by A. Gardner
A FLURRY OF LIES
A Bison Creek Mystery
A. GARDNER
Table of Contents
Cover page
Copyright
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Bonus recipe
Acknowledgements
Also by the author
Thank you!
READ BOOK ONE IN THE SERIES
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Copyright © 2018 by A. Gardner
www.gardnerbooks.com
Cover design by Annie Moril
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my little bama boys
Chapter 1
“He answered the door in the nude.”
I carefully selected my next chip, which would be chip number nine, and opted for the bowl of milder salsa. I enjoyed every tomato chunk and bit of cilantro that glided over my taste buds. I knew I wouldn’t have a problem stopping myself at chip number twenty.
Ten years and thirty pounds ago, I would have wolfed down the entire basket and then asked Mrs. Santos for a refill. These days I only had that problem when it came to cookie dough. And cake batter. Sometimes pie dough, which was why I hardly made pies. Anything sweet and raw. My little sister, Joy, jumped at every chance she got to call me the Pillsbury dough whore.
“We need to get that guy some pants.” Patrick scooped up a generous helping of the spicier salsa and popped it into his mouth. He hardly batted an eye.
“I’m pretty sure he has some,” I replied. “So, how can I get him to wear them? I can’t be seeing his thingy every time I visit my sister. I even called this time and told her when I’d be dropping by.”
“Thingy?” Patrick grinned—a smile that had the power to shoot me straight back to high school when I’d had a secret crush on him. The best part, the part that still gave my stomach butterflies, was his hazel eyes that smiled at me too. “Is that what we’re calling it these days? Very mature, Essie.”
“You missed the whole point of my story. My brother-in-law has a problem.” I tucked a strand of mocha hair behind my ear, wishing I’d had the time to wash it and wear it down before meeting Patrick for lunch at Oso Cantina. But my Saturday morning client had been Martha Millbreck, the mayor’s wife, and she’d been in the mood to talk. A lot. I cleared my throat and selected my next chip.
Chip number ten.
Patrick chuckled, inhaling too much salsa. His laughter quickly morphed into coughing. He gulped down the rest of his water. “Sorry, I’m still stuck on thingy.”
“What do you want me to say? I saw his man parts? His love staff? His tickle pickle?” I shrugged, glancing out the window at Canyon Street where tourists were crowded around the Grizzly Saloon to watch a reenactment of a Wild West shootout. Some of the locals performed it on the weekends to drum up business once the ski resort closed. “He freed his willy?”
“Ah-hem.” Mrs. Santos stood next to our table with a pitcher of water.
“My apologies, Mrs. Santos.” I hoped my cheeks hadn’t just turned a bright shade of raspberry. “I was just . . . we were joking around.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Santos, a woman who’d decorated the register with a row of candles depicting the Virgin Mary, lifted her chin and eyed the slight plunge in the neckline of my T-shirt.
She heard every word.
“The salsa is delicious as usual, Señora,” Patrick chimed in, gleaning an instant smile from Mrs. Santos. He hadn’t been labeled the mayor’s golden boy by the locals for no reason.
“Ernesto added more jalapeño to the spicy batch and more garlic to the mild salsa,” she explained. “I’m glad you like it.” She looked at both samples of their house-made salsa and grabbed our basket of chips in the center of the table. “I’ll get you more chips, and your food should be out shortly.”
“So,” Patrick muttered. “Does a new basket mean you get to restart your chip count?”
I instinctively touched the side of my cheek. My face was warm, and suddenly the rays of sunshine pouring in through the window felt like the flames of a campfire dancing on my head. My face probably looked like a giant raspberry. It had to.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My attempt at mimicking Mrs. Santos was lousy.
“You’re doing that thing.” Patrick nodded and then eyed the empty space at the center of the table.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you examine every chip and toss me the broken ones? It’s like you’re choosing the winners of a beauty pageant. I guess the prize is a one-way ticket to your stomach?”
We hadn’t been officially dating for that long, and he’d already figured me out.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Santos set a fresh basket of chips on the table and looked to Patrick for his approval. “Save room for lunch, you two.”
Mrs. Santos had a bounce in her step as she headed back into the kitchen. I avoided the chip basket and took comfort in admiring the dark green and bright orange walls decorated with black and white Santos family photos. A colorful sombrero hung on the wall next to the register—a lucky sombrero worn by any customer celebrating a birthday.
“Before I forget, you’re invited to Sunday night dinner.” Patrick helped himself to as many chips as he wanted. “My cousin Daisy is flying in tonight. Aunt Clementine has been preparing the inn all week. I swear she’s scrubbed that place from top to bottom, and she has me refinishing the floor in the conservatory.”
“Good,” I replied. “It’ll give you something to do until it snows again.”
“Hey, I can function just fine in the summer.” He straightened his shoulders, shoving a larger than usual portion of hot salsa into his mouth. Tiny beads of sweat formed on the top of his forehead and just above his cheekbones.
Moving back to Bison Creek hadn’t been easy for him. After a fruitful career as a professional snowboarder, he’d recently retired and bought a house in the newer part of town. But with his mother’s illness and his Aunt Clementine running the Hummingbird Inn, retirement had been one headache after another. Not to mention, Patrick got a very peculiar case of cabin fever when the slopes were dry. The summer months seemed to be holding him captive. I’d underestimated just how much fresh mountain powder affected him. I need to find him some hobbies.
“Then you’re game for a campout?” I clasped my hands together an
d rested them on the table. “Joy has been bugging me about it, and I’m scared of sleeping in a tent next to the newlyweds for reasons I’m not going to get into.”
“Heaven forbid we say more about thingies.”
I rolled my eyes just as a draft of cool mountain air wafted through the restaurant from the open door. A red-headed man in a wrinkled uniform stepped inside carrying a binder. His eyes scanned every occupied table, and he smiled, showing off his prominent two front teeth which slightly protruded from his gum line.
It had been at least a month since I’d seen Murray Williams, the sheriff’s doltish son. I chalked it up to my busy schedule at the gym, the fact that I hadn’t done any volunteer work at the police station in weeks, and my creative attempts at avoiding yet another invitation to the Williams family cabbage casserole night.
“Essie, I haven’t seen you in a while.” Murray puffed out his chest, placing a hand on his hip and showing off his uniform as best he could.
“You tucked in your shirt,” I replied. “I’m sure the sheriff was thrilled when you came into work this morning.”
“Dad is always complaining about something.” Murray shook his head, gently hooking his thumb through one of his belt loops. “This morning, I drew attention to my shirt over and over again. I thought it would make him happy.”
“Did it?” Patrick asked.
“He asked me if I wanted a medal.” Murray shrugged. “I settled for a gold star. You know, the ones we keep up front for the kids? Dad has no business offering people medals when he has none to give.”
Murray held up his hand as soon as Mrs. Santos appeared from the kitchen holding a tray of food. That was one of the things I loved about Oso Cantina—the speedy service. Murray hovered over Mrs. Santos as she placed our meals in front of us. A smothered burrito with extra guacamole for Patrick and chicken tacos for me.
“Uh, ma’am?” Murray maneuvered from one side of Mrs. Santos to the other. “The sheriff sent me to ask you about a theft?”
“Not a theft,” Mrs. Santos corrected him. “Vandalism.” Mrs. Santos pursed her lips as her eyes narrowed into a bitter glare that forced Murray out of her personal bubble. He took a step backward and nearly fell over an empty chair.
“Yes, vandalism.” Murray gulped and opened his binder, turning to a page marked with a yellow sticky note. “Um, okay. Where were you when the alleged incident occurred?” He paused and took a deep breath. “Are there any witnesses who can confirm your whereabouts at the time of the incident? Observe your subject’s speech patterns, gestures, and level of eye contact when answering—” Murray stopped suddenly and cleared his throat. “Oops. That part was for me.”
“Ay aver, ubiquese.” Mrs. Santos shook her head, and Murray looked wildly confused.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “He’s reading it right out of the manual.”
“My apologies.” Murray placed a finger in the center of the page and skimmed over it. “I’m reading in the wrong section here.” He chuckled and skipped a few pages ahead. “Do you know anyone else who can shed some light on this incident? Wait . . . nope.” He turned another page. “How long have you worked at this company? Oh, sorry . . . I lost my place. Just a second.” Murray backtracked a few pages and then nodded. “What happened?”
Mrs. Santos’s mouth hung open in bewilderment.
I slowly stood up, sliding my plate of food toward Patrick. “Uh, Murray, do you mind?” I tilted my head toward the binder and Murray happily handed it to me.
I shut the binder with a loud clap.
“Mrs. Santos, what sort of vandalism would you like to report?” I directed all of my attention toward her, noticing the way she interlocked her fingers to keep her hands from balling into fists.
“It’s my abuela’s calavera,” she explained, her eyes briefly darting to a photograph on the wall from the eighties when the Santos family had settled in the sleepy mountain town of Bison Creek, Colorado. The Pinecliffe Mountain Resort hadn’t been as popular back then. My job in personal training probably hadn’t existed at the time. I doubted my little sister Joy’s had either. She was the hotel’s event coordinator.
“Her what?” Murray wrinkled his nose.
“It was a family heirloom used to celebrate Día de los Muertos,” Mrs. Santos explained.
I looked at Murray. “She means a sugar skull.”
“Oh.” He nodded as if he understood the situation. “So, someone ate it?”
I rubbed my forehead.
“No. This one was made of clay.” Mrs. Santos pointed to an empty shelf mounted on the wall near the register. “I keep it right up there, but this morning I found it on the floor in pieces.” Her eyes went glossy, and she repeatedly blinked to stop any tears from streaming down her face. “My abuela is spinning in her grave. I’m sure of it.”
“Was anything else taken?” I moved the conversation along before Murray had time to add two more cents. “Is there any sign of forced entry?”
Mrs. Santos shook her head. “No. No, nothing else was taken.” She sniffled, using the sleeve of her orange polo to pat her eyes. “I did notice that the back door was unlocked. I always lock it. Haven’t forgotten in over twenty years.”
“I’m sorry.” I placed a hand on her rounded shoulder as she covered her eyes and sniffled some more.
“Who would do this?” When Mrs. Santos uncovered her eyes, her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were watery. She looked up at the ceiling—a simple trick to stop yourself from crying in public. My mind jumped to dozens of possibilities involving an unlocked door, rowdy kids, and a series of freak accidents.
“Murray will fill out a police report, and the sheriff will do his best to figure out what happened,” I assured her.
Mrs. Santos glanced at Murray and then back at the wall of photographs decorating the restaurant.
“Can’t you do it, Essie?”
In a heartbeat, Mrs. Santos.
I hesitated because my relationship with Sheriff Williams was complicated. Add in Cydney Keene, his new deputy, and my dealings with the Bison Creek police department were even more complicated. I knew better than to assume anything given my history with past cases.
But I forced a smile.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I answered.
My head jerked toward the window at the sound of gunshots. My lungs froze like two blocks of ice and my chest tightened so much I had to remind myself to take a breath. My heart raced as I breathed in short spurts. My eyes stayed glued to the window facing Canyon Street. I clutched my chest.
The shootout at the Grizzly.
More shots pierced the sky. The sound of clapping ensued, and then someone screamed. I couldn’t remember if screaming was part of the show since the mayor had forced the townies at the Grizzly to cut Slutty Saloon Girl #1 from their act.
The shots ceased, but the screaming continued. Patrick and I locked eyes, and before I knew it, we were both on Canyon Street with a cluster of onlookers. Someone pointed to the middle of the street, where a man dressed in Old West attire lay motionless on the ground with a crimson hole in his chest. I pushed my way through groups of tourists until I saw the man’s face more clearly.
I knew him.
He worked at the Grizzly as a bartender. I watched for any movement in his chest, but there was none. Another gunfighter dressed in a similar costume dropped to the ground, shouting curse words as he listened to his comrade’s chest. He hung his head, his shoulders slumping over the man’s body.
There was no doubt about it my mind.
Whether it was on purpose or a horrible freak accident, Dalton the bartender had been shot dead.
Chapter 2
Mayor Millbreck was a man of many talents.
He kept up appearances with his wife, Martha, even though the two of them were currently separated due to a handful of affairs and some embarrassing videos. But to most of the town and the surrounding cities, the Millbrecks were a perfectly happy couple. Herald Millbreck had also managed
to stay in office longer than any other mayor of Bison Creek thanks to lax laws and no term limits. The fact that he was the only mayor in the state to be voted into office unanimously was something he bragged about frequently to anyone who would listen. He conveniently left out that he hadn’t had any competition for the last two elections.
The mayor had also somehow managed to become the center of attention in the middle of a crime scene.
I stood next to Patrick with my arms crossed. Canyon Street had filled up fast, and I was shocked at the number of people who had pulled out their cameras to get pictures and videos of the body. It was disturbing, to say the least. But while the mayor hogged the spotlight by talking about Dalton as if they’d been besties, I observed the other gunfighters as they slowly stepped out of the limelight. There had been four of them in the show. One of them, Dalton the bartender, was dead in the street and the other three had already dropped their guns—a columnist at the BC Gazette named Booney, Breck Adley, and the town grump otherwise referred to as Old Man Simpkins. Whose bright idea was it to give that man a firearm?
I covered my mouth as Breck Adley, the youngest of the bunch, leaned against the garbage can outside the Grizzly and barfed up his lunch.
“No pictures, please.” Mayor Millbreck smiled and posed for the cameras, even pulling a young girl aside and insisting on taking a selfie. #troubleinBC
A few police officers had arrived on the scene along with Sheriff Williams and his deputy. I watched as they surrounded Dalton’s body and awaited the sheriff’s instructions, which would most likely consist of crowd control and interviewing.
Bison Creek had been steadily rising in numbers, and the local police department had recently hired more employees to accommodate the influx of tourists. But I remembered when the Bison Creek police department had been a two-man operation—a father-son duo with absolutely no interpersonal skills. Murray was improving. Sheriff Williams was about the same. He didn’t get along with most of the townies, especially before his first coffee of the day.
