Murder at Chipmunk Lake

by Mary Hughes

  BOOK OF THE MONTH “Be prepared to laugh, cry, giggle, sigh and fall in love with Meiers Corners.” ~Foxglove for LASR, on Downbeat

  Recommended Read “The small town antics, fast-paced action, quick wit, sarcastic humor, and explosive sexual chemistry would make an awesome television series.” ~AJ for Blackraven’s Reviews, on Beauty Bites

  Purest Delight “Fun, exciting and a little naughty…” ~Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews on Edie and the CEO

  “Hot vampire sex, hysterical humor, funny sassy heroines (seriously, you cannot help but LOVE Synnove spouting off medical facts randomly), and fast-paced fun plots… ummmm… why aren't you already reading this one?” ~ Ellie for Love N. Books, on Beauty Bites

  Murder at Chipmunk Lake

  Nixie’s lost her mojo!

  Nixie Emerson, punk rock musician and first-time mom-to-be, has a stalker. Her band, Guns and Polkas, has gone national after their big stage debut, but the price of fame is that the stalker is trying to scare her into leaving her band.

  Her husband, master vampire Julian, whisks her away to the Wisconsin north woods—where they meet the stalker on the pier of their cabin and he again threatens Nixie.

  Julian punches him out and the couple walks away thinking the problem is over. But when the next evening the stalker is found dead, they find out the trouble is only starting.

  Warning: Contains a cranky pregnant lady trying to control her swearing, a master vampire appeasing his crabby wife with food and creative sex, murder, mayhem, and several arguments over what to name the baby.

  This story takes place between Biting Oz and Beauty Bites.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for your support and respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Murder at Chipmunk Lake

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Hughes

  ISBN: 978-1-940958-00-2

  Cover by Tibbs Design

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Murder at Chipmunk Lake

  Mary Hughes

  Dedication

  To my husband Gregg, for still laughing at my jokes.

  Thanks to Stacy D. Holmes for reading this in its early stages and keeping me from losing characters, among other things. All mistakes are my own.

  Chapter One

  The phone rang, for the fourth time that night. I tensed.

  I’d been trying to meditate, sitting semi-lotus in the living room of the basement apartment I shared with my master vampire husband, Julian. Nature’s Delights burbled and chirped on the CD player, and my cranky hip joints rested on huge overstuffed cushions.

  Meditation was supposed to be good for the developing bun in the oven. Nobody mentioned how difficult it was for the oven.

  I’d finally gotten in the zone, at oneness with the silver ribbon in-out of my breath, when that brrrng jarred me.

  Not a telemarketer or bill collector. What’s the world coming to when those would be a relief?

  No. I had a stalker.

  The machine would pick up in another couple rings. If there was a single merciful bone in Murphy’s body, it would be someone, anyone else.

  Voicemail Eve announced the caller’s ID. “Call from…” My hands fisted. There was just enough mechanical in Eve’s voice to sound creepy. “Blocked number.”

  So much for mercy.

  My shoulders tightened like a guitar’s high E. My stomach, already iffy going into my seventh month of pregnancy, felt like I’d chewed and swallowed a wad of aluminum foil.

  I was scared.

  That so totally wasn’t me. A punk rock musician, I had to be fearless on stage and off. The real me would’ve stalked to that phone, snatched up the handset, and told the a-hole to eff off. Actually, the real me would have said the real words. Swearing had gone all fluffy bunnies and smiley suns because of tiny ears, already listening. Boy or girl, it would almost certainly have Julian’s memory and “proclivity for linguistics” as he’d say, or big-assed vocabulary as I’d say. Or actually, big-tushy-vocab, going back to my point.

  Pfft. Enough cowering. I levered myself off the cushions and strode—wobbling a bit because of soft hips and extra weight, but I had Rocky fight music playing in my head—to the phone.

  Hand over the handset, I hesitated. I had answered yesterday, while Julian was out of the apartment.

  “You bitch. You ruined the band.”

  My stomach heaved, remembering it. Or maybe that was the morning sickness kicking in again.

  The guy said he was a fan of Guns and Polkas, the band I played rhythm guitar with. He’d yelled at me, and he didn’t have to fluffy bunnyize his language. By the end he was shouting so loudly and swearing so profusely my ears blistered.

  On the plus side, hey! Our band was famous enough that I had a stalker, lolz.

  Normally I’d have stood up to his bullying, shouting and cussing right back. There are advantages to being a punk rock singer, and one of them is vocal cords of steel.

  But now…I sighed. Now there was The Kid to think about. Now I was supposed to keep calm. Think good thoughts. Say sweet things.

  Now I couldn’t fight back without hurting my baby.

  “Nixie?” Julian called from the study, where he was reading jurisprudence or some shizzle. He’d been out patrolling for rogue vamps most of the night and had missed the other calls. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  That elegant baritone, laced with Boston, still sent delicious shivers down my spine.

  “Bill collectors,” I yelled back.

  I knew it was a mistake the moment the words left my mouth. There was a silence. Not the good, leaving-well-enough-alone kind. The bad, whatchu-trying-to-pull? kind. What can I say? He knows me really well.

  Besides, he pays all the bills. He knows we’re not behind.

  Sure enough, a long, trouser-clad leg appeared in the doorway, prelude to the symphony of muscular body and stunning face that was my beloved spouse, lawyer and master vampire, Julian Emerson.

  My husband has these mind-reading laser blue eyes, and he skewered me with them now. “What’s going on?”

  I grinned my best Innocenixie smile.

  He raised a single black brow.

  One of the great things about being married to a hella-smart guy is you don’t have to say anything for him to understand. Good for sex. Bad for hiding crapola.

  Still, I tried. “Oh, you know. Don’t want to stress Baby Gabriel.”

  Brrrng. Space.

  “We’re not naming him after an archangel. Too much pressure to be good.” But Julian’s accusing brow lowered and I thought I’d dodged the bullet.

  Then Eve ratted me out. “Call from…blocked number.”

  “Blocked? That’s odd.” Our caller ID software was Logan Steel’s, the guy who made the NSA look like kindergarten kids playing “I’ve got a secret”. Julian reached for the phone.

  “Don’t.” I nabbed his square, strong fingers. “Don’t answer it.�
��

  “Why not?” He frowned into my face, his gaze narrowing to drill. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.” I dropped my hand and shrugged. Then to show how absolutely nothing was wrong, I sauntered nonchalantly away.

  My brain chewed hastily. As my husband, Julian deserved to know about my little problem. But as a vampire who got a tad zealous protecting me, especially now that I was weighed down by six pounds or so of incubating Snagrat, unleashing him on a human could get messy.

  Besides, Stalker Guy might actually be a fan.

  I turned, mouth open to distract my husband.

  “Don’t even think about it.” A growl roughened his voice, a sure sign that his inner fangy dude was coming out to play. He picked up the phone.

  Dangnation. I leaped to stop him.

  On the one hand, fail, because Snagrat overbalanced me and I tripped and nosedived into the floor. On the other hand, booyah! Julian tossed the phone and nosedived in ahead of me. Six-feet-plus of hardbodied male snared me midair, spun, and air-bagged me from hitting the floor.

  “Nixie! Are you okay?” He framed my face with his hands from below. “Is Baby Julian okay?”

  I stared down at my husband’s beautiful, concerned features. Seven months married, and I was still not completely used to his vampire superpowers. “I’m fine,” I said when I could manage a breath. “But we’re not calling him Julian Junior. You know what that did to Junior Stieg. Just wrong.”

  “Sweetheart.” He raised his head and kissed me. His vampire side was dominant because he tasted like a fast ride on a powerful motorcycle. I groaned and opened up.

  A tinny growl from nearby cut through my haze of need. “I know you’re there.”

  The phone lay two feet away on the floor. The call had connected. Dam…ggum it.

  “You ruined Guns and Polkas.” The stalker had a voice like a gravel driveway. “All you punker bitches are the same. But you’re not getting away with it. I’m coming for you, Nixie.”

  Chapter Two

  Julian’s fangs shot out and his eyes bled red, vampire DEFCON 2. Scooping me into one arm, he kipped up, flipping from his back to his feet one handed.

  He snatched the phone from the floor and slammed it to his skull. “Who the hell is this? How dare you threaten my wife?”

  Click. The guy hung up.

  “Damn it. I mean, darn it.” Julian set me down with deceptive gentleness, a signal of how hard he was working to contain his fury. He thumbed a number into the phone. “What was that about?”

  “Um…I’m not sure?”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not.” I took a deep breath—or deep-ish, as my lungs vied for space with the in-house kidlet who pulled rank—and spilled. “He called before. But I don’t know who he is.”

  An alto voice rose from the phone. “Detectives’ desk. Elena Strongwell speaking.”

  My best friend Elena was a cop, but we were friends long before she got the badge.

  He slapped the phone to his head again. “Nixie just got a threatening phone call on our land line. I need it traced.”

  “On it. I’ll call you back when I get something.”

  “Thanks.” He punched “end” with a grim but satisfied look. “Now. Let’s discuss this.”

  I knew by the way he perp-walked me to the couch that I was in trouble. Then he went to the minibar’s fridge and pulled out a pregnancy-nutrition drink. Bitchslap me with a Strat. Um, strum my guitar. The drink meant this was gonna take awhile.

  No way to avoid confrontation now.

  He thrust the can into my hand, sat next to me, and hit me with his brain-drilling blue gaze, better than vampire red but not by much.

  “Who. Was. That. Man.”

  If my shoulders were E-string tight before, that cranked them to the little plick-plicks between the bridge and the saddle. “Really, Julian, it’s nothing.”

  “Who.”

  “Okay, sheesh. It’s no big whoop.” I took a breath then pressed it out slowly because my heart was hammering It is a big whoop, and I knew with his super vampire senses he could hear it and could probably even smell my palms sweating. Although, heck, in this case even I could hear and smell my panic.

  The breath slowed my pulse from hummingbird to pigeon. He glared at me the whole time, which didn’t help. I managed, “You know how Guns and Polkas just had its big Summerfest debut, right? Nearly ten thousand people dancin’ to our beat on Milwaukee’s lake shore?”

  “I was there. Who was that man, Nixie?”

  “I’m getting to it. You know how we were hella-awesome? Rocked the whole grounds to eleven?”

  “Dietlinde Nixie Schmeling Emerson. Who?”

  Yikes. My full name in That Voice arrowed straight to my childhood guilt gland. I’m not saying he’d learned it from my mother, but they had looked awfully cozy chatting at the wedding. “Right. Well, not everybody thought we were made of insane fabulousness topped with awesome sauce. Most folks loved us, but strange as it may seem, some folks don’t like their punk mixed with polkas. Or maybe they weren’t cool with the Elvis impersonator—”

  “Sometime this century, Nixie.”

  “Yup. People either loved us or hated us and this guy is apparently in the hate camp. Specifically, he hates me.” I paused. “He doesn’t like my music, Julian.” It hurt, and my pain bled into my tone.

  Julian’s expression softened, and he took my hands in his square, competent fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then he went vampy-hard again. “But this man threatened you. How long has this been going on?” He studied my face, must’ve read volumes from my wince. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Cuz of these.” I plinked the tip of one exposed fang, really hoping it would distract him—vampire fangs are connected to their thangs and a good tug is usually enough to get his attention for a whole afternoon’s fun.

  In this case it only roughened his growl. “You should have told me.”

  “He’s a human.” I tried to soften Julian up by swigging the goody drink he’d given me. He narrowed his eyes at me. Busted. I set the drink down and shook my head, my short curls shushing against my ears. “Look, I didn’t say anything because I was confused by it all. I hadn’t decided what I should do.”

  “Nothing confusing about a stalker. Nobody—but nobody—is threatening you as long as I’m around. As soon as Elena traces the caller I’m going to let him know that fact in no uncertain terms.”

  “Julian, you can’t. It comes with the fame gig.” I glanced away. “Even as non-famey as ours.” I snuck a peek back. His eyes had narrowed on me until it felt like he was autopsying my skull.

  “What’s going on with you? You’ve been moping around since the gig.”

  “After-performance let-down?”

  “You usually bounce back within hours. It has been almost two days.” His gaze softened and again he took my hands. “Sweetheart, tell me.”

  I shook my head. How to explain, when I didn’t even understand myself?

  “Non-famey,” he said. He would glom onto that. His head shook in that way he has to mix random thoughts and somehow come up with the right answer. “You don’t think you were a success?”

  “Success.” I laughed, no humor in it. “Summerfest was supposed to be our ticket to the top. I thought we’d arrived. Bar band to overnight success, next stop invitations to Fallon and Ferguson.”

  “You got a glowing review.”

  “By the Meiers Corners Zietung.”

  “Hometown papers count.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree, ’kay?” I sighed, pulled my hands from his to cross arms under my breasts, and looked away. “Maybe the gig itself was successful, but after…it just wasn’t what I expected. No bookings flooding in, no hordes of fans and paparazzi and invites to the Grammys. I expected us to be made. We’re not.”

  He drew a long breath and I knew I’d only understand half of what he was about to say. But he was saying it because he love
d me, so I tried hard to follow.

  “Nixie, just eight percent of adults in the United States play musical instruments. Maybe one percent play professionally and of those, maybe one percent are nationally known. Think about it. You’ve achieved something only one in ten thousand do. That’s success in my book.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.” I squeezed his hands and released them. “But that don’t pay the bills.”

  He was silent, long enough to start me worrying. A silent Julian is a thinking, analyzing, figuring-things-out Julian. Some things I don’t want him figuring out.

  Sure enough, he said, “There’s more, though, isn’t there? The Nixie I know wouldn’t avoid this stalker. She’d tell him off.”

  “He’s a fan. Can’t piss…tee off a fan.”

  “Sure you can. You do it all the time.”

  I palmed my nape and sighed. He knew me so well. I loved it, but it also meant I couldn’t get away with jack cheese. “All right, yes. I’d cut him a new one with a dull meat cleaver—if it were just me. But it’s not. I have to think of what’s best for the band.” My hand dropped from my nape to my belly. “Before, teeing off a fan would only mean he’d huff at his six closest friends. But now we’re on all the Look-At-Me sites. We have more to lose. I don’t want to fuc—fudge that up.”

  “One rabid fan isn’t going to annihilate you.”

  “One fan spewing bile on all the world-wide social sites can.” My fist tightened over my belly. Instant global communication is both wonderful and sucks bananas. “Please, can we drop this?”

  “Please?” Julian’s eyes flashed to my hand, and then he cocked head—that special tilt that said he knew there was more hiding in the stew of my psyche, dark stuff hiding even from me.

  My shoulders tensed. Mucking about in my subconscious wasn’t a halluva lot of fun.