THE INTENDED VICTIM
“Someone tried to kill Noah?” She said the words out loud in an attempt to make them real. “Why?”
Chelle held up her hand, as if warning Wynter not to leap to conclusions. “That’s one possibility.”
“You think it was an accident?”
Chelle shook her head at the ridiculous suggestion. “I think he was driving your truck when someone took a shot at him.”
It took Wynter a second to sort through her fuzzy thoughts. Of course. Noah had left his Jeep in the parking lot and taken her truck so he could collect the fertilizer and take it to her grandpa’s farm. Anyone who’d seen him driving on the isolated road would naturally have assumed it was her.
Her lips were numb, making it hard to form the words. “They were trying to kill me. . . .”
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Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
FACELESS
ALEXANDRA IVY
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THE INTENDED VICTIM
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Epilogue
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Debbie Raleigh
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-5144-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5145-9 (eBook)
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Chapter 1
The second week of April was a happy time for most citizens of Larkin, Iowa. The worst of the harsh winter weather had hopefully passed and the air would soon be scented with the promise of spring.
But for Wynter Moore, the date was a painful reminder of her mother’s brutal murder.
Leaving her small apartment, Wynter walked down the narrow flight of stairs that led to the recently remodeled kitchen of her farm-to-table restaurant, Wynter Garden.
Usually the scent of warm bread and fresh herbs greeted her. This morning, however, the long room with the sleek stainless-steel appliances and green-and-white mosaic tiled floor was dark, with a distinct chill in the air.
Wynter ignored the tiny shiver that raced through her. Next week the kitchen would be humming with activity. There would be two chefs and four waiters buzzing around, moving in a synchronized dance to produce the gourmet breakfast and lunch dishes that had made the restaurant a success in the past seven years.
For now, the windows and doors would stay shuttered. A silent tribute to her mother’s death. And the knowledge that without the trust fund the older woman had left behind, the restaurant would have remained an impossible dream.
Using the side exit, Wynter stepped out of the three-story brick building that had once been the local mercantile store for the small farm community. It’d been abandoned decades ago, and it had taken Wynter several months and a shocking amount of money to transform it into a restaurant and a comfortable apartment for herself.
In the end, however, it had been worth every headache and every penny.
Wynter shivered as a sharp breeze hit her with unexpected force, lifting her silvery blond hair to whip and dance until it covered her slender face. She clicked her tongue, impatiently grasping the long strands and tucking them beneath the collar of her puffy parka.
When she was working she kept her hair pulled into a ponytail. Today she wanted to make an effort with her appearance, not only leaving her hair down, but adding a layer of mascara to the long lashes that framed her hazel eyes and exchanging her faded jeans and casual smock top for wool slacks and yellow sweater.
Unfortunately, the promise of spring was more of a wish and a prayer than a reality today. The temperature hovered around freezing despite the morning sunlight, and the wind was cold enough to cut through her like a knife.
Hunching her shoulders, Wynter scurried across the empty lot next to her building. Long ago it had been a bakery, but after a fire three years ago the owners had walked
away. Wynter had purchased the land and turned it into a parking lot. Eventually she planned to use a portion of the space to create an outdoor eating area surrounded by a garden. For now, however, she was happy to have plenty of space for parking.
There was no better place to have a business in Larkin than on the town square, but the place had been built when people’s transportation consisted of horses and buggies. During her Sunday morning brunches, her customers had been forced to park blocks away.
She was scurrying along the edge of her building in the futile hope it might block the wind when a van with a familiar logo painted on the side parked next to her battered black pickup.
Wynter watched in surprise as the woman jumped out of the vehicle and headed toward the back of the van. Tonya Knox was the owner of the gift shop that was on the other side of the parking lot and one of Wynter’s best friends despite the fact she was fifteen years her senior.
It’d been Tonya who’d walked her through the nightmare of business licenses, taxes, and local zoning. She’d also had a shoulder for Wynter to cry on when the water line froze and busted, forcing her to close down the restaurant for over a week. And when a rival restaurant owner in town paid his staff to leave nasty online reviews.
Wynter halted to watch as Tonya pulled open the back of her van. The woman was several inches taller than Wynter and double her weight. Tonya wasn’t fat, just solid with the muscles she acquired in the pottery studio she’d built at the back of the gift shop. She could lift and carry the heavy blocks of clay without breaking a sweat. In contrast, Wynter was reed slender. Her grandfather told her that a strong puff of wind would blow her away.
On cue, a gusty breeze tugged at Wynter’s hair, urging her to head to her truck and get the engine revving. It was not only too cold to be standing outside, but time was ticking. She wanted to get on the road.
“Hey, Tonya. What are you doing up at this hour?” she called out. “I thought you said you needed your beauty sleep?”
Wynter Garden opened at six in the morning and served until two in the afternoon. That meant that Wynter was up by four to start prepping for the day. In contrast, Tonya slept until midmorning and opened her gift shop at noon. Of course, she also gave pottery lessons in the evening so it was often midnight before she was locking up.
It made them perfect neighbors.
Tonya turned, revealing the numerous piercings that studded her nose, her lip, and her ears. She had short black hair and pale eyes that she framed with black liner. Beneath her leather coat, her body was covered in tats that represented her love for art.
She didn’t try to look Goth. She just was Goth.
Until her father had passed when she was twenty-one, Tonya had intended to become a famous artist in Paris. Instead, she’d come home from art school to take over the gift shop and care for her mother.
“I’ve decided beauty is highly overrated,” Tonya told her. “At my age I’m lucky to remember to put my pants on before I leave the house.”
“That has nothing to do with age. I forgot my bra yesterday.” Wynter shoved her hands in the pockets of her parka. “Are you working in your studio this morning?”
“Nope. I wanted to catch you before you take off for Pike.”
“Me? Do you need something?”
“Here.” Tonya reached into the back of her delivery van and pulled out a small urn with flowers and tiny berries etched into the clay and a shimmering ivory glaze.
“It’s lovely.” Wynter sent her friend a puzzled gaze. “Is it a new piece for your shop?”
“No. I made the urn for your mother’s grave.”
Gratitude raced through Wynter, warming her chilled blood. Living in a small town meant she was constantly surrounded by family and friends, but she was also alone. Her mother had been violently killed in a senseless crime. That made her different from her neighbors. Tonya was one of the few people who understood how hard this day was for Wynter. “You didn’t have to do this. You already made an urn.”
Tonya shrugged. “It’s been a few years. I thought you might want a change.”
“That’s—” The words caught in Wynter’s throat. She cleared away the lump. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Her friend shifted in obvious discomfort. Tonya might create amazing art, but she kept her emotions hidden beneath her brash personality. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it, Tonya,” Wynter insisted. “Not only the urn, which is gorgeous, but for remembering. That means a lot to me.”
Tonya waved her hand in an impatient motion. “Get going. It’s too cold to stand out here yapping.”
“I’ll come by the shop tomorrow and we can chat without threat of frostbite,” Wynter murmured.
Cradling the urn carefully in her arms, she headed to her truck and started the engine. Her heart felt lighter than usual as she began her yearly pilgrimage.
Precisely three hours later she reached Pike, Wisconsin, and pulled through the line of cedar trees that marked the edge of the cemetery. She parked the truck and walked to her mother’s grave that was in a section reserved for the Hurst family.
Once, they’d been a prominent family in town that had earned them an impressive marble mausoleum and large trees throwing shade over the entire area. Wynter wasn’t sure when the Hursts had lost their fortune, but the downward spiral was visible in the size and elegance of the various tombs scattered around the lot.
Over the years she determined that it had been her great-grandparents that had drained the last of the wealth. Their graves were marked with large marble angels that had been hand-carved, but there was no standing vault and no wrought-iron fence to protect it from vandals. Just two graves buried in the ground. Her grandparents’ graves were lacking even the angels. Just plain marble headstones, and her mother’s even more plain. If it wasn’t the lovely urn she carefully placed on the white slab and filled with fresh flowers, the grave would appear barren. As if the person beneath the ground wasn’t worth the time or expense of remembering.
When she was young, she’d asked her father why he’d chosen to bury her mother in Pike instead of Larkin where she could easily visit. He’d told her that her grandmother had insisted Laurel be placed with her family, but his words had that tight edge that revealed he wasn’t telling her the truth. At least not the full truth.
Once she finished wiping the year’s worth of dirt that had collected on the tombstone, Wynter spent some time telling her mother the latest events in her life. There wasn’t much to share. Just an update on the restaurant and the new muffler on the pickup. Her life wasn’t exactly a thrill a minute. In fact, she nearly put herself to sleep trying to find something interesting to say.
Maybe she should start thinking about adding some spice to her personal life, she ruefully acknowledged. The restaurant was stable now, and her apartment fully remodeled. It was time to put a little effort into refurbishing herself.
How she intended to do that was a question that had no answer.
Not yet.
A gust of wind swirled through the air, tugging at her parka and spinning her hair over her face. With a resigned sigh, Wynter rose to her feet and brushed the dirt from her hands. This year was colder than usual. Plus she had another stop before she could return to the protection of her truck.
Grabbing the strands of her hair, she tucked them under her coat and walked through the narrow paths that divided the cemetery into sections. It wasn’t a particularly large space, and the newer graves tended to be closer to the main road. She was hurrying toward a mound of earth that had recently been disturbed when she belatedly noticed the tall man standing next to the headstone. As she neared, he swiveled his head to study her, revealing his pale eyes that when combined with his short blond hair hinted at a Nordic ancestry. He was tall and lean and she guessed close to her own twenty-nine years of age.
“Can I help?” he inquired, his tone suggesting he was being more than polite. He prepared to offer whatever assistance she might need.
“Sorry, I was looking for Sheriff Jansen’s grave,” she said.
“It’s here.” He nodded toward the plot that was covered with bare, frozen dirt. “I’m his son, Kir.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her with blatant curiosity. “Did you know my dad?”
“Not personally. He investigated my mother’s murder.”
He frowned, as if trying to place her face. “Your mother was from Pike?”
“Originally. She was Laurel Hurst. At least until she married my father, Edgar Moore, and moved to Iowa.”
“Laurel Moore.” He repeated the name; then his eyes abruptly widened. “She was the woman shot at the old Shell station.”
Wynter flinched. “Yes.”
It was vaguely horrible that her mother’s life was now defined by her death. No one mentioned that she’d been a trained artist with a talent for watercolors. Or that she’d given up her career to care for her husband and young daughter. It was always “the woman who was brutally murdered.”
“I remember the night.” Kir slowly nodded his head. “My father brought you to the house.”
She glanced toward the headstone. “He was very kind. I was still in the car after . . .” The words died on her lips, but with an effort, she forced herself to continue. She couldn’t tell Rudolf Jansen how much he’d helped her that night, but she could share her gratitude with his son. She sensed he would appreciate knowing that his father had touched her life. “He found me and took me to your home so my grandmother could go to the hospital. They were still hoping my mother could be revived.” A sad smile touched her lips as she recalled being perched on the edge of a wooden kitchen chair with a heavy mug clutched in her tiny hands. “He gave me hot chocolate and wrapped me in a blanket until my grandmother could come to take me back to her house.” She shook her head, meeting Kir’s steady gaze with a rueful smile. “He stirred the hot chocolate with a peppermint stick. It’s weird the things that stick in your mind. I barely recall anything of that night, but the hot chocolate and peppermint stick are as vivid as if it happened yesterday.”
Faceless Page 1