Framed for Murder

by Cathy Spencer

  Chapter 1

  It was the middle of the night, but Sherman couldn’t sleep. Too many old demons whirling around his brain and pricking at his conscience. Frustrated, he threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, the soles of his feet chilled by the bare floor boards. Running his hands through his clipped, grizzled hair, he pushed himself off the bed, jammed his feet into slippers, and limped downstairs in his shorts and undershirt.

  The kitchen was dark, but Sherman didn’t bother with the lights. He fumbled for a water glass from the cupboard and took the vodka bottle out of the freezer. The blue light from the stove’s digital clock was enough to see by as he poured two fingers’ of Smirnoff into the glass and put the bottle back. Leaning against the counter by the kitchen sink, he took his first sip. Ahh. The alcohol was cold and smooth going down the back of his throat.

  Meaning to count to twenty before taking a second sip, he rested the glass on the sink and looked out the window past the dingy curtains. The house was set up high on a hill next to the Crane municipal cemetery, allowing him to see over the wall into the grounds. For a moment, he thought he caught a flicker of light through the trees. He rubbed his eyes and stared, straining to see it again, but the wind was up and the trees were thrashing. There; he saw the light again, briefly. Maybe it was one of those blasted kids up to no good. They had no respect for the dead, knocking over tomb stones, spray painting ugly messages on the walls, and leaving empty beer cans right on top of the graves. He’d better take a look, or else he might have a mess to clean up tomorrow.

  Forgetting to savour his drink, Sherman downed the rest and hurried upstairs to put on his pants and a warm jacket. It was mid-October in the Alberta Foothills, and the nights were getting frosty. He grabbed his cemetery keys and hobbled down the stairs as fast as his sore knee would allow. Letting himself out of the house, he slid down the damp grass heading for the gate in the cemetery wall. The door screeched as he opened it, and he cursed himself for not keeping the hinges oiled. Easing the door shut behind him, he paused in the flat orange light beneath a security lamp.

  Everything was still except for the gusting wind. He could see his breath coming out in excited little puffs, and smell the tangy wood smoke from the houses on the far side of the church. He shivered as the wind penetrated his clothes. It was too cold to stand still for long, so Sherman crossed the cemetery road and set off across the frosty grass. The sky was enshrouded in thick, grey cloud, and it was inky black amongst the plots. He got his bearings from the familiar tombstones, running his hands over their chilled, smooth surfaces as he hobbled past them. Pausing by a stone angel, Sherman peered to the left, toward the newer part of the cemetery. That was the direction the light had been coming from when he had seen it from the kitchen window.

  There it was, blinking through a stand of twisting evergreens. He crept toward the trees, taking his time so as not to snap a twig along the way. Was that whispering he heard? He paused to listen, but the branches were creaking too much to be sure, so he kept on. Reaching the evergreens, he edged around them carefully, trailing his hands over their rough bark.

  He knew exactly where he was. There was a bench on the other side of the trees with a plot directly in front of it. The words inscribed on the black tombstone read, “Evelyn Mason, Beloved Wife and Mother, April 17, 1951 – November 2, 2011.” Evie’s grave. He rounded the trees and burst out of hiding.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” he hollered. But there was no one there, just the dim outline of the tombstone. He hesitated, sure that this was where he had seen the light.

  “Sherman . . . ,” a voice sighed plaintively on the wind. He jerked his head sideways, trying to follow the sound, but it was impossible to tell where it came from. His hands clutched the bench for support, the metal cold and hard beneath his fingers.

  “Who’s there?” he yelled, straining to see in the dark.

  “Sherman . . . ,” the voice moaned, emanating from the heart of the plot deep in front of him. His breath came in short gasps and his legs were shaking.

  “Sherman!” the voice shrieked, piercing his ears and squeezing the breath from his lungs. He turned to run and tripped. Clawing at the ground, he staggered to his feet, terrified of skeletal fingers clutching at his shoulder. He tore across the grass and ran between the plots, barking his shins on more than one tombstone. He found the ring road and pushed himself down it, running and hopping as fast as he could. Reaching the door in the wall, he flung it open and staggered up the slope for home.

  Thank God he had left the front door unlocked. Once inside, he shot the bolt home and ran upstairs to cower in bed with the ceiling light on. He lay there, his heart thumping erratically in his chest, and willed it to calm down. “Mental imaging” the people at the hospital had called it. He swallowed hard and tried to think. Was he crazy, or had his wife just called to him from the other side of the grave?

  Her photograph was on his bedside table in a polished silver frame, the only valuable thing still left. Staring at the beautiful young woman with shining blue eyes smiling into the camera, a snort of laughter burst from his lips. He laughed and laughed until his eyes ran and he was gasping for breath. The laughter subsided, and he picked up the picture and clutched it to his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Discover other titles by Cathy Spencer

  Also in the Anna Nolan Series:

  Town Haunts, Book 2

  Cemetery caretaker Sherman Mason is horrified to hear his dead wife calling to him from beyond the grave. He asks Tiernay Rae, a gorgeous witch and proprietor of the Healing Hand’s store, to hold a seance to find out what’s troubling his wife’s ghost. Tiernay needs a coven to focus her powers, however, so her roguish brother, Greg, suggests that Anna Nolan and her two friends help . . . “the maiden, the mother, and the crone,” as he calls them. But with Halloween fast approaching and the seance unleashing a malicious evil in the small town of Crane, can Tiernay stop it before someone gets hurt, or even killed?

  Tidings of Murder and Woe, Book 3

  Christmas can be murder on families, especially when your mother is Julia Moreland, the CEO of a big oil company. Julia has a secret she’s about to announce to the press, but someone is sending her threatening notes to keep her mouth shut.

  Julia’s stepson is dating Magdalena, Anna Nolan’s boss. Anna has already outwitted death twice this year, and her nerves can’t stand much more. Besides, all she wants for Christmas is to spend time with the two men in her life. So when her boss turns to her for help, Anna is reluctant. Still, curiosity is her downfall and sticking her nose in where it isn’t wanted her forte.

  Tidings of Murder and Woe is a page-turner with plenty of plot twists, dashes of humour and romance, and even a little Christmas baking.

  Romances by Cathy Spencer

  The Dating Do-Over

  Toronto school teacher Viv Nowak has a sympathetic heart and abominable taste in men. She expects an engagement ring when her live-in lover of six years lands a terrific new job in Vancouver. Instead, she gets dumped . . . on Valentine’s Day! Everyone, from her best friends to her father to her estranged mother, has an opinion on how she should fix her life. Her friends even insist on a dating do-over. But no one expects her choice when she finally decides what her heart wants.

  The Affairs of Harriet Walters, Spinster

  Harriet Walters, a twenty-six year old spinster, is evicted from her home after the death of her father and sent to live with a persnickety aunt. Resigned to the life of an unpaid companion, she yearns for romance with the local grammar school history master, if only he were as interested in her as he is in the Roman occupation of England.

  Fate intervenes, however, and Harriet becomes an heiress. Leaving her small town life for the glittering attractions of London, Harriet meets several interesting new people, including a devilish young cad who wants to awaken her sensual side.

  About the Author


  Cathy Spencer and her husband recently moved to Ontario from Calgary, Alberta. Like her heroine, Anna Nolan, Cathy once worked as an administrative assistant at a Calgary university. Unlike Jack Nolan, her faithful actor-husband is still alive.

  Connect Online with Cathy

  Visit her blog: https://cmspencer.blogspot.com

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