The Fred Vickery Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Fred Vickery Mysteries)

by Sherry Lewis

  “He killed Kate,” Tony raged. “He attacked us both. I think he’s your murderer, Enos. He’s crazy. I brought her up here because she wanted to see the place. She wanted to see where Brandon died. I was showing her the mine, describing the construction that’s scheduled to start in May when he came out of nowhere and attacked us. He pushed her over the side.” His voice had reached a high-pitched whine.

  “Shut up, Tony. For your own sake, just shut up.”

  From far below came a shout, too far away to hear clearly. The boys had found something. Fred hoped against hope that they’d found Kate alive, but he didn’t dare believe it. This same fall had killed Brandon, how could she survive it?

  The minutes ticked by, long, agonizing minutes while they waited for word. The pain in Fred’s knee grew steadily worse until it nauseated him.

  Finally, the shouts grew nearer. Gravel skittered down the eroded side of the sinkhole and at long last, Grady’s head appeared. “We found her! She’s hurt, but she’s alive.”

  Relief washed Enos’s face and Fred’s entire insides. Alive. He had hardly dared to hope.

  “Tony Striker,” Enos said grimly. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Joan Cavanaugh and Brandon Cavanaugh, for the attempted murder of Kate Talbot and assault with a deadly weapon upon the person of George Newman and now Fred Vickery. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  twenty seven

  Fred leaned back against the pillows propped behind him and smiled at the picture of Phoebe in her wedding dress that had graced the corner of his dresser for the past forty-nine years. From behind the protective glass, she returned his gaze and he remembered her just as she had been the day the picture was taken.

  He adjusted the leg brace, pulled the quilt up under his chin and reached for his copy of Vengeance Trail. A car door slammed in the driveway followed by the strident notes of Jessica Asay’s high-pitched voice—complaining, as usual. Something about an episode of “The Love Boat.”

  Ben poked his head into the room and grinned. “Mrs. Asay’s here with Enos, Grandpa. Can you hear her?”

  Fred grinned back and nodded.

  “Mom’s got your breakfast ready. She told me to tell you.”

  Sixteen year-old Sarah bumped into Ben with the breakfast tray and Fred leaned back, savoring the aroma. For the third morning in a row Margaret had made him bacon and eggs, toast with butter and jam. And coffee.

  Deborah peeked shyly through the open door. “You know what Daddy said this morning, Grandpa? He said you’re a hero. He did, didn’t he Sarah?”

  Incredible praise coming from Webb.

  Jessica Asay’s voice grew louder. Somebody must have let her in the house. But as long as they didn’t let her in his bedroom, he didn’t care.

  He buttered his toast and dug into the jam dish. “What time is Kate getting out of the hospital?”

  Sarah perched gingerly on the foot of his bed. “They said she’ll be here any minute. Mom said she’d made such a fuss the hospital let her out early.”

  “Kate? I can’t imagine.”

  The coffee tasted wonderful, earthy and rich—almost as good as it smelled.

  Jessica Asay had found the television and tuned in to the closing credits of “The Love Boat.”

  Enos poked his head through Fred’s door. “Need company?”

  “I’ve got the best company a man can ask for right here, but I can always use more.”

  Enos clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder and pulled the boy toward him for a hug. “Guess we can’t keep your grandpa down, ‘eh?”

  From outside, the rhythmic sound of a snow shovel being plied against the walks, signaled Webb’s presence. About time he did something useful.

  Madison padded into the bedroom on stockinged feet, a tube of lipstick in one hand, the contents of it all over her face. “Where’s Kate?”

  Sarah shrieked and dove after the child, but Madison could run faster. Deborah chased after them.

  Fred closed his eyes and basked in the commotion. This house hadn’t felt so full of life since before Phoebe went. It was time for things to get back to normal. The noise felt good. The running feet, the television, the telephone—all of it.

  “You going to be all right?” Enos asked when the children had gone.

  Fred opened his eyes and stared at him long and hard. “I swear, Enos, the next time you ask me that, I’ll . . . join up as one of your deputies.”

  Enos smiled and took his battered old black hat off his head. “The county attorney stopped by to take a statement from Tony this morning. He still denies everything, even with Kate’s testimony.”

  “He’s not stupid.”

  “I guess not, but I don’t know how he thinks he can get off.”

  “Because he’s gotten away with everything he’s ever done his whole life. The guy’s a bloodsucker. But I still don’t understand why he killed Brandon.”

  “Best I can figure,” Enos said, leaning against the dresser, “Brandon realized Tony killed Joan and made the mistake of letting him know it. Until then, I think Tony just planned to let Brandon divert Madison’s money into whatever project Tony dreamed up for Basin Development and from there he’d make sure it got into his own pockets. Once Brandon figured it out, he had to go, and with Brandon out of the way, Kate controlled Madison’s money. He either had to get control of it from her, which he tried to do with that power of attorney, or get rid of her.”

  “He almost got away with it.”

  Enos’s face crumpled into a scowl. “I was right on his trail.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “Another few hours and I would have figured it out—in fact, I would have figured it out a darn sight faster if I hadn’t had to waste so much time trying to keep your nose in its place.”

  Fred pulled himself up rigidly. “You old windbag! If I hadn’t pointed you in the right direction in the first place, you’d have written Joan’s death off as a suicide and you know it.”

  “I never suspected it was a suicide. Not for one minute. I knew the minute I laid eyes on her she’d been killed, but I have to work around the law. I can’t just go haring off in some cockeyed direction whenever I feel like it.”

  Fred snorted in derision. Enos glared, but beneath the scowl his eyes held a twinkle. Their relationship would never be the same. Fred liked it better this way. But he still would have liked him for a son-in-law.

  “I drove past the art store on my way over here this morning. Winona’s gone.”

  Fred had expected it. With Joan and Brandon dead, Cutler held no fascination for her any longer. No doubt she had more exciting roads to travel.

  “You’ll never guess who bought the place from her.” Enos smiled mischievously.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “A friend of yours.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s busy as a bug in there—got her paintings in the windows and everything.”

  Enlightenment began to dawn, slowly, and Fred resisted. He had to be wrong. “No.”

  “She finally got those paintings back Winona stole from her. When she heard how much they were worth, she sold them all to buy the store.”

  Fred groaned.

  “She’s changing the name. Going to call it the `Cosmic Tradition’. Art gallery and New Age book store. Right here in Cutler—imagine that! Oh, she said she wanted you to have this.” Enos held up a book from behind his back. Reincarnation and the Elderly: Where You’re Going Next. “I didn’t know you were interested in this stuff.”

  Fred buried his face in his hands. Margaret poked her head into the room, still checking on him.

  “In fact,” Enos said, “she said to tell you she has a lot of reading material you’ll be interested in. She’s going to drop by tomorrow with some other books for you to borrow.”

  Fred shuddered and looked up to meet Enos’s amused eyes.

  Margaret grinned broadly. “I saw her at Lacey’s this morning, Dad. She wondered if yo
u might be interested in a job once your leg gets better. She said you’d shown an interest in the subject last time she spoke with you.”

  “No.”

  “It would keep you busy—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Margaret laughed then sobered slightly. “You’ve got another visitor, Dad.”

  “Well, don’t let anybody else in this room today. I’ve had all I can take from jokers like this one here.”

  “You’ll want to see this one.”

  She stepped back and Kate stood in the doorway looking like she’d been tossed off the edge of a cliff. One arm hung in a sling, her face and neck had been scratched and bruised.

  “I won’t ask how you are,” she said softly. “I know how much you hate that. But I had to say thanks. You saved my life.”

  “You’re welcome.” He studied her for a minute until, aware that he was staring, he cleared his throat and asked, “So you’re heading back to San Francisco?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  He’d miss her. He’d grown used to her in the two weeks she’d been with him. Funny how much he’d learned to like her in such a short time, how much he counted on having her around. Now she’d leave, and when the hoopla died down and life returned to normal, what then?

  “And Madison?”

  She shrugged. “She’ll go with me.”

  Fred was glad to hear it. “How’s that going to work?”

  “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “You can do it,” he told her and pushed himself up in the bed. “She needs you, but you need her, too. And she loves you, though I can’t figure out why.”

  A shadow of her old smile crept onto her face.

  “Just remember to love her. Whatever happens, just love her. Sooner or later, it’ll come naturally.” He paused as Ben chased Sarah down the hallway with a snowball and Margaret called after them angrily. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” he confided.

  “I don’t know. This would drive me crazy.”

  Fred chuckled. “Of course it would. It’s supposed to. It’s one of the ways it all works—don’t ask me to explain it.”

  Stocking feet padded down the hallway and the child’s voice shrieked, “Kate!”

  Madison reached up with two chubby arms and Kate knelt down to meet her, still uncertain. Nobody had washed the lipstick off Madison’s face and Kate pulled back a little as Madison’s arms wound themselves around her neck.She had such a long way to go. How would Madison survive if Kate never relented, even a little?

  “You comed back,” Madison said in awe. “You do like me.” Her arms tightened around Kate’s neck.

  Slowly, Kate raised her good arm and brought it around until it barely touched the child’s back.

  Madison reached up with her ruby red lips and planted a kiss on Kate’s startled cheek. As Fred and Enos watched in silence, Kate’s arm tightened, almost imperceptibly around Madison’s waist until she held the child against her in an embrace.

  Fred looked at Enos and saw the same look of relief he felt. Kate’s eyes closed and her face reddened. To Fred’s surprise, a tear appeared in the corner of the one eye he could see, then another, until they fell freely and she hugged the child to her almost desperately.

  If he could have gotten out of bed, he would have left them together, but he had to sit and watch them and feel the lump grow in his own throat and blink back the burning sensation in his eyes and hope Enos didn’t notice.

  At the sound of another set of footsteps, determined ones Fred didn’t immediately recognize, Kate pulled away and looked at him sheepishly as Fred’s oldest son Joseph stormed in. It had been a year since he’d seen Joseph. Too long. The last time he’d come for a visit, they’d argued. He’d wanted Fred to come to New Hampshire for a visit and Fred had refused.

  He looked wonderful, tall and thin and handsome—people said he looked just like his father.

  Joseph glared at him. “There you are. I couldn’t believe it when Margaret called me and told me what you’d been up to. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Fred shrugged.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. You could have been shot! You could have frozen to death! You could have fallen off a cliff!” He whirled around to Margaret. “I can’t believe you let him go off like that.”

  Margaret didn’t say a word.

  Exactly when had Joseph become such an old stick-in-the-mud? Look at him—suit, tie, button-down shirt.

  “This isn’t normal behavior for a man your age, Dad. You’re sick. I’m sorry, but you’re too old to act this way. You ought to have more sense. And you—” he turned on Margaret again, “maybe it’s time somebody else kept an eye on him . . .”

  Actually, a visit to New England didn’t sound so bad now. Maybe for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

  “. . . can’t just let him wander around like that. He could hurt himself. And look at this breakfast. I thought you were supposed to cut out the cholesterol . . .”

  Of course, he’d probably missed the leaves, and that was a shame, but the holidays with Joseph and Gail and the kids didn’t sound so bad. Gail made an excellent Thanksgiving dinner. Fred popped a piece of bacon into his mouth.

  “. . . I’m taking him home with me for a while. Gail and I have talked it over . . .”

  He wouldn’t stay long. A month or two, maybe. He couldn’t leave Margaret alone that long. She’d get herself into some kind of trouble without him here to take of her.

  “. . . plenty of room. We’ve got a nice guest room and we’re close to a senior center where he could spend some of his time during the day with people his own age . . .”

  On the other hand, Douglas had just gone through that messy divorce. He’d sounded upset and lonely the last time Fred talked to him. And he had that nice cabin on the island. It would feel a lot more like home than New Hampshire. Maybe Seattle wouldn’t be so bad this time of year.

  “. . . if you can’t control him, you’re just going to have to let one of us boys take him . . .”

  Fred met Margaret’s amused glance and they shared a secret smile.

  # # #

  All rights reserved,

  Copyright © 1995 by Sherry Lewis

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

  by any means, without permission.

  Originally published by Berkley Prime Crime / July 1995

  Kindle Edition Cover Art by Stholen Moments Photography

  A FATHER’S WORST NIGHTMARE . . .

  Fred’s insides clenched as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Enos couldn’t possibly believe this. Douglas wasn’t capable of murder. Fred studied Enos’s face, hoping to find a trace of hope there, but found none.

  He dragged in a breath and tried to steady himself. This couldn’t be happening. Not to his boy. Not to Douglas. Tears stung Fred’s eyes, threatening to spill over and make everything worse. He blinked rapidly, trying to force the tears back, trying to regain control.

  He had to get Douglas out of here and . . . and what? What could he do?

  He could take Enos’s advice and find Douglas an attorney. It was a necessary step, but one that wouldn’t make Fred feel much better. He wanted to do something like . . .

  Find the murderer.

  Sherry Lewis

  No Place like Home

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 1996 by Sherry Lewis

  http://www.sherrylewisbooks.com

  This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part,

  by any means, without permission.

  Publishing History:

  Berkley Prime Crime, February 1996

  Sherry Lewis, July 2014

  For my sister and best friend,

  Sandra Lewis Preysz

  No Place like Home

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to friends and family who have helped my dreams take flight. Kathy Lloyd, aka Katherine Jacobsen, (teacher and friend); Jennie Hansen (criti
que partner and friend); Deloy Barnes (designated mature individual); and Heather Horrocks (designated slow reader) of the Wednesday night critique group. To my friends Robert (Slim) Brinkman (whose imagination knew no bounds); Dan Weinrich, Cindy Buehler, and Deneen Nunn (who were always honest with me and helped me keep one foot firmly rooted on the ground). To Gene Lewis, Vanda Lewis, Sandra Preysz, and Heidi Preysz for helping me keep everyone in character. To the court security officers, who shared their combined decades of experience in law enforcement with me. And finally, but certainly not last on my list, to my daughters, Valerie Brown and Vanessa Brown Sthole, who for years have tolerated deadlines and an eccentric mother, and for becoming my mother whenever I need them to.

  A very special thank you to my former agent, Patricia Teal, and to the fabulous Gail Fortune, the taking a chance on an unknown author and helping my dreams come to life.

  “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” ~ Robert Frost

  ONE

  Fred Vickery adjusted his step to keep up with his youngest son, Douglas, who led the way down the boardwalk of Cutler, Colorado’s Main Street. Douglas set a quicker pace than Fred’s usual one, but not an impossible one to match.

  “It never changes here, does it?” Douglas asked.

  Fred squinted into the early spring sunlight, surveying Cutler’s tiny business district and sparse morning traffic. “There have been more changes than you think.”

  Nestled in a narrow valley, cut into the forest, the town huddled on the shores of Spirit Lake, high in the Colorado Rockies. Even in its most densely populated section, Cutler felt more like a nick in the timber than a town. But that’s what Fred loved about it.

  Lodgepole pines towered over most of the buildings, aspen trees shivered in the high mountain breezes, and the chatter of forest creates broke the silence almost as often as the sounds of human occupation. Douglas was right. It had been this way for years; yet there were subtle differences that Fred could sense, even if Douglas couldn’t see them.