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YOU CAN LEAD A HORSE TO WATER
by
DANE MCCASLIN
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Copyright © 2018 by Dane McCaslin
Cover design by Yocla Designs
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY DANE MCCASLIN
SNEAK PEEK
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CHAPTER ONE
The very idea of having a house and a car—a fast one—and a thriving business had long been the dream. No: it was The Dream, capital letters included. Getting there? That was another matter altogether. It was a good thing that she'd found someone to help that part of the scheme along. Of course, murder came with a high price, but as long as she wasn't the one to pay, what did it matter?
Stooping, she bent over the still form of the woman and gave the scarf an extra tug. It never hurt to be sure about things, right? Satisfied, she unwound it, wrapping it into a small knot of gauzy fabric, and tucked it into her bag. With a quick look outside to make sure the street was still clear, she left the store, ready to start living her dream.
* * *
The only thing that can put me in a bad mood, other than running out of coffee, is rain. I detest the stuff. Gregory has always said that I'm more feline than I care to admit, and he might have a point. Still, as I stood at my kitchen window watching the September clouds open up over Seneca Meadows, I was feeling decidedly cheerful.
While that might sound contrary to what I've already admitted, I had my reasons for feeling good. I'd just brewed a cup of unbelievably great coffee—Jamaican Blue, one of the best blends on the entire planet, in my humble opinion—and I'd managed to finish a slightly overdue manuscript, the next installment in my Harried Hairdresser series. Those two accomplishments had joined forces and made this rainy, dreary morning a good one. That, and the fact that I was the only one awake during this midmorning lull.
Trixie, my rather spoiled dachshund, lay curled in her basket, snoring to beat the band, and judging by the sounds coming from the den, my hubby was doing the same. Taking another sip of heavenly caffeine, I was just contemplating the lure of returning to bed with a book when my cell phone began to vibrate in my bathrobe pocket.
"Caro here," I said, settling myself into one of my oak kitchen chairs.
"It's Merry," came the reply, and I smiled. My neighbor and friend, Meredith Holmes, was the owner of the bookstore in Seneca Meadows, Murder by the Book.
"What's up, girlfriend?" I'd been practicing my American phrases (Greg and I are British transplants) and winced when Merry's laughter echoed in my ear.
"That's absolutely priceless, Caro! You almost sound like a native!"
Merry's drawl, born and bred in the country's more southern climes, had taken some getting used to, as had her vivacious approach to friendship. Still, I'd found myself responding to her openness. Her impromptu hugs, her infectious laughter, her bookstore that sold my books: all had combined to help me learn how to let my hair down, in a manner of speaking. From the upbeat tone of her voice, I had a feeling that there was to be another session of hair-letting in my near future.
I was right.
"Listen, Caro," began Merry, and I settled back in my chair, ready for the long haul. "I've got an amazing idea for the fall festival."
Merry had recently been voted in as the president—unanimously, I might add—of the Seneca Meadows Chamber of Commerce. With the demise of Lucia Scarantelli, the late and unlamented leader of the SMCC, Merry had begun to revive the downtown area with the avid vigor she applied to everything she did. Hence, the first annual Seneca Meadows Fall Festival was in its planning stages with Merry's fingers in every pie. The woman was a veritable whirlwind.
"Do you want to come over here, or shall I go there?" I sipped my coffee, idly noting that the rain had redoubled its efforts. I could just make out the side of Merry's house across the lawn that connected our properties.
"Neither." I could picture Merry curled up on her overstuffed sofa, a cup of steaming green tea in hand. "Have you looked out the window?"
"Mmm." I took another sip of coffee, closing my eyes as I enjoyed the mellow taste.
"I'll take that as a yes. Listen, Caro, I've decided that we need to have an honest-to-god real old-fashioned street carnival. How's that grab you?"
"If by 'grab me' you mean if it appeals to me, then yes." I still had my moments of verbal snobbishness, I'll admit, but it was more out of teasing Merry than anything else.
"You know that's what I mean." I could hear the rustling of paper. "How about this: we have pumpkin carving, bobbing for apples, face painting, things like that. Do ya think the town will go for that?"
"Oh, absolutely!" I smiled to myself, already picturing the town's main street decked out in fall colors, children running about with candied apples and cotton candy, their parents carrying cups of hot cocoa, rosy cheeks and noses on everyone there. In short, true Americana, Seneca Meadows' style. I might even be able to work it into my next book, I thought. Maybe a body behind a stack of straw bales? Or one draped over… I realized that Merry was waiting for an answer. "Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?"
"I said"—and I could hear the edge of impatience in her normally placid voice—"I'm going to combine it with a book signing. Remember I told you that I'd heard from Sarah and that she'd agreed to do a signing here?"
I did. Sarah Lawson, one of Merry's college pals, had risen rapidly to the top of the cozy-mystery pile with her Amish Bakery mysteries. She'd be a perfect addition to the festival, I assured Merry.
"Will you have the signing the day of or before?" Timing, especially in the world of writing, was everything.
"The day after, actually. She said she's game for just hanging out at the festival, maybe carving a pumpkin t
hat we could raffle off, then have her signing after. Since that's a Sunday and a good day for business, I thought that sounded like a great idea."
I agreed. Still, a well-known author with a succession of best sellers, here in a relatively unknown town, playing nice with the festivalgoers while a major writers' convention was happening just down the road in the city…
"What's her angle?" I'm nothing if not forthright, not to mention suspicious when a fellow writer practically volunteers for obscurity. Call me cynical, but something sounded a tad off.
Merry snorted derisively. "Why does she need an angle? She's nice like that, always wanting to give back."
"Mmm." My coffee was cold, and I walked over to where my precious Keurig sat in all its plastic splendor, the coffee pod carousel filled with a myriad of flavors. Selecting another Jamaican Blue and popping it into the holder, I waited for the fresh cup to brew as I turned over my reason for feeling as I did.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Merry's eyes narrowed slightly, and I mentally backpedaled away from a confrontation.
"I just think," I began carefully, "that Sarah Lawson sounds like she's taking a time out from the circuit. Maybe she sees her time here as more of a sojourn instead of a real stop on her tour."
I knew what I was talking about, being a cozy-mystery author myself. No one in the business would purposely seek seclusion in a small upstate town, especially when the Murder and Mayhem Convention would be happening in New York City. That was "the place" to be for all cozy writers, where fans met their favorite authors, and where bestselling writers were celebrated by all. I would have been there, certainly, and it surprised me that Sarah wouldn't be, choosing instead to hold a book signing in Seneca Meadows. If I hadn't already spent my traveling budget on that stay in the Caribbean, I'd be at M and M in a New York minute. Instead, I was here in Seneca Meadows, ready to rock and roll with Merry and her plans.
"Well, it's her choice," Merry said with a little sniff, "and I'm glad she's chosen Murder by the Book to—ta da!—debut her newest novel A Slice of Murder. Isn't that amazing? I can only imagine how many sales I'll have."
To say I was stunned was to put it mildly. A new book by a bestselling author, debuting in Seneca Meadows? My cynicism radar was going off, all sirens blaring. Of course, she might truly want to come to Seneca Meadows; after all, Greg and I had chosen this very burg to put down roots.
"Well, I'm here to help, Merry," I assured her, brushing aside my suspicions. "Whatever you need me to do, festival or otherwise, just let me know."
"I thought you'd say that, Caro." The papers were rustling again. "Aha—here it is. I've put you in charge of the apple bobbing. If that's okay," she added as an afterthought.
"Sure, Merry," I said as visions of wet faces, shrieking bobbers, and freezing feet—mine—ran through my head. "I can handle that."
"Awesome. To be honest, no one else wanted to do it. I thought that Candy would be the perfect one for the job, but she wanted to run the hot chocolate stand."
Candy was the owner of Candy's Sweets and Treats, and she was one of my favorite folks in Seneca Meadows. With my rather legendary sweet tooth, I loved having someplace nearby to grab a cheesecake. Or three.
"Well, what could be so difficult about making sure that the bucket stays full of apples?" I gave what I hoped was a lighthearted laugh. It had just occurred to me one possible reason that this particular attraction might not be so, well, attractive.
"Do I have to actually touch the apples?"
"Yeeees," said Merry as though I'd suddenly started speaking another language. "Why?"
"Just think about it, Merry. Bobbing for apples. Who knows how many mouths in the same water? The process itself is a hotbed for germs."
"Oh, come on, Caro," Merry laughed. "If it bothers you that much, you can use salad tongs. Or," she added in a mischievous tone, "you could ask for proof of shots."
I snorted. "Like that would work. Speaking of shots, don't forget you're coming over for dinner tonight."
"What? I need my shots before I eat your food?"
I hung up with her laughter still ringing in my ear.
* * *
"Now this is what I call good stuff." Merry held up a crystal shot glass to the flames dancing in the fireplace, admiring the play of light through the amber liquid inside. "You had me worried for a sec today, Caro, with all that talk about shots."
"Seriously, Merry." I shook my head and took another sip of the whisky, enjoying the way it warmed my throat and belly. The weather had changed abruptly as a front moved in, bringing with it a hint of more rain to come.
"So, how long is Greg gone this time?"
My husband, long-suffering and patient beyond measure, was a lawyer whose specialty was international law. He was on the faculty for the local university and was often away at conferences.
"Just through the weekend." I sighed contentedly, stretching out my feet to the fire. Trixie, my dachshund who thought she was a human, curled up tighter on my lap, burrowing her nose deeper into the crook of my arm. "And I'm footloose and fancy-free, as they say. I just met a deadline, and I'm feeling mighty fine."
It was true. Any writer knows the agonies of a looming deadline, the long days spent writing and rewriting, the endless cups of coffee that take the place of solid food. Hitting the word Send on an email to one's editor was definitely a cause for rejoicing, in my book. I took another sip of whisky and gave Merry a wicked grin.
"I've got four days to celebrate, Merry. Ideas?"
"Yep," she said promptly. "You can help me get ready for the fall festival."
"As long as it doesn't involve any dead bodies."
I shivered as I recalled the past summer's misadventures. What had begun as a takedown of the local bully had morphed into an all-out murder investigation.
And something else as well.
"So, how's Scotty?" I grinned as Merry's cheeks grew red. "Heard anything recently from our local boy in blue?"
Officer Scott, one of Seneca Meadows' finest, had come to our rescue and had fallen for my book-selling friend as well. Who could blame him, I thought as I watched her fondly. With her dynamo personality and cute Southern accent, she was the perfect counterpart to Scotty's placid outlook personality.
"We went out for pizza last week," she said offhandedly. "No big deal, really. Now, help me think of a catchy theme for the festival, Caro. I want to get a banner up by this weekend."
"How about 'Pumpkins Around the World,' with a contest for the best-dressed pumpkin?" I drank the last of the whisky and set my glass down. "You know, make this a global celebration."
"But it's not global, Caro. It's a small-town festival with small-town festival activities."
I shrugged. "Don't bite my head off." I leaned back more comfortably and was rewarded with a dachshund growl. Her majesty didn't like to be moved, apparently.
"How about this," began Merry, tapping one finger against her chin. "'The Great Pumpkin Caper'? We could have each booth decorate a pumpkin with a clue in the design, something that would point the attendees to a final pumpkin decorated by Sarah. Maybe she'd even give the winner an autographed book or something."
"That sounds brilliant, Merry," I exclaimed. "All we need to do now is come up with a scenario and a trail of clues that can transfer to a pumpkin."
"You make it sound difficult," she said, a small frown appearing between her eyebrows.
"Not really." I waggled my empty glass at Merry. "Another finger or so, please?" I waited until she'd returned my refilled glass before I added with a triumphant smile, "We can base it on Sarah's new book. All we need to do is break it down to ten clues or so and tell those running the different booths, myself included, how they need to decorate their particular pumpkin."
Merry slowly nodded, a smile beginning to spread across her face. "That's absolutely the best idea I've ever heard, Caro. We'll set the gold standard for fall festivals."
"Well, I don't know about that," I replied m
odestly. "It'll definitely beat the average dunk tank and pie-eating contests, though."
"Yep. It'll put a dagger in the hearts of the competition."
We were absolutely right about that.
CHAPTER TWO
"That's a great plan, Merry. I'd love having Sarah Lawson's help with the apple bobbing."
I was sitting on one of the comfy couches in Merry's bookstore, going over the finalized list of festival participants. It looked like a good time would be the order of the evening: we had a dunk tank, apple bobbing, face painting, holiday-decoration making, horse-drawn carriage rides, and so much more. Merry had really gone beyond what I'd expected in a small-town festival, especially with the "Pumpkin Caper."
"I've already got all the directions for the clues typed up. If folks just follow the guidelines, we'll have one heck of a celebration at the apple-bobbing tank." Merry flipped through a notebook, several pages covered in her neat handwriting. "And if you don't mind being in the middle of the street, since you'll be next to the booth that announces the winner, that'd be tremendous."
"No problem," I assured her. That I could do. I generally loved being in the middle of things anyway, as my dear husband loved to point out.
"And I'll need you to wear this costume." Merry tore a page out of her notebook and handed it to me. "Viv assures me that she's got everything you'll need except the shoes."
The newest member of Seneca Meadows' Chamber of Commerce, Viviana Drake, was the owner of the local secondhand store, recently renamed Twice Upon a Time and remodeled with a fairy tale theme. If you'd ever seen Viv, you'd know that this was the perfect setting for her. With her long blonde hair, her large blue eyes, and heart-shaped face, she looked like the quintessential fairy tale princess herself.
You Can Lead a Horse to Water (Proverbial Crime Mysteries Book 3) Page 1
