ROADKILL
A Double Barrel Mystery
Barbara E Brink
ROADKILL
Copyright April 2015 by Barbara Ellen Brink.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Cover design by Katharine A. Brink
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This novel is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
Table Of Contents:
Dedication
Before
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
After
About The Author
Much Ado About Murder
Entangled (sample chapter)
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Rugby, my sweet Cavipoo lapdog. He was my faithful writing companion through nine novels and was always available to take me for walks or help me eat snacks whenever I grew weary of sitting and typing. He loved me unconditionally and was always generous with a cuddle or thump of his tail for encouragement. He was the best pup this writer girl could ever ask for and my lap will be forever empty without him.
I miss you, bubba.
ROADKILL
Before
November 2013
The woman and her dog moved at a brisk pace down the side of the county road. Bundled in a brown coat with a fur-trimmed hood tied up around her face, she could have been any woman, but he recognized the dog. The big German Shepard and he were nearly on a first name basis. A month back Buddy had taken a bite out of his leg. Now he’d even the score. After all, man’s best friend shouldn’t be separated from his mistress.
He swigged down the last of the beer from the long necked bottle and dropped it carelessly to the floor with the other empties. They clinked together and rolled apart. One last time he peered up and down the empty road. No other vehicles had passed by in the twenty minutes he’d sat parked, waiting. With the pickup in gear, he slowly eased out from behind the trees onto the two-lane. The engine rumbled and the woman stopped to look back. She lifted a gloved hand in a neighborly wave before turning around and continuing her walk, the dog trotting protectively at her side.
Before he could rethink his decision, he pressed down hard on the accelerator and roared toward the woman and her stupid mutt. At the sound of his acceleration, she turned her head, and in that brief moment before the truck’s front grill made a crushing impact, their eyes met. Some innate sense of humanity reared its head, and he slammed on the brakes. But it was already too late.
As though time suddenly slowed, he watched the woman and the dog thrown into the air and finally come to rest in the leaves and tall grass of the ditch up ahead. He stared hard at their crumpled, bleeding bodies, but they lay unmoving. His fingers grasped blindly for the door handle before he came to his senses. He pulled his eyes from the scene and glanced furtively in the rearview.
Still no cars.
Cursing under his breath, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor again, sending the pickup lurching forward with a squeal of rubber against asphalt and another loud crash of glass bottles on the floorboards.
He didn’t slow until the road curved off onto the highway and Port Scuttlebutt was left far behind. Bleary eyed, he drove on. When he started to cross the centerline, a car honked loudly and swerved to avoid him. He jerked the wheel back, over-compensating so that his tires hit the gravel shoulder and dust bellowed behind the truck before he could straighten up between the lines again.
Shaking started in his legs and moved up to his hands. He needed to relax. He needed a drink. He lifted the last bottle from the cardboard carrier on the seat beside him and twisted off the top. Everything would be fine. He’d done what he had to. Survival of the fittest; that’s all it was. He took a long pull on the bottle and didn’t see the huge buck bound out of the ditch in front of him.
Chapter One
April 2014
When I was five, my mother died of pancreatic cancer. My father, vying for a Purple Heart in suffering, moved us from everything we knew and loved to a bleak, small town in the Iron Range of Minnesota. With nothing much to do there but read, my love of the written word went into overdrive. Being the daughter of a literature professor, the books lying around were not written by Dr. Seuss.
My name is Shelby Gunner and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic. I say that up front because it colors everything about me. For good or bad, my past experiences have much to do with who I’ve become. I love eggrolls, big band music, and Shakespeare. I detest the smell of Listerine in the morning, the song from the Scooby Doo cartoon, and blue-eyed pity. Some day I may tell you why.
I married the man of my dreams three years ago. Blake is a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department. He loves me, his job, and singing in the shower. Loud and proud. He has the mistaken notion that if some big record company exec happens by our home on a summer day when the windows are thrown open wide, he’ll pound on the front door and beg my husband to sign a record contract. The first po-po rappin’ about slappin’ on cuffs and making arrests. I’m sure the boys in the ’hood will be all over that. Did I mention that Blake is slightly deranged?
Blake and I were married on one of the coldest days of the year, and the same day three years later was no exception. April in Minnesota is often schizophrenic. One day it can be sixty degrees, the next it’s dropped to single digits and blowing snow. But despite blustery wind gusts rattling sleet against the windows, inside our cozy townhome, an electric log glowing in the corner fireplace, and Blake and I cuddled into a pile of down pillows on the bed, it was as warm as a summer day.
Curled together, my head snug against his bare chest and his arms around me, we lazily watched the sports channel on our flat screen television with the sound turned off. Blake loved hockey almost as much as he loved being a detective, so getting him to turn the sound off and gift me even half his attention on our special day was a huge win for me.
While The Wild moved a puck around the ice with lightening speed and got into minor scuffles with the opposing team, our sporadic conversation involved where we’d go on vacation once the case Blake was working was resolved and whether or not we should get a dog in the near future.
“So I thought…” I paused and ran one nail lightly down his cheek to get his attention, “maybe we should stop by the animal shelter tomorrow and see if our puppy soul-mate is there just waiting for his new family...”
Blake Gunner, my husband and best friend–since I didn’t yet have a dog–pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!”
“Yes?” I frowned and pushed up on one elbow. I couldn’t believe it. He’d agreed so quickly and easily. I though
t it would be much harder to get him to see our need of a dog. I hadn’t even tried my misty-eyed look on him yet.
“Hmm?” He peeled his gaze away from the screen for a second and looked up at me as though just noticing I was still there. “Did you say something?”
I rolled my eyes. “I said, this game is so exciting I can hardly stand to watch.”
“Babe, you know I’d do anything for you,” he said, managing to plant a quick kiss on my cheek before his eyes slanted back to the screen, “but can we do it after the game is over? I promise I’ll…” His words trailed off and he was gone.
Now you might think this story isn’t going anywhere, but that’s when the phone rang. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have answered it. God knows we humans would never choose the storm, but without rain there is no growth. Living things flourish in adversity. The strongest trees are regularly buffeted by the wind. Humans are no exception.
By mutual consent, we had both turned off our cell phones before climbing into bed two hours earlier, so hearing the home phone ring in the hallway outside the room was a little surprising. We’d talked about canceling the landline. The only people who called that number were either affiliated with a political campaign or trying to sell something… which is actually the same thing. Oh – and of course, someone with an imagined emergency who couldn’t get through on our cells.
Blake looked toward the open doorway. “Guess one of us should get that, huh?” He didn’t budge an inch.
I released a dramatic sigh and rolled to the side of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. With my new gauzy pink robe wrapped around my naked form, I moved past the end of the bed, blocking his view of the game for a split second, just long enough for the Blackhawks to plow past the Wild’s defenses and score. He yelped and threw up his arms in frustration.
“Oh my goodness!” I said, pausing in the doorway, hands on my hips. “You’d think there was no such thing as instant replay.”
He tossed a pillow playfully at my head and snatched up the remote, clicking the sound back on. With the announcers shouting over one another in the background and a grin on my face, I stepped into the hallway and picked up the ringing telephone. Boy, someone was persistent. “Hello?”
“Shelby, baby! How ya doing? Called to wish you and Gun a happy anniversary! Can I speak with him a minute?” The overly friendly tone of Blake’s partner made me scrunch up my nose like I’d smelled a dead rat. He might be a good detective, but he was a terrible liar.
“What do you want, Donny? You agreed to leave Blake alone today. You have him at your beck and call 364 days a year. I only have him for one.”
“I know, I know. And I’m real sorry. I wouldn’t interrupt your special day for anything other than a true blue emergency. I swear.”
“Yeah, sure.” I covered the mouthpiece with three fingers. “Blake! It’s for you!” I called out, wondering if my husband would be upset about having to cut our anniversary short or only because he’d miss the end of the hockey game.
Don was still saying something to me and I put the phone back to my ear. “…make it up to you, ’cause someday I’ll meet the right woman, and you can interrupt our anniversary. I promise.”
I laughed. “Donny, you will never meet the right woman. There is no such person.”
The commercials had come on in the nick of time. My husband reluctantly slid off the bed and followed me into the hall. I handed him the phone as Don started to explain to me, for probably the billionth time, why chicks just didn’t get him. I know I didn’t. He was a nice enough guy if you liked overbearing, mannerless thugs, who’d obviously been raised by a colony of Neanderthals, but most contemporary women didn’t. As my husband’s partner, I knew Donny would always have his back and even take a bullet for him if the opportunity arose. Unfortunately, women found him about as attractive as a plate of greens when they’re craving chocolate. It tastes bad and gives you gas.
“Hey,” My loquacious husband said, phone to his ear. He moved back toward the television and sat on the end of the bed. He nodded a couple of times and then glanced at me with that quirk of his eyebrow that used to make my heart race, but now made it sink like a stone. He was measuring me up for disappointment.
I sighed and sat beside him, resting my head on his shoulder while he finished his conversation. It wasn’t every day we got to enjoy spending the afternoon in bed together, even if it was mostly spent watching a hockey game. As anniversaries go, this one hadn’t been so bad.
Blake worked crazy hours as a homicide detective. If there was a fresh case to solve, he worked day and night, obsessed with catching the bad guy or gal so the victim could rest in peace. He said a murder had to be solved within a few days or the leads turned cold, and he couldn’t stand the thought that one of his cases would be filed away in a box and stored in a dark room, until the murderer was eaten up with guilt and walked in to confess. Which is what his partner would refer to as a nut-job miracle. Like the sighting of a unicorn or three-headed toad – it rarely happened.
“I’ll meet you there,” he finally said and clicked off. His smile was lopsided and meant to convey regret, but I knew he was also eager to be off to catch a killer. “Sorry, hon,” he said, standing up and pulling me into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you. Maybe we can have a late dinner. I’ll pick up carryout from China Jade on my way home... with a double order of eggrolls.” His kiss was quick before he moved to the closet and pulled on a pair of faded jeans. He took a blue knit shirt from a hanger and tugged it over his head.
I watched him dress in silence. This scenario was becoming a regular thing. Murders were up in the city, which meant homicide detectives were overworked and in short supply, and homicide detective’s wives were left alone to their own devices.
Mine was theatre.
Blake adjusted his shoulder holster before shrugging into his favorite brown leather jacket, then went and looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink to run a comb through his sandy-colored hair. His hair had a slight curl to the ends and always managed to look a bit messy and out of place, shaggy over the collar and forehead like a thirty-year-old Dennis the Menace. I loved it. He retrieved his badge and wallet from the dresser drawer and slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“I hope Donny’s snitch is right and the perp is still holed up in that motel where he was spotted. Maybe we can throw his butt in jail tonight, and you and I can get a good night’s sleep for once.” He pulled me close again.
“If anyone can wrap this up in record time, it’s you Gun,” I said, using the nickname they called him on the job. “Come home safe. I’ll be waiting. Like always.”
“You’re never waiting. I bet before I pull out of the garage you’re dressed and ready to run off to that theatre you love so much.” He grinned and planted a kiss on the end of my nose.
I followed him down the hall to the kitchen and watched him grab a banana to eat on the way. I flashed him a smile. “Sid did say we could use another practice.”
“That’s my girl.” He opened the garage access door. “Better to stay busy than sit around and worry, like some cops’ wives.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow,” I quoted softly, and felt a sudden tingle of fear at Juliet’s famous line.
Blake didn’t seem to notice. He blew me a kiss and went out to his truck.
I stood rooted to the spot, a definite chill moving up my spine as gooseflesh broke out along my arms and legs. I didn’t believe in omens but… I glanced at the kitchen clock. Three minutes before three in the afternoon, on our third anniversary, three days before the opening of Romeo and Juliet at the Rapturous Dinner Theatre, I had a premonition that my husband was in danger. Three had always been bad luck for me. Well, sort of. When I was thirteen – which has a three in it – I fell from the schoolyard monkey bars and broke my ankle, thus ending my ballet career forever.
Rubbing away the gooseflesh on my arms, I shook m
y head, instantly dispelling such thoughts. It wasn’t a premonition; it was an actual gust of cold air from the open garage door when Blake went out, and me in a sheer robe. As Blake liked to say, my inner drama queen was showing again. I hurried to the bedroom to dress into something warm, comfortable, and appropriate for spending the evening rehearsing lines with Sid and the rest of the cast. That old theatre could be pretty drafty as well.
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Don was already waiting outside the station in his car, the engine running and blue-tinged smoke billowing from the tailpipe. It coughed and sputtered every couple of minutes like a smoker enjoying one last cigarette before dying from emphysema. With the little knowledge Blake had of vehicle maintenance, even he knew that was not a good sign.
He pulled his mint condition 1996 Bronco into the parking space alongside Don’s junker and got out. With custom paint, chrome running boards, and shiny spoke wheels, his ride was not exactly made for a stakeout. In the neighborhood they planned to visit, it would probably be stripped bare while they were still in it.
He slid into the passenger seat of his partner’s car and automatically declined the offer of a donut from the paper bag crammed into the space between the windshield and the dash. Don held a big gulp coffee in one hand and munched on a glazed cinnamon roll. At least the gas tank would be full. The Hurry Up & Out Gas & Grocery was where Don purchased most of his meals and all of his donuts and coffee. He ate more hotdogs than Matlock and looked like his clothes were pressed from sleeping in a La-Z-Boy.
“About time you showed up. Getting one more quickie in before leaving your bride behind?” Don snorted a laugh and then slurped loudly from the plastic lid on his cup.
“And you wonder why you can’t get a woman to go out on a second date,” Blake said, pulling his seatbelt and clicking it in place. “Maybe you should try the tall, dark and silent routine. Obnoxious isn’t working for you.”
Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1) Page 1
