Mayhem and Murder: Witches of Keyhole Lake Mysteries Book 4

by Tegan Maher

  Table of Contents

  © 2018 Tegan Maher

  Author’s Note

  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 THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EPILOGUE

  Chapter 1 Howling for Revenge: An unedited sneak peek

  Thank You!

  Connect with Me

  Books by Tegan

  About the Author

  © 2018 Tegan Maher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or institutions is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  Author’s Note

  Before you start reading, I thought maybe a little clarification may be in order because I’ve gotten a few emails wondering about the linguistics and grammar.

  I use local dialect both in dialogue and in narrative. Noelle, Rae, Hunter, and crew are smart and/or educated, but still drop back to default dialect sometimes, as do most of us when we’re in casual situations.

  Grammatical errors and use of slang are likely intentional (me and you vs. you and I, we was going vs. we were going etc.) You’ll even find some words that look flat-out made up, unless, of course, you’re from the South. ☺

  That being said, typos are never intentional and if I’ve missed any, I apologize!

  So please, I ask for a little latitude for the good folks of Keyhole Lake, especially Skeeter, Earl, and Bobbie Sue. I hope you enjoy the book—I’d love to hear what you think!

  -Tegan

  CHAPTER ONE

  I STOOD IN FRONT OF my pole-built garage and guided Gabi, my long-time friend and newest boarder, as she backed her horse trailer up, glancing to the driver's-side mirror to make sure she could see me. I don't know why I bothered. That girl could back a bumper-pull a quarter mile down a curvy country road and never drop a tire off the edge. Still, better safe than dragging the gutters off the barn.

  We'd spent the day estate-sale picking for my upcycle store, Reimagined. I'd gone alone, but called and asked her to meet me with her trailer at the second sale because I'd ended up buying more than I could fit in my truck. I hadn't expected that, since I'd learned my first weekend on the hunt that sale ads were sort of like Facebook pics and dating websites: Carrie Underwood or Ryan Gosling often turned out to be the Crypt Keeper in real life.

  Luck was with me, and that had only been the case at one sale. At the next, I struck picker's gold and called Gabi to see if she could meet me. I'd picked up some real gems, including a curio cabinet that was begging to be a rifle rack, and a settee I was going to reupholster and turn into a daybed.

  Both pieces had been stuffed in the back of a barn for the better part of fifty years under piles of God-only-knows-what, so I picked them up for a song.

  "Want some help unloading?" she asked as she jumped out of the cab and pushed the door shut.

  I shook my head. "Nah. I'll unload it tomorrow if you don't mind me leaving it in your trailer overnight." I'd save both my back and my toes and unload them with just a couple fingers when I had the energy to do it. One of the many advantages of being a witch.

  Right then, though, my back was killing me from loading them. I'd planned on lightening the load when we were putting them on the trailer, but the guy who sold it to me took the gentlemanly route and insisted on helping me instead of letting Gabi, who's all of a hundred pounds soaking wet, do it.

  That left me lifting what equated to her weight in furniture, but I still had to pull a little hocus-pocus after I dropped my end of the settee on my toe walking it backwards into the trailer. With him holding the other end, though, I wasn't able to do too much without raising suspicion; after all, they were supposed to be heavy.

  She shrugged. "If you're sure. I don't mind helping. That settee and cabinet are heavy."

  I waved her off, then wiggled my fingers at her.

  "Ah," she said, raising her brows. "Sometimes I forget about that. At least let me help you feed, then," she said. "You've gotta be as whipped as I am."

  She had that right, so I motioned to the barn. "An offer I can't refuse. Let's get 'er done."

  In addition to running my little shop, I'd inherited Flynn Farm from my aunt Addy when she passed. She and my Uncle Calvin had raised my sister, Shelby, and me after our mom died and our dad ran off. I'd been twelve and Shelby three, and the farm had been our home ever since.

  We rented out six stalls to cover expenses and had seven of our own, so there were thirteen hungry horses waiting not-so-patiently for supper. They'd been happy to see us when we'd first arrived, but were now giving us the hairy eyeball for taking so long.

  Max, our miniature donkey, ambled toward us from the porch, his ears pitched forward in a pleasant manner that was a little out of character for him.

  "Gabi, Noelle," he said, dipping his head. Yes, the donkey talks. "How are you ladies this fine evening? I trust your day went well and your search was successful?" I narrowed my eyes at his apparent interest; usually the only thing Max was interested in was Max.

  He'd been a sixteenth-century lesser noble who'd thought he could pull one over on his mistress. Since she happened to be a red-headed Irish witch with a temper I suspected was the basis for the stereotype, it wasn't his brightest move. She'd cursed him into a body she felt more closely resembled his inner self, but a couple months ago, an older witch from the next town over had suggested that the curse may reverse if he learned his lesson.

  Since that hadn't happened over the course of several centuries, I didn't see it being a thing any time soon, but Max had it in his head that being nice for a few weeks would make up for being an ass for hundreds of years. Hope springs eternal, but so does idiocy.

  Still, it was providing some cheap entertainment for everybody else at the farm that’d had to put up with him over the years.

 
; "We did," I said, "but I was running a little low on cash, so I had to get an off-brand scotch instead of Glenlivet," I said. He was a snob when it came to his booze and it was all I could do to keep a straight face as he tried to keep his head from exploding.

  "I'm sure that will do," he said with a manic grimace that was supposed to pass for a smile. "I appreciate that you thought of me at all." Watching him try to maintain the friendly facade was hilarious.

  "I'm just messin' with you," I said, bumping him with my knee. "But seriously, you need to slow down on that stuff. Despite what you think, it's not meant to replace water." He lopped his ears back and scowled at me, but I didn't miss the relieved sigh.

  Gabi leaned around me to glance at him as we walked. "So, did anything go on today while we were gone? Did Mayhem get into anything?"

  Mayhem was her black-and-white paint horse whose personality was as splashy as his coat. We had to keep his stall door and pasture gate latched with a lead rope or else he'd open them and roam wherever he pleased, which usually meant the hay room. He was never content to tear up one bale; he had to wreck the whole stack by sampling them all. And that's just what he could do in an hour. We'd been gone all day.

  Max shrugged a shoulder, still a little miffed at the whole scotch thing. "I suppose he was just like any other horse. He stood out there, he grazed, he pooped. Nothing out of the ordinary."

  "For him, that's out of the ordinary," I said, grinning at Gabi as we reached the barn.

  She snorted. "No kidding."

  The object of our discussion whinnied when he saw us and came barreling toward the gate, twisting his head and crow-hopping a couple times just because it felt good.

  He was only twenty feet or so from the fence when he threw his weight back onto his haunches and put the skids on, then stuck his head over the gate and bobbed it up and down, nickering and pawing for attention. I'd never seen a horse with so much personality.

  "Did you put him in the pasture when you came to pick up the trailer?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "He was turned out when I got here."

  I'd left him in his stall because Will, our vet, was stopping by that day to draw blood for his annual Coggins test. Shelby worked with Will, so she must have turned him out when they were finished.

  We changed course and went to the gate rather than the barn and Gabi patted his neck, then laughed as he rubbed his face on her shoulder. "Were you a good boy today?" she crooned as she scratched his jaws. It made me smile to see her so happy.

  She'd inherited the horse from Sylvia Sturgess, the lady who'd owned the barn where she'd worked for the last several years. The woman died, and when Gabi went to gather her belongings from the barn, the manager told her Mayhem was hers.

  Mrs. Sturgess had always had a soft spot for her, but you could have knocked me over with a feather when Gabi called me with the news.

  Mayhem was six and had reining-horse bloodlines that read like a who's who of the industry, along with the training and earnings to go with it. He was worth forty grand, easy, but I suspected money had nothing to do with why Sylvia had left her prize horse to Gabi. I was staring at the reason right that second—she loved the horse as much as the old woman had. Some things are worth more than money, at least to some people.

  Sylvia's money-grubbing son had begged to differ, but the will had been iron-clad. The son had liquidated the farm faster than you could say check, please and Gabi'd had to find a new place to put him, pronto.

  Gabi got the horse and a trailer to go with him, all his tack and equipment, and a generous trust fund to pay for his board and expenses for the rest of his life. He had a bigger monthly stipend that I ever would.

  It worked out well for both of us, because I'd been considering taking on another boarder at the time but didn't want strangers wandering around while I was having coffee in my PJs on the porch. Win/win, considering she'd bought me my fuzzy slippers for Christmas and actually appreciated seeing me wear them.

  She opened the gate, slipped Mayhem's halter on, and stood back so he could step through. She had to push his head away when he started pilfering her coat pockets for treats. "Knock it off. It's supper time. Get to your stall." She pushed him toward the barn as she opened the gate a little wider to let the other geldings out. "Go on-git," she said, shooing him away in the same affectionate tone a mother uses with her kid.

  He snorted but turned toward the barn, his pasture buddies not far behind. The soft, steady clop of hooves on concrete told me they were cooperating with the system—each headed for his own stall. Gabi went to the feed room and I followed the horses, closing and latching the stall doors behind them.

  Mayhem, whose stall was at the end of the barn, had stopped at his door and was snorting, pawing, and bobbing his head, his front feet coming off the ground in agitation. I jogged toward him to see what the problem was but slowed halfway down the barn to keep from spooking him further.

  He was always energetic, but never nervous. Right then, though, his eyes were rolling so much I could see the whites in them. His anxious nickers caught Gabi's attention and she called, "Y'all okay down there?"

  I held up my hand, signaling her to give me a minute as I got closer to the end of the barn.

  "What's the matter, boy? Huh?" I approached him one careful step at a time, speaking softly with my hands out. I was careful to keep my body positioned at an angle to his so that if he bolted, he'd go around me rather than right over top of me.

  He was still whuffling and bobbing his head a little, but was calming down. I laid my hand on his neck, then grasped his halter and tugged down. He dropped his head and I patted him and kept crooning, craning my neck to see what was wigging him out.

  All I could see was a gaudy but expensive pair of cowboy boots that led to jean-clad legs, but that was enough; something told me some rich dude with bad taste wasn't just taking a siesta in there. I tried to control my heartbeat as I led Mayhem to the nearest empty stall. By the time I slid the latch shut with shaking hands, Gabi was standing beside me.

  She tilted her head at me, questioning, but all I could do was point and edge closer to Mayhem's stall. I stepped in and she followed me.

  My brain disconnected as it tried to process what I was seeing, and the first random thought that went through my mind was how high-pitched Gabi's voice was when she was screaming, though I reckon that was to be expected since there was a dead guy lying in her horse's stall with a set of spur straps wrapped around his neck—spurs still attached.

  It was obvious he'd bought his last pair of ugly boots, but I couldn't tell who he was because his face was buried in a pile of horse manure.

  Looking back, that turned out to be a pretty accurate foreshadowing of the rest of the week.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I GRABBED GABI BY THE sleeve and pulled her out of the stall, shushing her as I did. The horses were banging and kicking their stall walls, and the place was in a general uproar. I pulled her out the end of the barn and barked her name. I didn't wanna pull the whole Hollywood face-slap thing, but I had no problem shaking her 'til her teeth rattled to get her to shut up.

  "Knock it off. You sound like you're the one being killed!" I snapped. She stopped, but was still sucking in air faster than she needed to be. "Breathe. In. Out." I took a few deep breaths with her until I was sure she wasn't going to pass out, then with my hand still on her sleeve, I pulled her around the side of the barn, hoping to find that Matt, my friend who lived above the barn, was home.

  No such luck. His white work truck was gone, but there was a ginormous fancy new truck parked there, backed up and hitched to my horse trailer. I scrunched my forehead and scratched my chin. I didn't know the truck, but I did know I hadn't loaned my trailer to anybody. Shoot, I hadn't even taken it with me that day because the axle on it needed fixed and I just hadn't taken the time to do it.

  "Do you have any idea who's truck that is?" I asked.

  She nodded but didn't say anything. She just stood there
like a lump on a log with her hand over her mouth.

  I ran a hand down my face. "Well, spit it out. We have a dead guy in the barn. If you have something to add, now's a good time." I pulled out my phone to call Hunter while I rolled my fingers at her, debating between using 911 or his personal line. I opted to call him directly on his office line since our 911-center calls often funneled straight to him anyway.

  I hit send, and while it was ringing, I held it away from my ear a little and grabbed her jacket sleeve, giving her a nudge. "Gabi!"

  "Sorry," she said as we walked around the trailer to get a better look at the truck. The back glass was tinted and had a white ranch-brand logo in the center. Diamond Rail S. There was a reining horse doing a sliding stop on either end of the rail. That was bad. Worse than bad. Because the Diamond Bar S was no more—it was the ranch where Gabi had worked before Sylvia died.

  Gabi finally found her voice. "That's Marcus Sturgess's truck. Which makes sense, considering that's who's in Mayhem's stall."

  I pulled in a deep breath and puffed it out through my cheeks.

  Hunter picked up, his voice cheerful when he asked if I'd found anything good at the sales. Somehow I figured telling him about the settee and curio could wait. "We can talk about that later. Right now we should probably discuss the dead guy in my barn."

  Dead silence for a couple of heartbeats. "Come again?"

  Tired, I explained. "We came home and found a dead guy—"—it occurred to me we hadn't actually verified he was dead before running out of the barn, but I figured it was a safe bet, all things considered—"in Mayhem's stall."

  "Holy crap, Noelle. I'm on my way. Stay out of the barn." The line went dead before I could say another word.

  I considered sidestepping his order to make sure the guy was actually on the other side of the daisies when Max wandered around the corner, drawing his bushy eyebrows down. "That man's still here?"

  "Wait, you knew he was here?" That would have been good information to have before we found him. "When did he get here? Was he alone? Didn't you think it was weird some stranger was here?"