Negative Exposure
Killer Shot Mysteries
Book 1
* * *
Lisa B. Thomas
Negative Exposure
Copyright © 2017 Lisa B. Thomas
Cozy Stuff and Such, LLC
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 or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author’s Note
Works by Lisa B. Thomas
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Move-in day was stressful enough without worrying about a dead body next door. Okay, granted, the body wasn’t next door now, but it had been there less than a week ago. Now, this afternoon, it was likely in the back room of a funeral parlor or possibly in a cement vault six feet underground, depending on the family’s wishes.
You might think I’m a monster for complaining about a dead man—worm meat, as Shakespeare would have put it—but I had driven more than twelve hours to get here, pulling a U-Haul trailer, and I desperately needed to stretch my legs and pee, just not in that order. Hadn’t I stopped along the way? Of course. It’s not like I have an iron bladder, but no amount of toilet paper doilies could offer adequate protection from the menacing microorganisms accumulated on those West Texas germ factories called “rest stops.” Crossing into the mountains of New Mexico was not much better, except that the cold air made the jog back to the car even more miserable. You just can’t get a satisfying pee without sitting. That’s probably why men call us the weaker sex, as if peeing standing up was somehow an act of self-flagellation.
The immediate source of my agitation was a Cadillac Seville with mile-long fins blocking my driveway. My Jeep, trailer and all, had nowhere to go. Although I had heard the next-door neighbor’s husband had died suddenly last week, it hadn’t occurred to me a funeral would be today. Not only was I stranded in the middle of the road, two guys I had hired online were supposed to meet me here any minute to unload the trailer. I couldn’t just leave it parked in the street, waiting for the mourners to dry up, clear out, and move their cars. A scene from a demolition derby I’d once seen on TV came to mind. Probably best to save that as a last resort.
Desperation fueled my actions. I parked in the street and opened the car door, sucking in the cool, sweet fragrance of ponderosa pine trees and Douglas firs. The smoky scent of burning wood also wafted through the air. Someone must be burning juniper and cedar in their wood stove. I know that’s a lot of detail, but my keen sense of smell was my superpower, and I showed it off whenever possible.
Like a newborn calf walking on wobbly legs, I stumbled out of the car and inched past the offending vehicle in my driveway up to the front porch. A couple of black-clad white-hairs made their way down the street and headed up the walk toward me.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” the woman said, taking my hand in hers as though it were a long-lost treasure. “Harold was such a good friend.”
The man, presumably her husband, tipped his fedora.
Such a good friend you don’t even know where he lives. “I think you are looking for the Attwoods’ house. It’s next door.” I pointed to the Pueblo-style home.
The woman grabbed her husband by the arm. “I told you to use the map instead of that ESP contraption!”
“It’s a GPS and this is where it says Harold and Beverly live.” Spittle escaped his lips as he turned back to me. “Who are you and are you positive this isn’t the right place?”
“I’m Wendy Fairmont, and I can assure you there is nothing inside but a bunch of old boxes and dust bunnies. But, I could check the closet for a corpse if it would make you happy.”
The woman pulled her husband down the sidewalk as she gave him an earful.
I had forgotten how much colder it was here than back in East Texas and shivered as the brisk wind blasted my face. The seasons had changed the farther west and up into the mountains I had driven. In Texas, late November meant the last of the fall leaves were turning and long-sleeved shirts replaced tees. Here in Cascada, New Mexico—elevation 6,900 feet—trees were bare, the ground was covered in pine needles, and gray-white clouds were working up a good first snowfall.
I fished under the brightly painted donkey-shaped planter for the front door key where Myra had said she’d leave it. She had been my parents’ cleaning lady at the Waterfall Lodge for as long as I could remember. Crossing my fingers, I unlocked the front door, hoping Myra had done at least a semi-decent job of freshening up the place. To my surprise, the old house had a fresh pine scent and a glimmer of shine. Good thing, too, because I’d have hated to go postal on the woman who used to help me hide my thong underwear from my mother.
Walking into Gran’s house was both comforting and creepy. I loved my grandparents, oftentimes more than Mom and Dad. That’s what happens when hippie parents try to raise kids with no rules. All is well until the hippies finally grow up and start dishing out restrictions. As a parent, you can’t smoke pot in front of your kid when she’s little, then tell her she can’t drink beer at the lake with her friends when she gets to high school. There’s a reason they call it “high” school. Duh.
The move back to my hometown was a double-edged sword. Yes, I was starting a new life, a new business, and would probably take on a new hobby like bread-making or paintball, but in reality, it was a big step backward. In fact, if Bigfoot existed, which he probably did, and if he took a giant step, that’s how far backward this latest twist in my life had turned out to be.
It wasn’t like I had a lot of choices, though. Dumping my boyfriend and leaving behind his family fortune was only part of it. I had also lost my apartment and most of my friends. So I moved back to my hometown of Cascada, New Mexico, hoping to make the seamless transition back to my former self and my former life. I wanted to blend in, be accepted, and start fresh.
But starting over at almost thirty-five had not been on my personal agenda. Moving back to your hometown was like parading around in your old high school cardigan with a giant F sewn on the front. F for failure. But at least I didn’t have to move back in with my parents since I had recently inherited my grandmother’s house. It’s not that I had wished for Gran to die (again, not a monster), but the timing turned out to be somewhat fortuitous.
Could Gran have known I would need a place to crash and lick my wounds?
Ridiculous. I sounded like one of those old cranks down at the Piggly Wiggly talking to my dead husband while picking up handfuls of radishes. Did people even eat radishes anymore?
The pendulum on the grandfather clock swung back and forth with a steady, comforting swish. Myra must have wound it for my ar
rival. Speaking of which, was that really the correct time? I took care of business then headed back outside to figure out what to do.
Standing on the front lawn, I wished for a bullhorn to call out the car’s owner. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t make a good impression on my new neighbors, especially since at least one of them was in mourning. Staring at the Attwood house, my first instinct was to call my parents for help. In the past, this never would have crossed my mind, but after this latest curveball in my life, I was feeling a bit helpless and beaten down.
Still, I was determined not to rely on them, even though they were just a few country miles away. I couldn’t let living in my old hometown turn me into a needy spinster. It would be easy enough to do. After all, my parents were enablers. That’s why my older brother was still living at home instead of being in some jail cell or halfway house where he belonged. Supposedly, he worked at the lodge, if you called hanging out at the dock all day tinkering on boats “work.”
There seemed to be only one solution. I’d have to go next door and find the miscreant who’d blocked my driveway. I was hardly dressed for a social gathering, but my entire wardrobe was in the moving van. I ducked back in the house, reapplied lipstick, and tried to smooth out my messy hair before retying my ponytail.
When I had left the house to make the mind-numbing drive to Cascada, I had no intention of seeing anyone who might matter. Surely the people next door would overlook the gray hoodie and sneakers when I told them I was just moving in.
It was a clear November afternoon. Perfect day for a funeral. As a former event planner, I tended to make special note of the weather in connection to the day’s activity. There was nothing worse than an outdoor wedding with a soaking wet bride who had refused to make a back-up plan. Switching my career to photography meant I could now enjoy a good rainstorm as much as the next person.
Wondering if I should ring the bell or just walk in, I chose the first option. I had known Beverly Attwood for a number of years but had never been in her house. She and her husband had moved here after I left Cascada to go to college. She used to come over for a visit from time to time to gossip with Gran over a cup of coffee. She and Gran had been quite the opposites. Beverly was tall and stylish with snowy white hair she wore in a cute bob. Gran was round and, well, grandmotherly. She had gray hair that frizzed on the sides and seldom wore jewelry or makeup.
Beverly’s husband, Harold, had rarely been around. She said he spent all his free time on the golf course. Now he was swinging a club with Saint Peter or Saint Nicholas or Jack Nicklaus or Jack the Ripper. Too dark.
I rang the bell.
An older man, late fifties, promptly opened the door and looked at me as though I were there to clean out the gutters. “Can I help you?” he asked, assuming I was not a guest.
That was fine by me, although he didn’t have to turn up his nose quite so high. I wondered if he was the funeral home director, forcing solemnity for an occasion that provided his livelihood, that put food on the table and a roof over his head. He was about my father’s age and reminded me of my middle school principal with his graying hair slicked down and a blue suit that didn’t quite fit.
“I’m just moving in next door. There’s a car blocking my driveway. I assume the owner is here.”
“Oh,” he said and thrust out his hand. “I’m Dale Pratt. This is my in-laws’ house. Well, it was. I mean, my father-in-law is dead.” He mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear.
Just as well. I shook his hand. “I’m Wendy Fairmont.”
His face softened. “Oh, the girl next door. Why don’t you come in and ask around. I’d help, but I’m on door duty.” He glanced past me at another group of incoming mourners.
“Thanks,” I said and stepped into the foyer. Mrs. Attwood’s house was larger than Gran’s. Sadly, it too had lost much of its original charm. Red and gold velvet wallpaper and the cherub-painted cathedral ceiling in the entry were an assault on the eyes. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have pegged this place to be either a church or a house of ill repute. The house definitely had an identity crisis. Looking around, I wondered how any more guests could possibly fit into the front room. Mrs. Attwood was nowhere to be seen.
Where to begin? Assuming the vintage, garish Cadillac belonged to one of the older crowd, I decided to start my inquisition based on age and hair color. Biased, maybe, but I had to start somewhere. It wasn’t much help since most everyone looked to be card-carrying members of the AARP.
I tapped the shoulder of a man blocking the entrance into the front room. “Excuse me, sir. Do you own a Cadillac?”
“No, sweetie, but I’ll buy one if you’ll go for a drive with me.” He grinned and his bottom dentures nearly fell out.
Pervert. I popped him an insincere smile and nudged my way past, trying not to rub against him. A snowy-haired woman wearing a periwinkle-blue church hat was next. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and seemed harmless enough. “Ma’am, do you own a Cadillac?”
She looked me up, down, and sideways, wrinkling her face as though she’d just bitten into a jalapeno pepper. “What are you doing here? This is a funeral supper. Have you no decency?”
I took that as a no and moved on. After checking with several more guests, I was getting nowhere fast. Where was that bullhorn when I needed it?
Changing tactics, I decided to hunt down Mrs. Attwood. Maybe she would know who owned the car or at least be able to help. But then like a pinball shot out of the gate, I was squirted from the front room into the dining room.
Not only was this area packed, guests balanced plates and cups like circus performers as they jockeyed for position next to furniture on which to set their food. A clinking sound pierced through the clamor as someone spoon-tapped a glass. I had an immediate flashback to the numerous wedding receptions I had helped organize. I shivered.
Standing in the opening between the front room and the dining room was a mountain of a man whose head was too small for his body and whose clothes were too snazzy for the occasion. His bulbous red nose competed with his oversized bow tie for most conspicuous feature. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” He waited for silence. He had the countenance of a man used to getting his way.
I tried to blend in with the hideous flocked wallpaper. Luckily, all eyes were on Bow Tie Man.
“I would like to say a few words about our good friend, Harold Attwood.” He put the back of his hand to his mouth in a sideways comedic gesture. “I didn’t think I could say how I really felt about the old cuss in church.”
Everyone laughed. I spotted Beverly being pulled into the dining room from the kitchen by a woman with big Dallas hair. She was the spitting image of Beverly, minus about twenty years plus an unfortunately large nose. Had to be her daughter. Beverly looked flustered and ashen in her stylish black suit and heels.
“As you all probably know, Harold and I believed in healthy competition, whether it was in business or on the golf course.”
“He always beat you on the course, Bert,” some guy yelled from the other room.
More laughter and head bobbing.
Bow Tie didn’t seem to think it was so funny. “Well,” he said, his red face growing ever more crimson, “it depends on whether you believed that lying cheat.”
Everyone seemed to enjoy the friendly jabs, but I wasn’t so sure the old man was kidding. I knew enough about golf from my grandfather to know there was rarely such a thing as “friendly competition.”
He continued. “Harold was obviously blessed by the golfing gods.” Again, with the sideways slam: “By that I mean he always had a way of miraculously finding his ball in the rough.”
Seriously? The man’s dead.
“It was a long time coming, but as the newly elected president of the Cascada Falls Golf Association, I am going to make it my first order of business to nominate Harold Attwood to be added to the club’s Hall of Fame.”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Someone whistled.
She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Bert.”
“And dear Penelope, you were the best thing Harold ever did.”
Beverly squeezed her daughter as though she were afraid to let go.
“And now, let’s raise our glasses to Harold Attwood. May you always hit the fairway and never lose your ball. And if you get lucky enough to hit another hole-in-one, make sure you have a witness this time. Cheers!”
“Cheers!” The crowd began to swarm like bees after someone had disturbed their nest, with Bert being the queen bee.
I crept along the edge of the wall, trying to make my way over to Beverly just when a woman spun around to grab her near-falling plate of pasta and bumped me out into the hallway. I reached for the wall but ended up face down at someone’s feet. I looked up, following the black loafers up dark pants to a navy sports coat.
The man looked over his plate. “Are you okay?”
He gave me a hand up as I tried to regain what dignity I had left. “Yes. I was just trying—”
“Wendy Fairmont. Is that you?”
Staring at his face, I wondered who this guy was. He looked like an L.L. Bean cover model. Not only did he have killer dark eyes, but he had those rugged Latin good looks that make most women drool over the models rather than the clothes. Even beneath the shaggy beard, I could see a Cary Grant dimple in his chin. It was all I could do not to reach out and touch it.
Heat rose in my face as I stared. Not only was I caught looking like a boot camp dropout, I didn’t recognize the hunky guy speaking to me. I shuffled the wheels in my brain trying to place him. Having been an event planner for nearly ten years, I’d worked with a lot of people. Some I kept in touch with; most were just names in my Rolodex. I definitely would have remembered this face, though.
He seemed to find my lack of recognition funny. “You don’t remember me, do you? I get that a lot.”
Negative Exposure Page 1
