by Jada Ryker
Murder Takes
a Dare
The First Marisa Adair Mystery
Jada Ryker
This book is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real people, places, or things is a coincidence.
MURDER TAKES A DARE
Copyright © June 2013 by Jada Ryker
All Rights Reserved. This includes the right to reproduce any portion of this book in any form.
ISBN: 1484992555
ISBN-13: 978-1484992555
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Jada’s Betas, superhero readers. Through their efforts, Murder Takes a Dare is a better quality and more polished book. Jada’s Betas are Paul “Eagle Eye” Carwile, Grace “Captain” Kirkland, and Joyce “Joy of Syntax” Beauchamp.
Thank you to my wonderful children, Heather and Julia, for their ongoing support. They are beautiful, confident, and intelligent young women. When I look at them, I also see kids laughing on waterslides, playing basketball, and baking cookies.
Bryan Miller provided professional editing and proofreading services for Murder Takes a Dare. He may be reached through his website at www.williambryanmiller.com.
Alex Hurst provided professional editing services for the short story As the Crow Flies.
Any errors are the sole responsibility of the author.
A Special Message to the Reader
Thank you for taking the time to read this book. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.
One of my characters is a writer. During the course of the book, Althea shares her “story within the story”. As the Crow Flies is a paranormal romance short story. The short story is in a different font, Courier New, since Althea loves her typewriter. Althea and I hope you like it.
As an author, I rely on feedback from readers. If you enjoy Murder Takes a Dare, please take a moment to leave your comments on Amazon.
I want the book to be perfect. Pesky typos seem to have a cloaking ability while I’m looking at them, only to uncloak later for you. If you found any typos or have suggestions, please email me at [email protected]. To learn more about me and my work, please check out my webpage at www.JadaRyker.com.
If you would like to try a different type of book, Dog Days of Karma is a mystery adventure with romance and a soupçon of the paranormal. It’s the first book in the Karma series, chronicling the adventures of Celeste Carr and Ericka Maah, partners in the Carr – Maah Consulting Agency.
My published titles are listed at the end of the book, and are available on Amazon in electronic and paperback formats.
Enjoy!
Jada
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER ONE
“When I left New York for Kentucky, I expected to be transported to the hillbilly dimension of rickety shacks with appliances on the sagging porches and rusted junk littering the dirt yards. I imagined the roads choked with rattling pick-up trucks driven by scruffy inbreds with jiggling beer bellies under their bib overalls.”
Marisa Adair stiffened in her seat across the conference table.
“The ‘trick my hick’ wasn’t as pervasive as I expected, but still more than enough for a reality television show!” Brad Jacobs leaned back in his chair and laughed. His classically handsome face smug, Jacobs crossed his rangy legs. His gray jacket hugged his shoulders, and the matching trousers were knife-edge pressed. His shiny black shoes reflected the morning sunlight streaming through the window of the small conference room.
The smirk and the condescending laughter skittered across Marisa’s last nerve. She forced her stiff lips into a smile. Her face felt as tight as if a crazed plastic surgeon had gleefully yanked up her skin and stapled it to her scalp. “It sounds as if you have an unrealistic view of Kentuckians.”
“It’s not an ‘unrealistic view.’ As I was driving through the city streets from the airport, I had to go a half hour out of my way. The reason for the detour was a tractor and trailer stuck under the overpass. There’s an oversized sign with huge letters to alert drivers to the low clearance. And yet, trucks get stuck at the same intersection all the time.”
Marisa forced herself not roll her eyes. “That’s an unpleasant stereotype, Mr. Jacobs.” She leaned forward on the polished top of the conference room table. “What if I said all New Yorkers were rude, and abrasive? What would you say?”
The man’s sneering smile faded and anger replaced the patronization. “Ms. Adair. I would say I am not here to pander to your twisted Southern concept of a gentleman. I am not a wimpy Confederate soldier wannabe, strutting around the tobacco fields in search of a lady swinging her hoop skirts in sly invitation.”
Six months ago, prior to chemical dependency rehab, Marisa would likely have measured the physically attractive Jacobs as a potential conquest. She had relentlessly collected, and then frantically juggled the people in her life. When she’d seen a plate spinner on television, she’d recognized the chaotic image as her life. Now, she imagined a spinning plate with Jacobs’ face on it, and mentally sent it smashing into the conference room wall.
“I am here to audit the financial and clinical operations of this hospital.” With fluid grace, Jacobs leaned toward her across the polished top of the conference room table.
“No problem at all, Mr. Jacobs, since we don’t have anything to hide.” Marisa adjusted her laptop computer, open on the table in front of her.
Jacobs laughed. “How quaint! Do you really believe only the extremes of honesty or malfeasance are the point of an audit? Given the black, white, and gray areas between those points, my report will carry a ton of weight with your corporate office. In other words, I have the power to make you or break you. I can dig hard enough and deep enough in the human resources area to find something out of kilter, or I can turn my attention elsewhere.” His gaze traveled to her chest, seeming to scorch through the modestly tailored pink and white striped blouse.
Feeling the need for armor, Marisa snatched her beige linen jacket from the back of her chair and shrugged it on. She carefully positioned the lapels over her breasts.
Jacobs raised a brow in contempt before turning his attention to his thin notebook computer, open on the conference table in front of him. “Here’s a prime example of what could prove to be an excellent place for digging and sifting. In these days of social media, everyone loves to strut their Phiz Phase stuff online. And yet, Ms. Adair, you don’t appear to possess a Phase Page at all.” He met her outraged gaze with a toothy smile.
The conference room door opened. �
�Brandon!” Marisa wasn’t sure if she was relieved to see the lanky young receptionist or annoyed at the abrupt interruption of her next verbal volley.
“I am so sorry to interrupt!” His triumphant features hastily pulled into lines of respectful deference, Brandon Proctor skipped across the room to the computer in the corner. His crisp white shirt and pressed kakis caught the golden glow of the morning sun from the wide window as he bent to the power strip. “I’ll power up the projector for you.”
Marisa made a mental note to discuss skipping in front of visitors with Brandon, alongside a notation regarding his penchant for interrupting meetings. And, she fumed, leaving the front desk unattended.
As the computer and projector hummed and the internet explorer page appeared on the screen, Brandon smiled. “Let me test this out for you before I leave. Let’s see, when you asked for Ms. Adair this morning, you said your name was Brad Jacobs, and you’re from New York City.” Brandon’s long fingers flew across the computer keys at the podium. “Ah! Here we are!”
With the Phiz Phase logo at the top of the screen, a Phase Page popped into view. Marisa’s eyes widened and she rose from her seat. Various photographs depicting the dapper Jacobs in various stages of undress and holding both whiskey bottles and nubile young women by their necks marched across the screen with Brandon’s cursor.
Jacobs sprang to his feet and howled at the huge screen: “How did those pictures get on there? My account’s been hacked! This is an outrage!”
Marisa joined the trembling Jacobs and peered at the screen. “Wow, that girl looks pretty young, Mr. Jacobs. Your daughter?”
Obligingly, Brandon zoomed in on the girl’s necklace. “She has a high school class ring suspended on a chain around her neck,” he chirped.
Marisa frowned and moved closer to the screen. “If that’s your daughter, Mr. Jacobs, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to have your hand on her ass.”
Brandon snorted, “Maybe he’s trying to pull down that short skirt.”
Jacobs growled and lunged for the computer. “Turn that thing off! No, wait, let me shut down the page first!”
As Brandon’s shoulders shook with laughter, Jacobs turned on him. “It was you! You hacked my Phiz Phase! And you hacked my personal photos—I mean, you edited my photos and added in those images of the young girls and the alcohol!”
“Mr. Jacobs! How on earth could Brandon have done such a thing? Brandon, please go back to your post.” Flipping back her walnut brown braid, Marisa scooped up her laptop and clicked it closed. As she slid the slim device into its carrying case and draped the strap on her shoulder, she refused to catch Brandon’s eyes, since she felt sure they were alight with triumph. Marisa struggled for a businesslike tone. “If you’ve finished monkeying around with your personal social media page, Mr. Jacobs, perhaps we should hit the next item on your agenda, which is a tour of the hospital. After that, our Chief Financial Officer, Alex Caldwell, will meet with you.”
In the sun-flooded lobby, Marisa paused when Jacobs abruptly ducked into the men’s room. Probably going to surreptitiously check his online accounts in private, she theorized. Marisa drifted to the reception desk. Brandon was back at his post, baring his perfect teeth at several of his customers. “The Widow Cranston. And her entourage.”
“Young man.” A firm step carried Mrs. Cranston smartly flush with the counter. Given her straight spine and squared shoulders, Mrs. Cranston’s pale pink straw hat with the red curls peeking out along the brim could have been a combat helmet and her pastel summer shift a battle dress uniform for her trim figure.
If they had saluted like enemy generals, it wouldn’t have been surprising.
“We’ve had this dreary conversation countless times. I simply cannot release any information on patients, due to confidentiality.” Sketching along the edges of both jaws and converging at the cleft in his chin, the charcoal line of precisely trimmed stubble highlighted Brandon’s determination. “If you have a name, then I can try and help you.” As if he spent his time on twenty-mile marches rather than at his desk, his golden brown skin caught the rays of sunlight streaming across the lobby.
Mrs. Cranston vibrated in outrage under the flowing lines of her dress. As if they were her first lieutenants, two of the ladies snapped to attention and stepped forward to flank her on either side.
“Confidential, my foot. It hasn’t been that long ago I could just wander through the halls of the hospital, looking for someone I knew. Since you’re a busy young man, why don’t you simply let us take the elevator and look around for ourselves?”
Relentlessly closing in on victory, Brandon smiled in triumph. “If you don’t have a name, Mrs. Cranston, you’ll have to leave.” He leaned back in his leather command chair, secure in the knowledge the skirmish was his.
Marisa saw Mrs. Cranston make a furtive sign with her hand.
Guarding the rear, the fourth member of the little group stiffened.
Mrs. Cranston’s pink straw hat bobbed in annoyance, sending the jaunty daisy on top into a wobble. “Not so fast, young man.” She pulled a small notebook and slim pen out of her purse, opened the book, and pursed her plump pink lips. “How about Lucinda McNeer? A friend saw an ambulance in her driveway a couple of days ago.” Leaning over the counter with the open book in her hand, she used her pen as a pointer to show Brandon the entry.
Brandon’s eyes were on the notebook as his long, sensitive fingers tapped the keys of his computer.
Stealthy as a Special Forces operative, the fourth woman in Mrs. Cranston’s group carefully slid along the counter, and tilted her dark head to look at Brandon’s computer screen.
She quietly retraced her steps to her place at the rear. She pulled out her cell phone. Her fingers flew over the keys as swiftly as a teen with important news to spread. At the desk, Mrs. Cranston quietly slid her phone from her pocket, and checked the screen. She slid the phone smoothly back into her pocket.
“No, sorry, Mrs. Cranston, you struck out with that one.” Victory nearly in his grasp, Brandon smirked.
Mrs. Cranston’s daisy waved as she threw up her head in triumph. “How about Selina Pottinger?”
Brandon surrendered. “Darn, Mrs. Cranston. You hit pay dirt. She’s in room 331. I know you can find your way there.”
Marisa propped her elbows on the desk as the troop of older ladies sashayed to the elevator as a unit. “That’s the most impressive maneuver I’ve ever seen. You had Mrs. Pottinger’s name and room number on your screen for Mrs. Cranston’s scout to see when she peeked.”
Brandon grinned at her. “I didn’t have the heart to deny Mrs. Cranston her victory. Since Mrs. Pottinger had already called down to ask me to help Mrs. Cranston find her room, I was prepared. It appears everyone in her age group knows about Mrs. Cranston’s little hobby.”
As the older lady and her underlings started to sweep into the elevator in triumph, Marisa trotted across the room and caught her arm. “Mrs. Cranston, why don’t you just sign up for our volunteer program? As a volunteer, you could have unrestricted access to the patient rosters.”
The well-preserved widow’s impressive chest swelled in outrage. “Are you mad? That would take away the sport of it.” She and her friends turned as smartly as a well-drilled unit on a parade ground, and the elevator doors slid shut.
Marisa jumped as she felt hot breath on the back of her neck. Jacobs laughed as she ducked away. “One for the ‘old bat-talion,’ zero for your volunteer program.”
At the desk, Brandon’s jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t call Mrs. Cranston an old bat.”
Jacobs’ trip to the men’s room seemed to have restored his cocky equilibrium. He raised one brow. “You’re right. She doesn’t look bad for a woman of her age. I bet she’d be pathetically grateful for masculine attention. I’ve heard Kentucky has beautiful horses and fast women. Perhaps I’ll give her the opportunity to run in the Jacobs Stakes…”
Brandon growled, “I’ve heard aging stallions are luck
y to even make it out of the starting gate.”
The auditor’s sharp inward breath and reddening face prodded Marisa into hasty action. Fairly sure her boss would be upset if a brawl broke out in the lobby, particularly with an outside auditor, Marisa shooed him in front of her like a recalcitrant chicken. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Brandon.”
Since the rehabilitation wing was nearest the conference room, Marisa guided Jacobs through the ambulating patients. The bodies, from adolescents to the elderly, were recovering from such diverse illnesses as strokes, heart attacks, and arthritis, and from injuries caused by falls, automobile crashes, and industrial accidents.
Fighting against the tide of a surge of patients, Jacobs tried to squeeze past an elderly woman seated in a wheelchair. Her bony shoulders were covered with a fluffy pink sweater. Below her fuchsia sweat pants, her stick-thin ankles ended in feet encased in blue and white sneakers. She touched his neat charcoal gray jacket with twig thin fingers. With obvious pleasure, her fingers followed the grain of the soft fabric.
Jacobs’ face twisted in distaste. With one hand, he angrily jerked his jacket out of her grasp and rubbed at the fabric as if to erase the imprint of the patient’s long fingers. With his other hand, he grasped the arm of the wheelchair and nearly overturned it as he slammed it toward the wall.
A huge woman with her bulk squeezed into her extra-wide wheelchair swooped through the hallway bottleneck, scattering surprised patients and staff. The wide black wheel of her chair ran directly over Jacobs’ expensively shod foot.
Hopping on one foot, Jacobs snapped: “You old witch! You did that on purpose!”
Her magnificent bosom reached epic proportions with her sharp breath of outrage. Her thin gray hair, neatly covered by a black hair net, shook with temper. “Damn right I did, you slimy little snot! How dare you treat sweet Mrs. Armstrong like she was some sort of pariah, no better than the dirt under your feet!”
