by Jill Behe
MOSSY CREEK
A MAGGIE MERCER MYSTERY
JILL S. BEHE
DEVILDOG PRESS
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Dedication
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
About the Author
Also by Jill S. Behe
Also From DevilDog Press
Thank you
Copyright © 2015 by Jill S. Behe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing by Rob Miller
Cover Art by Dane @ebooklaunch
Created with Vellum
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgements
Thank you:
Monday Night Specials, without whom Mossy Creek wouldn’t exist.
Rob M. Miller, editor and friend, for believing my words were worth the effort.
Tracy Tufo, for taking on this project through Devil Dog Press, and allowing my dreams to continue to flourish.
—Jill
Magdalena Elizabeth Susannah Maria-Louise Mercer … for a lot of things, but mostly for having a voice loud enough to rise above the din.
CHAPTER 1
MONDAY MORNING….
“MORNIN’, Maggie. Seen the boss?”
I glanced up from my suspense novel, so engrossed, I hadn’t heard the twenty-five-year-old rookie come in; a couple blinks brought me back to reality.
“Mornin’, Officer Anderson. He’s not in yet.”
Because we’re all on a first name basis, I try to begin each day with an official greeting. Besides, Ricky loves it, and I get a kick out of his goofy grin and the red that creeps up his neck.
My name is Magdalena Elizabeth Susannah Maria-Louise Mercer. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it? Not many people know the whole thing; most just call me Maggie. My mother decided, since I was going to be an only child, to use up her entire quota of girl-names all at once. About ran out of room on my birth certificate.
I’ve lived in Mossy Creek for all of my forty, ahem, odd years. I married, had two boys, and became a widow here. Now I’m the admin-specialist and dispatcher for the local P.D.
Ricky’s a big, meaty kid, not fat, just big—hefty; played fullback in high school with my oldest. I tend to treat him like my own and he’s okay with that. His mom and dad and I used to see each other when we took our boys to practices, and sat next to each other at the games, screaming out our lungs for the Mossy Creek Mountain Lions.
Gage and Dawson, my birth-boys, are living (sigh) far away. Well, no, not that far away, just the next town or so over, but they’re not right next door, so it seems like a long way. They come to my rescue when needed, and visit every so often … to raid my pantry. They moved out, but I’m still feeding them. Funny how that works. And I’m not complaining. Still, it’s not the same as having them home.
That’s where Ricky comes in. I’m perfectly capable of performing physical labor around my own house; I’m no wimp in that department. But I like knowing there’s someone I can call—someone who lives in the same neighborhood—willing and able, when necessary, to mow the lawn, rake leaves, or shovel my driveway.
You’re laughing.
His parents moved to Florida last winter, so Ricky and I have developed this win-win situation. He does chores … and, in return, gets baked goods, free meals, and that all-important part—fussed over.
Now stop.
He’s not at my house every day, or even every week, just once in awhile. And as long as he’s fed, he’s more than happy to do whatever needs doing.
A boy (don’t care if he’s eighty, or whether he admits it or not) misses his parents, so I provide Rick that homey comfort. Moi yearns for her boys, and our one and only police officer is a great surrogate for the in-between times, until the originals mosey on home.
Sometimes Ricky acts the hick. But, don’t let that fool you, those brain cells of his work overtime. He may have been a hotshot jock, but he’d been a member of the Honor Society all through high school. Started college in pre-law, but changed mid-stream to get a degree in business management. Still not satisfied, he applied to the police academy; graduated first in his class. YAY!
The borough council offered him Walt Prescott’s job after the man had a stroke; it’s been eight months.
I’ve already said he’s big, about the same as the police chief, maybe an inch or two shorter. So far, his cuteness, and that spiffy uniform haven’t attracted the right girl; but he hasn’t given up hope.
Don’t know what’s wrong with the gals around here, but if I were fifteen, ahem, years younger, I’d give him a run for his money. When he grins, there’s this look that flashes in his dark blue eyes where you can almost see, way way in the back dancing a merry jig, a mischievous imp.
He wandered over to the coffee pot and inhaled … deep. He doesn’t like coffee to drink, just to smell.
I waited. It’s usually about twenty seconds after his ‘aroma fix’ that he makes his move on the donut box, grabbing three before anybody else gets a chance.
“Wonder if he found Wylie James.”
What? His nonchalant comment had me frowning over my reading glasses. “Why would he want to?”
“I dunno.” He shrugged, but didn’t turn around. “Said he needed to talk to him.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
By his stance, the shaking head, the huffing and chin-rubbing, I could tell he was trying to figure out what was wrong. When he turned around, the look on his face—sooo comical, but with a hint of panic—had me biting the inside of my cheek to keep my features straight.
“Maggie?”
“Yes, Ricky?”
“Did the Chief take the donuts?”
Expected, yes, but still, it caught me off guard. Perhaps it was the puzzlement in his voice. Good thing I hadn’t taken a swallow of coffee; it would’ve come out m’nose.
“No,” I said, once I had myself under control. “I told you, he hasn’t been in yet. There are no donuts.”
His eyebrows, swear to God, reached up and touched his hairline. No small feat. I say that, because he wears his blonde hair like a Marine recruiter’s. Not many guys look good with it that short, but he pulls it off, with flare.
“No donuts?” He lurched forward, hands pleading. “Why not? We always have donuts. Police stations have donuts. Shoot, Maggie, they’re my breakfast.” He put his hands on his stomach, hoping to get some sympathy.
Instead, I stood—fast, with my chair shooting back and hitting the filing cabinet. Even I cringed at the noise. Now, I’m not real tall, and not very wide, but apparently, the mere straightening of my body was intimidating, because Ricky took two steps back, shut his mouth, then swallowed … hard.
“No,” I said. “You alwa
ys have donuts.” It wasn’t really all that big a deal, but I wanted him to understand where I was coming from. “No one ever says ‘thank you’ or donates towards the cost, but those sweet confections are always expected. Now it’s none of my business if you and the Chief want to clog your arteries, but you two are going to have to start shellin’ out some cash.”
I sure do sound bossy, don’t I?
Or, was it more of a whine?
By this time, poor Ricky was backed against the wall, gulping air like a landed fish at the bottom of a boat. “S-sorry, Maggie. I … uh, I didn’t mean to make you mad. Why, um, how come you’re buyin’ ’em outta your own pocket?”
Now my eyebrows reached high. “What do you think I’ve been buying them with, my good looks?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I wasn’t mad at him. And I could have said something … a few months earlier, just hadn’t. He was the one getting dumped on because there are only three of us in the office, and the boss hadn’t yet arrived. I retrieved my chair and sat. “Never mind.” The aggravation wasn’t worth the energy. “There’s something I need you to do.”
No doubt still wary of my mood, he relaxed his stance, but stayed against the wall.
“What?”
“Tomorrow’s the last day of school. I’d like you to go out to the swimming hole and make sure you can still read the signs. That they’re all still up. While you’re at it, check out that rope and tire, too. Don’t want some youngster falling on their head because the rope’s rotted.”
He bobbed his head. “Sure, Maggie. I can do that. Good idea.” He grabbed his hat, obviously anxious to be anywhere other than here. “I’ll do it right now.”
I chuckled as he hustled out the door.
Ten minutes later, re-saturated in my novel, Chief of Police Wyatt Madison walked in.
Lisa Jackson’s newest would have to wait until after work. Not much of a sacrifice, believe-you-me. Sorry, Miz Jackson.
And no, I don’t usually just sit at my desk reading fiction all day. There is work to be done. Same time, not having much crime around here, it can be hard to look busy, especially at the start of the day.
The highlight of every morning, though, is not snatching moments with my latest book, but watching Wyatt walk in. He has this way of moving that … um, well, excuse me while I fan myself. Let’s just say he keeps that body of his in prime condition. Oh, yes he does. And now that he’s available again—for the last 17-months and twenty-five days—all the single ladies around here have even more reason to celebrate. If I have anything to say about it, though, they’re out of luck.
It’s not just the six-foot-four-inch frame of chiseled muscle that perfectly fills out his official khakis; it’s all of him. His face, though classically handsome, isn’t pretty. More like well-used, rugged, lived-in. The kind that would fit in well at Camelot’s Round Table, alongside Sirs Percival and Lancelot.
What is it about a man who doesn’t shave for a day or two, or six? And his eyes, espresso brown pools, liquid temptation. Hair a deep rich shade—like semi-sweet chocolate, smooth and shiny and satiny—gets all wavy when he forgets to visit the barber. Oh, yeah.
I like a man with hair long enough to grab. Alas, I can only imagine how it feels. The opportunity to find out—that hands on approach—hasn’t presented itself. Yet.
Then, there’s those cowboy boots. You can tell they’re favorites. Leather’s all scuffed and creased, and with that look shoes get when they’ve been worn a lot: comfortable. It’s hard to describe, but I think you get the idea. Haven’t figured out why those things are such a turn-on.
And don’t really care.
Wyatt, oblivious of his effect on the opposite sex, nonetheless makes women swoon. You should be prepared, while you’re here, for an impromptu sighting. Best get a fan—one of those old fashioned ones made out of cardboard. You know, like they used to give out in church on Sundays, before air conditioning.
Oh, well, maybe you’re too young to remember that.
Or, too old to admit it.
Every female this side of the county line—don’t matter their age—stops wherever they are, and whatever they’re doing, to sigh when Police Chief Madison’s in sight.
That fan I suggested will help cool you off when he steps into your path.
This morning, without the hat to distract (he looks exceptional in that hat, too), I noticed his hair was getting that scrumptious shaggy-look. You won’t hear me reminding him to make a date with Hatchet Man Jack, not with my fingers itching to run through that thick mop of dark decadence.
“Maggie.” He nodded in greeting, passing my desk on the way to the coffee pot, then stopping in front of the credenza where the machine puffed out aromatic fumes. Hands went to hips—almost identical to the way Ricky had stood and, most likely, thinking the same thing.
“Where’re the donuts?”
Yup, I was right.
He turned. “Ricky get to ’em already?”
I gave him the evil eye, over the glasses I’d forgotten were propped on my nose. I hastily removed them. “Good morning, Chief Madison. There aren’t any donuts.” Biting my lip didn’t help. The words pushed past and came out. “You don’t pay me enough to waste six bucks a day for those … sweet, yummy things.”
Argh! I clamped my mouth shut. It wouldn’t do to piss off the boss just because I was irritated at Vicki for raising her prices.
He cocked his head. “Well, first, I don’t pay you, the borough does. But, that’s beside the point. You pay six for six? That’s a buck a piece. Why? They’re four bucks a dozen at Corsair’s Market.”
“No, not … well, no. Before they were a quarter each, now they’re fifty-cents. And I don’t even eat the blasted things.” He had a point. Going to Corsair’s sounded like a good idea. It would also save me from having to listen to Vicki Sporelli go on and on about what a hunk Wyatt was, and always wanting to know what he was up to.
Sometimes, when my self-esteem was low, her interrogations tied my belly into queasy jealous knots. But the fact that I knew that she knew how I got to see him all day long, while she only caught glimpses, gave me the satisfying sense of rubbing her nose in it.
Saying neener-neener would have done it, too, truth be known. Would have shut her up good and fast. But, not wanting to make an enemy, better to put up with the bellyaches.
“Still, that’s only three dollars. How’d you figure it’d be six? And, why are you using your own money? We do have a coffee fund, you know.”
I blinked. Was he that clueless? Honestly, sometimes…. “Really? Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
Sometimes only sarcasm gets through.
He crossed his arms and poked out his lower lip. I had to bite mine. Almost made me forget why I was so irked, thinking about his soft yummy lips meeting my lips—
I mentally slurped up the drool and refocused on the conversation.
“Guess it’s been a while.” He nodded. “How much we got in there?” He picked up the converted coffee can and shook it.
Nada.
Nothing.
He set it down and turned back.
I shook my head, wanting to say what was really going through my mind. I didn’t. “You two haven’t put anything in that can for at least six months. Did you actually expect to hear something moving around in there?”
Wyatt rocked back and forth, studied his boots, then looked at me. “You mean since we used the fund to buy food for the Christmas party, you’ve been buying donuts and coffee with your own money?”
I sniffed and looked at the fingernails on my right hand—oh, goodness, there was a hangnail. “How else were you going to get any, Sir?”
His hands again went to his hips.
I hissed in a breath as his khaki-colored police-issue shirt stretched across his chest, straining buttons and seams, then exhaled slowly, doing my best to reign in a growl of appreciation.
Good gracious he was fine.
With a capital F-I-N-E.
“Why didn’t you speak up sooner?”
I stared him down, then shrugged and munched up my mouth. “Thought you’d’ve figured it out, by now. ’Sides, until Sporelli’s raised their prices, I didn’t mind. And it is six bucks, because now, not only are they twice as much, but Vicki doesn’t let me buy less than a dozen.”
“So I couldn’t go in there and just buy, say, three donuts?”
“Right.” I paused, thinking. “Well, you could. Cuz … you know … she’s hot for you. But the rest of us peons are stuck buying twelve.”
I’d never seen him blush before.
“What do you mean she’s hot for me? How do you know that?”
“You make a very cute couple.” Oh, ouch. I bit my tongue.
“I’m not interested in Vicki,” he grumbled. “It’s ridiculous, and so is the cost of their donuts. Highway robbery.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.” Whoa. My breath stuck in my throat. Not? He’s not interested in Vicki Sporelli? Be still, my palpitating heart.
“What’d she say to that?”
“Huh? What?” I’d lost track of the conversation. “Uh, she said that um, if I wanted to make such a fuss, I could go somewhere else.” I shrugged, pretending indifference, but wanting to calm myself before I hyperventilated. “So, I just didn’t get any.”
Glaring, he fished out his wallet and handed me a twenty. “Here. Starting tomorrow, go to Corsair’s for the donuts. I’ll make sure Ricky pitches in, too.”
It felt like there was a hazy bubble around my head. “Thanks.” I took the bill. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying, still unbalanced as I was about him not being interested in Vicki.
He poured a cup of coffee, added some milk from the mini fridge, and sipped. “And, Maggie?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Next time, don’t wait so long telling me about a problem.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He glowered past me on the way to his office.
I made a face.
“And quit with the sir stuff. Makes me feel old and decrepit, and I’m not.”
I could attest to that.
He stopped in the doorway. “Where is Ricky, anyway?”
