Killer Shots Murder Mysteries - Books 1-3

by Lisa B. Thomas

  “Helpless? You think I’m helpless?” I could feel my claws come out like Cricket’s. That was one of my hot-button issues.

  “You know what I mean.” He switched sides and snuggled up next to me. “Sorry. But I’m protective with people I love—I mean, care about.”

  You could have cut the tension with a knife, but I let him off the hook. “That’s an admirable quality. I guess I’m the same way.” Did I just imply the L-word too? Quickly I added, “I hope you are as protective of me with your mother. I’ve heard she can be a real bulldog.”

  “Ma? No. We’re Italian, but there’s no mob connections. She likes to play up the little bit of Apache in our blood to win the Native American vote, but she’s your typical Italian mother. But whatever you do, don’t bring up Frank Sinatra.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll have to listen to an hour-long diatribe about how much better Dean Martin was than Frank. You don’t want to go there.”

  I grinned and laid my head against his shoulder, looking out as the snow-tipped pines passed by the window. “By the way, is there anyone you don’t know in this town?”

  “A few folks.”

  “That guy at the lodge—Alex—he looked familiar, but I just can’t place him.”

  “He moved here about five years ago when he and Brett gave up the snowboarding circuit. He’s worked at the resort since then as far as I know.”

  “Oh well, maybe he’s someone I’ve seen at the market or something.”

  “Or maybe you know his new wife, Raven. You can’t miss her. She’s WNBA tall and has bright red hair.”

  I bolted upright. “That’s it! I saw her and Alex last night at the town meeting. Oh dear...” The gondola slowed down, and when I stepped out I slipped on the wet ground. Jake caught me in his arms.

  He stared into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “When I saw them, they were arguing with Artie Becker.”

  Chapter 8

  The Cascada Gazette had recently written a feature article on Charlie and Elizabeth Chavis. The twins were nearly full-blooded Navajo and had both mastered Navajo Sign Language. The fact that they were ranked at the top of the class was a source of great pride for the town’s Native American community.

  When the buzzer on the front door sounded, I found only Elizabeth and her mother standing in the reception area of the studio. Elizabeth’s jet-black hair fought the curls cascading down her shoulders. She had a neatly pressed graduation gown and a dress slung across her arm.

  “You look gorgeous,” I said, taking the gown from her. “But where’s the other half of the dynamic duo?”

  Mrs. Chavis shook her head. “He’s at basketball practice. Coach Barnes was in a particularly foul mood today. He said that anybody who missed practice this week would be cut from the team. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to reschedule Charlie.”

  “That’s not a problem.” I led them back to a changing room and hung up the clothes. “Do you want to start with pictures in your gown first?”

  “I guess so,” Elizabeth said. “We better hurry before my hair falls.”

  I led them to the area I had set up for graduation photos. Mother and daughter looked through the various backgrounds and chose a pale blue one to contrast with the maroon gown. After I positioned the lights, Elizabeth’s dark eyes and silky hair radiated as she smiled. I snapped shots of her holding a fake, rolled-up diploma, some without the mortarboard cap and some with. Her mother used bobby pins to hold it in place.

  I liked to take at least one casual shot of kids in their graduation gowns. The guys would usually leap into the air for an action shot; the girls would strike a sassy pose, pout their lips, and flash a peace sign.

  Elizabeth chose a shot hugging her mother.

  “What a sweet girl. You must be so proud,” I said when Elizabeth went back to change.

  “I am. It was tough raising them alone. They’ve both worked so hard.” A tear slipped down her face. She wiped it away. “That’s what makes me so mad at Coach Barnes. Even when I personally pleaded for him to let Charlie leave practice a few minutes early, he refused. I don’t know what his problem is. He’s usually pretty easygoing.”

  I remembered his protest at the meeting. He didn’t seem easygoing then. “Maybe he’s nervous about the playoffs. He seemed stressed at the town meeting last night about having to give up the gym.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not like our boys are going to win anyway. Our best player went out two weeks ago with a high ankle sprain. He’s out for the season. I think something else might be bothering him.”

  Could it be roid rage, I wondered? His muscles were almost popping out of his shirt. Whatever it was, I was surprised he was taking it out on the kids.

  The rest of the shoot went well. I promised to have digital proofs ready by the beginning of the next week, and we scheduled a new appointment for Charlie.

  As they left, something caught my eye outside the glass window of the studio. I did a double take when I saw a gray ball of fur flash by.

  I opened the door and called out, “Cricket!”

  Sure enough, she came sauntering up to the door and rubbed my legs, purring loudly. As far as I knew, she’d never been downtown before. But she was a stray when she adopted me, and who knows what kind of sordid past she might have had.

  I picked her up to check for injuries. Not finding any, I set her down and proceeded to scold her. “What were you thinking coming over here? You could have been hit by a car! Chased by a dog! Picked up by a well-meaning stranger and taken to the animal shelter.”

  She paced as I spoke, which was unusual for her. Generally, she’d flip me a look like a teenaged girl eye-rolling her parents and proceed to lick her paws.

  “What is it, girl?” I sounded like Timmy in the old Lassie shows I used to watch on Nickelodeon. Cricket continued to pace.

  “Crazy cat. Were you lonely? I guess we can head home now.”

  I turned off all the lights and shut down the computer. “You’re coming with me,” I told her. This would be interesting since I’d never taken her in the car without a carrier before. Holding her in my arms, I locked the front door. When Cricket heard the car beep as I unlocked it with the remote, I felt her stiffen. As soon as I put her inside, she placed her paws on the armrest and hit the button to roll down the window. “Don’t even think about it.” I rolled it back up and hit the window lock button. Surprisingly, she sat up regally in the passenger’s seat and looked out the window as though she were a duchess being driven through town to mingle with her people. I was surprised she didn’t wave.

  Waiting at one of the town’s few stoplights, I thought about ways to punish her for her unauthorized road trip. No kitty condo. No yarn balls. No treats. The only thing that would actually get her attention would probably be to ground her inside the house for a while. She loved to visit her friends in the neighborhood.

  Then I thought back on the morning before I left the house. I could have sworn she was curled up on the back of the sofa when I left. Oh well, I’d deal with her when I got home.

  They say a killer always returns to the scene of the crime. As I headed home, I understood why. Although I was not the killer, I found myself turning toward the Boswell house just out of curiosity. Maybe Sheriff Grady would be there, and he would have some new leads.

  Yeah. That was about as likely as Sherry Grady becoming my new best friend. I know I sound mean, but I’m not really. I’m just selectively polite.

  As I rounded the corner, the Boswell house looked almost as unassuming and idyllic as it had that morning, except for the crime scene tape strung across the front yard. The police vehicles were gone, as were the garbage cans. Grady must have moved them or taken them to the station as evidence.

  I parked across the street and stared, wondering what on earth could have happened this morning. How could Artie have ended up dead here with his car still parked at his house?

  Out of nowhere, a figure appeared next to my window
, causing me to jump. Cricket leaped onto the dashboard and arched her back. Her claws dug into the brown vinyl.

  A white-haired man wearing a green cardigan sweater, à la Mr. Rogers, held a leash attached to a tiny brown terrier. The man looked harmless enough, so I cracked my window. “Can I help you?”

  “I saw you here this morning.” He pointed across the street. “Any idea what’s going on? They wheeled someone out on a gurney. I thought the Boswells were out of town.”

  Nosy neighbors. Just what you need in an investigation. “A man was found dead inside this morning. Artie Becker. Do you know him?”

  “Artie...” He tossed the name around in his head. “Name’s not familiar. Is he from around here?”

  “Yes. Lived over on Ponderosa Pine.”

  “He must have been one of those fellows I saw going in the house this morning.”

  Bingo. I opened the car door, keeping one eye on Cricket. The terrier yapped at me, then sniffed at my jeans. “What exactly did you see?” I asked when I got out.

  “Well, I was just headed in from walking Mitzi. I live down there. Second house from the corner. A car pulled up and two men got out. They walked up to the house and went in. That was it.”

  “Did you get a look at them?”

  “They were too far away and my eyes aren’t that good anymore.”

  Cricket hissed loudly inside the car. “I assume you know Brett Boswell. Was he one of them?”

  “Oh, I know Brett,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “He wasn’t one of them. These men were older...middle-aged, I’d guess.”

  Guess? I could just hear the mythical TV defense attorney striking down this guy as an unreliable witness. However, it would be hard to discredit the fact that he saw two men and not just one.

  “What about the car? Do you recall what it looked like?”

  “It was a Jeep, like yours. In fact, I walked up here thinking you were one of the people here this morning.”

  Uh-oh. Was he confusing my car with Artie’s? “Actually, I was here this morning, but it was later. Are you sure the two men got out of a Jeep?”

  The dog had grown tired of the same spot of grass where her master stood, and she tugged on the leash. The man scratched his head. “Now let me think. The men got out. One had on a hat.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. It was a sedan. Dark gray or blue.” He took a step toward the dog. “Sorry. My memory’s not as good as it used to be. Well, I best be getting home. Sorry about your friend. Let’s go, Muffin.” He walked off down the street.

  Muffin? I thought he called her Mitzi? Regardless, this was the first real clue I had. I got back in the car and Cricket glared at me as though I’d suggested giving her a bath. “It’s okay. We’re going home now...as soon as I make this call.”

  Nancy answered on the first ring. Skipping the niceties, I asked, “What kind of car did Artie Becker drive?”

  “A Toyota. Why?”

  “What kind? What color?”

  She hesitated. Then, “A Corolla, I think. Dark blue.”

  Chapter 9

  As soon as I opened the car door, Cricket jumped out and ran to the back of my house. I followed her and spotted shards of glass on the ground by the back door. Sure enough, one of the panes was broken out. To my surprise, the door was unlocked. Had this been how Cricket escaped? I couldn’t imagine she could break the glass and jump through the window, especially since she appeared unscathed.

  The back door opened into the kitchen. Cricket dashed into the house in front of me and disappeared down the hall. I stepped over the glass, set my purse on the counter, and called, “Cricket?” She didn’t come, although that wasn’t unusual. As soon as I walked into the den, I knew something was off. It wasn’t ransacked like you see on TV, but a cabinet door was ajar and the hall closet was opened. Had Tyler come by looking for something? Maybe I’d been the victim of a break-in.

  Surely not. This was Cascada, after all. Perhaps a bird had flown into the glass. I got out my phone to call Jake just in case. I was being cautious, not helpless.

  “Wait outside. Don’t do anything,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  I walked around to the front of the house and checked the door. It was locked. Almost immediately, Jake came hurrying down the street.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you were working, but I just have this weird feeling.”

  Jake used his elbow to push open the door and took a few cautious steps inside with me following closely behind, staring over his shoulder.

  We glanced into the first bedroom, which I used as a home office. The file drawers and closets were open. The desk drawers had been emptied onto the floor. I gasped when I saw the mess.

  “Is it usually this messy in here?” he asked.

  “No! I’m not a pig.”

  From somewhere under his jacket, he pulled out a revolver.

  The sight of the dark cold steel in his hand sent a chill down my spine.

  “Call the sheriff’s office,” he ordered. “Your house has been burglarized. Wait here while I check the rest of the rooms. And don’t touch anything.”

  It took me a minute to process the scene. I made the call and was told someone would be right over. Cricket came into the room with an “I told you so” look on her furry face. It suddenly all made sense: how she had gotten out and why she had come downtown to find me. I picked her up and stroked her back, realizing my pulse was racing.

  It wasn’t long before Jake returned, declaring the house all clear.

  “The good news is they didn’t take your TV or your stereo or your computer. Can you tell if anything is missing?”

  Still clutching Cricket, I shook my head. “It’s hard to tell without touching anything.” I quickly walked through the other rooms. They were not as disturbed as my office.

  “If you ask me,” Jake said, “it looks like whoever was here was looking for something specific. Maybe cash or drugs.”

  Cricket leaped from my arms onto the desk.

  “Well, since I have neither, they may have left empty-handed. What about the neighbors? Should we see if any of them were hit?”

  Jake shook his head. “I’m sure the sheriff will.”

  A light bulb went on in my head. “What about your security camera? Maybe it shows whoever broke in. We can check it.”

  Jake shrugged and tucked the gun into the back of his pants. “Um, remember last month when you said it felt creepy that I could see you come and go from your house? I repositioned it to give you privacy.”

  “Oh dear.” What a sweetheart. Bad timing, but sweet.

  He walked to the front room. “We can still check it to see if anyone suspicious was walking or driving down the street in front of my house. That’s something, at least.”

  We heard the patrol car pull up in front and went outside. No sirens. No sheriff. Instead, it was Deputy Morris, the man who had taken my fingerprints earlier.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Ms. Fairmont,” he joked as he walked up to the house. He nodded at Jake like they were old friends. Who knows? They probably were. Then he asked, “So what’s going on here?”

  Trying not to sound overly dramatic, I said, “Someone broke into my house while I was at work. Do you want me to show you?”

  “Sure.” He followed me to the back door and knelt down to give it a closer look. “I guess this means the door had been locked. Did you touch the knob?”

  “I did.” I glanced at Jake. “It didn’t register to me that it was a break-in at first.”

  Deputy Morris pulled out his notebook and scribbled something. Then he took a tour of the house, jotting some notes and giving a lot of “Hmm” responses to my narration. When the house tour was complete, he put the notebook away and scratched his head. “I have to say, it doesn’t look like a typical break-in to me. There’d be a lot bigger mess.”

  Jake asked the question I couldn’t get out of my mind. “Do you think there’s a connection to Artie Becker’s murder?”


  The deputy crossed his arms. “That’s hard to say. It’s definitely a coincidence.”

  “We were careful not to touch anything inside,” I said. “Are you going to check for fingerprints?”

  He let out a sigh. “The team’s pretty tied up with the Becker case. The sheriff won’t be too keen on working this break-in when we have a homicide to investigate, especially if nothing was stolen.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying no other break-ins have been reported today or in the past few days?”

  “Nope. Thought we had one a couple of days ago over on Oak Street. Turns out it was a family of squirrels that came in through the chimney.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Made a gosh awful mess.”

  I crossed my arms and tried to control my temper. “Well, this was no squirrel. This was a two-legged intruder.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Morris glanced down the hall. “My guess is this was some kid looking for drugs or money. Maybe jewelry. Probably came up on foot and wasn’t interested in making off with a bunch of merchandise. If nothing was taken, it’s really just a case of vandalism.”

  “But why did he—or she—only hit my house?”

  “Most of these houses belong to older folks. People who are home during the day. Maybe yours was the only one vacant.”

  I started to say something about the security camera, but Jake shot me a look that stopped me. Was he worried about finding something on the surveillance video he didn’t want the deputy to see?

  Deputy Morris headed for the door. “Look, I’ll check with a few of the neighbors and ask if they saw anything suspicious. In the meantime, call the office if you discover anything missing.”

  I blew out a sigh. Glad my tax dollars were hard at work.

  “I know this is upsetting,” Deputy Morris said. “First you find a dead body and then come home to this. If I were you, I’d consider myself lucky that they didn’t rob you blind. For the cost of a new windowpane, you’ll be good as new and can forget this ever happened.” He tipped his hat and walked out.