Horse of a Different Murder: Book 2 in The Bandit Hills Series

by Blair Merrin

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  HORSE OF A DIFFERENT MURDER

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Horse of a Different Murder

  Book Two in the Bandit Hills Series

  By

  Blair Merrin

  Copyright 2016 Summer Prescott Books

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  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

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  HORSE OF A DIFFERENT

  MURDER

  BOOK TWO IN THE BANDIT HILLS SERIES

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m affixing little green sales stickers to every item in a curio case full of knick-knacks, when Xerxes starts losing his mind. And by “losing his mind,” I mean he suddenly mewls like a kitten and rubs against my shins, nearly knocking me over. Yeah, that’s weird for him. Xerxes is a giant Persian cat who showed up at my shop one day and never left. He has this inherent sense of feline ennui that usually has him perched atop a counter or a case somewhere, flicking his tail nonchalantly at customers to show them just how beneath his regality they are. So Xerxes showing any kind of affection at all is sort of strange. Usually the only time I trip on him is when he’s actually not even there, which is weird for normal folks, but not so weird around my neck of the woods.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I ask him, and in response he bounds over to the window and sits, watching passers-by hopefully like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.

  I shake my head and go back to the painstaking task of writing tiny prices in Sharpie and thumbing the little green stickers on every. Single. Item. Tourist season started earlier than usual in Bandit Hills this year, and with it comes a slew of folks who like to manhandle my merchandise, each time asking, “How much is this? How much is this? What about this one? How much?”

  So, in an effort to alleviate the strain on my vocal cords and save some money on aspirin, I’ve taken to marking everything with these easy-peel stickers. Seemed like a good idea when I thought of it, but at the time I had no idea the sheer volume of stuff I keep at Miss Miscellanea.

  That’s the name of my store, the only secondhand and consignment boutique in Bandit Hills, your one-stop-shop for curios, baubles, tchotchkes, knick-knacks, and other oddities. Within these shelves and cases you can find pretty much anything, from a porcelain Buddha to classic video game consoles to a pair of decommissioned nineteenth-century dueling pistols.

  I originally opened the store (found on the corner of Fifth and Main, open every day but Sunday, come on by!) five years ago now, because I wanted my business cards to say CASSIE CLEARY – PROPRIETOR. Just kidding, though they do say that. Truth is, I’ve loved every minute of it. Most folks leave donation boxes of old clothes and random items, though every now and then we take in some stuff on consignment, and on the weekends I like to hit yard sales and flea markets, prospecting for the occasional treasure.

  Folks tend to love my shop, and sometimes even call me Miss Miscellanea—though it’s not at all lost on me that if I were married, the store would have to be renamed to Mrs. Miscellanea, but I’m not, which I suppose is a good thing because changing a business name seems like a lot of work.

  “Hey, Mom, would you mind giving me a hand over here with these stickers?”

  Mom is my sole employee. After Dad passed and she retired, she had way too much time on her hands and got bored really quickly, so I had her help me out in the shop on weekday mornings and afternoons. Most women would probably rather eat rocks than work with their mom, but we have a good relationship and actually get along well, as long as she doesn’t remind me that I’m thirty-two and single.

  Mom looks up at me from behind the register. “I’d love to, sweetie, but I have to wait for this auction to close. There’s only fifteen minutes left and pawn_king267 is trying to outbid me.” She turns her attention back to the laptop behind the counter.

  This is my fault. I introduced her to eBay a couple of weeks ago, and since then she’s been addicted. She’ll bid on some ridiculous item and say, “It’d be great for the shop!” and then that thing will end up in her living room. I think she’s becoming a hoarder.

  I sigh and go back to my task. Write the price, peel the sticker, stick the sticker. Rinse, lather, repeat. I’m so lulled into a comatose state by the simplicity of it, that I’m halfway through the case of trinkets before I realize that the item in my hand is like the sixth horse that I’ve tagged so far. I inspect the case more closely. There are glass horses, wooden horses, a carousel horse Christmas ornament, a ceramic bowl with a horse painted on it… since when did I get all this horse stuff? I don’t ever recall having this much of it.

  All the horses remind me of my most loyal customer. I check my watch and frown. “No Bonnie this morning?”

  “Nope,” my mom says without looking up. “Haven’t seen her.”

  That’s kind of odd. Bonnie runs a ranch just outside of town, and she comes in every morning. And I mean every morning. I can’t complain; she almost always buys something, even though I think she comes in because her husband passed away a couple years ago and she enjoys the company. I make a mental note to give her a call. I can’t go having my most devoted customer shirking her responsibilities.

  The bells above the door tinkle and I instinctively look up and smile. Just call me Pavlov’s Shopkeeper; I hear those bells chime and no matter what sort of mood I’m in, I’ll look up and smile and, if it’s a new patron, greet them with a warm, “Welcome to Miss Miscellanea! Please, have a look around and let me know if you need anything.”

  Which, lately, is where the endless, “How much is this?” starts. Tourist season in Bandit Hills usuall
y begins a little closer to Halloween; we’re barely more than a month away and already the streets are flooded with sightseers and day-trippers. It’s all thanks to our town’s resident “psychic,” Marla June, who had a genuine channeling experience last month (sort of) and was integral to solving a crime (not really) that got a lot of media attention. The truth is, Dash Hamilton and I solved the crime, but we couldn’t really tell anyone how we did it, ‘cause we kind of maybe broke a couple of laws, so we used Marla’s “clairvoyance” as an excuse for the cops to investigate the murderer. Which kind of backfired on us. Also, said murderer is sort of still at large. My life is just awesome.

  Anyway. The bells chime, I look up, I smile, and then the smile fades away as quickly as it came on, because it’s just Dash.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cleary,” he greets Mom, knowing he’ll find an ally there.

  “Dashiell,” she says, looking up from the computer, “how many times must I tell you? Please call me Julia.”

  “At least once more,” Dash says with a wink. Then he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and greets me. “Hey, Cass.”

  “Hey, Dash,” I sigh back at him, and we both just kind of stand there like awkward teenagers.

  Let me explain: Dash is our town’s best (and only) private investigator. I know, it sounds cool, like it would be all intrigue and trench-coat noir, but most of Dash’s work is stuff like investigating disability claims, tracking stolen merchandise, and the occasional fraud case. We’ve been friends since high school, during which he was a huge nerd, and now, years later, he’s still a huge nerd, but somewhere along the way he grew into his looks and gained a fashion sense. Together we solved a murder last month, and they say that tragedy brings people closer together. We’ve sort of been seeing each other since then.

  I agreed with him when he said he wanted to take things slow, but I had no idea how slow he meant. I’m certainly not looking to get married next week and pop out three babies—I’m not even sure I want to get married—but it’s been a few weeks and we haven’t even shared a kiss. That’s slow, right? I mean, the guy is so non-committal he buys ice cream by the pint. The pint! I’m a half-gallon type of girl; I need to know that ice cream will be there when I need it.

  So last week I asked him what this was between us. His reply was, “I don’t think we need to put labels on it.” Okay. Then last night, right before we went out to eat, I told him I needed to know where he saw this relationship going. He grinned and said, “Out to dinner.”

  Because that’s what a lady wants to hear. I mean, what am I supposed to think?

  So all boyish and remorseful, Dash walks up to me and says quietly, “Hey, can we talk?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, uh, I’m sorry about last night. I was just making a joke. Bad timing on my part.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Bad timing on my—”

  “Don’t be a doofus.”

  He sighs. “I’m not very good at this. I haven’t had a lot of practice, if you know what I mean.”

  I just shrug, because I can’t really think of anything to say—or anything that I’d like to admit is more like it. Dash thinks he’s out of practice, but I’ve been on the bench for… well, a while. Letting someone in without knowing their intentions is kind of a frightening thought. I’m formulating a rebuttal in my head, but I don’t even get a chance to think it through before Xerxes, still perched near the window, lets out a yearning whimper so loud and long that all three of us look up at him in wide-eyed surprise. He paws at the window as if trying to get to someone.

  And then the bells chime, and he walks in.

  CHAPTER 2

  The he in question is about six feet tall, smooth brown skin, his dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. He wears a brown leather jacket, faded with age, with a plain white t-shirt underneath, tight enough to see hints of lean muscle. I could go on. Suffice it to say that if Antonio Banderas and Ryan Gosling somehow had a baby, and he was raised by Dr. Doolittle on a farm under the southern sun, that child would grow up to be Xander Cruz.

  Xerxes crashes into Xander’s shins, rubbing furiously and purring so fiercely I can feel it through the floorboards. He smiles, and reaches down with his free hand—his other carries a cardboard box tucked beneath his arm—and scratches lightly at Xerxes’ chin.

  “Hello, my friend,” he says, and the dulcet tone of his voice sounds the way honey pours. He straightens and smiles at me. “Good morning, Cassie. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hi, Xander,” I say. “Welcome back. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Xander moved to Bandit Hills a little more than a year ago from Texas and bought a small ranch about a mile from Bonnie’s place, but last week was the first time he’d ever come into my store. He bought a few odds and ends, and chatted easily with Mom and me.

  People talk, especially in a small town like Bandit Hills, and they say there’s something uncanny about Xander. They call him a horse whisperer, after the movie—or was it a book first?—but it seems that “animal whisperer” would be far more fitting, evidenced by Xerxes’ odd behavior. Oh, and the fact that he rides a horse, bareback, everywhere he goes…without reins.

  “I have something… unique,” Xander tells me, and sets the box on the counter.

  I notice from the corner of my eye that Dash has his arms folded across his chest, trying hard to appear blasé, but not quite pulling it off. I’m not gonna lie, it kind of thrills me to see him a bit jealous. Xander reaches into the box and pulls out a small sculpture, about two feet tall. It’s a horse, reared up on its hind legs, but what’s most notable about it is the material—it’s constructed entirely from repurposed parts: Cogs of a clock, bells of a wind chime, and some contoured tin from a weathervane. Which are all things that he bought in my shop last week.

  “Xander, that’s incredible,” I exclaim, working hard at not letting my jaw drop. “Did you make this?”

  He nods humbly. “It’s a hobby of mine. I enjoy breathing life back into the discarded.”

  “It’s so intricate,” Mom gushes, examining the statue. “You have a gift.”

  “You flatter me, Julia,” he says with a smile. Then to me, he adds, “I was hoping that maybe you would take it on consignment; see if there’s interest. I would be happy to make more, if I could take a look around your store materials.”

  “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” I tell him. “I’m certain this would sell in no time. What sort of price are you looking for?”

  “I trust your judgment, Cassie. As the expert here, you would know better than me. I’d be happy with whatever you believe is fair.”

  “Um, sure. I can do that. Mom, can you write him up a ticket?”

  Truth be told, I have no idea what something like this should go for. Art is a tricky field. But then again, it is tourist season, and while I’m no price-gouger, I could see it going for a pretty penny to someone rolling through seeking a unique souvenir.

  As I’m imagining adding “art dealer” to my business card, Xander appears to notice Dash for the first time. He holds his hand out and smiles. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. Xander Cruz.”

  Dash eyeballs Xander for a long moment before he shakes his hand. “Dash Hamilton. Private Investigator.”

  He says it gruffly, laying his rough-and-rugged persona on a bit too thick. I kind of want to elbow him in the ribs, but I refrain.

  “How fascinating,” Xander nods, and there’s not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “That must be a very exciting profession,” he seems to regard Dash with respect and curiosity.

  “Oh, it is,” Dash asserts, and it’s all I can do not to snort derisively.

  The most exciting thing Dash and I have done, aside from the whole witch-hunt thing, was go wine-tasting.

  “I must be off,” Xander tells me, “but I’ll be back soon.” He hands me a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. “Please feel free to call me.”

  “Sure, defi
nitely,” I say, taking the paper, and it takes me a few moments to realize that he’s talking about the deal with the statue. “Right. Yes. I will.” Stop talking, I tell myself as I blush.

  He smiles at me, and nods to Dash, who nods grumpily in return. Outside, Xander mounts his horse in one swift, elegant motion. Right—there’s a golden-colored horse with a white tail parked outside my store. No bridle, no reins, no saddle. Xander rides him bareback, and at a few soft words, the horse turns and trots down Main Street. And I’m not even kidding when I say that a few birds actually follow them, fluttering casually around Xander’s head like they’re having a conversation. Bandit Hills is a weird town.

  We watch the horse, with Xander bouncing lightly on his back, until we can’t see them anymore, before Mom says, “I think he likes you.”

  “What? No, he doesn’t.”

  She grins. “I see how he smiles when he looks at you. His eyes light up. I’m telling you, you’ve got an admirer.”

  “Oh puhleeze, Mom, you think everyone has a crush on me. Just the other day you said the same thing about Tim at the deli because he gave me a discount on cheese—”