BURIED IN THE BACKYARD
A couple of pieces of rusted pipe went flying over the fence, followed by some broken flower pots and a length of garden hose. She carefully laid the quilt square on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in and then started stacking the trash Tripp was clearing out into a neat pile along the edge of the yard. When he finally unburied the piece of plywood, she asked, “Do you need me to come in and help lift that?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
The board bowed almost to the breaking point when he tried to lift it, but she could see more of the familiar pattern underneath the straining wood.
“That’s my quilt, all right.” Then she gagged as the breeze shifted in her direction. “Good grief, what’s that awful smell?”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Tripp dropped the board and jumped back, looking a little green himself. She started forward, but he waved her back. “Abby, don’t come any nearer. In fact, take Zeke and go wait in the house. I need to call Gage.”
It took her a second to recognize the name. “Gage Logan, as in the chief of police? Why do you need him?”
Unfortunately, her mind had already connected the dots to come up with the obvious answer. She froze, unable to advance or retreat. “Tripp? Is that what I think it is under there?”
His dark eyes stared into hers as he gave her a grim nod. All business now, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a three-number sequence. “Yes, ma’am, I need to report a dead body . . .”
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DEATH BY COMMITTEE
Alexis Morgan
KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
BURIED IN THE BACKYARD
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Patricia Pritchard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1953-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1956-0 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1956-5 (eBook)
Chapter One
Abby McCree sighed. Loudly.
The only one who appeared to pay any attention to her was Zeke. The huge mastiff mix was dozing in his favorite puddle of sunlight on the hardwood floor. He raised his head long enough to see if she had a treat for him. When she didn’t, he gave her a reproachful look before dropping his head down on his paws to drift back to sleep.
“Sorry, boy.”
Doggy disappointment was the least of Abby’s problems right now. She hadn’t been a landlady for very long and didn’t know what all the rules were. However, she was pretty sure that saving her somewhat irascible tenant from a gaggle of grannies wasn’t on the official list. Still, she felt some obligation to shoo the ladies away from her front window, especially because whatever one of them had just whispered had the other two giggling like schoolgirls. Had none of them ever seen a shirtless man mowing a lawn before? Evidently not one built like Tripp Blackston, but even she had to admit the man was totally ripped.
She set down the tray she’d carried in from the kitchen. It was clearly too much to hope that a plate full of freshly baked cream cheese brownies and sugar cookies would be enough to lure her guests back to their seats. “Ladies, we’ll never get the plans for your garage sale finalized today if we don’t get back to work.”
Two gray heads and one impossibly red one briefly turned in her direction. Glenda, who clung to the mistaken belief that everyone really believed her hair was still the same vivid shade of red now as it had been when she was a young girl, acted as spokesperson for the trio. “We were just thinking that Mr. Blackston looked awfully hot out there.”
Another pause for more giggling before she continued. “We think you should take a plate of goodies and a glass of that fresh lemonade out to him. Surely that young man deserves to take a break after working for hours in the hot sun.”
They stared at Abby with a hint of accusation in their expressions, as if it was somehow her fault that the early spring day had turned unexpectedly warm. When Abby didn’t immediately leap into action, Jean spun her walker around and marched toward the table. “Never mind, dear. I’ll take it out to him.”
Jean’s best friend, Louise, joined her to pile a paper plate high with brownies, while Glenda filled a glass with lemonade. “I’ll carry his drink for you, Jean. Abby, be a dear and get the door for us.”
Defeat tasted bitter, but Abby knew when she’d been outmaneuvered and outmatched. It was obvious all three women had decades of experience in wielding guilt to get their way. She snatched the plate and glass out of their hands. “Fine. I’ll take these out to Mr. Blackston. You three sit down and enjoy your drinks.”
On her way to the door, she paused to look back at her elderly friends. “But when I come back, we need to get down to business. While I’m outside, why don’t you think about where you want to hold the garage sale?”
Louise winced and then immediately offered up an apologetic smile. “But your aunt always insisted we have it here, Abby. Sybil has . .
. had . . . the biggest yard and parking is plentiful on this street.”
Darn, she should’ve known they’d play the Aunt Sybil card, a reminder that this house and everything in it hadn’t been Abby’s for very long. Before that, it had belonged to her aunt for over sixty years, starting from the day she moved in as a young bride and lasting right up until she died just over a month ago. A fresh stab of grief over the death of her favorite relative hit Abby hard. The pain of her loss had yet to fade in the least.
“I wasn’t thinking. Of course, you can have it here again this year.”
When they finally turned their attention to the brownies she’d baked earlier that morning, Abby headed outside to flag down her tenant on his next trip back in her direction. She knew the instant Tripp spotted her, because he stopped to frown at her from over by the fence. Finally, he guided the mower over to where she stood and shut it off. At least he wasn’t going to make her shout over the sound of the engine.
“Did you need something?”
She held out the plate and the lemonade. “The ladies inside noticed how hot you looked out here.”
Judging from the way he grimaced, she should’ve phrased that differently. Then again, the statement was true no matter which way he chose to interpret it. Almost any woman with a pulse would have noticed. Luckily, she wasn’t that type at all.
Yeah, right.
Time to get down to business. “I . . . well, actually, they, thought you might appreciate a cold drink and a snack.”
He glanced past her toward the large picture window on the front of the big Victorian behind her. From the way he tightened his grip on the lawnmower handle, she didn’t have to look to know that the ladies were back at the window. At least he managed a small smile as he nodded in their direction and finally accepted the glass. He chugged down the lemonade in a matter of seconds and then shoved the glass back in her hand.
“Would you like some more?”
“I’m good. You can leave the brownies on the steps. I’ll pick them up when I’m done mowing.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “And for the record, I don’t need an audience when I’m working.”
He walked away before she could do more than sputter. The man was insufferable even if he was right. The agreement he’d had with Aunt Sybil was reduced rent in return for doing odd jobs around the place. He was entitled to his privacy.
That didn’t keep her from muttering, as the lawnmower roared back to life, “Maybe people wouldn’t stare so much if you kept your shirt on.”
Abby set the plate down by his discarded T-shirt. As she rejoined her guests inside, Louise said, “The lemonade must have cooled him right down. He’s putting his shirt back on, although he certainly doesn’t look very happy right now.”
Abby’s cheeks burned. Had he heard her? If so, he must have the hearing of a bat to pick up her comment over the roar of that engine. Well, she hadn’t said anything but the truth. Rather than discuss the matter any further, she sat down and reached for a brownie and her own glass of lemonade. After a brief internal debate, she added a second brownie to her plate. It had been that kind of a day.
“We were talking while you were outside.” Louise patted Abby on the hand. “It’s not fair of us to assume that you would host the garage sale just because Sybil always did. We were thinking we could ask Dolly Cayhill if we could use her place.”
Jean didn’t look convinced that was a good idea. “Is Dolly even back from Arizona? I sure haven’t seen her around. Normally she lets me know when she gets back in town.”
“Do I know Dolly?” Abby tried to put a face with the name. “I’m sure I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know that I’ve ever met her.”
Glenda reached for another cookie. “Maybe not. She and Sybil weren’t close.”
When Jean snorted as if smothering a laugh, Glenda shot her a dark look before continuing. “Dolly is a snowbird and always leaves town right after Christmas. She stays gone until the weather warms up here. Having said that, I haven’t heard that she’s back yet.”
There was no use in dragging things out. Abby eyed a third brownie but decided against it. “Seriously, I don’t mind having the sale here this year. Just let me know what I need to do to get ready and when you want to have it.”
* * *
An hour later, Abby helped the ladies back down the front steps and got Jean settled into the backseat of Glenda’s sedan. After tucking Jean’s walker into the trunk and shutting the lid, she stepped back out of the way and waved as the car pulled away. As much as she enjoyed spending time with Aunt Sybil’s friends, sharing both memories and laughs, she was ready for some alone time. It seemed as if her life had been in a constant uproar for the past six months or more, and moments of peace and quiet had been rare.
The only problem was that there was so much she needed to be doing. Before heading back inside, she paused to study her new home. She’d yet to decide if she was going to live in it for the foreseeable future, or if she should get the place ready to sell. Either way, the house needed some serious upgrading. At least Aunt Sybil had had it painted top to bottom, inside and out, just last year, so that much was done.
The large yard was a whole different matter. Her aunt had always been an avid gardener, priding herself on having garden-tour quality landscaping. But over the past few years, the flower beds had definitely gotten out of hand. A lot of the trees and shrubs needed to be pruned or even taken out altogether. Blackberry brambles had gradually taken over one entire corner of the backyard and were slowly creeping closer to the small mother-in-law cottage where Tripp Blackston had recently taken up residence.
Speaking of the man himself, he’d finished mowing and was now edging the flower beds along the side of the house. He might not be the friendliest person she’d ever met, but he was certainly a hard worker. She quickly moved out of sight. This was her house and her yard, and she had every right to stand anywhere she pleased, but the last thing she wanted was to get caught watching him again.
She glanced down at her silent companion. “Zeke, I’m going upstairs to work again. You can stay out here with Tripp if you want.”
When the dog stared up at her with his soulful eyes, she gave him a good scratch and a couple of treats that she’d remembered to stick in her pocket. “He knows to let you back inside if you get tired of following him around.”
Zeke gulped down his goodies and then thanked her with a slobbery lick. Out of consideration for his feelings, she waited until he ambled off in Tripp’s direction before wiping her hand on her jeans. The big guy meant well, but yuck.
The day was getting away from her, and it was past time to get to work. Heading back into the house, she still had to wonder what Aunt Sybil had been thinking when she’d picked Tripp to be her new tenant. Granted, she’d always rented the place to a student from the local university, but he wasn’t a typical college freshman. Although never exactly chatty, he had mentioned that he’d recently retired from the army after twenty years. Best guess, that made him a few years older than she was, somewhere in his late thirties or maybe even his early forties.
Glenda had told her that he’d served at some point with Gage Logan, the local chief of police. In fact, it had been Chief Logan who had introduced Tripp to Aunt Sybil a few months back, when Tripp had been in town to register for classes. That was the sum total Abby knew about the man. She guessed she couldn’t complain as long as he paid his rent on time and kept up with the list of chores she updated as needed.
For now, she left the yardwork to him while she concentrated on the inside of the house, a major job in itself. Aunt Sybil hadn’t exactly been a hoarder, but she had managed to accumulate quite a bit of clutter over the years, not to mention the added contributions from the two generations of her husband’s family who’d lived in the house before her.
After grabbing a bottle of water, Abby trudged up to the third floor to pick up where she’d left off the day before. Aunt Sybil had used one of the three small bedrooms on
that level as overflow for the stuff she couldn’t fit in the attic. At some point, she’d had the wall taken out between the other two rooms, opening up the space for her quilting. One entire wall was covered with built-in shelves, which held the rainbow of quilting fabrics she’d collected over the years. Another held batting, a rack of threads, and bolts of the neutral colors that she used as backing for her quilts.
A complicated sewing machine held pride of place in front of the large window that overlooked the front yard. A stack of patchwork squares sat on the table next to the machine, some already sewn into long strips while others still waited to be joined together. The pattern was a relatively simple one, done in vibrant shades of red and blue, the style of quilt that her aunt had often made to be auctioned off by one of the charities she supported. Maybe someday Abby would try to finish the quilt herself, but not yet.
There was a quilt top stretched on the quilting frame in the corner, another project that needed to be finished. This one was a double-wedding ring pattern done in pastels. Who had it been for? Maybe Glenda or one of the other ladies would know. Abby ran her fingers across the fabric, loving the textures and soft colors. It was tempting to do a few stitches, but she couldn’t bring herself to pick up the needle and thread that were still attached to the fabric right where her aunt had stopped working.
But then she hadn’t been able to bring herself to touch anything in this one room that was so quintessentially her aunt’s. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the fading scent of Sybil’s perfume and whispered, “I miss you so much, Aunt Sybil.”
Having paid homage to the woman who’d had a profound effect on her life, Abby crossed the hall to the other bedroom and prepared to wade through the day’s allotment of boxes. She’d originally shoved everything to one side of the room to give herself space to sort everything into one of three categories: stuff to keep, stuff to donate, and trash. Choosing the correct designation for some items turned out to be far more difficult than she’d expected, which had resulted in her adding a fourth category—undecided.
Death by Committee Page 1
