Murder in Moon Water

by CeCe Osgood

  She hesitated for a moment, but then followed the pup into the backyard. It was dark, no back-porch light on, so it took a moment for her to see the dog sitting near a dark mound on the patio.

  Goose bumps prickled up her arm. "George?"

  She hurried to him, saw his face and staring dead eyes, and the dark puddle under his head.

  Chapter Three

  Abby fingered the pebble she'd dug out of the sole of her sandal and tossed it into the yard.

  She was sitting on the front steps of her cottage, waiting for the police. The 911 operator had dispatched the county sheriff.

  Sheesh. What a way to start my new life in Moon Water.

  Her gaze wandered to the street. No lights, no sirens. She wasn't sure how long ago she'd called for help. Was it just moments? Or twenty minutes? Time had slowed down to a trickle as she waited, gazing up and down the street. Most of the houses were dark now, only an occasional pinpoint of light from a lamp or porch light.

  To distract herself, she thought about Jill entering the school earlier that day. They'd met the assistant principal in the busy school office, and although Jill had tried to act cool and aloof, her fingers ticked against her right thigh, which was a sign of how nervous she was. Her brainy shy teen didn't have a knack for conversation, so making friends had always been tough for her.

  Abby hoped it would be better here in Moon Water than it had been in Martindale. She'd noticed Jill's fingers finally stopped twitching when the assistant principal mentioned the equestrian club.

  "Yes, I do want to join the club," she'd said, her head bobbing as excitement eclipsed anxiety.

  With a glance at Abby, the AP said, "The club's dues are separate from the monthly transportation fee. We have a shuttle for that. It's a mini-bus that picks up the students here at the school, drops them off at their assigned ranch, and then picks them up and delivers them to their homes. The fee is a quite reasonable one hundred and fifty-five dollars per month."

  Reasonable? Not to me. She'd pasted on a grin. "That's fine," she'd said, and then signed the documents for an automatic monthly withdrawal from her bank account.

  The squeal of tires brought her attention back to the present.

  A white Jeep came speeding around a corner and down the street and pulled to a stop at the curb in front of George's cottage. Black block lettering on the car door and hood read Fenner County Sheriff.

  A broad-shouldered muscular man in a light brown uniform with a wide-brimmed black hat exited the vehicle, boots crunching through the autumn leaves. A flashlight beamed in her face as a gravelly deep voice called out, "Where is he?"

  "Back yard," she called out.

  Seconds later, an ambulance arrived, with only its lights flashing, no siren.

  Two paramedics exited and strode to the back. Abby guessed the sheriff had radioed that the victim was dead, and that was why they were not in a hurry.

  Another Jeep arrived and a deputy, in the same brown uniform, scrambled out and bounded to the back yard.

  She could see flashlight beams flicking here and there as the sheriff and deputy searched the area.

  After a while, Abby heard the sheriff assigning other duties to his deputy before he crossed from George's yard to hers. "Are you Abby Little?"

  She nodded. "I am."

  "Ms. Little, I'm Sheriff Ethan Moser. You found the body?"

  She nodded again.

  "Dispatch said you reported seeing someone in the house." The sheriff hiked his brown trousers and knelt down in front of her. Her nose reacted to the faint scent of his minty cologne.

  "I thought I saw someone, I mean, a shadowy figure, and I sensed it wasn't George."

  "You sensed it wasn't George?"

  She clarified. "The shadow didn't appear hunched over, like George who looked stoop-shouldered when I met him."

  She shrugged. "Now, I don't know if it was someone or just shadows. It happened so quick. Maybe there was no shadow."

  "But at the time that was your impression."

  "Yes." She assessed the man in front of her. Brown eyes, shiny black hair with streaks of silver at the temples, a lined forehead, and a shadow of stubble.

  In his forties, she guessed. He hadn't spoken much but there was a tone of gravitas to his voice that she found appealing.

  His eyes hooded as he peered at her. "Did you see anything else besides the shadow?"

  "Like what?"

  "A weapon? Another shadow?"

  "No. I don't think so."

  "Where were you when saw this shadow?"

  "My bedroom. I looked out the window while I was closing the curtains."

  She continued describing her actions as she remembered them, at times getting sidetracked about how awful it was to move to a new town and find your neighbor dead. "He probably had a heart attack, didn't he? Please tell me it was not murder."

  Sheriff Moser's thick black eyebrows winged up slightly. "Why did you say that?"

  She cringed, told him a few details of what had happened in Martindale. "So, please tell me this was a heart attack or some natural cause."

  When he said nothing, she sighed. "Guess that's something you can't tell me, huh? Sorry for asking, and"—her head cocked—"sorry for blabbering on and on. I do that when I'm nervous.”

  "Why are you nervous?"

  She tried to stifle the spurt of anger and didn't succeed. "Well, sheriff, what if it was a murder? What if someone broke in and tried to rob him? Is my daughter safe in this neighborhood? It looks like a nice neighborhood. But looks are deceiving. You know that. I certainly do. I think until the facts are clear about what happened to George, I have the right to be nervous, don't I?"

  His eyes softened. "My apologies, Ms. Little."

  Abby responded with a polite nod although she averted her eyes. "Did you see the dog?"

  "What dog?"

  "The dog that led me to George."

  "Hm. What kind of dog? Describe it for me please."

  "A black and tan Dachshund. A little one, a mini. That's why I went around to the back yard. I was following him, or her. I'm not sure of the gender. Anyway, the dog didn't make a sound, not a bark or whimper, even when it ran down the dirt path, but I followed it and found George."

  "The dog ran down the dirt path on the other side of the house?"

  "Yeah. The gate was open, and the dog ran into the backyard. I followed it and saw the body."

  "You knew the body was George?"

  "I assumed it was. I ran to help him, but ... well, you know."

  The sheriff said nothing, glanced at her sandals. "What size shoes do you wear?"

  His question puzzled her. Why did he want to know that? "I'm a nine."

  "Stay here please." The sheriff stood up and strolled over to the deputy. They whispered to each other, and then he returned to Abby. "We found prints for a size nine shoe on the dirt path, but no paw prints."

  "None?"

  "None."

  His eyes hooded again. The hint of suspicion was clear to her.

  "I swear, Sheriff Moser, there was a dog, and it asked me to follow him, and I did.”

  "The dog asked?"

  Irritated, she threw up a hand. "You know what I mean. Animals communicate to people, unless the person is a complete self-centered jerk and doesn't pay attention to them."

  At that moment, two more deputies—one carrying camera equipment—arrived. The sheriff strode over to meet them.

  When he glanced back in her direction, she raised her voice. "Sheriff, do I have to stay here? Or can I go inside?"

  "Inside is fine."

  Her knees trembled as she stood up. Definitely not a good way to start her new life in Moon Water.

  Chapter Four

  The next afternoon, Abby met Selene at the gazebo in the park, and as they headed toward the shops in the square Selene mentioned George. The grapevine had been buzzing all morning, speculating on what might've happened.

  They were about to cross the street when a male
voice boomed behind them. "Selene Adamas."

  She turned. Abby did too. A chunky, florid man in an expensive navy blue suit was approaching them, followed by another man in a copper-colored sherpa jacket. "Is this our contest winner and our newest resident, Abby Little?" said the man in the suit.

  Selene gestured at Abby. "Right you are, Hank. Abby, this is our mayor, Hank Holcombe."

  The mayor did a quick up-down in that annoying manner of a male assessing a female, then he stuck out his hand. "You're a tall one."

  Abby managed a tight smile, shook his hand, and let her gaze wander from the mayor to the other fellow in the sherpa jacket. Their eyes met, lingered momentarily until he nodded to her. "Jay Browder," he said, his leathery tanned face a contrast to his pale sapphire eyes and sun-kissed hair.

  The kindling spark of mutual attraction was not lost on either one.

  Abby, feeling a heated flush creeping up her neck, dropped her eyes to the red embroidered stitching on Jay Browder's sherpa jacket. "Pine Ridge Ranch. You're a rancher?"

  He chuckled. "Barely."

  The mayor clapped a hand on his back. "Jay's being modest. Pine Ridge is having a fine year. Well, nice meeting you, Abby. See you ladies later."

  Abby restrained herself from watching them—well, one of them—as they strolled away.

  Days later, Abby opened her front door to find Sheriff Moser, his wide-brimmed black hat in his hands. He was freshly shaven, and the minty cologne was a bit strong.

  "Ms. Little, I know you were upset when I last spoke to you and you expressed your concern about the safety of this neighborhood."

  A wary sensation made her glance away from the sheriff. If this was bad news, she wasn't sure what she would do. Leave the cottage? Break Jill's heart and move back to Martindale?

  The sheriff slightly stumbled with his next words. "Well, I, um, I shouldn't say anything but to put your mind at ease, I will. The preliminary autopsy has concluded your neighbor's death was an accident."

  Instinctively, she clapped a hand to her chest, exhaling relief. "That's good." Her eyes fluttered. "I don't mean it's good, I mean, I'm glad it was, well not glad, that it was an accident---"

  "I know what you mean."

  She sucked in air. "Well, I guess I don't need to worry about burglars."

  "We detected no signs of a break-in or a disturbance."

  "Do you know how it happen?"

  "The coroner believes George stepped out on his back porch, took a misstep and fell off hitting his head on the concrete slab below. It was a fatal blow to the head. Or perhaps he got dizzy, and that's why he fell. He did have high blood pressure, which can cause dizziness."

  Abby stayed quiet, her mind spinning. If he'd stepped out on the back steps wouldn't he have fallen forward and hit his forehead. She'd found him face up.

  Sheriff Moser shifted his hat from one hand to the other. "That's the gist of it."

  "Thank you, Sheriff. I do feel better"—she grimaced—"not better, but relieved, I guess is the way to put it."

  "I understand."

  A moment of silence, then he replaced his hat and tipped it. "I'll be going then. Welcome to Moon Water."

  She watched his purposeful stride back to the Jeep. As he drove off, she gave him a slight wave, but he didn't respond. She wasn't sure if he missed it, or if he'd declined to wave back. That might be too friendly for him. Being a law officer and all.

  Inside the house, her cellphone jangled. She rushed inside, plucked the cell off the arm of the couch.

  It was Selene. "Abby, hi. I want to let you know the grapevine says George's death was an accident."

  "I know. The sheriff was just here but thank you. I'm so relieved."

  Back in Nebraska, she'd been involved in a murder case. In fact, for a while, she'd been a suspect. She never wanted to go through that again. Once was enough.

  After Selene disconnected, Abby recalled what the sheriff had told her, and accepted that it had been an accident, except, well, there was that one thing.

  She pictured George standing out on the square concrete back porch. Like hers, it was close to five feet off the ground with narrow steps and no railing. An accident waiting to happen, so it was reasonable to speculate that he'd gotten dizzy, turned around to go back inside and took a step backward, falling so he hit his skull on the concrete slab below.

  "Definitely reasonable," she said aloud as her cautious side assured her it was the best, and only, answer.

  Then again, what if he'd been pushed? It was her wilder side speculating on a less reassuring answer.

  With a shake of her head, Abby told herself to shut up. It was exactly what the sheriff said it was, an accident. "Be practical. Find a job. That's what you need to focus on today, Abs."

  With a determined knitting of her brows, she settled on the couch and switched on the laptop lying on the coffee table in front of her. First things, first. She checked her bank balance online.

  A groan. Her savings were dwindling away like wine at a book club.

  Charles would direct deposit a child support check next week, and that would help, but she had to get a steady income.

  Back in her married days, she'd never had a budget. Now she had to consider every dime she spent. The gnawing anxiety of being unemployed with no steady paycheck had taken up permanent residence in her stomach.

  She couldn't even take out a loan on the cottage yet since it wasn't legally hers until she'd lived in it for a full year.

  A feeling of melancholy overcame her. Moon Water Bakery would have been her first choice for a job.

  Well, to be truthful, not really her first choice, but it was the logical choice for her. After all, she had experience in the confectionary business and, thanks to her father, she could make some tasty desserts and even a tip-top buttery, flaky pastry.

  Her father had shared a few secrets with her for his Pâte Brisée. Like to use bread flour, not all-purpose, and to cut the cold butter until it was the size of peas. "When the tiny bits melt, they leave pockets of air in the crust," he'd said. He also baked his pastry on the lowest rack in a hot, hot oven for a few minutes, then lowered the temperature. "My secret," he'd joked, "only known by every French person in the world and a few folks in New Orleans."

  Abby sighed, recalling those days at her father's side. Her mother had died when she was five, and he'd raised her alone. They'd been good pals, and she'd always done what was expected of her.

  Since he loved to go fishing, she did too, and his devotion to major league baseball, especially the Kansas City Royals, had made her an avid fan too. They'd watch the games on TV or occasionally attend a live one, all the while making "batter up" jokes.

  The only time she disobeyed him, and disappointed him, was when she left college without completing her degree and married Charles, a newly minted contract lawyer. Instead of returning to college, she became his receptionist, assistant and office manager before Jill was born. After struggling for a while, Charles had shut down his private practice and joined a bigger, more prestigious firm.

  Loud, angry voices outside on the sidewalk drew Abby's attention from her reverie.

  Jumping off the couch, she darted to the window and drew back a curtain.

  Out on the sidewalk, Hank Holcomb, in a shiny polyester running suit, was gesturing at a diminutive woman with a helmet of glistening white hair except for a slash of purple bangs.

  The woman turned away from Holcombe and wagged an angry finger at the cottage.

  Abby pushed open the door and stepped out on the front porch. "Hello? Can I help you?"

  "You certainly can." The septuagenarian with the zany hair marched up to the front steps. "You need to tell me what's going here because I don't know what to believe.

  "I heard you might've seen somebody inside George's house the night he died. Did you, or didn't you?"

  The mayor flapped his hands behind her. "Don't you listen to her. She watches too many crime shows on TV, and it's put a dent in her reasoning
ability."

  "Don't you trash talk me, Holcombe. My reasoning is sharper than a gator's tooth."

  Her gaze slicked back to Abby. "I'm Tallulah Dupree, your neighbor. That's my place right over there across the street from you, which is why, Buttercup, I'm gonna let you call me Lulu, being as we're neighbors."

  The tiny woman in the silver ballet slippers that glimmered in the sunlight stepped closer to Abby. "And you are?" she huffed, extending a thin-as-parchment blue-veined hand.

  "Abby Little." She reached for the offered hand, and she had to stifle a yelp, surprised by Lulu's muscleman grip. Lulu was not as fragile as she appeared.

  "I returned home late last night from a trip to see my new grandbaby, and this morning I'm shocked to hear what happened to George."

  "I'm so sorry. He was your friend?"

  "That he was. A good friend of mine. I hate losing friends, which happens far too often at my age."

  Lulu fished in the pocket of her shiny coral slacks and drew out a yellow post-it note. "I found this stuck in my back screen door. George must've left it while I was gone."

  She handed the note to Abby. On the upper right side of the note a 1 had been circled. It was the only thing Abby could read. The handwriting was impossible for her to decipher. "I can't read this."

  Lulu snatched it back. "It says plain as day, 'Maybe I'm losing my mind. I feel like I'm being watched.' "

  "It says that?”

  "You deaf, Buttercup? Yes, it says that."

  Abby ignored the tacky retort and lifted one shoulder into a shrug. "I have no idea what that means.”

  "It means just what it says. He was scared. Maybe he was right, too. I think somebody was after George, especially since you told the sheriff you saw someone in his house, didn't you?"

  "Well, yes, I did say that. At the time, I believed I saw someone, but now, I don't know. The sheriff told me there was no sign of a break-in, and it was ruled an accident, so I guess I was wrong."

  Lulu's hazel eyes narrowed into slits. "You're telling me you can't trust your own eyes?" She tapped her temple. "Or your own brain?"