Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  Hughes pushed his plate away. "That's ridiculous. If you were any kind of a suspect, I wouldn't be sittin' here havin' breakfast with you. Fayleen loves to play games."

  "Hmm." My superlative private investigative instincts speculated Fayleen Hunt had a major crush on one particular deputy sergeant. The question was, did she have enough pull in the county to make trouble for me?

  *****

  Buffalo Gap

  Day Twelve, Late Morning

  Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

  I waved Patti down, got a check, and paid with a credit card. After one last sip of coffee, I grinned at Ronnie over my cup. "It might interest you to know I've got somethin' up my sleeve this mornin'. Today happens to be the day of the Buffalo Gap Cross-Country Trail Competition. It's sort of an endurance test for horse and rider. If we hurry we'll see a few of them cross the finish line."

  She grinned. "Wouldn't want to miss this."

  I ushered her out and guided her toward my Ram. "Why don't you leave that baby buggy here and ride with me, then I'll bring you back later?"

  "That would work."

  I drove down side streets, just beyond the edge of the village, and found parking in a field turned into a makeshift lot for the event. Then we walked an eighth of a mile down a dusty road to the Bar None Stable, a low whitewashed rectangular structure with a huge red and white sliding door in front. It was the starting and finish line for this competition.

  Horse trailers pulled by SUVs and pickups dotted the parking area in front as well as the small knoll sloping down to paddocks where several horses grazed.

  Desmond LeBlanc greeted us, looking every bit the surfer dude. Matthew McConaughey had nothing on him. Todd and I went way back to Iraq with the man. Fifty something, but didn't look a day over forty-five. After a distinguished military career, he grew out his dirty blond hair and spent some time in Hollywood as a stunt double, then transplanted to Texas and opened the stable. LeBlanc's baritone carried on the breeze.

  He planted a hand on his hip. "Look who's deemed to grace us and brought a fine young lady with him. You know something, Hughes, she's way outta your league." He slapped me on the back while a wicked grin ate his unlined face.

  The thought struck me he might've gone under the knife when he was in tinsel town. Might've tinted his hair too. Not a speck of gray.

  I made introductions. "Ronnie, when Todd and I first got over to Iraq, we had to take crap from this guy. He was a sergeant without mercy and hasn't let up since."

  LeBlanc kicked a rock in the parking lot with the toe of his dusty boot. "Well, it's been awhile since Iraq."

  I nodded. "Who won today?"

  LeBlanc chuckled. "You know him pretty good too. Pete, the rodeo clown."

  Ronnie broke out into a smile. "Pete won?"

  "Yes, ma'am. A lotta ladies rode in the competition today. It came down to Pete and Janie West, the champion barrel racer. They were neck 'n neck when they came outta those trees 'n into the clearing. Pete showed her no quarter and crossed that finish line in a break-neck gallop. That was something to see, all right. I got it on video. Show you later, if you want."

  A silver haired lady entered the clearing, spurred her mount and rode across the finish line at a trot. LeBlanc excused himself and helped the woman dismount.

  I nudged Ronnie. "Let's go into the stable and see if we can find Pete. They'll have a farrier in there takin' care of any shoe or hoof problems. Some'll be hosin' off their horses out back."

  Riders who rented stalls, carried pitchforks laden with fresh hay for their horses to nibble.

  As we continued walking toward the back, we heard LeBlanc call out, "The last rider has crossed the line."

  A cowboy, with burnished tones in his brown hair, darted into the stable, took his Stetson off, and bowed as a woman rider entered. "Ava Chandler congratulations on finishin' third from the bottom. 'Course my wife finished right after you and right before that girl who fell off and her horse run away." He slapped his hat on his thigh and cackled.

  I wheeled around and Ronnie pivoted with me.

  Ava Chandler dismounted an outstanding Arabian mare. "Gus, I suppose that passes for humor in your book?"

  Gus balanced his hat on the back of his head and splayed both palms out, facing the Chandler woman. "Now, there were no insult intended."

  She stared him down. "None taken." It seemed she hardly moved her lips.

  The man's shoulders slumped at her rebuke. He rocked from boot-to-boot as he made his way out of the stable.

  "Deputy Hughes, are you followin' me? That would be a violation of my rights and my husband won't like that." Her glare had not softened.

  I approached her, Ronnie at my side. "Mrs. Chandler, good day. We came to see what Desmond LeBlanc had goin' on here today. Had no idea you were competin'. This is a public place. There's no expectation of privacy."

  Her auburn hair sailed over her shoulder as she spun on her heel and stormed away, pulling her horse by the reins, none too gentle on the mare's mouth.

  I leaned over and whispered to Ronnie. "She's just this side of a loose cannon. That woman bears watchin'. Winslow Chandler isn't the type to make too many mistakes, but his lovely wife might make a few. Would be nice if we had eyes and ears there to catch her when she does."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  South Abilene

  Day Thirteen, Afternoon

  Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

  I reached out both hands and touched Trudy as she lay in her casket. My wedding band seemed to wink at me and the hand snapped back, almost of its own accord, tucking itself under my opposite armpit. I shuddered and focused on Trudy.

  That worn-out platitude I'd often heard wasn't true. Not a chance she looked even remotely lifelike. The white coffin with its pink velvet interior embroidered with delicate white roses did nothing to obscure the horrifying reason we were here.

  The smell of funeral parlor choked me. Flowers, perhaps a cleaning solution, or the chemicals they used to embalm. Whatever it was, I wanted to run out, get in my bug of a car, and race as far away as I could. Instead of making a mad dash for the door, I pivoted and walked to a seat toward the back in such a ladylike manner I would've made my mother proud. I couldn't be there for Mark at his viewing, but I could be here for Trudy.

  What a stupid thought! I could've been there if I'd insisted, but that most likely would've become histrionic. Not something I would have liked to endure. At any rate, Mark had Cassidy there and she was the woman he'd wanted.

  Dawson Hughes walked in with a man in a dark suit. I recognized him as the rookie Abilene PD detective who was lead on Mark's case. My focus zeroed in on them, interrupting my stream of maudlin thoughts. Hughes wore his uniform and neither man signed the guest book, so I supposed they were here officially.

  He spotted me, waved, and walked over, the detective his constant companion. "I'm sure no introductions are necessary."

  I stood. "Of course, I clearly recall sitting at a desk in the Abilene police station opposite Detective Farber."

  As we shook hands, the detective's brown eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Ingels, I'm surprised to see you here. How did you know Trudy Bobkirk?"

  I slid my hand out of his grasp and clasped the strap of my shoulder bag. "After my husband's death, his membership at the spa reverted to me. I took advantage of the amenities they offered and naturally met Trudy at the front desk."

  His eyes remained mere slits. "You felt you knew the receptionist at the spa you just joined well enough to come to her memorial service?"

  I met his gaze straight on. "Like you, I'm working. I think Trudy's murder is related to my husband's. But to answer your question, yes, I do feel I knew her well enough."

  Hughes cleared his throat and motioned for me to move two seats further down. "Let's not get testy, boys and girls."

  I rolled my eyes, took two quick sidesteps, and plopped onto a seat. Hughes sat next to me and Farber took the seat on the aisle.

  A baldi
ng man with a professional demeanor, wearing a conservative black suit, entered the viewing room. A teary woman clung to his arm. He ushered her to a mauve settee in the front row… probably the funeral director seating one of Trudy's relatives. The family hailed from Oklahoma. The obit in the paper stated a memorial service had been planned here in Abilene. Then the body would be flown to the family's hometown for burial.

  Farber snapped his head toward Hughes with such force I thought I might hear his vertebrate crack. He held his hand low and flicked out his index finger, pointing at the entrance of the viewing room. "Ava Chandler's here. When I interviewed her she came off like she thought she sat on a throne, or somethin'."

  I smirked. "The Empress Ava has arrived."

  Hughes ignored me and addressed Farber. "It takes a few interviews, a little experience and you'll be cuttin' them down to size."

  The Chandler woman strode in as if she were the guest of honor at a board of supervisors' dinner. She didn't approach the casket, but instead took a seat three rows from the front, near the door. She pushed her lush auburn locks over one shoulder and straightened the collar of her black silk pants suit.

  Marjean and Nellie were the next to arrive. Nellie alternately twisted a piece of tissue and then dabbed at her bulging, red eyes. They chose the row behind Ava Chandler.

  A young man sporting a black western shirt with white embroidery on the yoke, and collar length sun-kissed brown hair, entered the viewing room. With halting steps, he made his way directly to the casket, and fell to his knees on its kneeler. Hunching forward, as if all the air had been let out of him, he reached into the casket, and seemed to be patting Trudy's hand. He mumbled, but in the silence of the room, his words carried. "I won't rest until I find who did this to you."

  Hughes leaned toward me. "That's Jimmy Logan, Trudy's new boyfriend."

  The woman rose from the settee and walked with stately grace over to Logan. She placed her hand on his shoulder and said something to him. He stood and awkwardly squared his bolo tie, held closed by a silver steer's head. They both walked to the settee and sat down next to each other.

  A wiry man with thinning salt and pepper hair entered wearing pressed jeans and a white shirt. He walked to the casket, stood there a moment, and nodded. He turned, approached Jimmy Logan, shook his hand, and said something to the woman.

  "That's Floyd, the barman at the Broken Spur Saloon on Route 83. That's where Trudy met Jimmy Logan," Hughes whispered.

  A few more people I didn't recognize entered, milled about, and found seats. Apparently, neither Hughes nor Farber knew who they were. Or, if they did, they chose to keep it to themselves.

  When I glanced back at the door, Dorothy Chandler jolted forward in a pair of sling-backed high-heeled pumps she seemed unsure of. A black beret covered most of her hair and she held a black clutch to her waist. Prior to this, I'd never seen anything on her feet except Birkenstocks. She advanced toward her cousin's wife and spoke softly, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

  "Of course not." Ava Chandler rose, and moved over a seat, looking greatly put out.

  Nellie swiveled in her seat and spoke to Marjean sotto voche. She rose and walked out of the room.

  I tapped Hughes on the shoulder as I stepped past him. "I think I'd better get a bit of air in the lobby."

  I followed Nellie out of the viewing room. She spoke for a moment to a woman in a black suit with a tightly wound bun at the top of her head. The woman pointed toward the rear of the building and Nellie hurried in that direction.

  I held back so it wouldn't appear as if I were stalking her, and caught a glimpse of pink hair. Uma Kantrel had arrived with Reece Morgan. After the pair entered the viewing room, I headed for where I'd last seen Nellie.

  I picked up my pace and passed another viewing room, decorated just as Trudy's was in soft mauve tones. A grouping of easy chairs with azalea patterned damask upholstery hugged a cherry wood coffee table. Just beyond that, I came upon the women's room and pushed through the door. Whoever decorated this place sure had cornered the market on mauve.

  When Nellie came out of the stall and saw me, her face registered surprise.

  I pivoted toward the sink keeping an eye on her in the mirror and turned on the faucet. "I got a bit claustrophobic in there. Just need to splash some water on my face."

  She sighed and leaned against the mauve tiled wall. "I've been all nerves for so long. I had to get out of there."

  "It's terrible what happened to Trudy. Just awful."

  Tears streamed down Nellie's cheeks. "Trudy was probably the sweetest person who worked at the spa."

  Times like this I felt like a heel, egging a woman on in her grief. But that didn't stop me. "I noticed Trudy always wore the cutest butterfly or heart earrings."

  That engendered a water works, followed by huge gulps for air. "She was the last person who should've wound up like this."

  "Why do you think it happened to her?"

  Nellie bit her knuckle, and then thrust her hand down at her side, balled into a fist. "I don't know. She wasn't the type to pry."

  "Were there secrets at the spa?"

  She nodded vigorously and a few strands of her wheat blond hair fell out of the black velvet ribbon tied at the nape of her neck.

  "Did you ever see a dangerous looking Hispanic man at the spa, perhaps the man who works at the bridal shop for Cassidy Renault?"

  She took a step away from me and hugged herself. I didn't, but Marjean has. It's not who you think. The dude doesn't work for Cassidy. But Cassidy has been calling Reece from New York several times a day."

  "She has?" That was info I'd have to pass on to Hughes -- right away.

  I reached out, but stopped short of touching her. "Do you know why Cassidy is phoning?"

  "No and neither does Marjean."

  I lowered my voice, hoping I'd hit a soothing note. "This scary man, who is he?"

  Tears flowed again. She was going to have to do a major makeup repair job. She grabbed a tissue from the dispenser on a console table against the wall, dabbed her eyes, and wailed, "I don't know. He comes at night and Reece is a total nut job the next day, barking at everyone."

  The door opened and Ava Chandler waltzed in.

  Nellie opened her handbag and removed her makeup case. She shook her head as if making repairs would be useless, returned the case, and snapped the purse closed. "I better go." She rushed out.

  A long look at my face in the mirror told me a swipe of lipstick across my lips would do me a lot of good. I rummaged in the bottom of my bag until I found a peach tube of lip lacquer, whipped out its magic wand and ran it around my lips, while stealing a peek at Ava Chandler.

  She glared at me. "It's pathetic the way y'all hang on to Dawson Hughes. Bein' a New Yorker, I guess we have to cut you some slack in the decorum department."

  A short, terse laugh burst out of my mouth. "Sorry, I guess when I get back I'll have to sign up for charm school so I can be courteous, like you."

  "My husband is right. You're way too smart for your own good."

  I turned my coldest stare on her. "Is that a threat?"

  She didn't flinch. "Take it however you want."

  "Speaking of the deputy, I think I'll mention this conversation to him."

  She tossed her head so her hair flipped over her shoulder. "Every time I turn around Dawson Hughes is there and my husband doesn't like it one bit."

  "I'm sure he's just doing his job."

  "The Three Stooges is what y'all look like sittin' in there. A bunch of clowns, no closer to catchin' this killer." She turned on her heel and left without using the facilities.

  "Wow," I murmured under my breath. "Someone's seriously PMSing."

  As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. We hadn't zeroed in on a primary suspect in these killings. Had no concrete proof the shootings were related, only a gut feeling. And a very dangerous mystery man was out there who stalked the spa by night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

&nb
sp; South Abilene

  Day Thirteen, Moments Later

  Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

  I'd no sooner returned to my seat than the funeral director carried a podium to the front and set it before the casket, stopping me from relating what had happened in the women's room.

  After craning his neck, he cleared his throat, twice, and straightened his tie. "In keepin' with her faith, Mrs. Marcia Bobkirk DeMarco has asked for a religious service for her sister Trudy. So, I'd like to welcome someone south Abilene knows well, Senior Pastor Nathan Standal, from the Church of the Byways."

  A reed-thin man in a gray suit and a clerical collar stepped up and placed his burgundy leather-bound Bible on the podium. He looked down at the pair sitting on the settee and offered a small smile. "Although I didn't know Trudy Bobkirk, I have had the pleasure of getting' to know her sister Marcia and have been deeply touched by her love of her younger sister as well as her quiet walk with the Lord. The family's pastor in Oklahoma phoned me and shared stories of the family's dedication to their little church on the plains. He told me how shy Trudy was as a young girl, how she hid in her mother's skirts as the family walked down the aisle to find their seats on Sunday mornin's. A despicable act has robbed a family of a beloved daughter and they are in distress and intensely grievin'."

  A lump formed in my throat. I could imagine Trudy as a little sprite of a girl. This senseless brutal act was so wrong. Then again, it probably made a lot of sense to the very selfish and vicious individual who had pulled the trigger. The mystery man hanging around the spa fit that description. I'd like to believe Cassidy fit the profile, though it's possible that could be chalked up to a lack of generosity on my part. Ava Chandler was biting and egotistical, but was she a murderer?

  When the pastor walked to the side of the podium reading from his Bible, I came back from my private musing.