December new releases, short stories, and more
What’s new in December?
This month’s featured new release is Fatally Inferior (Book 2 of The Dunston Burnett Trilogy) by Lyn Squire.
Here’s an excerpt:
Chapter 1
Vanished
Kent; Sunday morning, January 21, 1872
Archibald Line trudged along the lane in ankle-deep snow. The short walk from the village was taking longer than on his previous visit, but he’d allowed ample time and was soon approaching his destination, an eighteenth-century country house. Its ivy-clad central part, a three-storey, many-windowed, rectangular block, was the original structure. A new front entrance and hallway had been added to the right side, and a more recent extension, servants’ quarters by the look of it, to the left.
The architecture, however, was not what slowed Line’s step to a snail-pace dawdle. It was the building’s place in history. This was Down House, the home of Charles Darwin. This was where the great man developed his theory of survival of the fittest, where he researched and wrote The Origin of Species. But, Line reminded himself, he was not there to admire. He was there to investigate. He was greeted at the front door by the butler. His winter coat and hat where whisked away as if by magic and he was ushered into the drawing room. He settled himself in one of the two royal blue silk armchairs placed on each side of the coal fire and awaited the arrival of Mrs Emma Darwin. Heʼd received a message from her the previous evening asking for his assistance in finding her daughter-in-law, Henrietta. A missing-person case. A missing-Darwin case! This could be the biggest of his career, and totally different in scale and character from the other matter he was already investigating on her behalf – a poison-pen letter lambasting her husband and what the sender claimed was the scientist’s blasphemous assault on God’s creation of man.
Line was not a man to concern himself unduly with his attire. Even as London’s Chief of Detectives, he’d rarely worn his official uniform, preferring an everyday jacket, white shirt and his navy-blue tie, the only one he owned, exactly what he was wearing today. Neither the police inspector he once was, nor the private inquiry agent he now was, ever had to rely on clothes to make their presence felt. With his square-shouldered frame, he cut a formidable figure, solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. And though his blondish hair, cropped short, military style, was greying at the sides, his ice-blue eyes were still as piercing as when they routinely loosened the tongues – and sometimes the bowels – of London’s most hardened villains.
His left hand slipped inside his jacket’s side pocket as he waited, coming to rest, as always, on a small, silver medallion. He traced the letters – R on one side, M on the other. They were almost worn away but he knew them so well, he never had trouble identifying them. Nor the date etched into the rim – July 17, 1850 – the day the sun left his world,
The butler had barely withdrawn when a young maid entered. Line squeezed the medallion between forefinger and thumb once, and then once more, his farewell signal, and turned his attention to the new arrival. Trim and neatly turned out in white apron and mob cap, she was scarcely into her twenties and clearly flustered, but still managed a half curtsey. ‘Sir, madam sends her apologies, but she has to tend the master, one of his bouts of sickness. Said I was to answer any questions you might have about... about what happened.’
Line was not pleased with this development, but he acknowledged her with a quick nod and gestured to the remaining armchair. The maid perched herself on the very edge of it, eyes downcast, hands in lap, back straight, clearly apprehensive.
Archibald Line regarded her, deliberating how best to proceed. Need to calm her down first, he decided. ‘I’m sure this is a very upsetting time for everyone,’ he began, his voice steady, reassuring. ‘But, as I always say, the facts will speak for themselves if we let them, so I’ll just ask a few questions and you tell me what you can. Alright?’
‘Y-yes, sir...’ She sounded far from convinced.
‘Very good. Letʼs begin with your name and position in the household,’ he said, in hope of putting her at ease. He extracted notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and, as was his longstanding practice, readied himself to record her answers.
‘Grace Trewin, sir,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been lady’s maid to Mrs Henrietta Darwin, the one who’s missing, for several years. She’s really my mistress, but for the past six months I’ve also attended madam, Mrs Emma Darwin, after her regular maid, Lucy Kinsley, was dismissed from service.’
‘Thank you, Grace.’ Good, she’s settling down. ‘Now, tell me everything you can about your mistress’s disappearance.’
‘Yes, sir. Happened four nights ago.’
Four nights ago! She could be anywhere by now. Exasperated though he was, the maid would never have guessed it from his expression. He’d questioned countless suspects in his time, from the innocent-as-lambs to the guilty-as-sin and had long ago mastered the stone-face.
‘Four nights ago, you say.’ He kept his tone even. ‘So that would be the night spanning Wednesday, January 17 and Thursday, January 18.’
‘That’s right, sir. Mistress had a terrible time every January 17, ’cos on that day three years ago, her eighteen-month-old son passed away. Mistress never got over it, which is why the family thought she’d slipped out in the night and gone to London to be with Mr Richard, her husband, who was there on medical business, but he’d neither seen nor heard from her. Obvious to a blind man she hadn’t done that, sir,’ Grace said. ‘All of mistress’s outdoor clothes were still in the wardrobe. The only clothes missing were those she was wearing that day.’
Young Grace was proving an excellent informant, eagle-eyed and quick witted, thought Line. May turn out to be a more than adequate replacement for the lady of the house.
‘Very well. What next?’
‘This inspector, name of Fickett, arrived Friday from Scotland Yard. Too full of himself by half, sir, but he seemed to know what he was doing. When he questioned me, I told him I’d seen tracks in the snow outside the back door just after I got up on Thursday.’
‘You saw tracks on Thursday but didn’t tell anyone until Friday?’ Line said a little sharply.
‘Tried to tell Jarke, sir, he’s the butler, right after I saw them, but he just waved me off. Place was a madhouse, telegrams flying to and from Mr Richard, and nobody interested in what I had to say until Inspector Fickett arrived. Soon as he heard about the footprints, he organized a search party. Must’ve thought that my mistress, deep in her grief, had gone out into the winter night to... to end her life. Local constables, servants and neighbours combed the area all Friday and Saturday, but didn’t find her body.’
Line rubbed his jaw, miffed that what he’d heard so far pointed to nothing more than a suicide, sad, to be sure, but otherwise straightforward. But it was still early days. Always inspect the evidence with your own eyes, that was one of his cardinal rules, this one straight from the Metropolitan Police Force Manual, most of which he’d written himself. He’d begin with the footprints.
‘I’d like to take a look at those tracks,’ he said, starting to rise.
‘Oh, they’re gone, sir. When Jarke wouldn’t listen to me, I thought I’d better follow them myself and see if I could find my mistress, but by then, must’ve been mid-morning, the tracks were already covered by fresh snow.’
Yes, there was a heavy snowfall on Thursday, Line recalled. ‘Well, you did your best.’ He sat back down. ‘Tell me what they looked like.’
‘Just one set of footprints, sir,’ she replied. ‘Couldn’t tell the direction from their shape, could’ve been coming or going they were so regular from front to back. Their size struck me as strange, though. Much too large for my mistress.’
This is more interesting. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not really, sir.’ Then she added, almost as an afterthought: ‘Just this odour. Sweet smell, noticed it soon as I entered mistress’s bedroom Thursday morning.’
To Line, this was the kind of detail that turned a case on its head. He had a pretty good idea what the single, apparently directionless track of too-large footprints signified, and they, together with the sweet smell, were enough to convince him this was not suicide; nor a missing-person case; Henrietta Darwin was taken.
And if so, could there be a link to the other matter he was investigating? Could writing an abusive letter have escalated into kidnapping?
He was keen now to be on his way and get his findings to Inspector Fickett, already returned to London, as quickly as possible. He had just enough time, he gauged, to slip back to his cottage, write up his report on the morning’s events, an absolute must in any Line investigation, and catch the afternoon train. He’d be at the Yard first thing Monday.
Grace, though, was just sitting there, looking more and more discomfited, biting her lower lip and twisting and twiddling the single strand of auburn hair that had slipped from her cap. She looked nervous, frightened almost, fidgeting like a skittish filly tip-tapping restless hooves.
As the interview progressed, Line had come to judge her as a sensible, level-headed young woman, smart too, but something, something that so far she’d been too afraid to mention, had clearly rattled her. Line didn’t want to leave her in this state. He’d spare her a few more minutes.
‘Grace, what has you so worried?’ he asked.
‘Devil’s handiwork,’ she blurted. ‘No Christian way my mistress left this house. She vanished into thin air.’
*****
Now on sale here.
Author bio:
LYN SQUIRE was born in Cardiff, South Wales. He earned his bachelor’s degree at the University of Wales, his master’s at the London School of Economics and his doctorate at Cambridge University. Lyn is now an American citizen living in Virginia. During a twenty-five year career at the World Bank, Lyn published over thirty articles and several books within his area of expertise. Lyn also served as editor of the Middle East Development Journal for over a decade, and was the founding president of the Global Development Network, an organization dedicated to supporting promising scholars from the developing world.
Lyn has always been an avid reader of whodunits and has reviewed scores of mysteries for the City Book Review (Sacramento, CA), but it was the thrill of solving Charles Dickens’s unfinished ‘Mystery of Edwin Drood’ that convinced him to put aside his development pen and turn to fiction. Finding a solution to the mystery has attracted massive interest since the author’s death in 1870. A 1998 bibliography lists over 2,000 entries, with continuations ranging from the obvious (a Sherlock Holmes pastiche) to the absurd (The Mysterious Mystery of Rude Dedwin). Lyn’s version of what happened to Edwin is revealed in his first novel, Immortalised to Death. The adventures of his protagonist, Dunston Burnett, a non-conventional amateur detective, continue in Fatally Inferior and The Séance of Murder, the second and third stories in The Dunston Burnett Trilogy. Find more about Lyn on his website.
And now, for something completely different …
Coming January 1, 2025!
The Rise and Fall of Miss Fannie's Biscuits: A Cozy Amish Mystery by Wanda E. Brunstetter and Martha Bolton.
CHAPTER 1
Sugarcreek, Ohio
After a long day working at her quilt shop, Fannie Miller was ever so glad to be home. Her feet hurt from being on them for a good many hours, and she was tired from answering so many customers’ questions. Sometimes it seemed like the experienced quilters had more questions—or at least things they wanted to discuss with her—than those who were just beginning to learn about quilting.
Fannie removed her shoes and stockings then hung her outer garments on the wooden rack near the front door. After fixing herself a cup of tea, she sank onto the couch with a weary sigh to read the local newspaper. “Ah, that feels much better,” she murmured, taking a deep breath and placing her bare feet on the coffee table. It always felt good to get out of her shoes so she could wiggle her toes and allow her foot flesh to cool. Shoes were not only restricting, but her feet were more apt to become sweaty within the confinement of shoes and stockings. Ever since Fannie was a child, she’d enjoyed going barefoot, and even now, as a grown woman who had recently turned forty-three, Fannie preferred going barefoot to wearing shoes. Of course, that wouldn’t look too professional if she ran around the quilt shop wearing no shoes. And she wouldn’t go out shopping, attend church, or be seen at other social functions in bare
feet. But in the privacy of her home, Fannie saw no reason not to give her feet the freedom to walk around without the captivity of shoes. Now that spring had sprung, bringing warmer weather, whenever Fannie had the chance to be in her yard, she could enjoy going barefoot and walking on the soft, green grass.
Fannie wiggled her toes a few more times to get the kinks out and sipped some tea before opening the newspaper. Like she always did when reading the paper, Fannie thumbed through the first several pages, stopping to read anything that caught her attention. There on the third page was a big write-up about the Tenth Annual Tuscarawas and Surrounding Counties Baking Contest. The event would be held at the Carlisle Inn in the Dutch Valley complex, right here in Fannie’s hometown. Fannie had been there previously for a quilt show, and she knew for a fact there was plenty of parking outside the building and easy access to enter. In addition to the lovely rooms for guests to stay, the inn had a conference center that accommodated up to 250 people in theater-style seating, or 208 people for meetings with straight tables and chairs. The facilities also had full audio/video capabilities, mounted television monitors with full connectivity, and an excellent sound system. There were also communication tools, including flip charts and internet access.
Fannie figured that most of the people who entered the contest would stay at the inn or some other nearby facility. But since Fannie lived in Sugarcreek, if she entered the contest she would not be in need of overnight accommodations but could rest comfortably in her own bed at night.
Fannie had entered every year this event had been held, but she’d never won first place. This year, however, Fannie was hopeful that, thanks to an old recipe passed down from her aunt Selma, she might actually make it to the finals. During the last nine years of entering the contest, Fannie had made Pumpkin Custard Pie, Applesauce Cake, Sour Cream Apple Pie, Pumpkin Bars, Rhubarb Cake, Banana Nut Brownies, Zucchini Bread, Gingerbread, and Shoo-fly Pie. The judges had smiled and said that her entries were good—just not good enough for first place.
“I truly hope this year will be different,” Fannie said aloud. “Aunt Selma’s Buttermilk Biscuits are the best around, and I should have tried entering them sooner.”
Fannie’s mind wandered back to a time when she was a young girl and her aunt had given her a lesson on biscuit-making. . .
“Now, Fannie, dear. . .please pay close attention to everything I am going to say and do.”
Fannie, who had recently turned twelve, moved closer to the kitchen counter, where Aunt Selma stood with a sifter in one hand.
“The first thing we do is sift all the dry ingredients together.” The tall, dark-haired woman gestured to the large, stainless steel bowl sitting next to the measuring cups and containers of dry ingredients she had already set out. “Fannie, would you please measure out two cups of flour and pour it into the bowl?”
Fannie did as her aunt requested, and then she stepped back quickly when a dusting of flour hit her right in the face. She reached for a paper towel and wiped the flour away.
Aunt Selma chuckled and continued to instruct Fannie on how much baking powder, salt and baking soda, to put in with the flour. Next came the shortening and buttermilk.
With the exception of the dusting of flour, Fannie thought the process of making biscuits seemed easy enough, and she enjoyed being in her aunt’s cozy kitchen.
After the shortening had been added, Aunt Selma cut it into the dry ingredients with a fork. “And now,” she said, with a twinkle in her eyes and a broad smile on her face, “for the most important ingredient of all.” She picked up the measuring cup that had been partially filled with buttermilk and poured it into the bowl.
Fannie watched with interest as her aunt stirred the batter. It looked kind of sticky, but Aunt Selma obviously knew what she was doing, so Fannie wasn’t worried about it. She had eaten a good many of her aunt’s tasty biscuits, and every bite had always been delicious and left Fannie wanting more.
Things went bad when Aunt Selma told Fannie to place her hands in the flour she’d poured into a separate bowl and then take some of the dough out and form it into a biscuit with her hands.
Fannie’s attention was drawn to a big fly on the wall near the sink, and she stood there staring at it until her aunt said, “Go ahead and do as I said, Fannie.”
Fannie reached in and took out a chunk of dough. For some reason, it felt gooey and stuck to Fannie’s fingers. She wrinkled her nose. “Eww. . .this feels yucky, and I don’t know how to get it off my hands!”
In her usual patient tone, Aunt Selma pushed a small bowl that had a little flour in it toward Fannie and said, “I guess you weren’t listening to everything I said.”
Fannie tipped her head to one side and squinted. “ You told me to take some dough out of the bowl and form a biscuit.”
“That is true, but I also said you should place your hands in the flour I poured into the bowl over there.” Aunt Selma gestured with her head. “And then I said you should gather some dough and form a biscuit.”
Fannie’s face burned with the heat of embarrassment. She should have paid closer attention. “Wh–what should I do now?” She turned her hands palms up and held them close to her aunt. Fannie figured it was a hopeless case and Aunt Selma would say that Fannie would never learn how to bake biscuits.
Instead, Aunt Selma helped Fannie wipe the dough off her hands and told her to start over again. It took several tries, but with her aunt’s help, she finally formed a biscuit that looked halfway decent and placed it on the baking sheet, along with the ones her aunt had already made.
The clock on the mantel over Fannie’s fireplace chimed six times, bringing her thoughts back to the present. It was almost time to start supper. Only, Fannie wasn’t the least bit hungry. The only thing she had on her mind was the baking contest—and which of her recipes she would use to enter this time.
Since that first day when Fannie had learned how to make Aunt Selma’s buttermilk biscuits, she’d made them dozens of times over the years. Sometimes the biscuits would rise perfectly, and sometimes they fell, but Fannie kept practicing until her biscuits turned out well, with just the right texture and moisture. Fannie thought they were every bit as good as Aunt Selma’s, and whenever she had served them to guests, she’d received numerous compliments. Of course, she never let their comments go to her head. That would be considered hochmut—prideful—an undesirable trait among most Amish.
Yes, Fannie told herself, rising from her seat. I will enter Aunt Selma’s buttermilk biscuits in the contest, and I hope with great success.
Full of renewed determination, she gave a slow shake of her head. There will be no burned, crumbly, or hard biscuits made in my kitchen, because thanks to Aunt Selma’s teachings, I have mastered the fine art of making the best biscuits in town. I am certain to win that contest!
Glancing at the clock on the far wall of the Three Sisters Bakery, Faith Beiler cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, “It’s five o’clock, Hope! Could you please put the Closed sign in the front window so we can go home?”
“I’m on it!” Faith’s middle sister called in return.
Faith’s youngest sister, Charity, stepped between them with one hand held high. “It is time to close the bakery for the day, but none of us can go home yet.” Her thick lashes fluttered, emphasizing the depth of her pretty blue eyes.
Faith tilted her head to one side and back again to look straight at her sister. “How come?”
“Because we haven’t decided what we should make to enter in the upcoming Tenth Annual Tuscarawas and Surrounding Counties Baking Contest,” Charity stated with a note of excitement in her voice.
“Oh, that’s right,” Hope put in, pushing a strand of her light brown hair back under her white, cone-shaped head covering. “And I remember how the three of us decided earlier today that we wouldn’t go home until we came up with something we all agreed upon.”
Faith heaved a sigh and leaned against the front checkout counter. “I’m really feeling mied from being on my feet most of the day, but I suppose we ought to follow through with our plans.”
“I’m tired too,” Hope said, “but if we’re going to enter the contest, then it’s important that we come up with the right entry so we will have plenty of time to practice making it.”
“Let’s all take a seat, which will allow us to be off our feet while we discuss the potential prospects.” Faith gestured to one of the small tables where their customers often sat when they wanted to enjoy a cup of coffee with their favorite pastry.
Once the sisters were seated, Charity spoke up. “I think we should enter one of our delicious fry pies.” A bright smile crossed her oval-shaped face, where a smattering of freckles dotted her nose and upper cheeks. “We could choose any flavor, but I’m voting for lemon. It’s a popular one with our customers—and me as well.”
“I disagree,” Hope interjected.
Charity’s pale eyebrows drew together. “Are you saying that you don’t like fry pies? Or is it the lemon flavor you don’t care for?”
“I like fry pies just fine, and I have no objection to lemon either.” Hope tapped her slender fingers against the tabletop. “I just don’t think fry pies, no matter which flavor we’d choose, would win us the grand prize.” “Hope might be right.” Charity bobbed her head. “With a fry pie, we might win second or third place, but if we want to walk away with the twenty-five-thousand-dollar grand prize, then we need to enter a baked good that will really impress the judges.”
Faith folded her hands and placed them in her lap as she reflected on all the wonderful pastries she and her sisters created here in the bakery. Some folks came all the way from Akron just to visit their bakery, and the best-selling pastry was always the cinnamon rolls. She was on the verge of saying so when Hope spoke again.
“If we’re going to expand our business, or build a new one, then we really need to win that prize money, which means we must offer something that will impress the judges.”
“I agree with you, Sister,” Charity concurred. “We need to knock their socks off.”
Faith chuckled. “It’s not their socks we need to worry about. It’s their taste buds, and how our entry makes them feel right here.” She lifted one hand from her lap and gave her belly a couple of pats.
Hope, who sat to the right, reached over and gave Faith’s arm a few taps. “What do you suggest we make to enter in the contest that might give us an edge and win the grand prize?”
“It’s as simple as the naas on your face.” Faith tweaked her sister’s slightly pointed nose. “What is the one pastry we sell the most of in this bakery?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” her sisters said in unison.
“Exactly! And the reason for that is because our sweet, plump cinnamon rolls are appeditlich.”
“You are right, Faith. They are very delicious, which is why they sell out so quickly.” Charity clapped her hands. “What do you say, Sisters? Should we vote on it now?”
All heads nodded, and then Faith spoke again. “Everyone in favor of entering our cinnamon rolls lift your left hand.”
Faith held up her left hand, but Charity and Hope just sat there with placid expressions.
“What’s wrong?” Faith questioned. “How come neither of you voted yes?” “I don’t think we should enter our cinnamon rolls,” Hope stated.
Faith cupped one hand under her chin. “How come?”
“I think we ought to make a delicious devil’s food cake.” “But, Hope—”
“Think about it, Faith,” Hope interrupted. “It’s a moist, delectable dessert, and I’m sure the judges would all love it.”
“Hope might be right,” Charity interjected. “Maybe we should consider that suggestion. All in favor hold up your left hand.”
Charity held up hers and so did Hope. Faith just sat with her eyes downcast.
“Well, it doesn’t matter which of our hands are lifted. I’m satisfied that it was a unanimous vote,” Charity stated in a firm voice. “And I declare that the devil’s food cake is what we should enter in the baking contest, and I’m almost certain that it will be a winner.”
Hope sat up straight and pulled her shoulders back. “I can hardly wait for the contest to begin. I am quite sure that we’ll have a better chance at winning than any of the other contestants.”
“You may be right,” Faith agreed. “After all, being experienced bakers, I’m confident we’ll beat out any and all competition.”
Berlin, Ohio
Melissa Taylor entered the family room, which her husband, Michael, liked to call his “man cave,” and stood off to the side of his chair.
Michael, apparently unaware of her presence, leaned forward with both elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the baseball game being televised on his big-screen television.
She cleared her throat a few times, hoping to get his attention, but
Michael didn’t say a word or even glance her way.
“I’d like to talk to you about something, Michael,” she said. No response. Not even a quick glance.
Melissa tried again, speaking a little louder this time, but she received no acknowledgment at all.
Her lips pressed together, and she clamped both hands against her slender hips. Did he honestly not hear what she’d said, or was Michael deliberately ignoring her presence? Surely, at twenty-eight, he couldn’t be hard of hearing.
She stood for several more seconds before deciding to try another tactic. Walking with purpose across the room, Melissa stepped directly in front of the television.
“Hey!” Michael’s voice raised a notch. “You’re blocking my view of the game!”
She folded her arms and looked directly at him, ignoring the firm set of his chiseled jaw. “How else am I supposed to get your attention?”
“You could have simply said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yeah, right,” she said with a huff. “I tried that, and where did it get me?” His only response was a brief shrug, and without bothering to ask what Melissa wanted to talk to him about, Michael leaned to one side and shouted, “Hit that ball, buddy! Come on—we need a home run right now!”
Melissa tapped her foot as her irritation increased. There had to be some way to get her dark-haired, blue-eyed handsome husband’s attention. With no thought of the outcome, she marched up to the footstool in front of Michael’s chair, grabbed the remote from where it lay, and shut off the television.
Michael’s face reddened, and he nearly jumped out of his chair. “Hey!
What’d you do that for? You knew I was watchin’ the game.”
“I came in here to talk to you about something, and since I couldn’t get your attention, I saw no other way but to turn off the TV.”
She couldn’t miss the way the muscles in her husband’s arms tightened, and the tone with which Michael spoke had a sharp edge to it.
“All right, already—you have my attention. Say whatever you have to say so I can get back to my game.” His thick, black bangs fell over his forehead as he leaned forward.
Melissa moved closer to his chair. “It’s about the baking contest.”
He rubbed his chin and pulled his fingers down the sides of his clean-shaven face. “What baking contest?”
“You know—the Tenth Annual Tuscarawas and Surrounding Counties Baking Contest. Weren’t you listening when our marriage counselor mentioned it during our last session with him?”
Michael drew in a quick breath and released it before answering her question. “I. . .umm. . .guess he did make some mention of it.” Michael eyed the remote in Melissa’s hand. “Can I please have that back now?”
“In a minute. When we are done talking.”
“Is there more you wanted to say?” He tilted his head back and looked upward, as though already bored with their conversation, and no doubt resentful of her for interrupting his “very important” game.
“Yes, Michael, there is more to be said.” Melissa’s stomach muscles tightened in readiness of his response, which she felt certain would be negative.
“All right then—spit it out.”
“I was wondering if you have given it any thought as to what we should make.”
His thick, dark eyebrows almost squished together. “You mean for supper?”
She gave a firm shake of her head. “No, for the baking contest. I was thinking about our options. We could make a cherry pie, an angel food cake, a loaf of banana bread, or maybe—”
Michael held up his left hand and waved it about. “Have you lost your mind, Melissa? You’re the baker, not me. So if you’re set on entering that silly contest then go right ahead. But you’re gonna have to count me out.”
“But Michael, remember, this was our counselor’s idea. He said we should find something we can do together, and that it might help to strengthen our relationship.” She paused a few seconds before continuing. “And I think it could be fun for us to do some baking together.” Melissa stepped to the left and put her hand on his broad, muscular shoulder, but he shook it off.
“Hear me well, dear wife,” Michael said in a coarse tone. “I am not signing up for any stupid baking contest. If you think it’s such a great idea, then you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Tears welled in her eyes. Melissa wanted desperately to try harder to convince Michael what a good opportunity this was for both of them— especially if they won the grand prize. The spots of color that had erupted on his cheeks, however, let her know that now was not a good time to plead with him to take on this challenge with her.
Melissa handed the remote back to Michael, turned, and quietly left the room. She would bring this topic up again when the time was right. Maybe then he would be in a better mood.
Author bios (from their websites):
Wanda Brunstetter is an award-winning author of over 100 books with more than 12 million copies sold. Many of her books have landed on the top bestseller lists, including the New York Times, Publisher’s Weekly, USA Today, CBA, ECPA, and Christianbook. Wanda is considered one of the founders of the Amish fiction genre, and her work has been covered by national publications, including Time Magazine, USA Today, Newsweek, Good Housekeeping, and Country Woman. Some of Wanda’s books have been translated into four foreign languages.
Wanda’s fascination with the Amish culture developed when she met her husband, Richard, who grew up in a Mennonite church, and whose family has a Pennsylvania Dutch heritage. Meeting her new Mennonite sisters-in-law caused Wanda to yearn for the simpler life. In their travels, she and her husband have become close friends with many Amish people across America. All of Wanda’s novels are based on personal research intended to accurately portray the Amish way of life. Many of her books are well-read and trusted by the Amish, who credit her for giving readers a deeper understanding of the people and their customs. You can find her online here.
Martha Bolton is a prolific author of 88 books, an Emmy nominee (Outstanding Achievement in Music and Lyrics, 1988), a Dove Award nominee (Children's Musical, 1999), and a "with" author on three New York Times bestselling books. She was nominated for a Writers' Guild Award for her work on the Emmy-winning Bob Hope--The First Ninety Years. She was Bob's first full-time female staff writer, and wrote for his television specials (over 30 hours of primetime programming and fifteen years of his personal appearances and special events). As a staff writer for Bob Hope, Bolton had the opportunity to write scripted lines for a virtual Who's Who in entertainment, sports, and politics.
Bolton also wrote for Phyllis Diller for many years, and her series of books for those over fifty include, Didn't My Skin Used to Fit?, Cooking with Hot Flashes, and The Whole World is Changing and I'm Too Hot to Care. She has also written for many Christian comedians such as Mark Lowry (including parodies and co-writing his Piper the Hyper Mouse series), Chonda Pierce, Jeff Allen, and numerous others.
For more information, check out her website.
This month’s new releases
By Way of Paris by Christopher J. Newman.
You Complete the Masterpiece by Guy Mankowski.
Stuart Woods' Golden Hour by Brett Battles.
The Last Kilo by T.J. English.
The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt by Chelsea Iversen.
The Rivals by Jane Pek.
Assume Nothing by Joshua Corin.
Imposter Syndrome by Joseph Knox.
What the Wife Knew by Darby Kane.
Short stories
Who also wrote about a long, strange trip to Toronto!
Some Things Don’t Change at Christmas By KM Rockwood.
Alone on the Winter Lake by Kate Freeborn.
Bubby and Zaidy 1983 by Laura Bernstein-Machlay.
Poetry
Emerson: I am nothing; I see all.
Habeus Corpus
A Sam McRae novelette, serialized. This is a temporary cover at best.
If you’d like to kearn the differences between novelettes vs. novelas vs. novels, just click here.
And here’s where we left off in November.
Episode Thirteen
We made our way to Route 29 and went north. The sun was nothing but a glow on the horizon, but there was plenty of traffic. I tried to keep a healthy portion of it between my quarry and myself, while trying not to lose sight of the car. There was just enough light to distinguish the vehicle’s sparkly copper hue from the rest of the crowd.
They took the exit for Burtonsville and I followed suit. They took a right. After a decent interval, I did the same. They were still in sight, taillights glowing in the dusk. My headlights had been on since we’d hit the main roads. I turned them off, reducing my vision to what appeared in the combined glow of street lamps and my car’s sidelights.
They led me into a solidly middle-class residential neighborhood of houses made to look sturdier than they actually were on half-acre lots full of look-alike trees.
Before long, the car came to a halt in front of a two-story brick-fronted colonial with a two-car garage. I slowed my car to a halt behind another vehicle, far enough to observe without being observed in return. The men left the car and proceeded up the front walk. They moved in slow, deliberate steps toward the door.
They had made it all the way to the front stoop when the door opened. A woman appeared in the doorway, where I could just make out her features in the fading light. I judged her to be closing in on 40, her hair in a blonde bob that made her look like a news anchorwoman. She smiled at the men, a polite smile, warm even. However, the smile soon twisted into a frown.
The three had a brief confab at the door. They would’ve had to shout for me to hear them, and they weren’t shouting. The woman nodded a lot, then invited the men inside. By all appearances, they were cordial.
Okay. I pulled up a browser on my phone, pulled up a search engine and did a reverse directory search on the house’s address.
Two residents were listed for the place. One of them was Nelson Reeves and the other was Catherine C. Daniels.
My mind suddenly whirled. I needed to move, but first I needed to think. So I dug my small notebook and a pen out of my shoulder bag and began scribbling questions as fast as I could think of them. I just hoped I could read them later.
I left the car and marched toward Catherine Daniels’ house, notebook still in hand. The very picture of a lawyer seeking justice. Or a fool on an idiot mission.
Once I reached the door, I listened for a moment. Voices inside were raised, but the tone was pleasant. Were they talking loudly or was that just the TV?
I gave the door a couple of firm, but polite, raps with my knuckles.
The sound died briefly, only to start up again at a lower volume.
The only light from within came through cracks in the front curtains and the peephole in the door. A shadow darkened the peephole. I resisted the urge to wave.
The door opened, revealing the woman. She was casually dressed. In fact, the spatter pattern on her T-shirt made her look like she’d been painting the house. She bestowed a pleasant smile my way.
Before I could introduce myself, she said, “You must be Sam McRae.” She sounded like a sit-com mom meeting her son’s first date.
“And you must be Catherine Daniels?”
She inclined her head. “Yes. I must.”
I was still debating how much to say and how much any of what went on here could help Carla, but I had to at least try to get all the facts.
“May I ask why you’re meeting Morton Reeves and Chester Crane?”
There might have been a more delicate way to start the conversation, but I didn’t know what it was.
“Sure. Why not?” Daniels sounded almost bemused. “Come on in.”
I only briefly considered refusing her invitation. But I’d risk the small chance of an ambush to get the answer to my question.
Daniels led me into the foyer where a set of stairs snaked up the wall to my right. We turned left into a living room dominated by shades of brown, beige, and gray broken only by an odd black-and-yellow accent stripe running up one wall. Tweed Jacket sat on the sofa and Bow Tie was in an easy chair.
The minute he caught sight of me, Tweed Jacket jumped up from the sofa. “You’re Sam McRae?” I couldn’t tell whether he was extremely happy to see me or poised to bolt from the room.
“Yes,” I ventured, a barely detectable question mark at the end of my one-word answer. “And you are?”
“Morton Reeves. My sec—” He stopped mid-faux pas. “My assistant gave me your card. Earlier today, you came to see me about something?”
My, what a careful choice of wording. Asking me to tell him how much I knew. About whatever subject we’re talking about.
“There’s been a murder. A couple, actually. How much would you know about that?”
Reeves went ashen. “Wh-what?” He spoke in puffs of exhalation. I glanced over at Crane. Eyes wide, he looked thunderstruck.
“So, what are you guys up to?” I asked. By now, Daniels had moved beside me. If this were an old dime novel, she might have been jabbing my ribs with a gun. Telling me to “siddown and shuddup.” That kind of thing.
She would no doubt be a blonde with legs that would make a priest weep, which she would use to kick out stained-glass windows.
But Catherine Daniels wasn’t that woman. She was an attractive woman in her forties wearing a shirt designed by Jackson Pollock, who stood beside me for a moment en route to the sofa. Long enough to mutter, “I was just about to tell them.” Then she moved on.
“Would you like something to drink?” Daniels tossed the words over her shoulder, seeming ready to pivot in the event I said, “Yes.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” I still wasn’t sure how much to trust her. Or anyone in this room. That could have included myself.
Daniels took her place on the sofa, while Reeves resumed his. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward a side chair.
“I won’t be long,” I said, taking the seat anyway. I wasn’t going to figure all this out standing up. “Ms. Daniels, what do you know about the victims?”
Daniels looked resigned. “All I know is that one of them—our desk manager—claimed to have evidence that a competitor was spying on our hotel guests. That they’d paid off someone on staff. He said management was hiring a private eye to check it out. We were told to keep this out of the public eye, of course.”
“And you learned this from the desk manager? Phil Rinaldo?”
Daniels nodded, looking somber.
I thought back to the memo on Daniels’ desk, but chose not to bring it up. Not yet.
Waving at the two men, I asked, “Where do you guys fit in?”
Reeves sighed. “We were supposed to meet a reporter. He’d been doing some digging into hotel sustainability and greenwashing. Do you know the term?”
“I think so,” I said. “Isn’t that when a company says things to make themselves look greener than they really are?”
“Basically, yeah. Well, in doing the digging, he came up with other information, too. Some damning stuff.”
I was still processing this information while trying to identify a legal issue I needed to handle in Carla’s situation.
“So … how did you get involved, Mr. Reeves?”
Reeves steeled himself a bit. “My wife. She picked up a temporary office gig for the headquarters of The Nonpareil. She learned a few things that could hurt the hotel’s reputation. Things about their outsourcing practices and their so-called recycling program. When she went to their management, she was essentially threatened and told to mind her own business.”
What things, exactly? We could return to that question. I swept my hand around the room. “And how do you all know each other?” At some point, that invoice had to figure in my client’s predicament.
Reeves gestured toward Daniels. “Cathy’s my sister-in-law and I knew she’d be interested in what Anne had discovered. We were supposed to meet at Phil Rinaldo’s to discuss this, but he didn’t show and neither did Cathy.” He flapped his hands about in a “what can I say?” gesture.
I turned to Crane. “And what about you? How do you know these people?”
“I’m an inventor, Ms. McRae,” Crane spoke in a more robust voice than I expected from a man in a bow tie and suspenders. “When I find talented collaborators, I hold onto them. Besides, Mort needed my help to make his vision happen.”
“I’m not just a bookstore owner,” Reeves said. “I couldn’t make a living just off of that. Chet and I go back a ways. We studied physics together. He ended up becoming the science wizard, while I’m more of a highly-educated amateur. Anyway, I’ve been studying the market and technology. At one day, I had this … I can only call it an epiphany. In theory, it could provide a cheaper way to create solar energy panels. I knew Chet was into that, so I asked for his opinion. That’s when we started our project.”
“You guys are keeping this totally on the downlow, right?” Not that I was a patent attorney, but I knew that much about inventors. They don’t want to give away the store. Thus, the need to communicate in code?
The two men nodded. Daniels simply listened.
“Look, we need to talk,” I said. “I have a client who at least one of you is acquainted with. I don’t know if and how your relationship pertains to my client’s situation, but I can’t help but wonder if it does.”
I pointed toward Daniels. “And you need to deal with the fact that someone with easy access to your hotel is a murderer.”
Daniels leaned toward me. “I’m in a tricky position here. I’ve been ordered not to talk to the police. But isn’t that obstruction of justice or something?”
“Have you been questioned by the police?”
“No, I haven’t exactly been available. They haven’t tried to reach me yet, either. It’s just a matter of time, though.”
“Who told you about the murders?”
She gestured toward her phone, which lay on a side table. “It was in the news.”
“Well, you haven’t lied to them, so … no, I don’t think you’ve done anything obstructive.” Not yet. That I know of. “Where was Rinaldo’s body found?”
“They didn’t find it. They did find his cell phone in one of our rooms,” she said. “But no one has seen him today.”
I nodded. Assuming that was true, it seemed another body had been spirited away. “You know all this from the news?”
Daniels frowned. “I only know what management chooses to share,” she muttered.
This triggered a memory. “Did you order a new rug? For the hotel.”
She shook her head. “A rug? No.”
Someone higher up then.
“Who’s your manager? How can I contact him?”
“Gary Ellison. I can text you the number.”
I gave her my cell number, assuming she most likely wasn’t the type to spam me. My shoulder bag shimmied briefly with my silenced phone’s vibrations.
“And where’s his office?” I asked. I pulled out my phone to check that my phone’s shimmy wasn’t actually just spam.
“Tenth story of the hotel. Top floor.”
“Can anyone go up there?”
“Only by the fire stairs. You need a keycard to use the elevator,” she said, pausing, her eyes focused on a distant point. She appeared to be weighing her options. Then, she turned back to me, chin raised, eyes resolute. “I can give you access to his office. But I’ll need to be there.”
I nodded. “Thank you. Now, what does this greenwashing stuff have to do with anything?”
Reeves shook his head. “We were supposed to meet the reporter with the evidence. Gerald Lambert. He claimed he was turning up discrepancies between what The Nonpareil was reporting in their sustainability practices and the reality.”
“This concerned me, because my nonprofit had issued the certification,” Crane piped up. “If what he said was true, it would reflect poorly on my reputation. Destroy any trust people had in my certification process.”
“Then, when my wife told me what had happened to her, the threats made against her,” Reeves continued. “I knew my sister-in-law worked for The Nonpareil’s biggest rival. It seemed like a good idea to let Cathy know about this.”
“Did you follow up with anyone else?” I turned to Crane. “What happens when people don’t comply with your requirements?”
“We notify them that their certification will be cancelled, unless they bring their facility up-to-standard within 60 days,” Crane said. “And before you ask, we sent the notice out just last week.”
“When was the last time you saw Gerald Lambert?”
Crane frowned. “We met for drinks about a week and a half ago.” His frown deepened into a scowl. “I haven’t been able to reach him since.”
Reeves nodded. “Chester brought the reporter in on this, after I brought Cathy into it.”
I swallowed hard enough to make a slight sucking sound in my throat. Someone may have paid Lambert off, but I had my doubts. I suspected either he had found a way to disappear or been killed.
“Look, I’m not your attorney,” I told Daniels. “But you might want to think about consulting one.” My gaze drifted back and forth between Crane and Reeves. “I’ll level with you guys. I have reason to believe you might know a few critical facts about all this. I’m bound by confidentiality not to reveal more.”
I nodded, hoping to look wise. Crane discovers a problem with certification compliance by, essentially, a major corporation. One so bent on a quest to bring down a competitor, it would stoop to payoffs, blackmail and murder to succeed. How does one operate as an employee either working for or victimized by someone with enough power to make your protests seem feeble or provide you more trouble than assistance in the telling?
I wracked my brain for what I recalled about conflicts of interest. None of what we’d discussed could hurt Carla.
“You mentioned giving me access to the manager’s office?” I asked Daniels.
She nodded. “Sure.”
“If you pay me a dollar, I’ll go there with you.” It was an offer of sorts. And giving her the benefit of the doubt. I assumed for the moment that even if what she might infer were true, any conflict of interest could entitle her to a quick refund.
Daniels issued a surprised laugh, then rose to retrieve her purse from a side table. She dug out a wallet and from that plucked out a single dollar bill, which she extended my way.
I took the bill and we shook hands. Neither of us bothered with a receipt.
That brief transaction finished, I turned toward Crane and Reeves. “I have an idea.”