Ruby’s
Letters
Maggie Van Well
Booktrope Editions
Seattle, WA 2014
COPYRIGHT 2014 MAGGIE VAN WELL
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
Inquiries about additional permissions
should be directed to: [email protected]
Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Laurel Busch
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-505-9
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-521-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916787
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
More from Booktrope
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank for this book, but I’ll try to keep the mushy stuff to a minimum.
Thank you to my wonderful children, Anthony, Marc, Marlayna and Dylan. Any child is a blessing, but to be given four of the most unique, funny and kind children is truly a gift from God. Thanks for putting up with my blank stares while I was in “the zone.” Thanks for not taking advantage of me when you knew I wasn’t really listening and would say yes to anything, and for not hiding me from your friends when you knew I could launch into one-sided conversations at any moment. My sisters, Tracey Brodeur, Trisha Sweezey and Barbara Van Well, thank you for being the best and most painfully honest beta readers a writer could hope for. Thanks to my brothers, Hank Jr. for always rooting me on; Heath, for forever being my champion, and Hugh for being the inspiration for Bart (even though you’re probably only discovering this now). No words can express my thanks to my mom, Johanna Van Well, for giving me the gift of writing, all her love, and for being my #1 fan, and to my dad, Hank Van Well, Sr. for being the perfect role model on which I base all my heroes.
To all the members of Long Island Romance Writers, thank you for your knowledge, encouragement and for being the best damn support group there is. Thanks so much to my team at Booktrope Publishing: Katherine Sears and Ken Shear, for taking a chance on me; Vanya Drumchiyska, my book manager, who dedicated herself to making sure everything ran smoothly throughout the publishing process; Laurel Busch, my awesome editor, who made my book the best it could be; Samantha March, my marketing manager for all her hard work at getting my name out there; Greg Simanson for his beautiful cover; Jesse James Freeman for all his support; Susan Ethridge, my proofreader, for stepping in and doing an awesome job, and finally, special thanks to Jennifer Gracen, for putting her faith in me.
Ruby’s Letters would not be the book it is without the help and support of three of the most treasured critique partners a writer could hope for: Tina Joyce Beckett, Abby Niles and Christyne Butler. You ladies are truly a blessing.
And finally, there are not enough words to express my gratitude to Paul C. Goldstein of Midtown Masonry, Inc. for his seemingly endless knowledge of fireplaces, chimneys and masonry. Much thanks for putting up with my intrusive phone calls, my constant pecking at your brain and for beta reading my first draft.
For my grandfather, Cpt. Edward T. Kunkel, Sr.
He gave seventy-two years of service to the Reliance Hose 3 fire department in Rockville Centre, NY. He was a gentleman’s gentleman, a proven hero and a man not afraid to admit he loved romance novels. Love you Grandpa!
For the firefighters, police and EMTs who made the ultimate sacrifice as they served one of the darkest days in our country’s history, and to the families who live every day with their loss.
For my grandmother, Johanna M. Kunkel. I miss my pal every day.
Chapter One
SEPTEMBER 2006
THREE LARGE MEN glared at Emma Hopkins, their beefy arms crossed over equally massive chests. Her gloved hands tightened around the handle of a sledgehammer.
Her employees. Fearless. Manly.
Pouting like a bunch of four-year-olds.
“Oh, stop sulking. You guys always get to do the demolition. It’s my turn.”
“We are no sulking. We are waiting,” Carlos quipped in a thick Cuban accent. “Swing the hammer.”
“Yeah, just pretend the wall is the head of that meter maid who gave you a ticket while you were stopped at a red light,” Bart said.
Relaxing her hold, she scrutinized the laborer. “You know, Bart, you really scare me sometimes.”
“He scares all of us.” Mike, her head mason, flicked a contractor bag until it opened.
“Gee, I can’t imagine why.” Emma returned to her task. A gentle late-summer breeze came in through the open window, bringing with it the pleasing fragrance of damp earth. “Hush, all of you. I need to focus.”
She studied the five-foot-high brick structure jutting out from the wall that imprisoned the enormous kitchen fireplace, looking for the perfect place to land her blow. The bottom half appeared solid, with pin-straight mortar joints, but the top was sloppy and uneven. Either two different people had built this thing, or someone had imbibed a few cocktails while on the job. In any case, behind the wall was a huge fireplace she was itching to get her hands on.
She’d earned this privilege.
With a deep breath, Emma swung the hammer through the air.
As soon as the heavy metal head made contact, the top portion of the barrier gave way. She gasped in surprise, stumbling as the hammer dropped from her hands. Bricks and mortar collapsed into the firebox as a blast of cold, stale air swept through her, sending chills down her spine. No, not chills. More like an electric shock that froze her body for a millisecond before it warmed again.
Emma steadied herself. What the hell?
“Estás bien, Boss Lady?”
She focused on Carlos’s concerned face, trying to shake off the odd feeling. “Yeah. I was just startled at how easily it fell.”
He smirked. “Even the wall knows not to mess with you before you’ve had your café.”
Emma removed her safety glasses and slapped them against his chest. “You’ve just been reduced to bag holder.”
While she mindlessly tossed debris i
nto the contractor bag Carlos grudgingly held open for her, her sense of pride grew.
She always loved the first day at a new job, but this one—this one—would put her fireplace and chimney company on the map. Working in a historic brownstone practically at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge was going to be a delight, even if it was a bitch to find a parking space. She loved this part of Brooklyn Heights, and with ten fireplaces to restore, they were going to have one hell of a job to brag about.
As long as everything went smoothly.
Her gloved hand wrapped around something long, thin, and hard. What the hell? She gave a good tug and withdrew a bone. Great, another dead animal. She’d better get it out of the firebox before Bart saw it. With his sick sense of humor, God only knew what perverse ideas he’d come up with just to get a laugh.
Grabbing a droplight, she brought it over to the opening and aimed it down into the pit, peering over the half-wall.
Empty eye sockets stared back at her.
Shock waves rocketed through her body, unleashing a guttural scream. She jerked back, dropping the light and whacking her head against the opening of the firebox.
Her butt hit the ground hard. She cradled the back of her skull, more from reflex than from actual pain. Her mind was too numb for that.
No, it can’t be.
Emma stared at the bone still gripped in her hand. “Ew!” She flung it aside.
In seconds, her men surrounded her.
“Emma, what’s wrong?” Bart’s normally pink-hued face appeared white even against his reddish blond hair.
She opened her mouth to speak but instead released a high-pitched squeak. Carlos offered a hand.
She grabbed it, hoping to draw strength from him before he pulled her up. The guys stared at her, waiting for some direction.
With her heart attempting to punch a hole through her chest, she inched toward the fireplace and picked up the lamp again. Hesitating, she braced herself before glancing over what remained of the brick wall.
Bones.
Grotesque. Surreal. Contorted into the form of what was once a human being. The skull looked dingy brown in the bright light of the drop lamp. Arm bones, pinned behind the rib cage, were visible beneath the debris.
“There’s a body in here,” she whispered.
All hell broke loose at Emma’s softly spoken words. Like balls in a pinball machine, the men bounced off each other trying to get a look into the firebox.
“Everybody freeze!”
The commotion stopped at the booming command. A huge hunk of a man appeared from the butler’s pantry, towering over Emma’s five-foot-eight frame. Well-formed biceps and forearms indicated hard labor. His foreboding expression did nothing to hide rugged good looks. Without moving a muscle, he exuded raw power. Blue-green eyes locked on hers. Intense, penetrating. Emma felt naked.
“Someone care to explain what’s going on here?”
Mike opened his mouth to speak, but Emma stepped forward.
“I need to talk with the general contractor right away.”
“You’re looking at him.”
Her eyes widened. This was Ryan Atkinson? She struggled to remember everything her brother, Frankie, had told her about this man. Decent, easy-going, yet somehow intense at the same time.
Well, he sure got the intense part right.
“I’m Emma Hopkins, from M.A.D. Chimney & Fireplace Restoration. You hired us to do the renovations.”
For the briefest of moments, his eyes widened in a flicker of panic. “I hired Frankie DeVuono.”
“Frankie is my sales manager. I own the company and will be supervising here.”
“You call this supervision? When I walked in, you were lounging against the wall while your workers ran around like the three stooges on crack.”
“I can explain—”
“Of course you can.”
“We were working on—”
“I’m not interested in excuses.”
“There’s a body in the fireplace.”
Emma hadn’t wanted to blurt it out like that, but this guy pinched at her last good nerve. His arms dropped to his sides, his face a mask of shock.
“Is that a good enough reason for you, Mr. Atkinson?” Emma gripped the cool porcelain counter, the reality of what she’d just found sinking in.
A murder victim.
Atkinson barked out orders to her men, who scrambled to do his bidding. Then he tunneled long fingers though his chin-length brown hair as he walked over to her. His warm hand settled on her shoulder. Heat snaked down her arm from his gentle touch. “You okay?”
The soft baritone reminded her of melted chocolate. Smooth, creamy, and loaded with yumminess. She pulled in a breath to calm her nerves, but instead inhaled the scent of sawdust sprinkled with a hint of spice. She trembled. From his voice, from shock, she wasn’t sure. “Sorry for snapping. I’ve never found a human skeleton in a fireplace before.”
She peered into his eyes, unable to decipher whether they were blue or green. Where before they were so intense, they now reflected empathy. Her breath hitched.
“I’m going to look, okay?” he said.
Emma grabbed his arm. “No, please. It’s horrifying. She looks like she was just thrown in there.”
“How do you know it’s female?”
She shook her head, frightened of her own certainty. “I don’t know.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen worse.” A streak of pain clouded his eyes as he tried to tug from her grip.
Her hand tightened, and she prayed her face would convey the horror her words couldn’t.
His fingers brushed the skin of her wrist. “I need to see.”
Again, warmth radiated up her arm. She let go before the heat traveled any further.
His gaze held hers a moment longer before he turned toward the fireplace. He didn’t hesitate. He simply grabbed the light and searched the firebox as if looking for a lost tool. “Yup, that’s a human skeleton, all right.”
“The bricks and mortar were pretty old. Do you think she’s been in there all this time?”
“More than likely.”
Bart entered the room dragging a bag of garbage. “The police are on their way, so I figure we have a couple of hours to kill before they actually get here. I brought this back for the cops to go through.”
“Is that what you pulled from the fireplace?” Atkinson asked, the melted chocolate voice gone.
“Yeah. There’s one more bag I have to get.”
“That was very wise, Bart, thank you,” Emma said with a small smile.
“Just promise not to ask how I know so much about how to behave at a crime scene.” With that ominous statement hanging in the air, he headed to the exit, drumming a beat against the doorjamb as he exited.
Atkinson stared after him. “What he just said doesn’t bother you?”
Emma walked over to the open bag. Her tremors, so strong only moments before, settled. “Nah, he knows because his dad was a New York City detective for twenty-five years. He’s just trying to rattle you. It’s his way.”
Afraid to look but unable to stop herself, Emma searched among the crumbled mortar and broken brick, expecting to find a bony hand or finger sticking out of the trash.
Instead, a bit of old paper peeking out from under debris caught her eye.
Sneaking a glance at the general contractor, who was concentrating on his cell phone, she extracted a faded yellow newspaper. “In a Blizzard’s Grasp,” the headline read. She glanced at the date. March 13th, 1888.
Emma held back a shriek of excitement. She’d seen so many programs about the great blizzard of 1888, and now she held a piece of its history in her hand.
“Hey, Boss Lady. The police está aquí.”
At Carlos’s shout, she surreptitiously tucked the treasure into her jacket.
***
After taking a trip to the coffee shop a few blocks away, Emma sat on the front stoop, a café mocha in her hand, as the police took over the b
rownstone. They’d questioned her about everything that had happened up to the point where she found the skeleton. She tried to be as thorough as she could, but her nerves were so frayed, she was sure she’d messed up a few details.
“What a way to meet.”
She turned toward the unexpected voice coming from the entranceway of the brownstone. A beautiful elderly woman stood at the top of the stairs. Short and model thin, she resembled Joan Collins, with nearly black hair and striking features.
Her casual pantsuit put Emma in mind of her mother before Sunday morning church, but she’d bet her favorite tape measure that the simple outfit cost more than her monthly car payment. Around her shoulders, the woman wore a black cashmere shawl. Understated elegance.
“Pardon?”
With a refinement that couldn’t be taught, she descended a step and sat beside Emma. “Betsy Morris. I’m the owner of this home.”
Emma felt a smile form--the first real smile since she’d found the body that morning. She immediately liked Mrs. Morris. For someone who’d just bought a house complete with a skeleton, she sure was taking it well. “Emma Hopkins. I’m the fireplace tech.”
“I know. Ryan told me.” She leaned close and whispered, “I think he likes you.”
Heat crawled into her face. The idea of Ryan Atkinson having the hots for her was disturbingly provocative. “I only met him this morning.”
“Time means nothing where the art of courtship is concerned.”
“Ha! Tell that to my mother.”
Mrs. Morris smiled, but the smile faded quickly. Emma could only imagine what she must be feeling. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way too,” Emma added.
The older woman glanced over her shoulder at the front door. “The house seems different now, doesn’t it? Angry. Like we revealed a secret we weren’t supposed to.”
Emma thought back to when she’d first broken through the wall and the odd sensation that had followed. Probably best not to mention that. “I don’t know. I get the feeling it’s relieved.”
Ruby's Letters Page 1
