Final Harvest
Finding Home Mystery Series
Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Barbara Howard
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First edition August 2020
For more information:
[email protected]
www.authorbarbarahoward.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
AUTHOR BIO
Charlotte’s Revenge
Dedication
I AM –
“The daughter of the most beautiful woman that ever lived & kindest grandfather anyone could ever know.”
I dedicate this book to my parents, grandparents, and extended family. Without you, my life would be shipwrecked. I hold you all in the most sacred place of my heart with eternal gratitude.
And to my dogs, who remind me daily that fresh air and playtime are the most vital ingredients to a happy life.
Acknowledgments
I WANT TO EXTEND A special thank you to the following individuals. Without your direction and support, this book would not exist.
To Zion E. I. McVay, Toviel S. A. McVay, Dana Gaulin,, Richelle Jeter, and Janet Douglas who read early drafts of the manuscript, provided feedback, and cheered me onward.
To Tamara Woods for leading me to the most incredible online writing community. Without your support, this story would have never made it to the page.
And Mary Dunbar for being the most gracious, encouraging and professional editor that I could ever dream of knowing. I’ve learned so much from working with you.
Thank you all.
Chapter One
“GOODBYE EVERYONE,” Traci said answered by unharmonious keyboards clacking from the maze of ice blue office cubicles.
Traci was having a great day at NeverMore, Inc. until she found out it was her last. After working there for one year, four months, seventeen days, and two and a half hours, she was being pushed out of her best job ever.
She filled her backpack with the items from her desk; a Fulani Diva jumbo paperclip, a desk-sized poster of a praying mantis eating a butterfly, a chipped and tea-stained Employee of the Month mug that she had found in the breakroom, and a personal journal. She looked over everything else and swept it all into the wire trash bin next to her desk.
Traci took the elevator to the C-Suite level and tossed her employee badge on the desk of Sheila Townsend’s secretary. The VIP offices were lavish with views overlooking City Centre and new Renaissance Retail Plaza.
“Ms. Townsend is on an important call at the moment. Please have a seat.”
She couldn’t decide whether to wait or just walk out and avoid another confrontation. It was a temp-to-perm position. The longer you stayed on as a temporary employee, the better your chances of being hired as a fully vetted employee. That was the golden ticket Traci was searching for; a permanent job. She decided to wait.
She placed her hand on her stomach and took a long deep breath,
Four things you can see. Door. Window. Lamp. Candy dish.
Three things you can feel. Pants. Chair. Floor.
Two things you can smell. Stargazer lilies on the desk. Armpits.
One thing you can taste. Wintergreen Tic Tac.
Relax, breathe, refocus.
The secretary waved her inside the large sunlit office with pearl white dentil molding and magenta walls. Or was that lavender? She dropped her backpack on the floor in front of Ms. Townsend’s desk, and sat on the zebra printed horse-hair and chrome chair and stared at the senior executive.
“Do you want to search it before I go?”
“Ms. Simmons, I’m sorry we have to let you go. We gave you plenty of warnings, but we didn’t see the necessary changes in your interpersonal skills to continue keeping you on the team,” Ms. Townsend said, sliding a small stack of papers in front of her.
“The team,” Traci muttered. The way she said “inter-per-son-al” made Traci grind her teeth.
“Yes, your current benefit package will remain in place for 90 days. After that point, we believe Ms. Rios will secure other employment for you.”
Traci followed the expertly lacquered fingernail from page to page, signing on the blank lines next to her name, like an obedient child. When they reached the last page, Ms. Townsend took back her pen and shuffled the papers into a monogrammed walnut tray.
“Good luck to you,” she said while tidying her desk, “Is there anything you would like to ask at this time?”
“No,” Traci said and took in a deep breath. “Yes.”
Ms. Townsend tilted her head to one side and stared while Traci rubbed her hands together.
“I thought my work was ... acceptable.”
“Ms. Simmons, you have strong research skills and you can put them to good use,” Ms. Townsend said tapping her pen on her desk. “with another firm. I’m sure.”
Traci shrugged, picked up her backpack, walked to the door and stopped.
“What color is this?” she said touching the wallpaper.
“What?”
“This stripe right here,” she looked closer at the small details, “What color is it?”
“I have no idea.” Ms. Townsend said with a hint of disdain.
“Of course, you wouldn’t know,” she said with a side-eye glance over her shoulder.
Ms. Townsend nodded to her secretary, who swiftly ushered Traci out of the office.
On the bright side, leaving the office early meant less traffic and no crowds at the bus stop. She purchased a ticket at the electronic kiosk and took a seat in the small alcove. There was a sudden flash in the sky. She squinted and watched a large window dangling from the line of an industrial crane. Construction workers balanced on the massive geometric scaffolding lured it into place on the new Proctor Place Residential Towers. “More luxury condos, just what we need,” she thought.
A gray-haired woman sat down next to her frantically wiping away the melted ice cream dripping down a little girl’s elbow. The wearied woman looked back at her, shrugged and sighed. Traci returned a sympathetic smile and distanced herself from them, taking a position to be first to board the RA-12 coach to Magnolia Grove. At least she would not have to squeeze between the reusable totes and luggage people carried onboard from the terminal that connected City Centre with the regional airport.
She garnered an empty window bench and used her backpack to block another passenger from sitting next to her. The loud exhaust fan circulated the muggy air overhead but gave no reprieve from the sweltering heat. She pushed the window open behind her and closed her eyes until the driver announced her stop. It was a ten minute walk to her house from where the bus dropped her off, fifteen if she detoured aro
und the block to the mini-mart, which she would do today. They sold the basics, which is all she ever needed, and liquor. Definitely needed that today.
Chapter Two
THE CASHIER HANDED her a black plastic bag, weighed down with the items until it almost cut through her fingers, leaving black stains mixed with sweat on her palms. Canned olives, a small jar of mayo, a box of breakfast pastries, frozen pizza nuggets and a bottle of Pelon Trust Fine Bourbon since 1984. Traci shoved her way through the line of old men buying lottery tickets and cigarettes and exited the store. She ignored the catcalls from the juveniles standing along the store wall and crossed the parking lot. The sun glare bounced off the screen as she juggled her phone to answer the call from Ms. Rios.
“Tracinda?” Ms. Rios said.
“Yes,” Traci said, “hello, Ms. Rios. You got the news, right?”
“Yes, I received a call from Sheila Townsend this morning.”
“I think it’s a mistake. I did everything they asked, on time and ...”
“Don’t worry. Sometimes things don’t work out the way we would like.”
“Seems that happens all the time for me, though,” she said and took a deep breath.
“Don’t get discouraged. We’ll learn what we can from this situation and move ahead with the next opportunity,” Ms. Rios said. “A negative mind will not serve you well. Remember?”
Traci followed a beaten down path to cut across a vacant lot and reach Spring Street where she lived. She had never been this way before, but the sun was so hot against her forehead she thought she would pass out if she didn’t get inside soon. She almost missed those blizzard-force winds that blew across the Great Lakes from Canada and sealed everyone inside their homes until April. Summer was short and unbearably hot in recent years, everyone said so.
“Hello, are you there?” Ms. Rios said.
“Yes,” she said and sat down on a short wall of bricks, the remnants of a house foundation. Pieces of wooden window frames and glass shards around her feet. Cans and beer bottles and other deposits of human neglect painted a snapshot of the dire economic condition of the neighborhood. The New Century Renaissance Project had begun for other cities in Faucier County but had only reached downtown Keeferton. The Office of Land Management was begging people to acquire residential lots from the Land Bank. The staff was overwhelmed with vacant and abandoned buildings whose owners lived out of state and withdrew any semblance of property management.
“I think what’s best ...” Ms. Rio continued, “where I think we’re missing it ... what I mean to say is ...”
“Yes?” Traci said, squinting at the contact photo trying not to sound annoyed.
She put down the bag and wiggled her backpack off her shoulders. She wiped the sweat from her face, looked across the field to the City Centre skyline and put the phone on speaker.
“I have an unconventional kind of job for you. I recommend that you give it a shot. I think it will work out better for you than the others have so far.” Ms. Rios said, “Again, based on the feedback that we have received from your previous assignments, and it is also temp-to-perm, and they are eager to fill this position.”
“What is it?” Traci said, knowing that it didn’t matter what type of job it was because she needed the money. Except janitorial, she really didn’t want that. But anything else. And, except working with kids, definitely not that. No way.
“It’s with Dependable Flyers,” Ms. Rios said, “Have you heard of them?”
“No,” Traci said eying the bottle of Pelon in her bag. She stretched her neck to look beyond the overgrown weeds and broken tree limbs for the shortest path to her street. Maybe a two to three minute walk, she calculated from her spot on the broken wall.
“Surely you’ve seen their signs around town.”
Traci wanted to tell her she didn’t go “around town” at all. She barely made enough money to get to work and back home, keep food in her stomach and the lights on. She had watched people hanging out in the City Centre with catered brown box lunches and afternoon jazz concerts on the lawn of the Adega Auditorium. Or meet and network and sunbathe and walk dogs and find potential romantic partners. She was not one of those people. How could she be? All she wanted to know was where to report for her next assignment, right now.
“Sure, sounds familiar,” Traci said, forcing a smile to change her tone, remembering that “people can hear a frown”. She learned that during her first telesales job. Or was it the fourth? “But, fill me in on what they do, please.” Ms. Rios was taking a long time to get to the point. This was a bad sign.
“Dependable Flyers is a business-to-business corporation with approximately 145 employees. They have been in operation in Faucier County for fifteen years with an excellent reputation for customer satisfaction and efficient expedited service.”
Traci picked up the bottle of Pelon in her bag while listening to Thomasina Rios read the company profile from the Dependable Flyers brochure. She imagined her perfect posture at her uncluttered desk in her minimalist and Feng Shui-ed middle management office. She wanted to reach through the phone and flip over a few bookshelves. She opened the Pelon.
“In your new position with Dependable Flyers you will serve as a ‘Flyer’ in their fleet of document and package couriers.”
“Wait,” Traci said re-capping the Pelon, “A what? Courier?”
“Yes, a bicycle courier. It’s an extremely important job. The Flyers, or couriers, are the backbone of the company, actually. Everything depends on them. Ha, well there you have it. Dependable.”
“A bike messenger? What if I don’t have a bicycle?” Traci said as if that was the only thing that she found troubling. She put the bottle back in her bag and took a deep breath. She had a foggy picture in her mind now of all the red and neon green electric bikes and scooters streaking through intersections while she rode the RA-12.
“The company provides the bicycle and deducts a small fee from your paycheck for maintenance. Some of them are electric, no pedaling!” Ms. Rios said with an extra perky tone at the end of her sentence.
“Great,” Traci said. No, it was not great. It belonged on her “never” list of job options. Was this even a real job?
“Why did you pick this job for me?” she asked, immediately regretting it. “If I may ask,” she added to soften the query.
“I think it’s time we started looking for something not office related for you. Thinking outside the box, so to speak,” Ms. Rios said, not so perky this time.
Traci stuffed her bag inside her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She brushed the brick dust off her pants and stretched.
“It would be a nice change, I think. You’ll get more fresh air and exercise. Meet some new people,” Ms. Rios said.
“Great,” Traci said, not smiling, not pretending. This sounded like a nightmare designed just for her. She was young, about to turn twenty five years old in September, but not in the best shape. And not interested in meeting new people or exercise.
“Great! I’ll text you the deets for the job. You’re scheduled to report first thing tomorrow.” The perky tone was back.
“Thank you,” she tried to match the perkiness and failed miserably, of course. She hung up and immediately heard her message app chime.
“The deets,” she said with a smirk as she turned up the narrow chalk dry trail through the vacant lot watching for copperheads on each side.
Traci noticed some colorful objects bobbing up and down in the distance just beyond an old wire and plank fence. The wood had rotted so badly in most places that the wire draped the ground in a spiral and provided no barrier against intrusion at all. Curious, Traci stepped over the piece of fencing and rounded a brilliant, overflowing forsythia bush. She cupped her palm over her eyes to get a better look and walked closer. The bobbing objects were the caps and headwraps of people digging and dragging heavy burlap bags and blue nylon tarps across a clearing in the field. There seemed to be about seven people of varying ages, mostl
y women and a young boy.
Traci stepped back behind the yellow cascade of blooms and watched them bickering and joking, while they shoveled almost pitch-black soil from a pile onto the blue tarp. They all grabbed the edge of the tarp and dragged it to a large framed box. And, with a giant “heave-ho” they lifted the tarp over and dumped the soil into it. Traci watched them struggle through this process twice before someone needed to take a break and passed out bottles of water from a galvanized tub full of ice.
“Who are these people?” Traci wondered aloud. She peered through the branches and surveyed the area where they worked. There were white strings tied on long thin rods in twenty neat rows. Strips of red rags were attached to each string. Around the perimeter were a dozen boxes full of plants bulging out of the soil. There was a plastic-covered hoop structure and a collection of long-handled tools leaning against a pickup truck.
“It’s a farm in the middle of nowhere,” Traci whispered. She had lived in this neighborhood for two years. How did she not know about this? She decided to avoid involving herself in whatever was going on and go back the way she came. It would take her longer to get home, but that would be better than to butt in on something that was not her business.
As she turned to leave, her backpack caught the edge of the bush. She tugged on it, ducked under a branch, lost her footing on an exposed tree root and fell flat. By the time she gathered her wits and started to get back up, she was surrounded.
“You okay?” someone asked.
Traci couldn’t see who was speaking. The sun beaming down from behind their backs shaded their faces. They looked like cartoon silhouettes, not real people.
“Fine,” Traci said, blinking and squinting in their direction. “I’m just fine. Thanks.”
She looked around for her backpack and tried in vain to brush dirt from the waves of her thick black hair.
“Did you hit your head?” said another voice, “Did she hit her head?”
Final Harvest Page 1
