Praise for the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
Books in the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
About the Author
In Case You Missed the 1st Book in the Series
Don’t Miss the 3rd Book in the Series
Sign up for the Henery Press email blast
ARTIFACT
THE AMBITIOUS CARD
LOWCOUNTRY BOIL
DEATH BY BLUE WATER
MACDEATH
SHADOW OF DOUBT
Praise for the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
LOST LEGACY (#2)
“Intriguing, with as many twists and turns as the Pennsylvania countryside it’s set in.”
– CJ Lyons,
New York Times Bestselling Author
“A vivid country setting, characters so real you’d know them if they walked through your door, and a long-buried secret that bursts from its grave to wreak havoc in a small community—Lost Legacy has it all.”
– Sandra Parshall,
Author of the Agatha Award-Winning Rachel Goddard Mysteries
“A big-time talent spins a wonderful small-town mystery! Annette Dashofy skillfully weaves secrets from the past into a surprising, engaging, and entertaining page turner.”
– Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Mary Higgins Clark, Agatha and Anthony Award-Winning Author
“As well-crafted as the mystery is, and if you figure this one out before the end you should be a detective, it’s the characters that make this series so unique and appealing.”
– Bobbi Carducci,
Author of Confessions of an Imperfect Caregiver
CIRCLE OF INFLUENCE (#1)
“An easy, int read, partially because the townfolks’ lives are so scandalously intertwined, but also because author Dashofy has taken pains to create a palette of unforgettable characters.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“Dashofy takes small town politics and long simmering feuds, adds colorful characters, and brings it to a boil in a welcome new series.”
– Hallie Ephron,
Author of There Was an Old Woman
“The texture of small town Pennsylvania comes alive in Annette Dashofy’s debut mystery. Discerning mystery readers will appreciate Dashofy’s expert details and gripping storytelling. Zoe Chambers is an authentic character who will entertain us for a long time.”
– Nancy Martin,
Author of the Blackbird Sister Mysteries
“I’ve been awestruck by Annette Dashofy’s storytelling for years. Look out world, you’re going to love Zoe Chambers and Pete Adams, and Circle of Influence is just the beginning.”
– Donnell Ann Bell,
Bestselling Author of The Past Came Hunting and Deadly Recall
“New York has McBain, Boston has Parker, now Vance Township, PA (“pop. 5000. Please Drive Carefully.”) has Annette Dashofy, and her rural world is just as vivid and compelling as their city noir.”
– John Lawton,
Author of the Inspector Troy Series
“An excellent debut, totally fun to read. Annette Dashofy has created a charmer of a protagonist in Zoe Chambers. She’s smart, she’s sexy, she’s vulnerably romantic, and she’s one hell of a paramedic on the job. It’s great to look forward to books two and three.”
– Kathleen George,
Edgar-Nominated Author of the Richard Christie Series
“This is a terrific first mystery, with just the right blend of action, emotion and edge. I couldn’t put it down. The characters are well drawn and believable…It’s all great news for readers. I can’t wait to meet Zoe and Pete again in Vance Township, Monongahela County, PA.”
– Mary Jane Maffini,
Author of The Dead Don’t Get Out Much
“The author has struck gold by delivering a wonderful story…Betrayal, teenage angst, dysfunctional relationship and deep dark secrets will keep you turning the pages in this very enjoyable debut novel!”
– Dru’s Book Musings
Books in the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
by Annette Dashofy
CIRCLE OF INFLUENCE (#1)
LOST LEGACY (#2)
BRIDGES BURNED (#3)
(April 2015)
Copyright
LOST LEGACY
A Zoe Chambers Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition
Kindle edition | September 2014
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2014 by Annette Dashofy
Cover art by Fayette Terlouw
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-940976-25-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
In memory of my dad, John I. Riggle.
You are my sunshine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Alzheimer’s is an ugly disease. I spent years watching and agonizing as my dad succumbed to it. To deal with his loss, I turned to my writing. Creating Pete’s father, Harry, was a labor of love. He’s not my dad, but he has some of Dad’s characteristics (a passion for chocolate milkshakes) and uses some of his phrases (“Hello, Sunshine!”) Spending time in this story allowed me to once again feel connected to the man I miss every day of my life.
As always, I need to thank the other sets of eyes who keep me on track: My online critique partners, Donnell Ann Bell, Mike Beifler, and L.C. Hayden; my face-to-face critique group, Jeff Boarts, Judy Schneider, and Tamara Girardi; and my beta readers, Diana Stavroulakis, Mary Sutton, Joyce Tremel, Paula Matter, and Martha Reed. It’s fabulous having a team I trust with my words and my heart. Love you guys.
I also want to give a shout-out to Susan Meier who, during our annual Sisters in Crime chapter’s retreat, helped me whip the opening chapters—and my writing as a whole—into shape.
Thanks to the gang at the Crime Scene Writers group for being there to answer all my procedural questions.
I owe a huge debt to
Pennwriters and Sisters in Crime. I shudder to think where I’d be without them.
And to my husband, Ray (who suffered an avulsion fracture of his foot several years back and whose misery became fodder for Pete’s dilemma), I love you, babe. Thanks for putting up with me and for going fishing so I could have quiet time to work.
Finally, I am grateful beyond words for my editor extraordinaire Kendel Lynn, editorial assistant Erin George, cover artist Fayette Terlouw, and the entire Hen House family at Henery Press. Thank you.
One
Zoe Chambers’ teeth chattered in response to the rush of adrenaline, never mind the ninety degree heat of June in southwestern Pennsylvania. She flipped on the siren as the ambulance approached an intersection along the tarred and chipped country road.
“Jeez, I hate these kinds of calls,” her partner Earl muttered. He cut the wheel hard, making the sharp left onto Ridge Road. The medic unit swayed and jounced over the ruts.
“Me, too.” Zoe shifted in the passenger seat and studied the incident report in her lap. Farm accident. Caller reports victim may be DOA. In rural Vance Township, nearly every summer produced one of these. A year ago, a tractor rolled over, pinning the driver. Another time a farmer was run over by a hay wagon. Before that, someone lost an arm in a piece of machinery. The possibilities were endless. None of them were pretty. But even more than the type of call, the address on the report contributed to her unease.
Threatening gray clouds loomed in an otherwise pale blue sky. Not a hint of a breeze disturbed the tall grasses stretching across the field.
“It’s gonna rain,” she said.
Earl grunted a response.
They topped a hill, and a picturesque farm lay before them. “That’s it.” She clenched her jaw to quell the chattering. Once she got to work on the task at hand, the jitters would stop. At least, they usually did.
A two-story farmhouse with a sagging porch faced the road like a sentinel to an ancient barn. The doors, large enough to easily accommodate massive farm machinery, stood open in a wide yawn. Outside, two tractors hitched to wagons stacked high with fresh-cut baled hay waited.
Their patient was inside. Zoe had put up enough hay to know that was the only reason loaded hay wagons would be sitting idle with a storm approaching.
She picked up the mic. “Control, this is Medic Two. We are on scene.”
“Ten-four, Medic Two,” came the response, followed by the time. “Seventeen thirty-two.”
Earl parked the ambulance behind one of the hay wagons. When Zoe swung open the door, a wave of hot air slammed into her. It was thick with humidity and perfumed with the scent of freshly cut fields. She offered up a silent prayer. Please, don’t let the patient be up in the hay loft. If it was ninety degrees outside, it would be at least a hundred and twenty up there.
She tugged on a Monongahela County EMS ball cap and grabbed the jump kit from the patient compartment.
A pair of young men sat in the grass several yards away. Their sun-bronzed arms contrasted sharply with the pallor of their faces. A third, his back to them, stood doubled over, heaving. Another group of stoic, but ashen, helpers gathered in the shade of a silver maple, smoking cigarettes with unsteady hands.
An older man stepped down from his perch on one of the tractors, flicked away the butt of a cigarette, and approached the paramedics. “What the hell took you so long?” His voice sounded as rough as his weather-beaten face. Without waiting for a response, he added, “He’s in here,” and directed them toward the barn.
As they moved closer to the structure, the sweet smell of mown hay gave way to the stench of rotting flesh. At the gaping doorway, Zoe fought back a gag reflex. Her nose told her what was inside before her eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior.
The body hung in the center of the barn from a rope looped over a rusty pulley high in the rafters. The other end of the rope was tied to an upright support beam. Nearby, a wooden ladder leaned at an awkward angle, reaching toward the loft. The sickening buzz of ravenous flies filled the barn.
Earl pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose. “Nothing for us to do here.” He shot a glance at Zoe. “Or at least nothing for me, Miss Deputy Coroner. I’m going to radio it in and request the cops.”
Zoe gave a nod. At least pronouncing this one wouldn’t require checking for vitals or unpacking the portable EKG. There was no question he was dead. That much was obvious. No, the questions were how long and—the big ones—cause and manner.
The sight of a body hanging in that barn did nothing to quash the apprehension she’d been experiencing since she’d first heard the address. She’d grown up hearing stories about this place. And about another hanging.
The farmer watched Earl retreat to the ambulance before turning to Zoe. “Where’s he going? What did he mean about requesting the cops? The old man’s dead. Cut him down and get him out of here so I can unload this hay.”
She blinked. But clearing her eyes didn’t change what she’d heard. Was he really that callous? “Who are you?”
“Name’s Carl Loomis.”
“You know the victim?”
“Yeah. It’s Jim Engle.” Carl motioned toward the house. “Jim owns this farm. I’ve been putting up the hay for him since he’s been sick.”
Jim Engle? James Engle?
Zoe looked down at the thick layer of dust on the rough-hewn floor. Several clear boot prints marred the surface. “Did anyone go inside the barn?”
Loomis blanched. “Hell, no. I opened the doors so we could pull the wagons in, and there he was. Half my boys tossed their cookies when the smell hit them.”
Without stepping inside, Zoe leaned forward and squinted at the body. Engle’s face was pale gray, and his tongue protruded between his lips. Milky opaque eyes stared, unseeing, at the hay stacked on the opposite side of the barn. Zoe doubted she’d have recognized him if she’d met him on the street. But that name? She knew the name.
She’d seen enough. The stench and the buzz of the flies drove her farther outside, gasping for air.
The farmer was eyeing the sky. The ominous dark clouds had all but obliterated the blue. A breeze kicked up, hissing through the maple trees surrounding the house. “So how about getting him down and out of here? I really need to get moving if I want to keep this here hay dry.”
“I’m afraid we can’t just cut him down.”
Loomis leaned closer until the odor of tobacco smoke on his breath made her wince. “Why not? I know it stinks, but—”
“Not because of the smell. This is a crime scene. The police will need to investigate—”
“Crime scene?” He laughed. “This ain’t no crime scene. Jim’s been threatening to end it all for weeks. Hell, months. The man was dying of lung cancer. Said he wanted to go out on his own terms. Well, God bless him, he did. The only crime being committed here is you keeping me from getting my hay in this here barn before the rain ruins it.”
Earl jogged up to them. “The cops are on their way. Franklin Marshall, too.” He nudged Zoe with his elbow. “You lucked out. The boss himself will be here to process the body.”
“Darn.” Zoe made no effort to hide her sarcasm. When she’d taken on the deputy coroner role, she’d expected to investigate homicides and mysterious deaths, solve puzzles and make sense of the senseless. Television made it seem so exciting. But the reality was more like this...calling the time of death on a poor cancer-riddled old man who opted to take his own life rather than waste away any further.
“Franklin Marshall? The coroner?” The farmer clenched his fists as if he wanted to slug both of the paramedics. “Process the body? Are you people friggin’ nuts? Jim farmed this land for almost fifty years. He’d be the first one to tell you we need to get this hay inside before it gets soaked.”
“Then he should’ve picked a better place to ki
ll himself,” Earl said.
The farmer’s eyes bulged, and Zoe feared he might take a swing at her partner. She placed a hand on Earl’s arm and was about to suggest he cool it when she spotted an SUV with emergency lights flashing cresting the hill and roaring toward them. “The police are here,” she said. To Carl Loomis, she added, “You might want to locate another barn. Or maybe tarp the wagons. But an unattended death like this will have to be investigated. Until the coroner gives a ruling of suicide, the police will treat it as a homicide.”
The farmer gave no indication of hearing the last part. “Another barn? Look around, missy.” Spittle flew from his lips. “There ain’t another barn for more ’n two miles.” He scowled. “Jim might have some tarps in there, though.”
Loomis made a move for the door, but Zoe stepped in front of him. “You can’t go inside.”
“Then how do you expect me to tarp my goddamn wagons?” He continued with a stream of cursing that threatened to singe her ears.
The Vance Township Police vehicle rolled to a stop next to the ambulance. The chief of the department stepped out, tall and striking with his salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes. Zoe’s pleasure at seeing Pete Adams extended far beyond mere relief—she trusted his commanding presence would calm the irate farmer. She resisted the urge to give Pete a wide smile, embarrassed by her own infatuation with the man. They’d been dancing around their mutual attraction since last winter, neither brave enough to take things further, considering their equally lousy romantic histories.
“What do we have?” he said as he approached.
2 Lost Legacy Page 1
