Dead Man's Hand

by Tegan Maher

  Somebody killed the man, and poker cards found on the body aside, I felt in my gut the answers were on those tapes.

  We watched them frame by frame, and I felt a presence behind me. I turned to see Ms. Elle standing behind me, watching as we clicked through the video.

  "Well there's a face I haven't seen in years," she exclaimed as the face of the focus became clear on the woman's face.

  I froze it and turned to her. "You know who she is?"

  "No, not her," she said, hip-bumping me so she could point at something on the screen. "Him!"

  There was a guy sitting at the table behind her, barely in the frame, shuffling the cards. He kept glancing up at something across the room, and I wracked my brain trying to figure out what it was he was looking at. I put myself in his position and visualized the room, but all that was there were a couple dart boards with high-top tables in front of each one, and a pool table off to his right, by the bathrooms and the back door.

  Ms. Ellen's voice broke back into my thoughts. "That's Darren Clancy," she said, pointing a gnarled finger at the man. "He's aged a lot, but that's him for sure. I know, because I used to babysit him and his little sister while his mama worked. She was a single mom, and that was a lot harder back in those days than it is now. Folks around here weren't as keen on hirin' a woman."

  So what was Darren staring at? Kristina's words came floating back to me. Clifford came in while the vamp was inspecting Carly's tonsils with his tongue.

  Darren would have been looking directly at that high-top table, where Vanderveer was making out with yet another married woman.

  "He moved away when he divorced Darlene," she said. "I can't imagine what he's doing back in town."

  "Jenna said the bookstore's been sold. I wonder if he came back to get his cut," Sam said.

  "You may be on to something there," Ms. Ellen said. “I remember filing the divorce paperwork and being surprised when he kept a partial interest in the store. He'd never liked it. I wondered if he'd done it just to keep a little piece of her in his life. He was head-over-heels for that woman."

  "We need to get to the Hook," I said. "I think Darren killed him, and I think I know what he used. I was wrong—it wasn’t black tile, it was asphalt."

  It only took us a few minutes to get there, and I headed directly around back. The dumpster was sitting by the back door, but my heart fell when I lifted the lid and found it empty. They'd already come for it that week.

  "What were you looking for?" Sam asked. "Are you sure it would have gone into the dumpster?"

  "That's what I'd have done with it," I said, walking around to look behind it. “I thought maybe it was a broken pool cue, but now we're going to have to get a confession."

  Sam wondered to the other side of the alley and waded through the grass, watching his feet as he did. Kristina came back hauling a bag of trash. "Hey, y'all." I didn't know you were back here."

  "Yeah," I said as I tried to think over the sound of bottles crashing into the empty dumpster. "I think we've figured out who did it, and maybe how, but they—"

  Kris was pulling a chain through a hole in the lid and a hook on the front of the dumpster.

  "But they what?" she said. "You stopped mid-sentence."

  "How often is the dumpster locked?"

  "All the time, except the day they come to empty it. If not, everybody uses it as their own personal dumpster, and critters climb in and make a mess."

  I grinned. "Then we're looking for a broken pool cue. Or basically anything wooden and shaped like that."

  "You mean like this?" Sam asked, holding up about two feet of the skinny end of a pool stick with his handkerchief. The broken end was tinged black with what I’d have layed money was Charles Vandeveer’s blood.

  "Just like that," I said, asking Kris if she had a clean garbage bag.

  Now all that was left to do was find Darren Clancy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THAT DIDN'T TURN OUT to be as hard as I was afraid it would be. He was staying at the only B&B in town, and confessed as soon as we picked him up. He was even wearing the black lace-up boots I'd seen in the vision.

  He admitted to killing him right there in the alley just because he could. Since he’d caught Darlene cheating, he always carried the dead-man’s hand with him as a reminder to himself; he’d told Vanderveer that someday, the joke would be on him, and he’d be a dead man. The whole pre-meditation thing would be up to the courts to decide.

  As far as I was concerned, It was a crime of opportunity, where the stars aligned perfectly wrong for Charles Vanderveer, and he got the ending he'd been flirting with for centuries.

  As far as Gio—which turned out to be his real name—he was a con artist, plain and simple. There hadn't been any big plan, and Kat was never in any danger than of losing every penny he could drain out of her. I didn't ask what they did with him, and I didn't care. Vampire law was strict and I trust the treated him accordingly.

  There was a hockey game on that night, which was one of the few sports I actually enjoyed because there was just nothing like watching a bunch of grown men beat the crap out of each other at every opportunity. It kinda reminded me of my brothers a little.

  Zach was hosting a big game night and had invited us. I watched as he hustled, bringing out food and screaming at the TV all at the same time. He'd finally bought a deep fryer and was serving up wings and cheese sticks as fast as he could make them.

  Kat was just fine, and when I asked her if she was sad because he hadn't ended up being her brother, she'd said, "You know what? I thought I would be. And before he came around, I was a little bitter that I had no family, but now I realize I have the best family of all—the kind where we all chose each other.”

  Alex put his arm around me and squeezed as another round of boos went up over a missed goal.

  "I know what you're thinking," he whispered in my ear.

  "Oh yeah?" I asked as a shiver slid down my spine. "And what would that be?"

  "Whether to order twenty wings or thirty," he said.

  I laughed, because he was right.

  <<<<>>>>

  Ready to read more about Cori and crew? Book 3, Bad Moon Rising, is available for preorder. Trouble’s on the horizon. Can they rise to meet it? Click here to reserve your copy now!

  Thank You!

  Thank you for joining me for the second story in Castle’s Bluff, a small Southern Georgia town where the residents are diverse and nobody’s exactly how they seem. I hope you enjoyed reading Dead Man’s Hand as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, please take a minute of your time to leave a review so others can decide if this may be a book they’d enjoy. ☺

  If this is the first of my books you’ve read, I invite you to visit Keyhole Lake, another small southern town, while you wait for Book 3. I recommend starting with Sweet Murder, the first book in the Witches of Keyhole Lake Series, available on Amazon for 99 cents, or free in Kindle Unlimited. I’ve included the first chapter to give you a taste!

  Connect with Me

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  Happy Reading, and thank you for your time. ☺

  Other Books by Tegan Maher

  Witches of Keyhole Lake Series

  Book 1: Sweet Murder

  Book 2: Murder to the Max

  Book 4: Mayhem and Murder

  Book 5: Murder and Marinade

  Book 6: Hook, Line, and Mur
der

  Book 7: Murder of the Month

  Witches of Keyhole Lake Shorts

  Bubble, Bubble, Here Comes Trouble

  Witching for a Miracle

  Moonshine Valentine

  Cori Sloane Witchy Werewolf Mysteries

  Howling for Revenge

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Enchanted Coast Magical Mystery Series

  Deadly Daiquiri

  Surfboard Slaying

  About Tegan

  I was born and raised in the South and even hung my motorcycle helmet in Colorado for a few months. I've always had a touch of wanderlust and have never feared just packing up and going on new adventures, whether in real life or via the pages of a great book.

  When I was a little girl, I didn't want to grow up to be a writer—I wanted to raise unicorns and be a superhero. When those gigs fell through, I chose the next best thing: creating my own magical lands filled with adventure, magic, humor, and romance.

  I live in Florida with my two dogs. When I'm not writing or reading, I'm racing motorcycles or binge-watching anything magical on Netflix.

  I'm eternally grateful for all the people who help make my life what is today - friends, readers, family. No woman is an island.

  Sneak Peek at Sweet Murder

  Witches of Keyhole Lake, Book 1

  Chapter 1

  U

  sing the hem of my apron, I pulled the last batch of blueberry turnovers out of the oven and slid them onto the counter to cool. They were an even, golden brown, and a quick poke with a fork assured me the crust was light and flaky.

  Perfect. The customers at Brew4U, my best friend and cousin Raeann's coffee shop, were going to eat them up. And that was good, because right now every few bucks mattered.

  Speaking of money—I glanced at the clock on the microwave, and that cold, I’m-gonna-be-late feeling swept over me. As always, time had gotten away from me while I was baking; I only had about fifteen minutes to get to work. Panicked, I turned the oven off with a wave of my hand, then bolted into the laundry room and pulled my server's apron and work shirt out of the dryer. I changed into the tank top on my way through the living room, grabbed my purse, and bolted out the front door.

  And nearly face-planted when I tripped over our miniature donkey, Max, who was napping at the bottom of the steps.

  "Watch it, you big clod,” he snapped. “Maybe I shall kick you in the head the next time you’re napping." He yawned widely, taking most of the intimidation factor out of the threat.

  "If I were sleeping at the bottom of the steps, I'd expect to get kicked in the head," I said over my shoulder as I recovered and headed toward Bessie, my faded blue, shabby-chic 1984 F-150. Yes, shabby-chic is code for "POS." Don't judge me; it's paid for.

  And yes, the donkey talks, but we'll get to that a little later. Trust me—after you meet him, you'll be glad for the delay.

  I slid into the truck, yelping and lifting my hips when the backs of my thighs hit the searing-hot cracked leather seat. I pushed my apron under my legs and settled back gingerly, then, with an encouraging pat to the dashboard, I cranked the key. Bessie coughed and wheezed a little, but surprised me yet again when she caught and roared to life. Another check in the win column for the day. I backed out of the yard and headed down the driveway to the main road, admiring the late-morning view.

  Even with my window down, the temperature inside the truck was just this side of hellfire, so I reached across the seat and cranked the passenger window down, too. Midsummer in southern Georgia was brutal. The AC in the truck had gone out a few months back and, unfortunately, fixing it didn't even make the top twenty on the laundry list of priorities that demanded a chunk of my check.

  Still, as I rumbled out of the yard and drove past the horses grazing in the pasture, I figured I didn’t have a whole lot to complain about in the scheme of things. No matter how many times I traveled our mile-long driveway, I never got tired of it. Ancient oak trees draped with Spanish moss lined both sides, forming a canopy of leaves and limbs, and small patches of sunlight dappled the shaded road.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the tunnel of shade and the interior of the truck finally dropped below the melting point of flesh.

  Just as I turned onto the main road, I spotted a couple of deer out of the corner of my eye. When I tapped the brakes in case they decided to run out in front of me, the pedal felt spongy. Since my house sat on an overlook outside of town, much of my drive was a steady, winding descent; brakes weren't exactly optional, so I tested them again.

  I was coming up on the first of several hairpin turns, so when the pedal went clear to the floor, so did my heart. Cold fingers of panic raced down my spine as I stomped on it again, then a third time, to no avail. The truck picked up speed, and as I bounced and rattled toward my demise over potholes that now felt like craters, I had only one thought: How on earth was Raeann going to finish raising my hellion of a little sister without strangling her or hexing her into a convent?

  You heard right—I said "hex." We're witches, which you’d think would have come in handy right about then. You'd be right, except I was too freaked out—and busy trying not to die—to pull any magic together.

  I managed to make it around the first curve, but there was another one a quarter-mile ahead. If I dropped off the road there, I would careen about three hundred yards down a steep slope and fly over a cliff into a granite quarry — assuming I didn't meet my maker by smashing headlong into a tree before then.

  Adrenaline flooded my body, and I felt like I was wearing boxing gloves as I did my best to wrangle the truck into the turn. I was almost home free when the passenger-side tire dropped off the steep berm, blew with a tremendous bang, and jerked the truck off the road.

  After that, it was all over but the crashing.

  The truck plowed through the brush at the edge of the road and kept rumbling right on over the edge. My skull thunked off the doorframe and the forward momentum shoved my knees into the dash—in the ’80s, seatbelts weren't quite what they are now. The sound of rocks and bushes scraping the undercarriage harmonized perfectly with the terror raking over my nerves.

  My head whipped forward and cracked on the steering wheel, and my seatbelt finally caught. I came so close to a giant oak that it ripped my mirror off and flung it into the truck. I scrunched my eyes shut and threw my arms up to defend my face from the incoming debris.

  Then, just when I'd resigned myself to a bone-crushing demise, the truck lurched to an abrupt stop.

  For a few seconds, I was afraid to open my eyes, then I was afraid not to. Metal groaned and I reached forward with shaking hands to shut the truck off. I poked my head out the window to see what had stopped my descent to certain death—or at least extreme agony and disfigurement—and saw that a little maple tree about eight inches thick was wedged between my rear bumper and the body of the truck.

  Bessie slid a bit, so I didn't waste any more time. I opened the door and jumped from the cab, releasing a sigh of epic proportions as I landed relatively unscathed in the soft grass. I grabbed my purse from the floorboard and just left the door hanging open, scared the movement would send the truck the rest of the way over the hill. The last thing I needed was to completely lose my transportation, and there was no way I had enough magical mojo right then to pull it back up the hill. That trick would have been a stretch on my best day, and this definitely wasn’t that.

  I bent over with my palms on my knees, waiting for my body to stop shaking enough to make the trek back toward the road. Once I had a modicum of control over my limbs, I walked up the hill a bit and collapsed onto a butt-sized rock, staring in disbelief at the sight of my beast of a truck dangling halfway down the hill from that one scrawny little maple tree. Something trickled down the side of my face and when I touched my eyebrow, my fingers came away sticky with blood. I hadn't even felt the pain until right then.

  I put my head between my knees and thanked the universe for giving me a pass, and se
nt a grateful push of energy to the little tree. When my hands stopped shaking and my head cleared enough to allow me to think beyond surviving, I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for Skeeter's Garage and Appliances.

  Don't let the name fool you; he meets all three of my gold-star requirements: he's good, he's honest, and he's cheap.

  After three rings, Skeeter himself answered. I'd never been so happy to hear his cheerful twang. I gave him the 411 on what had just happened and told him where I was, grateful for once that I live in a small town where the only directions required were "the curve right above Old Man Bailey's quarry on the way to my place."

  I ended the call and had turned to scramble the rest of the way up the hill when the feeling of being watched made the hairs on my nape stand up. I searched the trees and caught a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off something a hundred yards or so up the hill on the other side of the road. My gaze darted toward the glint and I scanned the spot for any other sign of movement, but all stayed still. I decided to stay right where I was, figuring it would be a whole lot harder for some ax-wielding serial killer to drag me up the hill than to just shove me in a van if I was standing conveniently by the road.

  Yes, I'm a capable witch, and I live in BFE, Georgia, where the odds of a random serial killer just happening by were about the same as going to Walmart without seeing at least one hairy butt crack. But I wasn't feeling particularly rational at that point.

  Pulling as much defensive magic into my hands as I could manage in my frazzled state, just in case, I leaned on a pecan tree and hoped Skeeter would hold true to his promise to get there in "two shakes of a coon's tail" before my paranoia got the better of me.