by Rachel Lee
Conard County: Hard Proof
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Murdered in Conard County
Conard County Watch
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Keep reading for an excerpt from Spring at Saddle Run by Delores Fossen.
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Spring at Saddle Run
by Delores Fossen
CHAPTER ONE
MILLIE PARKMAN DAYTON muttered a single word of profanity when she looked at the name on the sliver of paper that she’d just drawn from the bowl.
A really bad word.
One that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap had she still been a kid. Because it’d been a while since anyone had crammed a bar of Dial Antibacterial into her mouth, Millie steeled herself for a mouth washing of a whole different kind.
Sitting in the front row in the town hall of Last Ride, Texas, Millie’s mother, Laurie Jean Parkman, gasped and then lost nearly every drop of color in her face. No easy feat, considering she was wearing her usual full coverage makeup. After the color drained, her mom pulled out the mountain-size emotional guns.
Tears filled her eyes.
Narrowed eyes that had also gotten the full makeup treatment. Laurie Jean’s now hot baby blues warned Millie she’d better think fast and figure out a way to erase everyone’s memory of what she’d just said.
Making waves brings shame—that was Laurie Jean’s motto. It wasn’t exactly needlepointed on pillows around the Parkman house, but it’d been served up verbally and often enough with morning oatmeal and the occasional mouthful of Dial Antibacterial.
Shocked chatter rippled through the town hall. There’d be gossip. Then, pity and forgiveness. Millie knew the folks of her hometown of Last Ride would cut her enough slack to overlook the f-bomb. More slack than she would ever deserve.
Because she was a twenty-nine-year-old widow.
And because everyone in the room knew why she’d cursed. With the name she’d just drawn, life had just given Millie a big f-bomb poke in the eye.
Twenty Minutes Earlier
THE GLASS BOWLS filled with names sat like giant judging eyeballs on the table in front of the Last Ride town hall. Someone on the Last Ride Society Committee—obviously, someone with an inappropriate sense of humor—had put labels on them.
“Bowl o’ Names” on the left.
Not to be confused with bag o’ salad or Bowl o’ Tombstones on the judgy glass “eyeball” on the right.
Millie’s stomach fluttered because she knew her name was in the left bowl, a place it’d been for eight and a half years since her twenty-first birthday. She was in good, and also bad, company since the name of every living adult Parkman relative in Last Ride was in that mix with her.
At last count there were about three hundred and eighty, and names were added as her cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. came of age. Names were subtracted when cousins, nieces, nephews, Parkman spouses, etc. passed. Or fulfilled their assignments.
The right bowl was jammed with folded slivers of paper with names, as well. No more coming of age for these folks though. These were names taken from the tombstones in all the local cemeteries. Millie didn’t find it comforting that the Bowl o’ Tombstones was stuffed to the brim.
And that her husband’s name was in there.
It had been for twenty-two months since Royce had been killed, and his name had been crammed in the mix shortly thereafter. Millie hoped it stayed there until she was part of the whole “ashes to ashes/dust to dust” deal. Then, some unlucky Parkman kin could have a go at doing their duty and do the research that would almost certainly stir up more gossip than it already had.
The memories came. Of Royce’s fatal car wreck. Of the fact that Millie could no longer remember his taste. His scent. Or the last time Royce had told her he loved her. But there was something she could recall in perfect detail.
That what she’d had with Royce had been a big fat lie.
Millie felt the memories and the lies roll into a hot ball, one that would surely spiral her into a panic attack if she didn’t stop it. She needed fresh air, but bolting now would cause every eye in the room to turn and look at her.
To pity her.
To whisper about her behind her back.
Millie didn’t want the pity any more than the gossip or the memories so she started silently repeating the mantra that she’d latched on to shortly after the panic attacks had started.
Beyond this place, there be dragons.
It was something she’d seen written on an antique map, a way to warn travelers of dangers ahead. A beautiful map of golden land and teal green waters. The image of it soothed her and sometimes—sometimes—it reminded her not to go beyond the gold and teal. That if she crossed over into the dragon pit of grief, she might never come back.
Beyond this place, there be dragons.
The back door opened, bringing in yet more heat and a spear of the May sun that would warm things up even more before it set in a couple of hours. The trio of overhead fans whirled, scattering the heat, some dust motes and the clashing scents of perfumes that the majority of attendees had splashed on.
“I volunteer as tribute,” the newcomer called out.
The newcomer, Frankie McCann, was decked out in a full Hunger Games/Katniss Everdeen costume, the cool leather one from the scenes in the last movie. She’d even braided her hair, but unlike Katniss, Frankie’s locks were a blend of pink, peach and canary yellow.
Frankie’s announcement caused a few giggles, including a hoot, holler and a knee slap from Alma Parkman, the president of the Last Ride Society. There were also some scowls as the “eyes” turned toward the back of the hall. Millie tried to poker up her face and show nothing. Because pretty much any kind of reaction from her would spur more of that pity and gossip. Millie also kept that blank face when Frankie sank down beside her.
Even if Frankie hadn’t come decked out as Katniss, her presence would have stirred up talk, but Frankie had a right to be here. Seven years earlier, when Frankie had been barely twenty-one, she’d married Tanner Parkman, Millie’s brother, and even though they’d divorced only a year later, Frankie had given birth to Tanner Junior. Or Little T as people called him. Since there hadn’t been a provision in the Last Ride Society to remove divorcées or those who’d given birth to Parkmans, Frankie had remained in the Bowl o’ Names. Much to the disapproval of those, well, who disapproved of a lot of things.
“Hey, this is a good turnout,” Frankie remarked. Her voice was like a perky dose of sunshine. Not the kind to give you heatstroke but the extra sunny kind that felt good after a long winter.
“It is,” Millie agreed. Though it was the usual turnout as far as she could tell.
There were about eighty people who fell into one of three categories. Those who truly wanted to honor their founder and ancestor, Hezzie Parkman. Those with too much time on their hands who came for Alma’s homemade snickerdoodles and any gossip they might have missed. And the final group was those who made time and came only out of a sense of duty.
Millie was in that last batch.
Since Hezzie had been her great-great grandmother, Millie had come every year since her twenty-first birthday to represent her father and brother who always had an excuse not to be here. Like tonight, her mother was always in the front row, in the aisle seat. Doing her duty while looking perfect. Laurie Jean wouldn’t be having a snickerdoodle, and she’d been one of the scowlers when Frankie had come in and announced herself as tribute.
As for Frankie, she was all
about honoring the founder, eating the snickerdoodles and apparently having fun while doing it. Then again, having fun pretty much defined Frankie’s attitude about life.
Millie envied that attitude. That warm sunshine voice. Heck, she envied Frankie. But admitting that would only put her and her mom and dad under more scrutiny. Her folks didn’t need any scrutiny—as Laurie Jean so often told her.
Plenty of times her mom dressed down Tanner. And Frankie. That’s because Tanner had a habit of doing whatever the heck pleased him and no longer feared Dial Antibacterial threats. Frankie owned a costume and party supply shop and also did tats and piercings on the side. While she was good at her chosen profession, it wasn’t a profession that met with Laurie Jean’s approval. Also, Frankie wasn’t a Parkman, or a Dayton like Royce, so DNA and career choices counted against her. In Laurie Jean’s mind, a lot of things counted against a lot of people.
“Heard about what happened at the gallery,” Frankie muttered to Millie.
Millie suspected—no, she knew—everyone in Last Ride had heard about what had gone on at Once Upon a Time, the antiques and art gallery that Millie’s grandmother had left her.
“What a mess, huh?” Frankie remarked.
“Yes,” Millie agreed. “Mess is definitely the right word for it.”
Two very large macaws, Dorothy and Toto, had escaped from the pet store and had flown into Once Upon a Time when someone opened the door. Along with spilling Millie’s megaslurp of coffee and scattering her stash of cherry Jolly Ranchers on the floor, the birds had toppled tables, knocked down paintings from easels and pooped on a Victorian silver nut spoon before being caught.
All the while babbling Ding-dong the witch is dead.
After the pet store owner had finally gotten them out, it’d taken Millie and her two employees hours to right everything and get rid of the stench.
The old clock in the front corner of the town hall finally clanged six times, and it got Alma Parkman scurrying up from her front-row seat to the podium. Yes, she scurried. Alma might be past the eighty mark, but she was spry, happy and didn’t care squat if people gossiped about her. That was probably why Alma had recently announced that she was retiring as the town’s librarian and pursuing a career as a stand-up comic.
“How-dee,” Alma greeted. She wore a pink top and capris and had her silver-colored hair pulled up in a way that resembled a mini palm tree on top of her head. “Welcome, Parkmans. And Katniss.” She winked at Frankie.
No wink for Millie though when Alma’s attention landed on her. The pity practically gushed right out of Alma, causing Millie to dole out her customary response. A polite smile followed by the poker face. Millie had gotten good at plastering it on.
“All righty, then.” Alma put on her thick reading glasses before picking up the gavel. “I’m calling to order this meeting of the Last Ride Society.” She banged the gavel three times. “We’ll start with a reading of the rules.” Alma looked down at the paper she’d brought to the podium with her and gave an exaggerated frown. “Hey, who scribbled that the first rule of Last Ride Society is there are no rules?”
Frankie and Alma giggled like loons, but many just looked confused. Probably because they didn’t get the Fight Club reference. Others because they didn’t approve of having a lick of fun.
“I confess, I’m the scribbler,” Alma continued, still snickering. “Just trying out some of my new routine. But here I go for real.” Her expression grew serious. “Our illustrious town founder, Hezzie Parkman, created the Last Ride Society shortly before her death in 1950, and each and every one of you honor Hezzie by being here this evening. Honor, tradition, family. Those are the cornerstones that make Last Ride our home.”
Even though it was a short speech that Alma gave every quarter, Millie saw a few people dab tears from their eyes.
Alma held up one finger to indicate the first rule. “A drawing will take place quarterly on the first day of February, May, August and November in the Last Ride town hall. The winner of the previous quarter will draw the name of his or her successor.”
Nearly everyone glanced at Ruby Chaney, last quarter’s winner. She definitely fell into the category of gobbling up this particular duty. She gave everyone a wave, obviously enjoying the last couple of minutes of her “celebrity” status.
“Second rule,” Alma said, lifting another finger. “The winner must research the person whose tombstone he or she draws. A handout will be given to the winner to better spell out what needs to be done, but research should be conducted at least once weekly as to compile a thorough report on the deceased. The report will be added to the Last Ride Society Library.”
Since the library occupied the large back room of Once Upon a Time, Millie often caught glimpses of the reports that had started more than half a century ago. Some had been bound professionally and were several inches thick. Others were handwritten and obviously hastily done. Ruby’s recent addition was over five hundred pages on a spinster who’d died back in the late 1800s.
“Final rule,” Alma went on. “On the completion of the research by the winner, five thousand dollars from the Hezzie Parkman trust will be donated to the winner’s chosen town charity.”
“I’m hoping it’s me this year,” Frankie muttered. “The baseball field needs fixing up.”
Millie was hoping it was Frankie, too. Not only because the woman wanted it but because Frankie was right about the baseball field needing a face-lift. Millie made a mental note to set up a donation drive for just that.
“And now to the drawing.” Alma used the gavel to drum out her obvious excitement. “Ruby, come on up to the Bowl o’ Names and get to drawing.”
Ruby waved again and smiled at the applause. What she didn’t do was hurry. Not one little bit. Still obviously trying to hang on to her moment, Ruby crept to the table and hovered her hand over the bowl. Probably to boost excitement. Many probably hoped she’d just hurry so they could spoil their dinners with those snickerdoodles.
Ruby finally reached into the bowl, swirling around the slivers of paper, paused, swirled some more. Only when people started to groan and grumble did she finally pluck one.
Ruby beamed and looked directly at her. “Millie Parkman,” the woman announced.
Oh, man. What kind of crap-ery was this? Suddenly all eyes were on her. Exactly where Millie didn’t want them to be.
“Congrats, Millie,” Alma muttered.
There were no congrats whatsoever in Alma’s tone or expression. No doubt because she, and everyone else in the room, were considering that Millie digging into that Bowl o’ Tombstones would maybe bring back the memories and grief over losing Royce. But Millie didn’t have to dig into a bowl to recall that memory. Everything brought it back.
Everything.
Millie forced herself to stand, and she got moving toward the front. She silently cursed the macaws because she could have used both the caffeine and sugar fix to get her through this. Unlike Ruby, she didn’t dawdle, didn’t make a production of it. Millie simply went to the Bowl o’ Tombstones and snagged the first one her fingers touched. She unfolded the paper.
Her heart went to her knees.
And she blurted out the really bad word.
“The name is Ella McCann,” Millie managed to say when she got her mouth unfrozen.
The room went tombstone-silent, but Millie figured there was already some mental gossip going on.
Frankie jumped to her feet. “I volunteer as tribute,” she repeated.
Millie considered taking her up on the offer. Considered shirking the duty that had been drummed into her since childhood. Parkman duty. Parkman pride. But it was more than that. It was spine. It would probably come as a surprise to many, but she did indeed have one. And Millie was about to prove that.
To them.
To herself.
Even if Ella McCann deserved each and every
f-bomb that Millie would ever mutter, she’d do this. She’d research the “other” woman. She’d dig into the life of the woman who’d died in the arms of Millie’s husband.
Copyright © 2021 by Delores Fossen
Keep reading for an excerpt from Deadly Double-Cross by Lena Diaz.
Deadly Double-Cross
by Lena Diaz
Chapter One
Mason Ford vowed to pay more attention next year when his assistant chose the date for the company’s fall hayride, because it was incredibly difficult acting the benevolent boss on the anniversary of his brother’s unsolved murder.
Then again, maybe having the hayride this morning was a good thing. A new, happy memory to help dull a horrific one.
He’d forgotten the charm and beauty of the eight-mile arts and crafts loop just east of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. And it certainly wasn’t a hardship admiring the colorful fall leaves as a pair of enormous draft horses pulled the eighteen-foot wagon through the Smoky Mountains. It was the exact opposite of his Louisiana hometown’s evergreens, swamps and bayous without a mountain in sight.
Moving here, escaping the daily reminders of his old life, was the only thing that had kept him sane through the years. Well, that, and being able to hire others like him, men and women whose law enforcement careers had been destroyed through no fault of their own. Being a Justice Seeker gave all of them a chance at redemption and an opportunity to continue their true calling—helping others.
The modern-day Camelot he’d created investigated crimes and protected others, with one important distinction from their law enforcement counterparts. The twelve Seekers who worked for him, his Knights of the Round Table, would bend or break the law if necessary to keep someone safe. It was infinitely preferable to prevent a murder than to hunt down an offender after they’d violated a useless restraining order and killed someone. The Seekers sometimes played fast and loose with the law. But Mason’s team helped their allies in law enforcement so much that they were usually willing to turn a blind eye.
