Open House Heist

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  “He was Jenny’s boyfriend.”

  “In name only, sweetie. I owned his heart. He just hadn’t figured that out yet.”

  I grimaced.

  “Now don’t you judge what you don’t understand. Eric was young and wild, and he needed to sow his oats, get the bad boy out of him before I would even try to get him to commit. I didn’t want to be just another notch on his bedpost. I wanted to be with him forever, and look at me, I am.”

  “But you killed your best friend.”

  “Because I had to. She’d figured it out, and she promised to ruin me, and to ruin my sweet Eric, too.” She moved closer to me. “I couldn’t have that.”

  “So, you smacked her over the head with a shovel and then what, hid your clothing and took her to the trail?”

  “Something like that.” She waved the gun again. “I had to set up the plan, and it played out perfectly. I’d already let Jenny in on what was going on with Eric and that loser Amy, so everything just kind of fell together.”

  I wanted to rush her and grab the gun, but I wasn’t sure I could get it. I needed to distract her, keep her talking, and then maybe I could get her off guard and grab it.

  “It was simple, really. She’d just cleaned that nasty barn and the coops the day before, and she’d left the bleach out. All I had to do was pull into the barn, and toss her in the truck bed, and then I did a quick clean up. I’d already put my bag of clothes from the night before inside the truck, so I grabbed it and changed, and then I went inside to say goodbye to Clara. I wanted to get the diary, but Clara wouldn’t stop talking, so I figured I’d come back for it later. She walked me out, and I told her I’d let Jenny know she’d left, and I waved at her as she pulled away. I went back inside and called Amy, told her I was Jenny, because how would she know? We weren’t exactly friends with the likes of her. She swore up and down she wasn’t a two-bit whore, and I just played along, letting her bury herself. When she hung up on me, I went to get the diary, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I guess Jenny realized I’d read it and did something with it. I never knew what happened to it, so when my husband told me you had it, I knew I had to get it from you.” She smiled. “I locked the clothes in the trunk and took the key. I didn’t want to bring them home, and I knew I couldn’t leave them with poor Jenny, so I figured that was the best solution. That thing had been in that barn for years anyway.” She snarled at me. “And it worked for thirty-five years.”

  Bo growled at Allison, jumped off the bed and darted out the door. “Bo,” I yelled. “No!”

  “Get him back here.”

  Bo flipped around in the hallway and charged toward us at full speed. He knocked into Allison and sent the gun flying from her hand as she fell onto the ground. I dove toward the gun just as she reached for it. I kicked her arm out of the way, and the gun went sailing under the bed.

  She cursed and dragged herself toward the bed, trying to get up at the same time. Bo jumped on her, and she fell back down again, cursing as she did.

  She swatted at Bo, but he didn’t budge, straddling her with his legs and sticking his face right up next to hers, his big white teeth only millimeters from her nose.

  “Bo, stay,” I commanded, though I doubted he had any intention of moving. I dug under my bed for the gun and found it. I aimed the gun at her. Her bag had fallen off her arm and leaned itself up against my dresser near the door. I kept the gun aimed at her and grabbed it. I did a quick glance inside and found her phone.

  Thank God it was an iPhone, and I knew how to work it. “What’s your passcode?”

  “Get this monster off of me, and I’ll tell you.”

  I bent toward her with the gun pointing directly at her head. “What’s the passcode?”

  She blurted out, “8, 1, 1, 7.”

  I tapped it in and called 911.

  * * *

  It was four o’clock in the morning by the time the deputies left. Dylan snuggled up next to me on the couch. “You want me to stay?”

  I nuzzled into his shoulder and sighed. “Yes, please.”

  “You need to stop answering the door in the middle of the night.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t be living alone much longer, and I won’t have to worry about that.”

  He smiled. “I can’t wait for that day.”

  “I just don’t want a wedding, Dylan.”

  He shifted his body and angled toward me. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “I know it’ll upset a lot of people, especially my parents, but I also know they’ll understand eventually. This is our marriage, the start of our life together, and I don’t want to make it a production. I just want it to be us.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I want to elope. And soon, not in February.”

  He blinked. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “One hundred percent. We can have a big party after. Nothing fancy. Maybe some barbeque, and your favorite beer, or something. I would love that, but I want our wedding to be just us.”

  “And the Elvis impersonator.”

  I flinched. “How about just a justice of the peace?”

  He smiled. “I don’t care how we do it, or who does it, I just want us to get hitched.” He wrapped his arms around me. “I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.”

  “Actually, I was thinking next month.”

  He released me from his grip. “Seriously?”

  I nodded, a tear streaming down my face.

  Dylan jumped off the couch and hollered, “Heck yeah, next month it is.”

  Bo had been snoozing on the chair. He opened an eye and glanced at Dylan, then closed it and went back to sleep.

  “Guess he doesn’t care one way or another,” I said.

  “He’d better. He’ll have to be our witness.”

  Chapter 11

  I met the Hansard’s at their home two days later when they returned from their trip. Dylan and Matthew worked hard to find the coin collection, but it hadn’t been returned. I couldn’t imagine how upset they’d be, and I spent a good five hours crying my eyes out over it. My crew told me not to worry, that the Hansard’s were forgiving and would understand, but that didn’t matter.

  I’d failed them, even though I’d found justice—not entirely from my own investigating skills—for Jennifer Rawlings.

  Mrs. Hansard rushed inside before I even had a chance to tell them I wasn’t able to get the collection back. I stepped in with Mr. Hansard, helping him with the few bags they’d brought, and heard his wife scream.

  “Honey, come quick.”

  We dropped the bags and headed straight to the living room, me blurting out apologies already. “I’m so sorry. I tried to get it—”

  The coin collection was back in the case. I didn’t know what to think, or what to say.

  “Oh Lily, we are thrilled. You did it. Thank you so much,” Mrs. Hansard said.

  Mr. Hansard hugged me. “Bless you sweetheart, you are a wonderful little sleuth.”

  “I…I…” I didn’t know what to say.

  “Now don’t you get all shy on us. You did good, and you deserve a reward,” Mrs. Hansard said.

  “She’s right,” her husband said.

  “No, I don’t. I really don’t deserve anything.”

  Old Man Goodson stepped into the house through the front door. I recognized his voice. “Anyone home?”

  Mr. Hansard shook his hand as he met him at the front of the room. “Larry, good to see you. What brings you by?”

  Larry Goodson smiled at me. “Just driving by and saw Lily’s car. Thought I’d stop in for a quick hello.”

  “Would you like some tea or something?” Mrs. Hansard asked.

  “No, I got to be going. Just wanted to say hey.” He winked at me.

  My mouth dropped open. “I, uh, I should be going too. Thank you for letting me show your house. I’m sure we’ll have an offer soon.” I held onto Old Man Goodson’s arm. “Walk me out?”

  “I’d be happy to.”
>
  I stood by his old pickup truck. “There’s no way, Larry.” I shook my head. “I can’t—no, there’s no way.”

  He nodded. “I still got a few tricks up my sleeve Lily, and I knew you’d be the one to get things right.”

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my wonderful editor, Jen and my favorite proofreader JC Wing, and my friends and family who’ve supported me as I’ve traveled along this writing journey.

  Read on for a peek at Carolyn’s new cozy series, and the first book, Get Up and Ghost, A Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery Series available for pre-order now.

  Get Up and Ghost

  About The Author

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson currently calls the Atlanta suburbs home, but can't rule out her other two homes, Indianapolis and somewhere in the Chicago suburbs.

  She is old enough to share her empty nest with her husband, two dogs and two cats, all of which she strongly obsesses over repeatedly noted on her Facebook and Instagram accounts, and is working on forgiving her kids for growing up and leaving the nest. When she is not writing, editing, playing with her animals or contemplating forgiving her kids, she is sitting at Starbucks listening in on people's conversations and taking notes, because that stuff is great for book ideas.

  On a more professional note, she is the bestselling author of the Angela Panther mystery series featuring several full-length novels and novellas as well as the Lily Sprayberry Realtor Cozy Mystery series, and a collection of romantic novellas.

  Other Books By

  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  The Angela Panther Mystery Series

  Unfinished Business

  Unbreakable Bonds

  Uncharted Territory

  Unexpected Outcomes

  Unbinding Love

  The Christmas Elf

  The Ghosts

  Undetermined Events

  The Event

  The Inn at Laurel Creek Contemporary Romance Novella Series

  The Inn at Laurel Creek

  Zoe & Daniel’s Story

  The Lily Sprayberry Realtor Cozy Mystery Series

  Deal Gone Dead

  Decluttered and Dead

  The Scarecrow Snuff Out

  Sleigh Bells & Sleuthing (A Holiday Author Novella Collection featuring Lily Sprayberry)

  Signed, Sealed and Dead

  Bidding War Break-In

  Open House Heist

  Author Shared Series

  Mourning Crisis

  The Funeral Fakers Series

  Independent Novellas

  Santa’s Gift A Cumming Christmas Novella

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  You can find the book listing here: Open House Heist

  Read on for a sneak peek into Get Up and Ghost A Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery, the first book in Carolyn’s new Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery series

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  Get Up and Ghost

  A Chantilly Adair Psychic Medium Cozy Mystery

  Agnes Hamilton hanged herself from a ceiling rafter of the two-story foyer of her home wearing her wedding dress for a wedding that never happened. Lying on the ground below her was a letter from her fiancé, John Dilts suggesting he’d run off with another woman and planned to marry her.

  Agnes was a tomboy of sorts and could lasso a bull better than half the men in town, so no one questioned how a twenty-year-old woman no more than five feet tall could get a rope all the way up to a rafter like that. Her pa, John Hamilton’s ladder leaned up against the wall, so the town knew she’d used that, and even though she’d killed herself, and it was tragic, there was awe in the talk of her lassoing and roping skills ever since that fateful day in 1872.

  Her pa was the one that found her. He’d come in from a two day trip to South Carolina to her hanging there, all bloated and swollen-like. John Hamilton climbed up the ladder, reached for his little girl, and cut the rope. Rumor has it when she hit the ground, her arm came off.

  I read the file for Hamilton House, a historic home turned restaurant in my home town, Castleberry Georgia. “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s what’s written for a historic home like this?”

  Delphina Beauregard, or Del for short, the owner of Community Coffee, the best coffee shop this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, poured me a fresh cup of her most robust brew. “You talkin’ to yourself again, sugar pie?”

  I stabbed my index finger onto the piece of paper repeatedly. “Look at this. Who writes this stuff, kids in elementary school?”

  She gazed at the document and read it out loud. When she finished, she walked away saying, “You’re the gal with the big college diploma, you tell me.”

  I threw a packet of sugar at her backside as she sashayed away. “You’re no help.”

  She flipped around and winked at me. “I filled your cup mighty fine, didn’t I, sugar?”

  “That you did Del, that you did.” I smelled alluring, smoky scent with a hint of hazelnut drink before taking another sip. I loved the aroma of freshly brewed, steaming hot coffee. I loved it more than the taste of the stuff itself. The scent was like a warm, cozy blanket wrapped around me on a cold winter’s night, and a refreshing reminder of the coming season during the never-ending boiling summers of northern Georgia. And that’s what we were in at the moment, a never-ending bout of humid heat with temperatures topping out at 98 degrees and higher every day for the past three weeks. August in Georgia was hotter than Hades.

  Thelma Sayers scooted her chair across the floor to my table. “What’s that you’re working on now, Chantilly?”

  Del hollered at her from behind the counter. “There you go again scratching up my floor. Why can’t you just sit in the chairs that go with the table?”

  Thelma Sayers recently purchased a new pair of hearing aids, one of those fancy kind that probably cost more than they were worth. She adjusted the one in her right ear, the ear closest to the counter. “That’s better. Now I can’t hear that old bag yelling at me.”

  “In her defense, you’re scratching her wood floor moving the chairs on it.”

  She rolled her overly made up eyes. “Well, that’s her problem. She knows I got me a bad sciatica, and I can’t sit in those chairs without the cushions. If she got chairs to match this one, I wouldn’t have to ruin her floor.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that. “I’m working on the new copy for the Hamilton House.” I tucked my pencil behind my ear. “Do you know who wrote this originally?”

  She moved her large leopard print glasses, ones that went out of style in the 80s, to the tip of her nose and read the paper. “’Course I do. That’s Bubba Aldridge’s work. You remember him, don’t you?”

  I grew up in Castleberry Georgia, a small town about sixty miles north of Atlanta, but I went to college in Alabama—Go Auburn—and hadn’t moved back until my divorce was finalized a month ago. Twenty-seven years away was a long time, but Castleberry hadn’t changed a bit. It lacked the most crucial part, of course, my parents, each having died within months of each other while my ex-husband and I battled out the fine print of our failed marriages demise. “I can’t say that I met him personally, but I certainly know him from the historical society.”

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  bsp; Carolyn Ridder Aspenson, Open House Heist