by J. C. Kenney
A Deadly Discovery
Certain she’s seen more than enough death for one lifetime, literary agent Allie Cobb is ready to close the book on her amateur sleuthing, even when she learns that an unidentified body has been unearthed in a local state park. But when a worn and haunted-looking woman shows up on her doorstep with a grim story about her young daughter’s disappearance twenty years ago—and the police confirm that the recently discovered body is hers—Allie can’t bear to turn the poor woman away.
Determined to uncover the truth about the young woman’s murder, Allie begins delving into the circumstances of her life and those she knew so many years before. And when she meets powerful resistance from those she questions—many of whom are now trusted leaders in her small, tight-knit community—she’s sure she’s on the right track. But as she narrows down the list of suspects, Allie realizes too late that a cold-blooded killer is dead-set on keeping the secrets of the past buried, and it will take all her wit and cunning to avoid becoming the second young woman to meet an untimely end . . .
Title Page

Copyright
A Deadly Discovery
J. C. Kenney
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2021 by J. C. Kenney
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-950461-90-5
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Dedication
A Deadly Discovery is dedicated to the parents
of children who have disappeared.
We hear their heartbeats.
Acknowledgments
A big thank-you to my wife, Nancy, and our friend Brianne Kirkpatrick of Watershed DNA for their advice and guidance to make sure I got the DNA part of this story right. Thanks go to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, who’s done so much to help me find my place in the writing world. Thanks also go to my editor, Bill Harris, for his faith in the Allie Cobb Mysteries.
Contents
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
Books by J. C. Kenney
About the Author
Chapter One
I was born with a gift of observation and a conviction that the world is not as it seems. At least, that’s what my boyfriend Brent had once told me.
Who could blame him? In the short time we’d known each other, less than two years, I’d solved three murders in my hometown. Pretty stunning given that I’m not a member of law enforcement.
But that was then. I’d closed the book on my last investigation four months ago. And the emotional toll that case took on me had become a weight that almost crushed me into a million pieces. So, I gave up my crime fighting.
Now, I’m simply Allie Cobb, literary agent and mother to Ursula, the local celebrity cat who wanders around town on her trusty leash with me by her side. As I took a sip of iced coffee, I let out a long, cleansing breath. I’d reached a state of tranquility in both my personal and professional lives.
It was a good day to be alive.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Brent squirted ketchup on the half dozen French fries remaining on his plate. We were having lunch and enjoying the sidewalk seating at Big Al’s Diner, home to the best burgers on the planet, in my humble opinion.
“Trying to enjoy the serenity before things get crazy. My to-do list for the 9/11 Memorial event is getting longer by the day and it’s only a month away. I just hope . . .” I shrugged.
“The committee hasn’t bit off more than it can chew.” He nibbled on a fry. “I get it. I thought the Library Board was crazy when they told me to put on a genealogy class that even included a component where people could take a DNA test.”
I stole a fry off his plate. Brent had only been on the job for three months. People were still coming to terms with the sudden death of his predecessor, Vicky Napier. The directive from his bosses for a new program to put his stamp on the library had led to more than a few sleepless nights.
“I’d been hoping to ease into the job, you know. Making big changes was never my priority. But it worked out. If I could do that, your committee can pull off the memorial.”
“Aww, your confidence in me is inspiring.” I gave Brent my best smile as I stole another fry from his plate. The man had a knack for saying the perfect thing to keep me grounded while also lifting me up. It was a skill I envied.
“Just speaking the truth—” A black-and-white Rushing Creek police cruiser thundered down the road. Brent’s words were lost among the flashing lights and screaming siren.
We turned as the cruiser sped down the street. The recent string of murders notwithstanding, my hometown of Rushing Creek, Indiana, population 3,216, was as safe as any place in America. A high-speed response with lights and sirens usually meant there was a motor vehicle accident on state highway 46, at the southern edge of town. We had excellent public safety services. Whatever happened, I was confident the injured parties would be well taken care of.
“I hope it’s not too serious.” I turned back to Brent when the cruiser was out of sight. “Anyway, you were saying?”
He wiped his hands on a paper napkin. He’d polished off the last of the fries while I’d been watching the police car.
“There are good people on the committee. You’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve seen your Gantt charts and read your meeting agendas. You may not be the committee chair, but you’ve got things under control better than the Watchmaker in Clockwork Angels. No worries, mate.”
I rolled my eyes at his use of an Australian accent with his last comment. “That was awful. Don’t do that ever again.”
“As you wish.” He bowed his head. “And now I must return to my toils at the Victoria Napier Memorial Rushing Creek Library.”
“Must you insist on using the library’s full name all the time. Good Lord, it’s the longest title in the history of libraries.” I winke
d. The fact that the community had chosen to rename the library after my hero warmed me inside. It was fun to tease Brent about the lengthy name the Library Board had come up with, though.
“And I suppose you still think we should call it the Napier?” He got to his feet, his tall frame rising up like a submarine’s telescope, and kissed me on the forehead. The bristles of his goatee tickled my skin.
“Darn right. It sounds cool. Like MoMA or the Guggenheim.”
“I don’t know. Seems a little highbrow for this hardworking, blue-collar community. Anyway, I gotta run. I’ve got book club after work. Will I get to see you tomorrow?”
“You can always join Mom and me at church.”
Brent hugged me and headed for the library without responding to my invitation. While it wasn’t a surprise, it was still a bit of a disappointment. Brent had rebuffed my requests despite my assurances that attending Mass was more about spending quality time with my mother than anything else.
It was only an hour a week, after all. If he wouldn’t make that small sacrifice, I’d begun to wonder what other compromises, both big and small, he didn’t want to make in our relationship. To be fair, the same applied to me. As I’d gotten older, I’d come to realize I wasn’t the most flexible in the relationship department, either.
I pushed the melancholy thoughts aside and went into the diner to get a coffee to go. A cool breeze from the north had lowered both the oppressive heat and humidity common to Indiana in August. That meant I could enjoy the weather from my spot at the sidewalk table while I went through work email on my phone.
A little while later, I’d just sent a writing sample from a potential client to my assistant for review when Maybelle Schuman settled into the chair across from me.
“Have you heard the news? It’s quite shocking.”
I set down my phone as I took a deep breath. Maybelle was a good person at heart. I was convinced of it. After all, in my book, anyone who spent over thirty years teaching elementary school automatically should qualify as a national treasure. The problem was that, ever since she left the classroom, she’d made a second career as Rushing Creek’s number-one rumormonger.
I couldn’t stand rumormongers.
“The news often is, Maybelle. Can you specify which news, specifically, is shocking today?” Being snippy wasn’t my preferred style of communication, but sometimes it was the only way I could deal with the woman across from me.
“A dead body was found in Beechwood earlier today. The cops are trying to keep the discovery quiet, but apparently it’s been there quite a while.”
Much of Southern Indiana consisted of rolling hills that were unsuitable for agriculture. They were perfect for outdoor recreation, though. Rushing Creek was a mere stone’s throw from both Green Hills State Park and Beechwood State Forest. People visited those places to have fun and get back to nature.
Not dispose of bodies.
I raised an eyebrow while I formulated a response. Beechwood State Forest was a popular destination for outdoorsy types. It contained a five-hundred-acre lake and twenty thousand acres of undeveloped woodlands designated for potential timber harvest. There were a couple of campgrounds and some mixed-use trails running throughout the property, but it was mainly a site where nature could take its course unimpeded.
Despite what I wanted to believe, I couldn’t deny the obvious. A body could be dumped there, and nobody would be the wiser.
“That is big. Who’d you hear it from?”
She frowned. “Oh, I couldn’t name names. That’s how rumors can get started.”
Maybelle lived for the rumor mill. Keeping her sources confidential was absurd.
I should have known she’d play coy with me, though. She’d been a source of information in my previous murder investigations often enough. She had to know I was using our conversation to pump her for the information as much as she was using me as someone to whom she could spread her rumor.
“You sure your source is reliable? A story like that would upset a lot of people.” Maybelle’s rumors tended to wander into the weeds of tall tales, but they often started from a grain of truth.
“My source, as you call it, is quite reliable.” She sniffed, apparently displeased with my veiled attempt to discredit her story. “I would think you’d know that by now. What, with all of the valuable information I’ve turned over to you in the past.”
I smiled and patted her hand. It was part of the game I played with her.
“Just trying to make sure you’re not unfairly accused of spreading false information.” I glanced at my phone. It was time to extricate myself before I got pulled further into Maybelle’s web of rumors and half-truths.
“Thanks for the info. I’ll tell Mom I saw you and that you look great.”
“Thank you, dear.” She patted her gray hair as she sat up straighter. My mom was Maybelle’s doctor, so mentioning her was always a safe move. “And I appreciate you thinking of my reputation. Not everybody is that thoughtful, you know.”
“Indeed.” I gave the old woman a wave and headed for home before I said something I’d regret. With Maybelle, the best thing I could do was listen and treat her rumors with a grain of salt.
To be honest, I tended to treat most things with a grain of salt. Ah, the life of a cynic.
I wasn’t feeling cynical about my evening plans, though. I was getting together with friends for a girls’ night out. My all-time bestie, Sloane Winchester, spent most of her weekends on the road for her professional trail running career. My gal-pal and source for all things chocolate-related, Diane Stapleton, usually worked Saturday evenings at her shop, Creekside Chocolates.
The stars had aligned for us this evening, though. Sloane was taking the weekend to rest and recover after three consecutive weekends of hard races. Diane had finally found someone she trusted to manage the store so she could have a weekend off once in a while.
My mission was to make sure both ladies had an evening of blissful relaxation. And possibly encourage the development of some shenanigans. Without breaking the law, of course. I was a big believer in following the rules.
At least most of the time.
One of the things I adore about Rushing Creek is that I didn’t need a car to get around. With my second-floor apartment situated right along the town’s main drag, Washington Boulevard, I was within a thirty-minute walk of everything I needed. On my bike, it was less than half that.
The trip from Big Al’s Diner to the front door of my apartment took all of ten minutes, and that was because I’d stopped to chat with a few folks. The way my cat Ursula greeted me the moment I opened the door, one would have thought I’d been gone for a month instead of a few hours.
She bonked her head against my ankle, then wound her way through my legs before I even had a chance to take the key out of the lock. Once I did that, she let out a series of mehs, trotted to the kitchen, and took a seat by her food bowl.
“I’m happy to see you too, Ursi.” I followed her and let out a laugh when I got there.
My kitty had cleared a circle the size of a quarter in the middle of the bowl. An abundant amount of her dry cat food remained outside the circle but still inside the bowl. The scene reminded me of memes I’d seen on social media. It was the classic cat definition of an empty food bowl.
“Thank goodness I got home when I did.” I picked up my feline bestie and gave her belly a gentle squeeze. “You might have had to gnaw off your leg or something.”
She batted at my nose to let me know she didn’t care for my teasing. When I laughed, she started squirming until I put her down.
“Fine. I’m a pushover. I confess.” I gave her a couple of kitty treats. “But tomorrow we’re going for a walk. You’re getting a little flab with that belly. Which reminds me, I need to schedule your annual check-up.”
With a flick of her tail, she chomped down on the treats, ignoring the comment about her health. Then she jumped onto her favorite perch, an end table with a cushion on top, and
stared out the window. Ursi was a creature of habit, so in a few minutes she’d be curled up like a feline version of a croissant, fast asleep.
The life of a house cat was one I wouldn’t mind emulating.
I pulled the appointment reminder from a little stack of personal mail I kept on a stand by the door. A few minutes later, I had my fur baby all set to see her vet, Cammy Flanagan, for shots and an exam.
I was a human with responsibilities instead of a feline enjoying a life of leisure, unfortunately. That meant I needed to do some work that paid the bills.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading a manuscript I’d requested from an author. It was the second step in my process of potentially acquiring a new book or series. If I liked an author’s initial query letter and the first three chapters that came with it, I’d ask to see the complete manuscript. If I loved that, I’d make an offer to represent the author.
By the time I had to stop reading, I had fifty pages to go and was fairly sure I’d be making an offer. It was a good spot in the story to call it quits and get ready for an evening of fun and frivolity.
• • •
That evening, Diane, Sloane, and I were seated in a corner booth at the Rushing Creek Public House, the bar and restaurant my older sister, Rachel, owned. The Pub, as it was affectionately known to its fans, was packed with tourists visiting the area reveling in the natural beauty of summer in Southern Indiana.
Most locals avoided the Pub since it catered to the out-of-town crowd. They preferred the sports bar, Hoosiers, or the pizza joint, Marinara’s, which Rachel had recently acquired. While my sister and I were as different as night and day, it was important to me to support her businesses. That’s why I insisted that every evening out with friends needed to start at the Pub.
“So, then this bear cub wandered onto the trail and plopped down right in the middle of it. He had the most adorable black eyes. I just wanted to scoop him up and give him a kiss right on the nose.” Sloane took a sip of her spiked seltzer. She’d spent the last fifteen minutes regaling Diane and me about her adventures training in Montana for a recent race.
