Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3)

by Catherine Finger

  “But something bothers you about this cold-blooded burial killing? That’s actually a relief.” I chuckled. “So, I give. What’s bugging you?”

  “Well, the whole scene bugs me. First off, out of all the golf courses in the Baraboo-Dells area, he chooses the Baraboo Country Club. That can’t be a coincidence.” She fished an envelope and a pen out of her purse and started to draw. “And he happens to select the sixth hole, which just happens to be the only hole on the only course in the area that boasts an ancient Indian burial mound as a feature. Again, not a coincidence.” She sketched the outline of the burial mound.

  “So, what, you think the killer chose the golf course because of the burial mound? Some kind of statement? Showing us he’s familiar with the territory or something?” I pointed to the spot roughly where the dead man’s head had popped up out of the ground. She marked it with an X.

  “No, I’m saying, what if it’s about the geography?”

  “Meaning?”

  “What else is unique to this spot?” Her eyes had gone flat. Fear?

  I flicked a finger off the steering wheel for each possibility. “Let’s see. Golf course, check. Bona fide burial mound, check. I’d say that’s plenty unique for a murder site. What am I missing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, the fact that your own lot just happens to sit awfully close to the same hole?” She pointed at the general location on the envelope.

  My ears started ringing. “There’s no way …” Is there? “No one knows I own that lot. I mean unless they checked the tax records.” I searched my memory. Images of attending my aunt’s funeral popped up, followed by a hazy frame of me sitting in front of an attorney’s desk. I remembered him telling me to transfer the deed into my name. But I didn’t remember ever getting around to it. “Georgi, I just don’t see how anyone could know it’s mine. Seems like quite a stretch.”

  “You’re not that hard to track, Chief.” Georgi folded her arms across her chest.

  “What do you mean?” My mind roved over the fire pit I’d had built on the empty lot. “Crap.”

  “Yeah. We’re not the quietest bunch of rednecks when you invite us over to enjoy the stars and a campfire on your fancy golf course lot.” Georgi hugged herself as if warding off a freezing gale.

  “No, I guess not. And I don’t want to start thinking about the long list of enemies I’ve created over the years.” The hairs at the nape of my neck quivered as I turned down the drive toward my remote, rustic getaway in the woods.

  Georgi had nothing to say to that.

  Chapter Six

  When we stepped into the cottage and Georgi locked the door, her hands were shaking.

  I plopped my purse on the kitchen island and started rummaging around on the counter behind me for coffee supplies. “The usual?”

  “Please.” She looked out the front windows, arms crossed. Fresh pine scent floated in through a window I’d left open last night. “Love it out here this time of year.” She pointed up at an eagle’s nest resting high above in the crooked pine boughs. “Still there.”

  “Yup. My lucky duck.” I got the coffee brewing, then came over to glance up at the empty nest. I rested my hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure this out.”

  Georgi mustered a smile. “You’ve sure got it good out here, Josie.” A bank of windows faced Devil’s Lake on the far side of the great room. She walked toward them as if in a trance.

  “Yup. Home sweet home.” I picked up an eight-by-ten framed picture of Sam in her soccer uniform. “It’ll be a lot more like home as soon as I bring her back here.”

  “Cliff bought her a fishing vest to match his. And a zombie-themed fishing pole.” Georgi’s eyes widened. “You’d tell me if she didn’t really love it, right?”

  I smiled. “Samantha loves fishing with Uncle Cliff. And I sure don’t want to take her fishing, so let’s leave well enough alone.”

  Georgi finally sat down on the sectional, letting go of a long breath.

  “Tell me again why aren’t you on the payroll, Georgi.” I filled two mugs and joined her on the sofa.

  “You can’t afford me.” She sipped her coffee.

  “True that.” I leaned forward to place my mug on the coffee table.

  “Besides, that cop stuff is your specialty, not mine. Let’s drop the murder for now, focus on my specialty for a while.” A smug grin spread across her face.

  “Yours being?” Uh-oh. Did I just open the door I hadn’t planned on opening today with her?

  “I thought you’d never ask. L-O-V-E. So, let’s hear it. Now. All of it. Why have I not heard thing one from you relative to a certain gorgeous cop-type fellow?” She fluttered her lids at me like a fourteen-year-old.

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. It’s complicated.”

  “No, it’s really not. Mr. Practically Perfect is in love with you and has known you half your life, maybe more. You married an evil dude, who just got eviler over time. And then he died. Thank God and good riddance.”

  I looked away from her, eyes focused on the wall of windows and the greens and blues beyond. The vibrant colors blurred into each other. The trajectory of my marriage—its surprise ending and my husband’s brutal death at the hands of a crazed serial killer—ran its course through my mind. Georgi had been loyal to the core throughout the entire ordeal, swooping in to nurse me back to health as my life fell apart before my eyes. She never tired of hearing me cry, listening to my fears, joining me in my grief.

  She took my silence as permission. “Bad things happened, in so many ways. Our gorgeous Mr. Almost Perfect stepped in and stepped up. And instead of falling right into his open arms, like any other red-blooded American woman would’ve done, and probably every other woman in the world, you run in the opposite direction.” She sliced a hand through the air, returning her attention to her coffee.

  Heat rushed up my neck, burning over my cheeks. “Gah, ah …” Glubs and gurgles instead of words came out. Not my finest moment. I cleared my throat and tried again. “You don’t really know what went on between us. Uh, no … uh, nobody really does.” All that effort, for that?

  Georgi narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s … uh, complicated.” Images of Nick’s broad back, muscles rippling under his T-shirt while we worked out together, flowed through my mind like silk. An iron fist clamped around my heart.

  “No, it’s really not that complicated, Jo.” Georgi’s voice softened. “Isn’t it time you stopped running?”

  “I’m not running.” I wrinkled my nose, closed my eyes. “Much.” I was running. I’m still running.

  She scooted over next to me and took my hand in both of hers. “Word of advice? Stop. Stand still long enough to take a good look at the man who’s been right in front of you all along.” Her words had tapered to a whisper.

  My throat was a dry reed. I licked my lips and swallowed. “Where would I start after all that’s happened since I pushed him away? And he hasn’t exactly knocked himself out trying to get back in touch with me. Maybe he isn’t interested in hearing from me anymore.” My deepest fear unleashed.

  “Yeah, maybe not. But you never know.” Playfulness lifted her voice, danced through her eyes.

  I cocked my head and rolled my hand forward. Go on.

  “You should ask him about it.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Oh, really? And how and when would I do that?”

  She looked at her wrist. “In about two hours. He’s coming for dinner tonight.”

  “Nick? Here? Now?” My hand shook, sloshing coffee onto my jeans and the sofa. Jeans. I’m wearing jeans. And they’re tighter than they should be. “I’m not ready for this. I need more time.” I touched my chin, ran my hand over the slackening skin underneath it.

  Georgi’s laugh cascaded through the room. “Nick? No, not Nick, silly. Tom. An
d don’t worry—you look great. He’ll notice.”

  Tom! “Ah, that doesn’t take much.” Images assaulted me as I floundered to recover. Images of me wrapped up in hospital white, bandages hiding any skin the sheets revealed, Nick’s chiseled features leaning over me, declaring his undying love for me. Memories of pushing him away with words, with gestures, stabbing at him with my red-hot fear. The beauty of his back as he walked away, leaving me alone with a morphine drip to quiet my regrets. “Whew. Glad it’s Tom. I’m not sure I can handle the other one.”

  “Well, we’ve got a few hours to prep. What do you need? Booze? Prayer? A hand in the kitchen? He might be coming under the promise of one of your world-famous, home-cooked meals.” Her hands seesawed in the air. “And by meal, I most certainly mean cake.”

  “What are we, back in junior high, setting each other up? You can’t do this, Georgi. It’s not right.” But even as I whined at her, a pinprick of hope sparked in my heart. If just the thought of him stirred that much feeling, who knew? Maybe there was a chance for Nick and me. “Who called him? Or did he invite himself?”

  “For what it’s worth, he’s been dropping us the occasional email, just to make sure you’re alright—always asks about Sam—and wanting to know if you’ve mentioned him. He hasn’t ever gone as far as to invite himself up or anything.” She got her phone out of her purse and started thumbing through messages. “But when he sent this one, I decided to push the envelope.” She handed me her phone.

  Please tell her I said hello, and let her know I’m taking an interesting class with an old friend of hers at UW. And give Sammie my love.

  “So, he’s in Madison from time to time. A stone’s throw from Baraboo and you think the geography gives you the right to meddle in peoples’ lives?” I couldn’t even drum up a false indignation. But thoughts of Nick eclipsed everything. Warmth was moving up my thighs, gaining in heat and force as it rose. Sam. Does Nick still think about Sam?

  Tom. It’d be good to see him again. Maybe even great.

  “Watching the sorrow in your eyes every time we talk about anything Nick-related gives me the right to meddle in your life. It’s time to move on. You’re being needlessly stubborn and uberly stupid. I thought maybe Tom could help.” She got to her feet and stood in front of me on the sofa.

  “That’s not even a word.” I held my hand out for her to help me up.

  She smiled, took my hand, and pulled me to my feet. “What, stupid? Or stubborn? Yes, they are. I looked them both up and saw your picture on one and your name on the other.” She hooked my elbow, steering me into the kitchen. “Besides, he’s a nice guy, and you guys go way back. I can think of worse grounds for romance.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” I snorted, breaking both of us into giggles. “Fine. Let’s get this party started.” I put our mugs into the sink and turned around, leaning back against the counter. “But first, the big three.” I cracked my knuckles. “One. What goes with pasta?”

  “That’s not one. That’s actually three.” Georgi squatted next to the island, reading cookbook spines on the shelves below.

  “It is?” I opened my spice cabinet, starting an informal inventory, pulling out anything that smelled interesting and relatively fresh.

  “Yep. You know better.” She pulled out my favorite, written by a local chef with his own kitchen and Italian-themed dining room—a tiny hamlet only locals could find.

  “Oh, dear.” I looked down at myself. I was still wearing the clothes I had on during my impromptu golf outing that had morphed into an impromptu crime-scene investigation. Who knew what I’d brought into my own home? I groaned. “I’m hitting the shower. Open up to page two-fifty and start a shopping list. Bolognese.” One of Nick’s favorites. I sighed, shook my head. Moving on. I couldn’t wait to fill my cabin with the delicious aroma—no matter who sat around my table.

  “And for dessert? I had my heart set on this one.” Georgi had the book opened wide, finger tapping the name of a dessert recipe.

  I bent forward, reading the title. Marry Me Chocolate Flourless Cake.

  I let the hot water roll over me while the wobbly dam that held my memories at bay broke open. Nick, pulling me into his arms. Nick, eyes sparkling with love over a candlelight dinner in my favorite Italian restaurant in downtown Chicago. Nick, crestfallen the day I told him I was marrying Del. Ruining everything.

  For a season.

  And now, not Nick, but Tom was back. What do I wear for this?

  I rummaged through my perpetual-weekend wardrobe. Of all the times for Tom to drop back into my life, why’d he have to do it while I was on vacation in the north woods without access to a decent selection? I tried on the few options I’d packed, grimacing at the too-tight everything, settling on a pair of yoga pants with a skirt sewn onto them and a matching black top that showed off my toned arms. A cobalt cardigan topper would bring out my baby blues—while hiding the jiggles on the underside of said toned arms. Michelle Obama, I’m not. A pair of black flats completed the ensemble.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Flesh swung under my chin. Bags sagged under my eyes. Extra pounds rounded my belly under my careful disguise. My hair needed a touchup. What did he see in me? Would he be able to see it through all of this? Did his opinion even matter?

  My dark thoughts lifted like steam, replaced by a glowing phrase. Biblical notions of God’s faithfulness in the midst of man’s overall disinterest came to mind. A prayer floated up from my heart, surrounding me with peace. Thank you, Father. Forgive me for dissing the woman you made me to be. I know You’re in control of all things, and I know You’re bigger than my fear. Bigger than my thighs. I smiled. Lord, whatever this is, this thing between Nick and me, let it be of You. Your lead, God.

  I opened my eyes. The woman looking back smiled at me with shimmering eyes and a lovely face—weathered by pain but softened by grace. I smiled at her. We got this! I finished my makeup with artisan flair and strode into the kitchen.

  Georgi was gone, presumably shopping. Pulling out my soup pot for the pasta reminded me of the many times Nick and I had poured out our life stories over a meal together during the dozen or so years we’d known each other. How many times do people in our lives get under our skin and stay there?

  I busied myself setting the table for what was to come when Tom and Cliff finally walked through my door. I wished he were Nick instead of Tom. Maybe Georgi was right. Maybe now was time to stop running from Nick and start saying yes to the real deal.

  Chapter Seven

  I was carefully lifting the stencil off my shapely Marry Me Flourless Chocolate Cake when the doorbell chirped. Ignoring the sound of spring birds flitting through my home, I pulled the plastic stencil all the way off and admired my handiwork. Delicate flowers etched in confectioner’s sugar graced the top of the culinary masterpiece. The perfect finish for our dinner.

  I popped my head up and yelled. “C’mon in, Georgi. I’m up to my elbows in cake.”

  Another round of chirping hit me as I rinsed my hands in the sink. “Georgi?” A sliver of alarm ran through me, and I looked out the window. Her car wasn’t in the driveway. I turned toward the front door.

  A tall shadow wavered on the other side of the opaque glass window. Not Georgi tall. Tom and Cliff then? I opened the heavy wooden door. My stomach dropped to my feet, and my blood was an ice-cold sauvignon blanc.

  “Nick.” His name escaped my desert-sand throat. My eyes locked onto his, and I stood in the iron grip of his gaze. My heart constricted … and then opened like a hothouse rose. I took a deep breath and counted to three, managing only a whisper as I exhaled.

  “Nick.” His scent, mixed with the pines and damp earth of spring, was my elixir. Desire strengthened my limbs, loosened my muscles enough to shake my head and awkwardly offer him my hand. What would Emily Post suggest for greeting the man you loved and had walked away from—twice?

&n
bsp; Nick decided for me. Closing the gap between us, he put his luxuriously muscled arms around me and pulled me against him, into his glorious strength. He sighed, opening up the tiniest space, drawing me closer still and rested his chin on my head.

  I hoped he couldn’t see my roots, but the way he quivered in my arms convinced me he wasn’t thinking about that. I relaxed into him and wrapped myself around him, in awe of the perfect fit of his arms, his body against mine. Welcome home.

  He loosened his grip, sliding an arm out from around me as we walked inside. After closing the door, he whirled me before him, cupped my chin in his hands and kissed me so tenderly, I wasn’t sure he had. He’d been here less than a minute, and already I was dizzy and overwhelmed by the beauty and sheer majesty of him.

  “I thought you might need a little help.” His grin spread into his trademark smile.

  “And this is how you’re going to help?” I threw him a wobbly gesture with my right hand, leaving my left around his rock-hard waist.

  He took my hand in his, interlocking our fingers. His brown eyes glowed with love, and heat I’d only hoped would still be there.

  I raised our clenched hands and straightened mine out, pressing our palms together. His presence plunged me down twin paths of memories and hopes for a shared future. I damped my hopes down, marveling at the sight of his long, tawny fingers outlining mine.

  We stood together in the heart of my cabin, palm-to-palm, gazing into each other’s eyes. Hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps poured through my veins. Zaps of joy, lust, and sheer pleasure ran through me, interrupting the haze. My mind had forgotten the power of his body next to mine. Apparently, the rest of me had not.

  He clasped his fingers around mine, brought my hand to his lips and gently kissed the back of my hand. I closed my eyes to break the spell. Skillful fingers lifted my chin, turning my face to meet his lips. Lightning. French éclairs. Riding at full gallop under a moonlit sky in late September. Nick.