Pumpkin Ridge
by Pamela Grandstaff
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2017 Pamela Grandstaff. All rights reserved.
ASIN: B076Q17NX2
For June Bug
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three - Wednesday
Chapter Four - Thursday
Chapter Five – Thursday
Chapter Six - Friday
Chapter Seven - Saturday
Chapter Eight - Sunday
Chapter Nine - Monday
Chapter Ten - Tuesday
Chapter Eleven - Wednesday
Acknowledgments
Chapter One - Monday
A va substituted her husband’s sleep medication with the stronger sedative that would ensure he stayed unconscious for the next few hours and then delivered it to him in bed, where he reclined in his pajamas, going over some business documents.
“I wish I didn’t have to take anything,” he said. “I don’t know why I can’t sleep like a normal person.”
She watched him swallow the capsule with a sip of white wine.
“You probably shouldn’t drink wine with that,” she said.
“It’s only one glass,” he said. “It helps me to relax.”
“Don’t blame me if you never wake up,” she said.
“I wouldn’t be in a position to blame anyone, then, would I?” he said. “Why don’t you lay down with me for a while?”
He patted the bed.
“I need to check on the kids,” Ava said. “I also have several emails to return and some household accounting to go over.”
He reached out and grasped her hand.
“Confess,” he said. “You’re bored with me.”
“On the contrary,” she said, “I’m mad about you. I just can’t let you know that or I’d lose what little power I have.”
“You’re my queen,” he said, and then kissed her hand. “I’d slay dragons for you; you know that.”
She leaned over, kissed him lightly on the lips, and adeptly evaded his attempt at a deeper embrace.
“Ava, I miss you,” he said.
“This weekend when you get back from Concord,” she said. “You won’t need any sleep meds when I’m through with you. I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he said, and then yawned.
“Sleep tight,” she said and closed the door behind her as she left the bedroom.
Ava went downstairs and crossed the vast central hub of the house to the southern wing, which housed the children’s rooms. Two-year-old Olivia was sleeping soundly in her crib, her left thumb in her mouth, the other chubby hand clinging to her blankie: a pastel-pink, hand-crocheted rabbit head with a crocheted blanket for a body, its ears lined in white polyester satin, which Delia Fitzpatrick had made for her. Unfortunately, Olivia had bonded with the wretched thing before Ava could hide it in the trash.
The Irish nanny, Siobhan, was in the next room reading to seven-year-old Ernest, who was tucked up in his bottom bunk amidst various stuffed animals and toy trucks. Siobhan glanced up at Ava with wary eyes and a polite smile, but Ernest didn’t take his eyes off the book.
“It’s awfully late for him to still be up,” Ava said.
“Yes, Miss,” Siobhan said. “He’s had a bad dream.”
“I see,” Ava said. “My husband’s sleeping, so I know you’ll help me make sure nothing disturbs him.
“Yes, Miss,” Siobhan said.
Even though Ava detected a hint of willful resentment in her nanny’s tone, she trusted it was nothing to worry about. They paid the young woman well, well enough to guarantee she wouldn’t dare leave her charges to wander about the huge house at night, let alone poke her nose into Ava’s private business. They had imported her directly from Ireland, she had no friends here save the housekeeper, nor was there a boyfriend to distract her from her duties.
Gail, their housekeeper, had gone home after preparing their dinner. Their security manager, Karl, was in the apartment over the garage, where Ava assumed he would drink himself into a stupor. She had deliberately turned a blind eye to Karl’s continual thievery of alcohol, having instructed Gail to lock up the good stuff where he couldn’t get to it. As a wealthy man, it made Will feel better to have someone nominally in charge of security. As someone with a vested interest in autonomy and privacy, it made Ava feel better not to have someone wandering around at night with a flashlight and a gun.
Ava crossed back through the central section of the house, which contained a spacious formal living room, family room, formal dining room, casual dining room, media room, kids’ playroom, Will’s home office, and a huge kitchen, all connected by a soaring two-story foyer. She took her time as she climbed the stairs to the north bedroom wing, and then tiptoed to the doorway of their bedroom.
Will was still wearing his glasses, but he’d dropped the papers he’d been reading. His head was resting on the pillows behind him, his steady, shallow breathing signaling he was deeply unconscious. She slid his glasses off and placed them on the bedside table. She took the papers away and put them in his open briefcase on the dresser.
Her hand on the light switch, she regarded her husband. His thick auburn hair and full red beard disguised the baby face of a man almost ten years younger than she. He was confident, intelligent, and loyal, and she never had a moment’s worry that he would stray or betray her trust. A successful businessman, a loving husband, and a devoted father; Ava could not have chosen more wisely.
He was also ridiculously wealthy.
In her elegantly appointed dressing room, Ava undressed and took off all her jewelry, including her diamond-encrusted wedding band and the hefty emerald-cut diamond engagement ring, all of which she dropped in a china saucer on top of the dresser.
She placed her cell phone, sound muted, next to the saucer of jewelry. Will was a bit of a techno wizard, and although he said he had complete trust in her, he also had the means with which to track her phone, and thus her movements, should he choose to. Ava often “forgot” to take her phone with her, a mistake for which she was often lovingly reproved and immediately forgiven by her husband.
She entered the adjacent, luxurious spa-like bathroom, tiled floor to ceiling in various permutations of Carrera marble. She took a leisurely bath in the deep soaker tub, blissfully free from any opportunistic connubial interference. She performed her feminine ablutions with pleasure, anticipating the appreciation of the intended audience.
After her bath, she blew-dry her long dark hair but did not apply any makeup or scent. She donned black panties and a bra, both only slightly more substantial than a cobweb, and slid on close-fitting black leggings and a long, black cashmere tunic.
She watched the clock, which always seemed to move more slowly in the evenings after Will fell asleep. Her blood seemed to hum through her veins, so anxious was she to get to where she was going. Instead, Ava curled up in a chair in her parlor and took up a book where she had left off reading the night before. She went through the motions of reading, but her mind was already across the river.
A 1:30 a.m. Ava slid her arms into a black winter parka and tied the laces of her sturdy, waterproof boots. She punched in the code that turned off the house alarm, flipped the hood up ov
er her head, slid outside, and locked behind her the northern side door, which led to a slate-paved veranda. From there it was a near-vertical slog down the steep hillside on a muddy gravel path, guided only by a pin-light flashlight Ava kept fastened to the zipper pull of her parka. She slid several times and was thankful for the handrail she had insisted Will have installed for the children.
At the bottom of the hill, she walked out onto their dock and took the cover off a small boat with an outboard motor. She got in and untied it from the pier, but didn’t turn on the spotlight that was fastened to the bow. The lights from Rose Hill were bright enough to guide her, even through the fog that hovered over the river. Across the river, there was a red light attached to the reciprocal dock behind the bicycle factory her husband owned. She started the motor and aimed for it.
After she killed the engine and tied up the boat behind the bicycle factory, she made her way around to the front of the dark, mammoth, red brick structure, walking on the former railroad tracks that had been converted into a rail trail. Security cameras mounted on the factory walls monitored the area, but Ava knew that there were no security personnel employed there, and no one would review the footage unless there was an attempted break-in. During the four years the factory had been in business, there had never been a break-in.
She walked up Pine Mountain Road until she reached the alley behind Rose Hill Avenue. She kept her hood over the top part of her face and her head down, only seeing the next steps she needed to take. There were security cameras affixed to various businesses in town, and she wanted to remain indistinguishable from the many students from Eldridge College who frequented the area late at night.
She made her way up the alley to the dumpster behind the Rose and Thorn. She hid behind it until she heard the waitress from the pub throw the trash in, and then unlock and drive away the car she kept parked outside the side entrance.
The light above the side door to the bar went out.
Ava made her way to the door and pressed the button that rang the bell. It was always at that moment when she wasn’t entirely sure he would open the door, that Ava felt panicked. Although, from a lifetime of experience she was pretty confident about her effect on men, and this man, in particular, she still had that small flash of doubt, and it was deliciously terrifying.
Ava could get through the other part of her life, she believed, only if she had this small part to look forward to, and then to remember until she could have it again.
She heard the lock turn, and the door opened, which always gave her a satisfying thrill. It was dark inside. She could smell Patrick, even though he had backed away from the door.
She slid inside and closed the door behind her. In the back room behind the bar, lit only by the light from the front room, Ava shed her parka, her boots, her sweater, and her leggings. She climbed the steep ladder to the cold attic space, where a nest of blankets and pillows on a futon had been placed under the eaves. Ava lit a candle he kept there and put it on top of a crate. She lay down and pulled the blankets up around her. The bed smelled of them, enough so that she almost swooned with the scent of it.
This part, where she anticipated him joining her, was incredibly erotic in its intensity. She could hear him lock up and close the door between the back room and the bar. She heard his boots hit the floor as he took them off, one after another. Then there was the creak of the ladder under his weight and the appearance of his dark-haired head as he reached the attic.
His blue eyes, pupils dilated, glinted in the candlelight.
“Patrick,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said.
She turned back the covers, and there was his quick intake of breath, the groan that always accompanied his first look at her. It quickened her pulse like nothing else.
It had been almost ten years since the first time they made love, but for Ava, nothing had changed.
Ava was asleep when the crash happened. Patrick was up, dressed, and descending the attic stairs by the time she was fully conscious. Ava blew out the candle, hurried down after him, and pulled on her clothing, her boots, and her coat. She went out the side door, which Patrick had left ajar.
She ran up to the junction of Rose Hill Avenue and Peony Street, where she could see a coal truck had wrecked into an electrical pole in front of PJ’s Pizza, directly across the street from the Rose and Thorn. The pole had broken in half, and the street light attached to it had shattered. There were electrical lines down, and any lights left on at night in the various businesses and houses east of Rose Hill Avenue were out. The next sound she heard was dozens of automatic backup generators starting, and then some of those lights came back on.
Patrick had climbed up the side of the cab, had the driver’s side door open, and was talking to the driver. He looked back as Ava approached and pointed to the other side of the truck, gestured for her to go around to that side.
She walked up to the front of the truck, where she could see a man lying flat on his back in the PJ’s Pizza restaurant parking lot. He was situated just outside the glare of the truck’s headlights. There was a dark puddle spreading out from the back of his head onto the frosted pavement.
She took her tiny flashlight and shone it on him.
He was dressed in dark pants, an insulated jacket, and hiking boots. A black balaclava covered his face, except for his mouth and eyes, which were wide open but unfocused. When Ava shone the light in them, his pupils did not contract as they should have. She lifted the edge of the balaclava and felt for a pulse in his throat. It was barely discernable, but it was there.
She searched his coat and found his wallet in the inside breast pocket. In it were his drivers’ license and a laminated State of Pennsylvania private investigator’s license.
Ava’s pulse quickened, but she did not allow herself to panic. Momentarily paralyzed as adrenaline flooded her nervous system, she was conscious of the ticking of the truck engine, her exhalations making steam in the frigid air, and the wet feeling of the man’s blood, which had soaked through one knee of her leggings.
She needed to work fast.
Ava stuck his wallet down in the pocket of her own coat. In an outside pocket of his coat, she found a keychain with several keys attached. She pushed the lock button, and although she could hear a faint beep, she didn’t see any car lights flashing in the immediate vicinity.
Using her tiny flashlight, she searched the area until she found his phone, the screen cracked, lying a few feet away, and put that in her coat pocket as well. A few yards beyond that she found his camera. Although the body was cracked along one edge, she was still able to scroll back through his photographs. The most recent snaps were of her entering the side door of the bar this evening. Scrolling back further, she found more of her entering or leaving the side door on previous nights. She hung the strap around her neck and tucked the body of the camera down inside the front of her coat.
She heard voices from up the street at the fire station, and the sound of the station garage door rolling up. Any second there would be witnesses all over the place.
She looked at him.
She went back to his side and knelt down next to him. She put her hand on his chest and could feel it barely rising with each slow, shallow breath. With her fingers, she felt up to the base of his neck until she reached the soft indentation over his windpipe. She could feel his pulse more clearly there as she pressed lightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t have any other choice.”
Using both hands, she pressed her thumbs down hard and didn’t let up until he had stopped breathing. Then she counted to ten, still holding down. When she finally lifted her thumbs and checked for a pulse, there was none.
Voices came closer. Ava stood, leaped over the puddle of blood, ran toward the restaurant, went around the rear corner of the building, and waited there, in the shadows, to watch what happened next.
She saw the flashing lights of the EMT t
ruck as it left the fire station, rolled down the street, and turn into the parking lot where the man lay. Other emergency personnel ran up the street and converged on the scene. Patrick climbed down from the truck to talk to one of them.
A paramedic knelt down next to the man, and Ava heard the woman say to her partner, “Get the bag.”
With so much noise and activity focused on the scene of the accident, Ava wasn’t worried about attracting notice. She needed to get as far away from the scene as possible and establish herself as having been there all night.
She turned and almost walked right into the back of a parked car with Pennsylvania plates. She took out the man’s keys and found the fob that unlocked the door. She slid into the driver’s seat and looked around. His leather gloves were on the passenger seat. She put them on.
She started the car, put it in gear, and drove down the alley to where a lane intersected with it behind the Dairy Chef. She turned left, drove up the lane, and then turned right into a parking area behind what used to be her home and bed and breakfast business.
She got out of the car and went around to the side of the garage, which had an apartment over top of it. By the base of the stairs was a flower pot sitting on a ceramic tray. She lifted the pot and took the two keys on a key ring out from under it. She used one to open the garage door. She backed her old van out of the garage, parked it behind the B&B, and then drove his car inside.
She turned off the engine, got out, put his keys in the pocket with his phone and wallet, and put the garage door down with her inside. She took a rag from the rim of the utility sink, wet it, and used it to wipe down every part of the car she had touched with her bare hands.
Once she was convinced she had erased any evidence of her fingerprints, she took the rag and his gloves with her as she departed the garage, closed and locked the door behind her. She shoved the rag, gloves, and garage keys in the coat pocket that was empty.
Pumpkin Ridge (Rose Hill Mystery Series Book 10) Page 1
