Murder by Misadventure

by B. T. Lord

  Cammie turned to Doc. “Don’t you have some opera records you need to listen to?”

  Doc smiled and left the kitchen. Once he was gone, Cammie put her arms around Jace’s neck and gave him a long, lingering kiss. “What I mean is that it’s time I let go of what happened between us. I’ve been so wrapped up in the past that I forgot about the future. We belong together, Jace. You’ve proven over and over that you’re there for me, even when I wasn’t being the nicest to you. I’m sorry for that. I’m also sorry for having wasted so much time realizing what a fool I’ve been. Therefore, rather than having Hank pick you up tonight, what do you say to spending the night here with me?”

  “In the bed from paradise?”

  She nestled against him. “Yes. In the bed from paradise. Then tomorrow, you and I can head back home.”

  “Home as in a little two room cabin on the shores of Mkazawi Pond? That home?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He smiled and gathering her in his arms, gave her a long, slow kiss. “Sounds like a damned good plan.”

  EPILOGUE

  Beth was indicted on three counts of murder and one on attempted murder, and remained in jail awaiting trial. She had the dubious distinction of being Twin Ponds’ first serial killer. Throughout the proceedings, she continued to insist her name was Lydia Costas, causing the dead woman’s parents no end to their pain and suffering.

  Cammie wondered if Emmy would return to her duties at HQ. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the young woman decided she’d had enough of criminals and opted for a quiet, crime-free life. However, two days later she was back at her desk, putting the finishing touches on her Easter tree.

  Cammie was both amused and concerned in the solicitude Rick now showed their receptionist/dispatcher. She didn’t want him hurting Emmy by his inability to commit, but for the time being, he seemed to realize that Emmy was more than just a body in a chair that made his life easier by baking him cookies and taking phone messages from his numerous paramours.

  Despite all the gossip around town regarding what had gone on, Torri decided to stay in Twin Ponds. She had a baby to raise, and was in the process of legally adopting Bella. The money Todd had given her would go a long way in giving Bella a decent upbringing.

  Clarisse opted to stay in Bangor and continue partying, “as long as I’m able to stand”.

  Jace and Cammie moved back into their cabin the next morning and, as he’d once said, they couldn’t have what they’d had before. But they could be better.

  And they were.

  A week later, Doc announced abruptly that he had to take a quick trip to Boston to attend to family business. Knowing how much he dreaded being in the same room, much less the same city as his father, it didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to surmise this was the cause of his irritability over the last few months.

  Soon after their return to their cabin, Cammie told Jace she had an errand to run. After promising she’d be back as soon as she could, she got into her Explorer and drove around the pond to Paul’s cabin. The snows were finally starting to melt, but she knew the mud would be a quagmire on the trail between their homes. Driving was quicker.

  As usual, she found him waiting for her with a cup of chamomile tea ready.

  “Another case solved,” he said as he sat in front of her before his roaring stove.

  “But not without unnecessary casualties,” she responded.

  “It was their time, I suppose,” he murmured.

  “But who decided that? The big guy upstairs or a deranged young woman?”

  Paul just shrugged.

  “Speaking of Beth, there’s one thing I don’t understand. I was hoping you could clarify it for me.”

  “Me?”

  “She kept going on and on about how well she knew Crow Mountain. She’s been doing rituals up there since she was a young teenager and swore she could find her way around with her eyes closed. Yet on the night she tried to kill Emmy, she couldn’t understand how she’d gotten so lost. Jace found her incoherent, unable to tell right from left.” Cammie gave him a direct look. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

  Paul sat back in his chair and slowly took a sip of his tea. “You ever read Shakespeare?” he asked.

  “The only Shakespeare I know is in Tudor Montgomery’s Shakespeare in the Woods Inn on the other side of town.”

  “There’s a line in Hamlet that’s always been my favorite. Pretty much explains my own viewpoint. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” He would say nothing more.

  Life slowly returned to normal, its ebbs and flows moving to the rhythms of the season. The snows began to melt, although there were still wide patches here and there, seemingly unwilling to quite let go of their hold.

  Two weeks after the events on Crow Mountain, Cammie awoke from a deep sleep. She groggily looked out the window that faced the bed and saw the first vestiges of light. Beside her, Jace was lowly snoring, his hand lightly resting on her thigh. She hated to awaken him, but something had pulled her out of a sound sleep. Listening, she heard the distinct sounds of someone walking on her porch outside the cabin.

  Surrounded by dense forest, and with mud season just starting, the easiest way to reach her property was by vehicle. She couldn’t be sure she hadn’t heard a car or truck, but once again, she heard the unmistakable clop clop of boots walking near her front door.

  Slowly and carefully climbing out of bed, she shivered in the cold air, despite the flannel pajamas and woolen socks she wore. The fire had gone out in her Franklin stove and it must have been around 50 degrees inside the cabin. Glancing back and seeing Jace was still asleep, Cammie tiptoed over to where her uniform hung on a peg. She withdrew her pistol and padded out into the living room. Her boots were up near the stove and she slipped into them. She then made her way to the side of the large picture window and peeked outside, making sure she didn’t create a silhouette that someone could take a pot shot at. With the apprehension of Beth, and Jace back in her life, all was right in Cammie’s world. Who would want to shoot her was beyond her. But there was no sense tempting fate, just in case she had unknowingly pissed someone off.

  It was still gloomy outside. She could just make out shapes of the trees, the two vehicles parked in the driveway and the utility shed across from her porch. She scanned the area, wondering who could be out there at this time of the morning.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some movement near her Explorer. She held her breath, then let it out slowly when she saw a deer step out into the open. She whistled lowly when she saw the rack of antlers on him.

  “Aren’t you a beauty?” she said aloud to herself.

  She watched as the buck picked his way through the snow, skirting along the frozen shore of the pond until he disappeared through a path only he could see into the forest.

  Cammie remained watching a bit longer, finally deciding it was the deer she had heard outside. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went into the bedroom and replaced her weapon in its holster. She thought of climbing into bed, but she was now wide awake. Instead, she went back out in the kitchen, got the stove going, removed her boots and set about making a pot of coffee.

  Twenty minutes later, she was seated in her father’s old recliner, an empty cup of coffee in her hands, lulled to sleep by the heat of the stove.

  Suddenly her sleep was shattered again, this time by the sound of heavy banging on her front door.

  “What the--” She cried out as she instantly sprang to her feet. She ran towards her holster and collided with Jace.

  “What the--” He grumbled as they both fell back against the wall.

  “Open the door! I need to talk to you!”

  Cammie and Jace exchanged confused looks. “That sounds like Doc,” she said.

  “It does. And he doesn’t sound happy.”

  “When is he ever happy?” she said as she turned and opened the front door.

  Doc brush
ed past her and stomped inside. He was dressed in an oversized parka, his knit cap pulled down to the rims of his gold wire framed glasses. He took off his cap, leaving his ginger hair standing on ends.

  “A man could freeze out there by the time you answer the goddamned door!” he groused.

  “What do you expect when you just about break down my door at--” She looked at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen – “six in the morning.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  He appeared nonplused for a moment.

  “What’s going on?” Jace asked.

  “Pack your bags, Cammie. You’re coming to Allagash with me.”

  “Allagash? As in Allagash, Maine?” she stammered.

  “Yes. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. My aunt has been murdered and I need your help.”

  T H E E N D

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have been studying shamanism for over twenty years and have personally witnessed much of what I describe in these pages as Paul’s abilities. However, I do have to admit, I did exaggerate his ability to manipulate people’s sense of direction.

  The ayahuasca ceremony does exist and is very sacred to the Peruvian people. I borrowed some of its properties for the salvia timor, especially the need to have an experienced shaman present to guide you through the visions the plant induces. Alas, salvia timor exists only in my imagination, though the use of plants used by shamans to induce vision work, and a connection to the world of spirit is prevalent in many cultures.

  A writer works alone, but always has the intended audience peeking over his or her shoulder. I hope you’ve enjoyed this latest entry in the Twin Pond series. It is so important to those of us who write to hear from you, the reader. Reviews are vital, so if you liked Murder by Misadventure, please stop off on Amazon or Goodreads and leave a review.

  Please visit my website and sign up for my newsletter where I promise only to email you to let you know of any releases or giveaways. www.btlordwriter.com

  I offer a free novella featuring Cammie and the gang through my website. Who doesn’t love a free book?

  You can also visit my Facebook page

  (https://www.facebook.com/BTLordWriter/)

  I’d love to hear from you.

  ~

  A sneak peek at the next installment of

  The Twin Ponds Mystery Series

  A Perfect Case of Murder

  ~

  PROLOGUE

  Allagash, Maine

  Mid-April

  Win Sackett slowly made his way down the well worth path that snaked its way through the dense forest. He’d been walking this trail ever since he was a young child; hard to believe that was seventy years ago. Although life had buffeted him about, he always took comfort that these woods had been here before he’d been born and, God willing, would be here long after he was gone. There was a permanency here that he’d never found anywhere else. The world had changed much since his birth, but these woods never did. They remained the same, an oasis of solace, away from the craziness of ‘out there’.

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath beside an old oak where, as a young man, he’d carved his initials along with those of Darla, the girl he eventually married. Reaching up with his gnarled finger, he gently traced the faded letters, chuckling at the memory of that long ago summer day. The chuckling brought on a bout of coughing that brought his lightheartedness to an end.

  Damn it, he used to be able to sprint down this path and never think twice about it. Now, his knees ached, his hands shook from palsy, and he found it difficult at times to control his breathing. But until the Grim Reaper decided to make his appearance, Win was determined to complete this errand. He had to. It was now his responsibility.

  His family had been living in this area since the mid-1800s. As each generation passed, it fell to the last remaining member to take on the task of caring for those who came before. Each spring when the harsh weather broke, the snows melted and hints of balmy days appeared, Win took the increasingly arduous journey of walking the mile between his cabin and the small parcel of land that served as his family’s graveyard. There, he tidied up each plot and made any repairs to the tombstones that might not have survived the heavy snows. Then he would perch himself on the large pile of rocks that sat in the corner of the small cemetery and talk to the nearest gravestone. That was where Darla was buried. He’d tell her what he’d been up to since he’d visited last fall, how the kids, grandkids and great grandkids were doing out in the world, away from the place they’d grown up in. He’d tell her he missed her, still loved her and assure her that soon he’d been joining her. Then he’d haul his old bones up and shuffle back the mile long walk back to his cabin. He’d make this trip several more times before winter set in, wondering each time if this would be his last visit.

  Win shifted the backpack on his shoulder where he carried his pruners, a small shovel, and a repair kit for the stone. Last year, the corner of one of the tombstones had broken off and it took him hours to put it back in place. He hoped he wouldn’t find any more broken stone this year. He wasn’t sure he had the stamina, but he’d feel guilty if he left it broken -- an affront to the ancestor buried there.

  The end of the forest was just ahead. He had one more hill to get over, then the panoramic vista would open up, revealing a huge, rolling meadow. In the distance, he’d see mountains and a stream meandering through the landscape. In the past, this had been one of his favorite views. He would sit for hours in the graveyard and just stare at the magnificence of nature. But now the scene was ruined by a cabin, barn and paddock that had been built four years before.

  He still shook his head in sadness and a tinge of anger.

  In order to pay off some large tax bills, his brother, just before he died, sold off much of the family land, including the plot where the family cemetery was located. It had been bought by a woman from Boston, who’d immediately proceeded to put up a luxurious cabin and barn for her chickens, ducks, goats and mare.

  Win had been furious, but by the time he found out, it was too late. He’d descended on the woman and although he found her cold and impervious, he did at least manage to extract an agreement that she would allow him to come as often as he wanted to tend the family cemetery. It was the only concession she made. Soon stories began to circulate in the small town of Allagash that she was forbidding anyone to trespass on her land, even though locals had been hunting and fishing there for years. Henry Harding was in outright revolt with the old woman, determined to take her to court over violation of their century’s old right of way.

  Win called her a ‘crispy critter’, one of those environmental types that took the idea of a virgin wilderness too far. It was said she wouldn’t even allow a twig to be taken off her property. Nevertheless, so far he’d managed not to offend her, and he planned to keep it that way. As much as a proud man like him loathed to admit it, she had him over a barrel. If he wanted to continue to tend to the family cemetery, he needed to keep his mouth shut.

  The old man was huffing and puffing by the time he got over the hill. He stopped once more to catch his breath and let his eyes wander over the meadow, pointedly ignoring the woman’s cabin that lay to the left of the trail. Thankfully the family cemetery was to the right, bordering the forest not too far from the path.

  He turned that way now, hoping he wouldn’t need to do too much clean-up. In the distance, he heard the sounds of something crashing against something else, its eerie echo reverberating around him.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  He stopped and looked around. It was then he noticed the gate to the cemetery blowing back and forth in the swift breeze that blew up the valley towards the forest. The plot was surrounded by an old and rusted wrought iron fence that had been placed there in the beginning of the 20th century. The gate itself was latched; there was no need for locks since there wasn’t anything of value to steal. As he approached, he wondered how t
he gate had come loose. The latch was tight. He always made sure it was secure each time he left.

  This could only mean one thing.

  Damn.

  A few yards from the cemetery, he caught sight of something that made him slow his step. Something that was out of place. Something that didn’t belong.

  He suddenly felt apprehensive. Not afraid, but wary of how this was going to affect his life. His first thought was to turn around and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. He was 78 years old, for Chrissakes. He didn’t need any disruptions. And this promised to be a doozy. Yet, being the man he was, Win pushed himself forward, praying that what he was seeing wasn’t quite what he was seeing.

  He walked through the gate and stood for a long time, staring down at the tombstone in the oldest part of the cemetery. He didn’t need to read the epitaph – he knew it was the grave of the founder of the family in Maine. However, it was what was lying beside the gravestone that made him uncharacteristically curse under his breath.

  A pair of bright red Wellingtons looked vaguely obscene in the muddied patch of snow. What struck Win as even more obscene was the body still attached to them.