She was used to speed. She even craved it. At seventeen, Holly won the World Cup downhill skiing title—as well as gold at the World Championships—by clocking top speeds of eighty miles per hour on steep, icy slopes. Her coach claimed she was born wanting to go fast. That wasn’t true. She remembered the exact moment it had happened. She’d been nine. And ever since that day, she’d been trying to outrun, outski and outdistance the nightmare of what she’d done.
Gripping the wheel, she sped up, forcing herself to focus on the present. When Dispatch had called to report a suspicious fire, Holly made an effort not to sound too excited, but it hadn’t been easy. Until the call, all she’d had to look forward to was the slow-sucking quagmire of police paperwork.
She turned onto East Ridge Road, took the corner too fast and fishtailed hard to the right. Without hesitating, Holly steered into the skid, accelerating as they’d trained her to do years earlier at the police academy. As if by magic, the car straightened. Tonight was not the time to lose it on a tight bend, she told herself, but racing around back roads sure beat sitting at her desk.
Nearing the scene, she watched flames erupt above the tree line, igniting the night sky like it was the Fourth of July. Ahead of her, Officer Angel Natale looked up, his mouth open in amazement. He stood next to his cruiser, ready to direct any traffic venturing out at one in the morning.
Holly pulled up beside him and rolled down her window. The roar of the fire and the smell of burnt timber flooded the car. Even though the house was set back more than a quarter mile from the road and surrounded by forest, the burning building was visible through the trees.
“What a blaze,” she yelled loud enough to be heard over the din.
Angel placed an arm on the roof of the old cruiser and leaned down. “They think it’s arson.” He looked jazzed, all round-eyed and eager. “I haven’t had a Friday night this hot in years.” He grinned.
“No kidding,” she said and laughed.
They’d been friends for years, bonding at first because they were the only minorities in the department. His mother was Peruvian, his father second-generation Sicilian American. He spoke fluent Spanish and passable Italian, which his grandmother had taught him. She’d also taught him how to cook. He could whip up a Gorgonzola pizza that was so good Holly practically wept for joy every time he made it for her. He’d used it to lure her to one of his parties the night he set her up with her boyfriend.
“Anyone hurt?” she asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“That’s good.” Eyeing the grass verge for a place to pull over, she noticed an antique Ford pickup that had been restored with meticulous care. She recognized it, and her cheery tone turned funereal. “Tell me Cal Raines isn’t here.”
“The one and only.” Angel grinned, flashing straight white teeth. “He was the first on scene.”
She groaned. “That’s just what I don’t need tonight.”
His smile broadened. “So, he won’t get an invite to Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Somehow I don’t think my turkey would be juicy enough for him,” she muttered.
Last year, when Raines had returned to town, he’d robbed her of a job the Sheriff had promised her—head of Kearsarge County’s newly established Major Crimes Investigative Unit. Considering Raines had been the lead singer of the Grammy award-winning rock band, Acid Raines, it was a job he didn’t need. Not only had she wanted the challenge the new position offered, but also the bump in pay would have been helpful. Now it appeared Raines planned to muscle in on her case. No way was she about to let that happen.
Rolling forward to park, Holly was tempted to sideswipe his pride and joy but managed to restrain herself. She slung the department issue Nikon camera around her neck, zipped up her jacket to stop it flopping around and grabbed the fishing tackle box, which contained her crime scene kit. At the end of a long, shadowy driveway, flames glowed through the trees, guiding her way. Running toward the fire, she tasted smoke at the back of her throat. The evidence collection materials rattled in the plastic box, and her ponytail—a department requirement for her shoulder-length hair—bounced up and down.
When the trees cleared, the heat hit her. The fire reared before her, gigantic and deadly like a monstrous beast that hissed and spat as water streamed down onto its blazing body. Thick, black smoke billowed up and drifted north.
Engine One, Caxton’s initial attack vehicle and Tower Two, the town’s ladder truck, were parked nearest to the house. The fire engines gleamed, immaculate and proud as any honor guard. Respect surged through her at the sight of the firefighters battling the flames. Most of them were volunteers. The energy radiating from them was palpable, and it was infectious. Not even the presence of Raines could diminish her excitement.
She’d spotted him right away. He was hard to miss. Although taller than the other men, it was the way he stood that commanded attention. As if he owned every damn square inch of the ground he walked on, she thought. That’s what you got when you mixed equal amounts of good looks, talent and money—the ability to be the center of attention while standing next to a crackling inferno.
Raines was with Caxton’s Fire Chief. Michael Sullivan, or Sully to those who knew him, pointed to the far end of the house. Raines nodded and made a circular motion with his hand.
Holly clenched the handle of her crime scene box until her fingers hurt. This was her case. Just because Raines knew Sully didn’t mean he had a right to be there.
Then one of the firefighters yelled something to the Chief about water being less than a minute out. Sully hurried over to Engine One, nodding to Holly as he shouted something to his men about a forty-second blitz.
Holly marched up beside Raines, ready to tell him to get the hell off her scene.
He glanced at her, coughed, sucked in a lungful of the night air and coughed again.
The tirade she’d been about to deliver died a quick death. “Tell me you didn’t go into the house, Raines,” she shouted above the roar of the fire.
He took another hit of fresh air before continuing, “Didn’t make it all the way into the cabin. Too far gone. Fully engulfed. Only made it into the garage.”
“Damn it, Raines. What were you thinking?” He’d been pulling stupid stunts like that since kindergarten.
He turned a sooty face to her and rasped, “Shame I forgot the marshmallows.”
“You idiot.”
He laughed, but it had an unnatural wheeze to it.
She squinted at him. “You need smoke inhalation treatment.”
He shook his head and tugged the bottom of his black t-shirt up high to wipe the soot off his face, revealing a perfect set of toned abs.
To avoid gawking, Holly turned to scan the area for any signs of encroachment, but not before she noticed a long, jagged white scar running across his tanned ribcage. She almost questioned him about it but asked instead, “Does Sully think the fire’s going to spread?”
“No. Not after this morning’s rain and the lack of wind,” Raines wheezed. “Also, the owners cleared a wide swath of trees around back to create a lawn fit for afternoon tea and a game of croquet. Any other day, I’d think there was something lu
dicrous about that manicured clearing, but it served as a perfect firebreak.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him lower his t-shirt. “Anyone here when you arrived?”
“No.”
“But the garage door was open?” she asked.
“Yes. I thought someone was home, but there were no vehicles inside.”
“And you smelled gasoline?”
Raines nodded. “Sully says an accelerant fits with the inconsistent burn pattern. You can’t tell now, but the fire was set on the outside of the structure.”
The open garage door and the absent owners concerned Holly. “You’ve probably heard about the recent break-ins.”
“All vacation cabins, right?”
“Yes. I suspect it was teenagers partying because the only things missing were alcohol, snacks and a few small household items. Maybe this is another break-in, and something went wrong. Or they were bored and decided to liven things up with a blaze.”
A loud whoosh, followed by the thunder of falling timber, drowned out his response. Flames surged, and embers flitted high up into the night sky like fireflies from hell.
They watched three firefighters reposition themselves, squat, point a hose at the house and brace themselves as the water gushed out. Someone shouted for more pressure, followed by the disconcerting buzz of a rescue saw starting up. Holly held up a hand to protect her face from the heat while Raines hiked up the collar of his jacket. The men blasted the building with water as flames continued undaunted in their frenzied eruption through the windows.
It was so damn hot, she didn’t know how the firefighters could take it.
Raines shouted above the din, “Do you have a camera? We should take a few photos.”
“Of course I have a camera,” she snapped, turning to face him. “Anyway, why are you here?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “As in the birds and the bees?”
“No. As in ‘I don’t need Kearsarge County’s head of Major Crimes here.’ I can handle this.” Technically, Raines had a right to be there because he worked for the Sheriff’s Department, which had statewide jurisdiction in New Hampshire. Added to that, the town’s elected officials wanted to see his famous face in front of the cameras. That didn’t mean she was about to let him hijack her juicy case, and she didn’t give a damn how unpopular that made her. He wasn’t going to work her arson.