by Lourey, Jess
“Did too,” Mrs. Berns said. “That’s why I dumped her. I don’t roll with criminals.”
“She’s not going to be rolling with anyone for a while.” Vienna was currently awaiting trial on assisted kidnapping charges. Her ties to the OxyContin trade were not yet clear, but it appeared as though Bill had hired her to be his eyes in the woods, keeping track of anyone who wandered the property. She may have done some dealing, too.
“Shh.”
I glanced down at Timothy, who was standing at the pew next to me, and I blushed. There’s something about having to be shushed by a toddler that truly mortifies, especially since we were likely at the funeral of his great-great-great-great-grandfather. It took Barnaby Offerdahl’s notarized will—retrieved from the hanged man’s fife and naming Orpheus Jackson executor of his estate should anything happen to Barnaby and heir to the estate should anything happen to Barnaby’s daughter—to convince the county coroner to exhume the hanged man’s grave. It would take weeks to verify through DNA that he was indeed Orpheus Jackson, and that Timothy and Alessa were direct descendants of his. My money was on a happy ending.
If all went as planned, the children stood to inherit the land surrounding the Prospect House. Given that most of it was lakefront property, it was worth at least half a million. At least that’s what Chuck Litchfield told me when I spilled the whole story. Turns out he’d hired me to find Eric because Eric’s father, Gregory, had been hospitalized for a stroke the previous week. Gregory was still hanging on but looked like he wouldn’t last through the month. As per his will, which Chuck Litchfield had drawn up, Eric was to be contacted and informed if his inheritance became imminent. Litchfield had kept his motives on the down-low because Gregory had stipulated that no one would know of the land changing hands except Chuck and Eric. I guess old habits die hard.
Because the Prospect House had been rightfully bought and sold at least four times since Gregory’s ancestors killed Orpheus to obtain it, it was unclear what would happen to the structure, though Taunita said she and the kids had no interest in it. If lineage was established, she would now be executor of the estate for her children, until they were old enough to decide if they wanted to sell the land or keep it in the family. In the meanwhile, Chuck Litchfield was able to uncover some liquid assets of the Offerdahl estate. He promised to work on obtaining a loan for Taunita with the assets as collateral so she had money to raise the kids until all the legal aspects were worked out. He was also the one who helped her to organize today’s funeral for Orpheus, and tomorrow’s for Maurice, both at the Battle Lake Lutheran Church. He said it was the least the town could do for the two men. I might have pegged Chuck wrong.
In the meanwhile, Sid and Nancy had offered Taunita and the babies the apartment over the coffee shop rent free and given her a temp job as a barista. She paid back the forty bucks she’d borrowed from me after her first shift. As a bonus, I’d agreed to watch the babies at night until she could make other arrangements. I sincerely hoped she would not be able to.
Taunita stood on the other side of Timothy during Orpheus’s service, bright tears streaming down her face, Alessa in her arms. She’d lost Maurice. He’d been her whole family, other than her kids. She didn’t have anywhere to go and I’m sure had mixed feelings about staying here until everything was straightened out. I wished I could ease her loss, but only time has that power.
At least there had been a good turnout for today’s funeral, and I knew there’d be even more tomorrow. A few of the attendees were ambulance-chasers, but most came because it was the right thing to do. Barnaby Offerdahl’s brother had stolen Orpheus’s inheritance and likely his life. His brother’s ancestor had then done the same to Orpheus’s ancestor, and very nearly gotten away with it. Justice had finally been done, possibly with the help of Elizabeth Offerdahl’s spirit. Carter and I had spoken about the opening attic door and the falling papers since Eric had been arrested. Neither of us had actually seen a ghost, but we weren’t willing to write off the possibility that the Prospect House had an otherworldly protector.
As my eyes took in the full pews, I couldn’t help but notice how ridiculously glossy and gorgeous the plants lining the window wells were looking. I felt the familiar jealousy burn. Kennie.
When the service was over, we filed toward the basement for the funeral meal and I passed Kennie talking to a particularly perky-
looking fern in the hallway. She was wearing all black, but Kennie-style: leather pants and a fur coat, plus sky-high stilettos. Atop her head rested a demure hat with netting and sleek black feathers.
“What’re you saying to that plant?” I demanded.
She turned, a guilty expression on her face. She quickly wiped it off. “Why, Mira! You just can’t accept that you’re not the only one in town with a green thumb.”
For some reason, her comment made me glance at her thumb, which was presently blue. I grabbed her wrist and yanked back the loose sleeve of her fur coat. There it was. A catheter bag strapped to her arm, the hose leading to her wrist. It was filled with a Smurf-blue liquid. I sniffed it.
“Miracle Gro! I knew you were up to no good.”
She put her hand over my mouth and dragged me into a corner, making smiling “everything is fine here” faces to the people walking past. “I am a plant healer,” she hissed into my ear.
“You’re a plant liar,” I squeaked through her fingers.
She pressed me against the wall, glancing right and left. Her expression grew calculated. “Have it your way. But if I’m not doing my plant and animal psychology, I might go back to renegade makeovers. Or home bikini waxes.” She glanced at my crotch area, her eyebrows raised. “You’ll never know when I might drop by.”
“Fine,” I said, exasperated. I didn’t want her to know I was actually happy. In fact, I was thrilled to find out she was not an actual plant whisperer. I still wore a smile on my face as I stepped down the church basement steps and smack into Johnny. And his blonde girlfriend. My heart cracked.
I glanced from one to the other, for some strange reason feeling guilty even though he was the one who’d technically cheated. Johnny was as gorgeous as ever, wearing a light green button-up shirt and dark tie. The woman I’d seen him embracing in Bonnie & Clyde’s alley was as strikingly blonde as him, her features carved out of ivory. Probably they were perfect for each other. I turned, ready to head back up the stairs. I’d taken about as much pain as I was willing to for the month. I didn’t want to be broken up with in a church basement.
I felt a gentle hand at my wrist.
“Mira, have you met my cousin Corinne? She was at my practice last week.”
Something in his voice made me turn. “She’s your cousin?” Up close, I could see the resemblance: the same hair, stunning blue eyes, and plump curving lips. She was a knock-out.
He nodded. I couldn’t read his expression. Was he mad? Disappointed? And why was he getting on one knee?
Before my thoughts could organize, he gently leaned his shoulder into my stomach and stood, hoisting me over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He began walking up the steps, and the entire basement erupted in a cheer. He kept walking, opening the door, stepping outside into the ice crystal-perfect day, away from the church, and toward his house. The smell of winter air filled my nostrils, and the cool lemon sun glowed overhead. People were staring, some of them laughing and pointing, others looking at me with something like admiration, still others acting like it was just another day in the life.
“I imagine you’ve guessed that Mrs. Berns told me what you thought you saw, and why you haven’t been returning my calls,” he finally said, only a little winded. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
I didn’t say anything, just enjoying the ride on his shoulders. It had been that sort of week.
“If one of us wants out of this relationship, we tell the other. No cheating. No lying. No drama. Because you know what? I�
��m always going to treat you well. But so help me, if you take me for granted, or assume the worst about me, I don’t know if we can make this work. Understood?”
He set me down on his front stoop two blocks from the church. Before I could answer, I felt his mouth on mine, hot and seeking. His hands followed, and then his hips pressed into me, pinning me against the door. He kissed me deeply, and then pulled back abruptly to open the door, throw me back over his shoulder, lock the door behind us, and carry me to the bedroom. His house was strong and neat, with guitars leaning against the wall and books lining the shelves. It smelled like vanilla.
Johnny threw me onto the bed. The down comforter held me like a cloud, and sparkling sunlight filtered in through the curtains. I’d been to his house a handful of times, but never in his bed. He tore off his jacket, and then stripped off his tie and shirt. He never dragged his eyes off of me except for the brief moments when cloth separated our gazes.
“I love you. I want to be with you. I want you always. Nod if you understand.”
I nodded. At least I think I did. My whole body had been taken over by a buzzing sound that started between my thighs but had since spread to every centimeter of my body, a warm, honey-liquid feeling that warned me I was about to have a really, really good time.
He kneeled on the bed. The sun shone behind him, lighting up his curly blonde hair like a halo, perfectly outlining his sculpted shoulders and arms. His hands were gripped into fists. He had been worried, angry even. But he hadn’t left me.
In fact, he’d come after me.
I sat up and yanked him on top of me, both of us falling back into the covers in a passionate, laughing, hopeful pile.
In that moment, I vowed to reconsider how much better it was on top of the bed than under it. And with Johnny than without.
Jane Bailey Photography, Inc.
About the Author
Jess Lourey spent her formative years in Paynesville, Minnesota, a small town not unlike the Murder-by-Month series’ Battle Lake. She teaches English and sociology full time at a two-year college. When not raising her wonderful kids, teaching, or writing, you can find her gardening and navigating the niceties and meanities of small-town life. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Loft, and Lake Superior Writers.
acknowledgments
Terri Bischoff, this series would have ended at September Fair if not for you. Thank you for being an intuitive, kind acquisitions editor and a genius friend. Cheers to many shared projects in our future. Thank you also for lining me up with Nicole Nugent, an editor whose eye for detail is only surpassed by her organizational skills. In other words, she’s the Type-A kinda editor this writer needs. Courtney Colton, I’ll miss your publicity skills, but I appreciate all the help you’ve given my writing career. Victoria Skurnick, thank you for being my agent and my friend, and for taking me out for the best octopus of my life. Barbara Moore, thank you for giving me my first break.
Jessica Morrell, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you make me a better writer every time I work with you. May you live a long and healthy life. Christine Hollermann, your support and friendship mean the world to me. Same to you Dana Fredsti, Linda Joffe “We’ll Always Have the Metro” Hull, Aimee Hix, Catriona McPherson, Cindy Pederson, Shannon Baker, Reed Farrel Coleman, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Margery Flax, Kellie Tatge, Stacy Emerson, Jim Pohl, Angie Trulson, and Tony Van Den Einde.
Zoë and Xander, none of it would matter without the two of you. Mom, Dad, and Jen, thanks for consistently helping out so I can still feel like a good mom while following my dreams, and for making convincing me I’m capable of anything.
