Chris Rogers's Blog, page 4

Paradise Cursed – Chapter 27

Ola had worn all her tinkling bells tonight, sang as loud as anyone, and when Jase Graham asked for storytellers she was first up. Dayna, who didn’t like being singled out, couldn’t help admiring the lady for being so bold.

“I’m Ola Mae Eggars, friends call me Ola, and I’m not from these parts but my Auntie was. It was Auntie who tole me all her duppy stories. In case you don’t know, a duppy is a spirit. Some duppies are ornery, some jus full of mischief.

“Auntie was a mango picker and seller. Anybody could do it, but those who got started early might earn a dollar or two at the market. Auntie had store-bought teeth that she never wore but kept in a handkerchief for when she might meet a prince or a king and would want to look her best. Talkin with no teeth made her words come out mushy, but mostly I could keep up.

“So this day, Auntie and her friend Karina set out while the moon and stars were still bright. Karina was younger and didn’t have a bad foot, so she gets way out ahead—not stoppin when Auntie called her to slow up—so she got to the mango grove first. It was on land belongin to a fellow that died some years back. Seein what she saw in the moonlight by those mango trees made Karina stop dead in her tracks.

“A man with skin so black it was like the shadows came carryin a battered old basket. Tall brown hat, brown clothes, as Karina stood watchin he bent down, picked up a mango, put it in his basket. Then this black man turned around three times like doin a little dance. Three mangoes, three dances, and while he was still spinnin, the man vanished.

“Auntie finally made it to where Karina was standin with her mouth open. Karina tole what she saw. ‘Mus be Duppy Brown,’ she said. ‘He owned this grove afore he died.’ But Auntie was havin none of that nonsense. ‘Next time, you tell that duppy to hold on till I catch up afore he goes dancin around.’

“Early next mornin at the market, Auntie settin up to sell her mangoes and cookies was still laughin about Karina’s nonsense. The sun was jus glimmerin awake when a black man in a tall hat and brown clothes picked up one of Aunties good ripe mangoes, put it in his basket then spun around three times and…”

Ola raised her hands above her head. Bells tinkling and glittering, she snapped her fingers. “By golly, he vanished!”

Dayna laughed, applauding along with the passengers and thinking the story was okay. Mostly she enjoyed Ola’s big grin as she told it. Storytelling was a part of sailing Dayna had never given much thought, but sailors were famous for trading yarns to pass the time on long voyages. It made her want to tell one next.

The problem was, she didn’t know any stories, or even any decent jokes fit to tell in mixed company. She did know one thing that might even cheer up Erin, who hadn’t smiled once since leaving Ayanna’s bedside. When a man stepped up and began a ghost story that sounded like becoming way creepier than Ola’s, Dayna quietly walked to where Cookie had sat down with his guitar.

“Do you remember this old song?” She sang a few lines from “Sisters,” which she and Erin had learned one year when their parents made them watch old movies during the holidays. Two female stars in White Christmas, wore matching sea-green dresses and plumed hats when they performed it. Mom had caught a bad case of the flu that year, so she and Erin decided to cheer her up. They didn’t have long dresses, but their mom had lots of silk scarves and beaded necklaces, which they scavenged for the performance. Mom and Dad enjoyed the song so much, they made their daughters sing it at family gatherings. Embarrassing, but people always laughed at the best line, “Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister… and Lord help the sister who comes between me and my man!”

Cookie didn’t know the song, but he had no problem picking up the chords as she sang a few lines. When the man telling the creepy story was finished, Dayna took Erin’s hand.

“You can either make a scene or sing with me,” she whispered, and pulled Erin away from the table.

*

The night had turned full dark, moon and stars hidden behind a bank of heavy cloud cover. The sea had settled to a dead calm.

Before going topside for a last stroll around the ship, I’d stopped at my cabin to don a particular type of rain gear. The slicker would be warm and rather bulky, but I had a good reason for wearing it. The Kevlar fabric was lauded as “bullet proof” and “stab resistant.”

“Mind ye keep that pistol neat,” Stryker had said, the day he handed me a Flintlock small enough to put in my pocket. “Same as ye keep the ship, and it’ll save yer neck a time or two.”

I was nineteen, ten years a pirate and already proficient with blades, but that was my first firearm. At the time, I thought all hazards could be handled by two strong hands or sharp steel. Looking back, I wonder how I could’ve lived my first twenty-five years without knowing there were forces in this world that didn’t abide by natural laws.

Beneath the slicker, I strapped on the scabbard I’d worn during my pirate act on our first morning out. Tonight, instead of a sword, the scabbard held a specially designed electric cattle prod.

In the Caribbean, rain rarely came down hard enough and long enough for my old enemy to make an appearance, but those few occasions were often the reason my crew deserted me as soon as we returned to home port. My adversary was impervious to blades and bullets. Though they could briefly slow him down, he had the ability to rapidly self-heal. Our battles, until I developed my unique weapon, often lasted long past my point of exhaustion.

Though I may be immortal, I have no more stamina than any healthy male who keeps himself fit. But my opponent never tires. So while I dash about the deck dodging his sword, he laughs and keeps coming, like a cat playing with a mouse, until he wears me down or the rain stops. One great fortune of sailing the Caribbean is that heavy rains are usually short-lived.

Without death looming over me, one would think I shouldn’t be so squeamish. After all, an hour or so after I breathe my last breath, I pop up again as healthy as ever. That fact occurred to me quite early on, while I and the Sarah Jane were scouting out pirates for the governor of Louisiana, but trust me, dying is painful.

Although being stabbed through the heart is a rather quick way to go, a punctured lung can take a painfully long time to fill with enough blood to drown a person, and I once spent days bleeding out through the stomach. Too weak to locate a gun and do myself in proper, I had to suffer it out to the end, only to blink awake an hour or so later as if nothing had happened.

And while I cannot die, I can be grossly crippled. I cut off a toe once to test whether I might re-grow a severed appendage. I can’t.

In the old days, a pirate who lost a limb or an eye during battle was guaranteed an extra portion of the plunder, and the loss rarely kept a bloke from jumping into the next fray. I suppose that’s why fictional pirates often are shown with a peg leg, an eye patch or an arm that ends in a hook. They can cope, unless they lose the second limb or eye. Then they ask a friend to kindly shoot a bullet into their brain.

I’ve taken a bullet to the brain and survived it without losing a single memory. That leads me to worry that if my bloodthirsty enemy ever managed to take one of my limbs, he would gleefully take all four, turning me into a babbling doorstop.

Thus the Kevlar slicker. “Stab resistant” does not mean it can’t be cut, but it has made heavy-rain days less nerve-wracking over the past forty years or so since the fabric became available.

My stroll around the ship tonight ended on the upper deck. During light showers our open-air bar remains available to guests, but a rainstorm shuts it down, sending guests to do their drinking in the dining room. The watch lads were sent to dinner, and a fresh crew now handled the ship. With little wind to speak of, and the sails already set to make the most of it, there wasn’t much work for them. Over the weather, I could hear their light banter now and then. I caught the gist that our dinner entertainment tonight was keener than usual.

I also heard Graham ordering men to reduce the yards, following the working sail plan. My original assessment of the man’s skills and common sense were proving valid, meaning

I could count on him and the crew to handle the ship while I dealt with other hazards.

A calm, glassy sea always gives me a sense of foreboding, but on the upper deck I at least could expect to be alone should my rainy-day specter appear. While he prefers to aim his full malicious attention at me, any bloke coming to my defense is in mortal danger. And if I refuse to play the blackguard’s nasty game, he’ll lay into my crew.

Early on, I hit upon the remedy of simply remaining in my quarters during a heavy rain. It made perfect sense. After the rain stopped, I went out to find three good mates dead. A number of good men fell to my enemy’s thirsty sword during those years just after my curse and before I learned to meet Stryker on his terms, one-on-one, ordering everyone away from whichever part of the ship gave me the best advantage at that moment.

Standing in the shadows now, with my back to the leeward rail and a 180-degree view, I wasn’t likely to be taken unaware by the nasty piece of work. All I could do was wait, scan the darkness and will us to our destination.

Roatan Honduras held some of my fondest memories. Also some of the most horrific. In the seventeenth century, while I was still a lad, the island served as the second most popular port for pirates to kick back and enjoy the fruits of their labor. The pirate community, as a rule, boasted a loosely held camaraderie, but the democratic share-and-share-alike law that governed each ship did not stretch to include others. Thus it was not unusual for a tasty prize vessel, coveted by more than one captain, to become the bone that all pirate dogs fought over.

Word went around that two Spanish ships in the Antilles were bearing gold. Captain Stryker, a greedy glint dancing in his black eyes, set sail immediately, and we overtook one of the ships even as another pirate vessel overtook the other. Stryker had a merry time, as usual, cutting down every Spaniard aboard to claim his gold. When he opened the hold, however, it held nothing of real value—all the gold was on the sister ship.

He stomped around the Sarah Jane, enraged. Before arriving at Roatan, he called the crew together and swore all hands to secrecy about the empty hold they had seized. Then all except a skeleton watch went ashore. I knew to make myself scarce at such times, so I stole among them unnoticed. Through an open window, I watched Stryker swagger into the tavern where the pirate captain of the more fortunate vessel was known to spend most of his booty.

“Drinks all round!” Stryker called to the bar wench. Then to the crowd, “Celebrate with me this rare night of good fortune for all!”

A shout of approval went up.

“All,” Stryker amended, “except the gutted Spaniards who went down with their ships!” His coarse laughter started a roar of merry utterances.

While Stryker and a few of our men drank toast after toast with the more fortunate captain and crew, the remainder of our hands placed firewood around the tavern. I knew what was coming.

A warning, I should shout a warning.

And I’d be gutted like the Spaniards. Pirate law allowed, “He that shall desert in time of battle shall be punished by death or marooning.” To warn the captain’s enemies was the same as deserting, and I’d never known Stryker to choose the lesser punishment. So I stood helplessly staring.

At Stryker’s signal, his men overtook the opposing crew at knife point.

“Quite a bounty you lot divvied today, eh, lads? I’ll be takin it now, so empty yer pockets, if ye please.”

After gathering the plunder, Stryker and his men left the tavern, nailing door and windows shut on the way out. The firewood was already aflame. While the building burned with everyone inside, Stryker’s men seized the other pirate ship and sailed away with the prize he considered rightfully his. Too cowardly to do otherwise, I sailed along with them.

That night on Roatan was not the first or last time I witnessed the captain’s vengeance. I harbored no doubt that, had I intervened, Stryker would have fed me alive to a pool of moray eels for the pleasure of watching me die in agony.

The wind had freshened now, as I stood woolgathering. I watched a few whitecaps crest at about three feet. The first mate passed by, seeing to the ship, but didn’t notice me. After thirty-some decades, the Sarah Jane and I know each other well, and upon hearing his footsteps I had migrated to her darkest nook, further obscured by a curtain of thick rain coming in at a steeper angle since the wind picked up.

Through the watery veil, a shadow drew my attention. I stiffened and, beneath the slicker, gripped the rubber-coated handle of the electric prod.

An instant later, I realized the shadow was only moon and clouds playing tricks.

The sound of rain hitting the sea and deck filled my ears. How long I’d been standing, scarcely moving a muscle, escaped me, but I wished the bloody storm would blow on past, so

I could get some rest tonight for the meeting with Shaman Shawnte tomorrow.

Voices drifted up from the main deck as passengers left the dining room bidding one another goodnight before dashing through the rain for their quarters. Some time later, the dining room lights went out. The absence of their reflection on the water left the night darker than before. Only the few mates on watch duty would be about.

Later still, I glimpsed what I’d been expecting.

Join me here next week for another chapter of Paradise Cursed, or BUY THE BOOK now, because you’ll want to read what happens next.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 22

December 25, Sisseton, South Dakota

Dixie stormed out of the cabin. Lifting her face to the sun’s brilliance, she filled her lungs with clean winter air. But the awful images clung to her mind like swamp moss. She knocked a bead of ice off the Mustang’s door handle, opened the door, and slid onto the driver’s seat. From the snapshot clipped to the visor, the Keyes girls grinned down at her. On the drive from Texas, their trusting brown eyes had egged her on, willing her to find Betsy’s killer. Now she looked at the snapshot and an ache filled her chest. Two of those three girls were dead. Not one, but two.

She looked away. Her deep feeling of loss made no sense. Dixie had never met Betsy or Courtney, and both had died months ago. Betsy in the spring, Courtney in the summer.

An accident at camp, Dann had said. What were the odds of two fatal accidents occurring in the same family in three months?

Dixie found a napkin in the burger sack and blew her nose. When she looked back at the snapshot, her throat tightened again. She’d made a silent promise that she could no longer fulfill, because Courtney Keyes was dead. Never mind that she died long before Dixie went after Parker Dann. For Dixie, Courtney had been alive, grinning down at her from that visor.

Parker Dann’s case file lay on the passenger seat, under the thermos. Dixie picked it up. She slipped off the rubber band, looping it around her wrist, and opened the folder. Midway through the papers she found Belle’s notation about Courtney’s death. The nine-year-old had drowned on the last day of camp, on the morning of a swim contest. Swimming alone, before breakfast. Belle had talked with the physician who signed the death certificate. The doctor thought Courtney might have suffered a cramp and then got disoriented under the water. An accident. Three months earlier, Courtney’s sister Betsy was killed in an accident. A grotesque coincidence? The mother must be a blattering basket case worrying about her third chick.

Dixie thought about Ryan, the way his twelve-year-old face brightened when he saw his Aunt Dixie, and imagined the agony of losing him.  She fished the newspaper clipping of Dann’s arraignment out of the file. Rebecca Keyes, pale and thin, sat close to her husband, who looked angry enough to kill. The two girls huddled together, Ellie’s small hands clutching the picture book, solemn eyes steady on the page, while her sister glared at Parker Dann.

Dann had been out on bail when the camp accident occurred. He could have murdered both girls, setting up both as accidents. But what reason would he have? Dixie had encountered perversions often enough to know they could surface in the must unlikely personalities. But men who killed children to satisfy some sick need generally wanted close physical contact. They strangled or stabbed, they didn’t run down a child with a car.

Belle had seen no connection between the two deaths. Apparently neither had the DA. It was tragic, certainly, but not unheard of for two family members to die in rapid, unrelated succession. If foul play had been suspected, the media would’ve pounced on it, quick to point out that the man accused of hit-and-run manslaughter of Betsy Keyes was free on bail at the time of her sister’s “accident.”

Okay, so the deaths happened months apart in different counties.

Dixie recalled Dann’s face when the domino spun off the table and hit the window. She’d seen torment there. Every good salesman was part actor, but it would take the skill of an Anthony Hopkins to fake the anguish she’d seen in Dann’s eyes. Was he that good? If she hadn’t caught up with him, he’d be in Canada — hiding out awhile, then reappearing under a new name. The long arm of the law didn’t reach that far in such cases. He’d be a free man.

An innocent man?

Guilty or not, Belle hadn’t been happy with the way Dann’s trial was going. Unless new evidence surfaced in his favor — a witness who saw someone else driving Dann’s car, for instance — Parker Dann would likely spend the next two to twenty years in prison.

Dixie pulled the snapshot off the visor. Her silent promise had been to bring Betsy’s killer to justice. Suppose that killer wasn’t Dann?

Court would reconvene on January 4. If they arrived back in Houston by the twenty-eighth, say, she’d have five or six days to poke around. Granting they were accidents, the stolen-car-drug-dealer theory wasn’t too far out. On the other hand, if the answer was that easy, Belle’s investigator would have turned up something. Or maybe not. Since Dixie had taken up skip tracing, her information network surpassed anything she’d relied on as ADA. It certainly surpassed any network Belle might be using.

Dixie put the news clipping back in Dan’s folder, slipped the rubber band around it, and laid the file on the seat. Then she put the snapshot back on the sun visor. When they hit the highway tomorrow — or the next day — she’d have eleven hundred miles to make a decision.

Join me right here next week for another Bitch Factor chapter.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Chapter 35

 THEY ARRIVED AT THE TRADITIONAL BRICK TWO-STORY HOUSE on a corner overlooking the golf course to find the widow waiting for them. Thin and drab in a blue print dress, Sarabelle stood in the doorway, arms crossed in defiance. For all her feminine frailness, she could be a formidable adversary, Booker decided. Melinda had better watch her toes.

“I phoned both boys and left a message that you were coming.” Her jaw kicked up and her pale eyes shone like quicksilver. “Until they arrive, I suggest we stand on the porch and admire this fine evening.”

“If you’re scared of Booker, I’m here for protection,” Emaline shouted.

“Either we wait for my boys or we do this another time.”

“No problem waiting for your sons,” Booker assured her. “You certainly have an elegant home, Mrs. Fowler.” Pushing the sheriff’s spiral tablet into his back pocket, he hoped to avoid turning a simple interview into a confrontation.

Pride softened the woman’s face. “Thank you. We love it here.”

“Been at Lakeside a while, I take it?” The property had been handsomely landscaped, with a gazebo, swimming pool, tennis court and the overall appearance of stability. If this was the Fowlers’ weekend getaway, their Houston residence must be a wonder to behold.

“Charles and I had this house built twelve years ago. Before that, we summered in a small place on Bass Lake, which we rent now to weekenders. Houston is where I work, but Lakeside Estates is home.”

Booker appreciated the distinction. “Home is where the heart is?”

“Something like that.”

“If you like it so much,” Emaline said, “why the devil don’t you move here full time? Masonville has a school you could teach at.”

“We planned to retire next year. At least, I intended to retire.” She lowered her gaze to a simple gold band on her left ring finger. “Chuck would have gone on working until he was ninety. He believed the adage about idle hands.”

A Chevy sedan trailed red dust into the air as it sped down the road and into the driveway. Jeremy stepped out, looking like a storm cloud.

“What’s going on, Mama?”

He strode up beside her and stood in the spacious doorway, two pieces of the same puzzle.

“It’s all right, son.” Sarabelle patted his back. “Mr. Krane wants to ask some questions. I thought you and Aaron should be here, as well, to save this man the trouble of speaking to us individually.”

Sure she did. Booker merely smiled and nodded.

The widow stepped aside for him and Emaline to enter, then led the way to a formal sitting room. The traditional décor, like the landscaped yard, had an understated, professional quality about it. Booker’s decorator friend would have added more color—tealstone, no doubt.

“I’ve made tea. Would you bring it in, Jeremy?” When he continued down the hall, Sarabelle waved her unwanted guests toward a pair of chairs flanking a mahogany end table.

“Sit down. Please. No reason not to be civilized about this. I understand Coroner Birdwell appointed you some sort of investigator, Mr. Krane?”

“Temporarily. To provide the sheriff with added manpower until the question of your husband’s death is resolved. I’m sorry to barge in like this.”

“I’m happy to do whatever I can to help,” she said.

As long as her two sons were present to support her story.

Jeremy arrived from the kitchen, carrying a tray.

“The sheriff said Pop’s death was an accident. Birdwell should leave it at that.” The boy set the tray on a low claw-foot coffee table. “With all the questions and insinuations floating around, Mama hasn’t had time to grieve in peace.”

Outside, a car door slammed. Sarabelle used silver tongs to plunk ice into tall crystal tumblers. She had the hands of a lady, Booker noticed, slender and well kept.

“Your father died because of that woman, Jeremy, and I want her in jail.”

“Mama—”

“Son, you’ve been away, involved in school and theater. You hadn’t seen the way your father changed.”

“Mama’s right,” Aaron said, appearing in the doorway, Diet Coke in hand. “A year ago, Pop would’ve snapped up any reasonable investment. But all this year, he’s been cashing and stashing. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Ms. Swivelhips’ name on all Dad’s bank accounts.”

“Aaron!” Sarabelle’s hand shook, spilling tea from the pitcher. “You knew about that?”

Emaline grabbed a napkin, mopped up the tea, her ears recording every word the Fowlers uttered, Booker figured. He started to interject a question but clamped down on it. The family was doing a good job of dragging out its dirty laundry without any help from him. Listening was an art, and while Emaline was something of a master at gathering intel,

Booker was no slouch, either.

“Mama, if you hadn’t kept your head in the sand, you’d know, too,” Aaron said. “You couldn’t go anywhere in fifty miles without running into Dad and his mistress sneaking around together. I heard them in a booth next to mine in Normanville one night.” He gestured with his Coke toward a town roughly twenty miles southwest. “They didn’t know I was there. Melinda talked about unloading land that hadn’t appreciated fast enough and buying other property. Said she often stumbled across deals that needed quick decisions.

Said with him, meaning Daddy, on the road all week, she needed access to his working capital.”

“They were merely discussing your father’s investments,” Sarabelle argued, but her gray eyes glittered with tears.

Aaron stared at her in silence.

“Your father wasn’t himself,” she relented. “That woman changed him.”

Jeremy stood behind his mother and patted her shoulder. “Mr. Krane, why don’t you ask your questions and go?”

“Great idea, Booker. Get on with it and let these good people get on with their supper.” Emaline had been studying a painting of bluebonnets. Now she ambled toward a hallway that led to other parts of the house. “Sarabelle, I need to visit your facility.”

“First door past the den,” Sarabelle said.

Fumbling in his pocket for the sheriff’s notebook, Booker regretted not establishing the rapport he’d hoped. Rapport was tremendously helpful in eliciting information.

“Mrs. Fowler, you told Sheriff Ringhoffer you came home from church on August sixth and stayed home all day. From other testimony at the inquest, it seems you may have stopped at Ms. McCray’s house that morning, before going to church, that you may have threatened her and your husband, and that later, you followed your husband to town. Is that correct?”

“No. Every word out of that woman’s mouth is a lie.”

“Is there anyone who could corroborate that you went straight to church and were here at home that afternoon?” Several people had seen Sarabelle at church, but no one could say when she arrived.

“If Mama says she was home, she was home,” Jeremy put in quietly.

“I talked to her,” Aaron said. “Called her right here at this number.”

Sarabelle looked at him.

Here it comes, Booker thought. The alibi. I was thirty-six miles away in Bryan, but talked to Mama on the telephone for four hours straight.

“Remember what you talked about?” Booker asked.

“Sure. Labor Day weekend’s coming up, okay? And we always barbecue. I wanted to let her know I was bringing someone.”

“You phoned from the dealership?” Telephone records might show the call. Bryan wasn’t long-distance, but if he used the dealership phone, it might retain numbers dialed.

“That’s right.”

“Mrs. Fowler, your husband took archery equipment with him that afternoon. Did he say what he planned to do with it?”

“No, he didn’t.” She shifted uneasily on the sofa.

“He didn’t mention practicing later?”

“Pop never practiced,” Aaron said. “Unless he had money on a match or was showing off to someone. And he never shot at still targets.”

“Sure he did,” Jeremy said. “He just didn’t tell anyone about it. I’ve seen him shoot in the back room at the store.”

“Not alone,” Aaron insisted. “He was showing off or teaching somebody.”

Jeremy shrugged.

Interesting. “Could your husband have been planning to give someone an archery lesson, Mrs. Fowler?” But why would he go out in the August heat when he could use the air conditioned lanes at the Gilded Trout?

Sarabelle frowned and pleated her skirt. “That’s possible, I suppose.”

Booker studied a blank page of the sheriff’s note pad. He honestly had hoped to establish Sarabelle’s whereabouts for the entire afternoon and scratch her name off the list. He

didn’t want this family suffering any more than it already had.

“Aaron, what time did you talk to your mother that day?” he asked.

“About four-thirty. Busy day. Lot of tire kickers. Then we got a lull.”

“I drove down the road here about six that evening,” Emaline piped, coming back into the room. “Sarabelle’s car was parked in the driveway.”

“Then that settles it. What more do you want?” Aaron demanded. “Mama says she was here, I say she was here, and Mrs. Peters says she was here. The only one who says different

is that lying bitch in Masonville. Find out where she was when Pop was killed.”

“Come on, Booker,” Emaline said. “You got what you need here.”

Not exactly. From four-thirty to six o’clock left a number of hours unaccounted for. Turtle Lake was at most a ten-minute drive from the Fowlers’ house. Booker figured he’d learned all he could at the moment, though. He finished his tea and thanked them for their help.

Standing on the porch again, Jeremy’s Chevy churning up red dust as he headed for the Carey theater, Booker shook Sarabelle’s slender hand and asked if there was anything else she wanted to tell him.

“Mr. Krane, that McCray woman insinuated herself into every part of my husband’s life,” the widow said simply.

Aaron wrapped an arm protectively around his mother. His glare told Booker it was indeed time to go.

As Emaline steered the Wrangler out of the circular driveway, Booker looked back at the widow standing ramrod stiff beside her son. Slender, pale, but not at all frail, Sarabelle’s grip had been as strong as Jeremy’s.

“Okay, my self-appointed deputy investigator, what were you up to with that transparent ploy to prowl through the Fowlers’ house? More than going to the bathroom, I’ll bet.”

Emaline smiled smugly. “I found a family album in the den.”

“Don’t tell me! There’s a black-sheep relative who just got out of jail after serving time for assault with a deadly bow.”

“Don’t be a nincompoop, Booker. I found the boys’ baby pictures, dated at the bottom and taken at the hospital where they were born. I got everything I need to do their horoscopes.”

“No. That nonsense does no good and could do plenty of harm if you spread rumors.”

“Booker Krane, you investigate this case your way. I have my own methods.”

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Paradise Cursed – Chapter 26

The delicious smells in the dining room had drawn Dayna to the buffet before she realized she was hungry. She piled at least a pound of fried fish and “swimps” on her plate, plus a mound of fries. She could blame her gluttony on hard work and fresh sea air.

Looking at the “swimp” as she dipped it in red sauce, she thought of Ayanna. Erin had explained a little of what was happening, but it was too weird to believe. A curse? Could that be a real thing, not just a plot device for some low-rent horror flick?

Erin’s sadness was real enough. It’d been bad after she ditched the jerk, but at least she had also felt rage. Now her face had frozen in frown lines, like their mom had always warned them might happen. And who could blame her?

Even though Erin wasn’t responsible for Ayanna’s condition, she’d been wheedled into helping by Captain Moody, and Erin’s help had only made it worse. At least that was her spin on it. Dayna hoped to get a word with old Moody Blue Eyes and learn his side of it.

Regardless, whatever had happened in this room during their voodoo-seance-witch-spell thing must have gone awfully wrong. What Dayna had seen in Ayanna’s cabin was a horror from Hell.

And how much of that was Dayna’s fault? Her mind had been worrying that question around ruthlessly, like when she was six and couldn’t keep her tongue off a loose tooth. If she hadn’t pressured Erin into taking this cruise, they could be lying on the beach under a big yellow canopy while a couple of cute cabana boys massaged their skin and muscles with coconut oil.

From the beginning, Erin had balked about coming aboard, and maybe that was some spooky guardian angel telling her to steer clear. But Dayna pushed and pulled and harped until her sister couldn’t find another reason not to go.

So yes, it was Dayna’s fault.

Oh, boo-hoo, poor you. She grinned, knowing that’s exactly what Erin would say. Stop wallowing in your screw-up. Get busy and fix it.

Okay. She didn’t know how, but she’d think of some way to help Ayanna and Erin. For now she was almost too stuffed to walk, but she hadn’t forgotten the captain’s number one rule—keep the passengers happy. Rising to find Jase and tackle her next dreaded “make nice” assignment, she saw that Erin had come in and was sitting with Ola and Lorraine, a lady as skinny and white as Ola was chubby and black.

“Let me tell you, chile,” Ola was saying, apparently talking about Erin, “this girl is the real deal. She sat right here last night reading my cards, and ever single word she spoke was pure truth. If she can read that good on stuff that’s already happened, then I know she’s on the mark with what’s happening later this year. And it’s goooood. You should let her read the cards for you, girly.”

At Lorraine’s insistent begging, Erin retrieved the cards from her big yellow bag while Ola stacked their dinner plates.

“I’ll take those,” Dayna said. She wasn’t on galley duty tonight, but she carried the dishes to the bus cart by the galley door.

From inside Cookie’s private space, where he turned out such delicious grub, she heard a guitar being tuned. She crept to the door and peeked in.

Cookie saw her and smiled. “Show time, pretty lady. What are you singing tonight?”

“Me? I don’t sing.” Not entirely true, but not in front of strangers.

“Well, then, you’d best know how to dance.”

Behind her, someone rang the bell Cookie had used to announce the dinner buffet. She turned to find Jase Graham standing in the middle of the room, where several tables had been pushed back to clear a space.

“Tonight our usual ten-minute rain shower is likely to last a while longer. Those clouds you probably noticed in the northeast have moved in, which means we won’t be comfortable lying on our lounge chairs, gazing at the stars to digest this fine meal Cookie made for us.”

Someone applauded. Others joined in, including Dayna. Pretty sure they were not applauding the rain, she peeked in at Cookie and put her hands together good and loud.

“So we’re going to create our own entertainment,” Jase said. “Everybody here has a story to tell, a personal truth, a whopping fish tale, a joke, or maybe you have a song, which our galley king will be happy to accompany on his good ol’ Gibson.”

On cue, Cookie came out picking a tune Dayna remembered hearing but couldn’t name, probably because it came from the dark ages. This time Jase started the applause.

“Here’s one I’ll bet most of you know,” he said. “The sailor coming around the room right now is handing out lyrics to ‘Greensleeves,’ and also to a few other songs. While we’re singing, think of that joke or story you want to share with us. You know you want to.”

As an emcee, Jase wasn’t all that bad, Dayna admitted. She still didn’t trust him, maybe because he seemed to be stealing Ayanna’s job as first mate. Considering what was keeping Ayanna locked in her cabin, though, Dayna decided she should cut Jase some slack. He did appear to know about running a cruise ship, including how to please the passengers.

Even Erin wasn’t frowning so hard now that she’d been reprieved from reading Lorraine’s future.

Instead of heading back to their table, Dayna detoured to the open doorway to look outside. Light rain, wind at twenty, waves running long and fairly smooth. Nothing dramatic. Relief not to be battling a storm tonight turned quickly to self reproach. A good storm could teach her a lot about sailing.

*

The door to Ayanna’s cabin radiated heat. Standing at the threshold, I stared at the doorknob for a full minute before finally reaching for it.

Heat? I pulled my hand back and stared again.

Nonsense. You simply don’t want to go back in that room.

I leaned against the bulkhead beside the door and filled my pipe. Judging by what I could see through the open companionway, the rain was still light enough not to be a problem. With luck, the night would pass without further incident from the Bokor and with no further agitation from those rainclouds.

A figure hurried down the companionway holding a sheaf of papers overhead to catch droplets, and I recognized it as Marisha. I should not feel so grateful to return bedside duty to her, but I would rather face my old enemy, the rain, than go back into that room for any length of time.

“How is she?” Marisha asked.

“Some physical changes, but she’s resting.”

I grabbed the doorknob—not even warm—turned it so we could peek in.

Ayanna’s eyes were closed. Her leathery lips were parted, showing the awful teeth. She stirred, moaned.

Quietly, I asked, “When her body first began going through this transformation, did she at any time seem angry or aggressive in her behavior?”

“Aggressive?”

“As if to snap your head off.”

“Oh.” She seemed startled by the idea. “No, nothing like that. Pain, yes, but not anger.”

Was it my presence that caused the Bokor to manifest with such malice? If Marisha had encountered anything as malevolent as what I saw in Ayanna’s eyes, and continued sitting alone in that room, she was a better man than I.

“Did Demarae tell you what Shaman Shawnte said about the sedative?”

Marisha nodded. “I won’t give her another dose, unless…” Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she shook her head. “It is very difficult to watch a person suffer such torment and not help.”

“You’re the physician,” I said. “She’s your patient, not Shawnte’s, at least not yet. It must be your decision, and I’ll respect it.”

Again, she nodded, then she went inside.

An odd notion crept into my brain. Was it possible the Bokor had cursed Ayanna simply to maneuver her into traveling on the Sarah Jane?

She professed to having no idea who would pay to have her cursed. If the Sarah Jane’s rumored magic attracted the Bokor’s interest, he may have chosen Ayanna merely because of her qualifications as a seaman, and he might reasonably assume I’d be the person to deal with most aggressively.

Or I was merely the person in the room when he showed himself. In any case, Ayanna appeared to be resting now as well as we could expect. I asked Marisha to note any further aggressions in her patient.

Then I mounted the stairs to the main deck.

As I feared, our light shower was rapidly thickening.

Join me here next week for another chapter of Paradise Cursed, or BUY THE BOOK now, because you’ll want to read what happens next.

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 21

August 1, Camp Cade, Texas

Courtney stamped her feet on the grassy lake bank, waiting for dawn to brighten the sky a little and watching for the first sign of lightning. Angry clouds churned overhead, turning the early light eerie. She hoped Counselor Frey wouldn’t cancel the race because of the storm, then reminded herself to THINK POSITIVE.

She could scarcely believe her good luck yesterday, beating Queen Toad’s best time. Of course, no one knew yet. She’d been practicing, sure, swimming her arms off every single day, building her strength and lung capacity like Daddy Jon had taught her.

In today’s meet, when it really mattered, when she’d be swimming against Queen Toad FOR REAL, knowing she absolutely, positively HAD to beat her, and knowing deep in her bones she could win hands down, no ties, no retakes, who could blame her for worrying that something freaky like this storm would wipe out her big chance? She hugged herself against a chill as a brisk breeze brought goose bumps to her bare skin.

“No lightning, no lightning, no lightning,” she chanted softly. Counselor Frey was a safety nut. Even without lightning, she might stop the swim meet if it rained hard enough. Grown-ups were weird like that, worrying about a little rain when you were already soaking wet in the lake.

Mama had promised to arrive early enough to see the swim contest. Daddy Travis had begged off to take care of some business, something to do with his new computer department, and Daddy Jon had to go out of town. Maybe Mama would stop at Camp Donovan to pick up Ellie. That’d be great, because Ellie would cheer louder than anybody. Ellie was Courtney’s biggest fan.

A dark thought slithered through Courtney’s mind. All during summer camp she’d worried about Ellie, badgering Counselor Bryan every night until she telephoned Camp Donovan to make sure Ellie was all right. Now the two weeks were almost over. Suppose something happened on this very last day, something terrible.

Think positive. Think positive. Think positive.

The camp floodlights winked off on their timer. Just a few more minutes and the sun would creep up behind the clouds. Courtney imagined the final race–all the girls and their moms and dads crowding around. Having won three heats already, Courtney would be the center of attention when Queen Toad stepped up, tall and sleek in her blue racing suit. She’d sneer down her skinny nose, but with everyone listening, she’d pretend to be a good sport.

“You looked pretty good yesterday, Keyes.”

“Thanks. So did you.” Admitting it would be worse than eating boiled squash, but Toad really was a good swimmer, a blue streak gliding through the water. Courtney’s speed and form had improved, yet she knew she looked more like a squiggle than a streak, with her stupid lopsided freestyle. She’d been working hard to smooth it out. When she forgot about form and went full out for speed, she swam better. Faster.

“Keep it up, Keyes, and you might come in second. Not a close second–I’ll be kicking water in your face all the way.”

Courtney could almost hear the sneering voice, and she tried to think of a clever comeback, something to singe Toad’s tomato-soup hair. She’d work on it, have one ready by race time.

A few raindrops sprinkled Courtney’s shoulders. The sun still sat low behind the trees, but the sky was bright enough for a practice swim. Imagining the “take your marks” announcement crackling over the speaker, she stood in position, heard the starting gun in her head and dove. The water wrapped her in silence.

Seconds later she burst through the surface.

DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! Was that Toad half a length ahead? Seeing the blue streak in her mind, Courtney grabbed the water in front of her and shoved it behind with all the force she could manage. She kicked and stroked harder than she ever had before, imagining the cheers from the bank, while concentrating on grabbing water and pushing it behind… pull, kick, stroke, stroke…

She could do it, she knew she could do it. Her lungs felt strong, her legs powerful. The opposite bank didn’t look so far now.

Courtney closed her eyes and willed her legs to kick harder, smoother. Remember to follow through… follow through… follow through…

She opened her eyes. The bank was closer. She was gaining on her best speed–she felt sure of it! And she wasn’t a bit tired.

She could make it. She could WIN. A few more strokes, and THEN who would be kicking water in whose face?

What was that grabbing her foot? Something under the water had wrapped around her ankle. Slithery plants grew close to the bank, but they usually didn’t grow this far out.

She kicked hard, broke free of the plant’s rough grasp, and shot forward– 

The plant grabbed her foot again, slowing her down. Slipping underwater, she reached back to pull herself free of the clutchy thing. The lake’s undergrowth kept the water dark, especially this early in the morning, greenish-brown, never clear enough to see more than a few feet. And something had churned up muddy gunk from the lake bottom. Courtney couldn’t see at all. But she didn’t need to see, did she? All she had to do was reach down and find the plant with her fingers–

Uhh! The vine pulled tighter, almost as if someone were yanking on it, pulling her toward the bottom of the lake–

Worry skittered around her mind. Something wasn’t right here, something was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG.

The creepy rustlings earlier–the shape at the window, the footsteps she’d chased through the trees, the flash of white running shoes–suddenly all the images rushed at her.

Oh, no, now the vine was around both feet, wrapping round and round her ankles, like a rope, tying her feet together… how could a plant do that? Fear shuddered through her. If only she could SEE WHAT WAS HAPPENING!

Twisting in the water, she bent double to pull at the vine–or was it a rope? It was scratchy like a rope.

Now something moved just beyond her reach. Not the watery plants but something solid. A person.

Oh, no, no, no. It was a person–pulling her deeper and deeper.

Her lungs burned. BURNED. She needed air… had to get to the surface.

She let her body go slack, let her bottom drop lower, drew her knees in, gathering the power in her legs…

Then pushed!

And broke free, the rope still binding her feet, but free of whoever was pulling her. She shot toward the surface–

And was yanked back. Her lungs were on fire… she needed oxygen… her head swam with tiny fireflies, buzzing.

Buzzing.

It would feel so good to go to sleep… to sleep… to sleep to stop the burning… burning… burning…

Courtney opened her mouth and allowed cool water to quench the fire.

Join me right here next week for another Bitch Factor chapter.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man – Chapter 34

ARMED WITH HIS GAME PLAN, BOOKER WAS EAGER TO FINISH the coroner’s interviews and get on with shooting his country moments, but he couldn’t see much gain in driving to town this late in the day. Start early tomorrow and he could catch the Masonville suspects before meeting with the sheriff, drive to Bryan afterward to visit with Aaron and Jeremy, then finish with Sarabelle.

Or start with Sarabelle. The Fowler house sat less than two miles away. He’d rather gather as much information as possible, though, before talking to the prime suspect, the one who stood to gain most from her husband’s death.

According to the sheriff’s notes, Fowler, like many folks, had put off making a will and died intestate. The widow would retain her half of the estate through community property law plus a share of her husband’s half along with the two boys and any other heirs who surfaced.

Considering her bow-hunting experience, Booker couldn’t discount Sarabelle as a cold-blooded killer. The sheriff had only her word that Fowler hadn’t revealed what he planned to do with his archery equipment that day. She might easily have guessed, then loaded her own equipment into the blue Mercedes before following him to town, and to his practice setup in the woods. Sarabelle’s shooting skill was signified by the snapshot on Pete Littlehawk’s brag board, and a man made a much bigger, slower target than a wild turkey.

Booker shuddered. The sheriff’s notes indicated the length of the arrow shaft found, which matched the point broken off in Fowler’s chest: thirty-three inches. Certainly not a woman’s reach. His own extended to thirty-two. Chuck Fowler was a big man, so the theory that he’d been killed with his own arrow may have been right from the start. Aaron was as tall as his dad, whereas Jeremy’s reach would be closer to a woman’s. Booker wondered if Ramsey Crawford was a bow hunter.

He decided to hold off talking to Sarabelle until after his other interviews. Meanwhile, he had to shoot the photographs for Southern Affairs. If he carried his camera and a supply of model releases as he scurried around asking questions, he just might stumble on a country moment or two.

Pup, fidgety for attention, grabbed a mouthful of Booker’s pants leg. When Booker tried to shake loose, the mutt sat back on his haunches, rolled his brown eyes, and looked hurt.

“I suppose we could both use some exercise, couldn’t we?” Maybe he could grab a few shots of a “resident’s frisky pet” while they played.

He hooked his camera bag off the floor while Pup bounded to the door panting happily. Beyond the window glass, the sunset had turned spectacular, ribbons of orange and red layered beneath the purple cloud bank—a choice opportunity.

He tossed a stick a few times to wear down Pup’s energy, then set up a tripod near the woods along his eastern property line. From that vantage, he could see a corner of the house, the pier, a piece of the lake, and the neon sunset reflected on everything. He attached a long cable release to the motor drive, set the focus for a point near the pier, then let fly with the stick again.

Pup zipped after it and snatched the stick out of the air with a twist of his wiry body. Booker clicked the motor drive, racking off shots. Even if Southern Affairs didn’t buy these, they’d make a fine addition to his growing library of stock photography.

What he needed for the retirement shots, though, was a geezer in the frame playing with his trusty friend. Being the only geezer around, Booker set the timer on automatic. While he and Pup tussled, the motor drive buzzed.

Afterward, breathing hard, he leaned against a tree. Amazing how quiet the evenings became once the weekenders departed. No motorboats grinding in the distance, no cars stirring up dust along the road, no kids shouting at each other across the water. This was the sort of peaceful evening Booker had envisioned when he moved to Lakeside.

Behind him, the woods rustled, a deer, raccoon, or maybe an armadillo burrowing for roots. Fireflies darted through the brush. Pup tried to bark them deeper into the woods, but they ignored him, so Pup returned to dance around Booker’s feet, urging him to help.

Then Pup froze, ears pricked toward the trees.

Booker hadn’t heard anything. The waning light and abundant scrub brush prevented seeing any deeper than the first dozen feet or so past his property line. Sometimes deer ventured into the yard at this time of evening.

Pup growled.

Strange. The dog generally liked four-legged company, yelped them a hearty welcome and couldn’t understand why they ran away. Whatever moved in the woods tonight, Pup didn’t want it coming any closer.

Booker turned the camera around and peered through the lens. It brought the darkness nearer but didn’t illuminate anything. Then a quick movement caught his eye. Too high off the ground to be a deer. Maybe a night bird in the branches.

Pup dashed to the woods’ edge, barking furiously. Not his welcoming bark at all.

“C’mon, fella, let’s take a stroll.” He detached the camera from the tripod and crossed into the growth. Instantly, darkness closed around him.

Pup growled and stayed back.

“What’s wrong, boy? C’mon.”

But the dog whined and grabbed a mouthful of Booker’s pants, something that usually meant he wanted to play. He tugged Booker back toward the yard. When he resisted, Pup tugged harder. He was stronger than Booker realized.

“Stop it, Pup! Let go!”

Usually obedient, the dog dug in his heels, teeth locked tight in the fabric. He jerked his head back and forth, and Booker felt his balance going. He grabbed for a tree limb. Finally, he let himself be pulled into the yard to avoid falling on his butt.

The woods would be too dark soon to capture anything, even with flash, he reasoned. Yet Pup’s behavior surprised him. As soon as Booker crossed out of the brush and shadows, the dog let go of his pants.

Booker squatted and scratched Pup’s good ear.

“What’s going on, fella? Hmmm? Got a coon in there? Or a Texas alligator, crawled up from Brazos River? Or maybe you buried a choice bone you don’t want me to find.”

He petted the dog for a while, calming him. Then he packed up the camera gear and considered the shots he’d taken. Geezer with dog fetching. Geezer with dog tussling. Dog bites geezer’s butt. Not precisely the sort of country moments his editor wanted.

Walking to the door, he glanced through a window into the lighted den. Seeing the grid with Sarabelle’s name circled in bright red, he decided to put her first on his interview list, after all. What would be the best approach? Thinking Booker was friendly with Melinda, she might resist answering his questions. Best clear up that misguidance as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure at all how she felt about Roxanna.

He could phone, make an appointment, but he’d likely gather more nonverbal feedback if he simply showed up on the widow’s doorstep tomorrow morning in his new, official capacity: Coroner’s Investigator. Booker didn’t know if the title would open doors, but at least he’d have surprise working for him.

He’d barely reached the front stoop when Emaline’s Wrangler turned into the driveway. Pup barked a greeting and sniffed at the wheels.

“Load up, Booker,” Emaline called. “Let’s get this investigation moving. I phoned Sarabelle. Told her you had some questions, and if she wants her husband’s murder cleared up, she’d best cooperate with us.”

“Us? I don’t recall asking for your help, Emaline.”

“You’re a stranger, Booker. You’ll raise hackles just knocking on doors. I can smooth the way for you.”

She had a point. Everybody knew her, and despite Emaline’s loud, pushy disposition, most people seemed to like her. And he did need to stop procrastinating, but…so much for his element of surprise.

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Paradise Cursed – Chapter 25

Despite those somber clouds following us from the northeast, a quarter moon and few stars shone down to reflect like jewels on the quiet waves as evening settled over the sea. After the injection of Dilaudid, and waiting an eternity for it to take full effect, the thing that had once been my beautiful first mate had finally lain still.

Her eyes opened. Closed. In that brief moment, Ayanna stared back at us with the yellow irises and slitted black pupils of a reptile, then she appeared to be sleeping calmly, though who could know what bloody hell was happening inside her while she slept.

Watching Marisha return the needle and medicine vial to her bag, I told Demarae, “You need to talk to this super-shaman and find out how to slow down this… this whatever this is… until he can work his magic. If we let this continue, Ayanna won’t even be human when we arrive at Roatan.”

He nodded. I took Erin’s arm and coaxed her toward the door. Feeling a shudder, of what I presumed was empathy, I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. I needed a smoke, and Erin clearly needed a respite from Ayanna’s pain. Marisha pulled up a chair and sat down to watch over her patient.

On route to the cockpit, we’d stopped by the dining room, which was filled with spirited passengers, and I’d asked Cookie to send a plate to Ayanna’s room. Now, with only the crew who were on watch, we had the foredeck to ourselves.

An exciting cruise moment for our guests was the chance to take a turn at the helm, and while the sea remained fairly quiet, I thought it might rest Erin’s mind a bit. Fear and the adrenaline it produces work in peculiar ways at times. After giving the helmsman a break, I instructed Demarae in how to use the satellite equipment to call Shaman Shawnte.

Then I stood behind Erin, gently guiding her hands—the old wooden wheel with its brass inlays as familiar to me as my own boots. The closeness of her curves felt as dangerous as anything I’d encountered that day.

“Handle the wheel as you would the steering on your car,” I told her. “When you want to veer left, turn the wheel left. Turn right to go right.”

Even with the wind coming on at twenty knots, she soon got the hang of it. After a while, I sensed her body relaxing into the sea’s gentle rhythm.

“How old were you when you started sailing?” she asked.

“Nine when I boarded my first ship. A year or two older before I was allowed to take the helm.” Old Stryker would’ve busted a gut if he’d known. A cabin boy had to earn his way from one job to the next, and Stryker liked dangling the fun bits as enticements while making me do scut work. When he holed up for his naps, the sailors taught me things.

Eventually I encountered every yard and sheet, every plank and rail, and had even learned to load the cannons. Those years weren’t as bad as they might’ve been.

“Is life on the sea as glamorous as my sister seems to believe?”

“It’s whatever you make of it.” I smiled at the idea of glamorous. “There’s a delicious thrill about being at sea. Some find the thrill exhilarating, others find it frightening. You’ve nothing solid below, and all manner of creatures that would enjoy taking a bite of you. Your life quite literally depends upon knowing the vessel that holds you safe.”

“So sailors are basically daredevils.”

Her tone suggested “daredevil” equated with “idiot.”

“Some, I suppose.” How could I tell her I’d gladly spend the remainder of my life on land given the chance? “The most beautiful environments are often the least hospitable. Rainforest, dessert, Antarctic. The same sort who enjoys testing himself against nature in those locations might also be drawn to sea, as much for the beauty as for the thrill. When people gather in towns and cities, nature succumbs to asphalt, brick, the foul-smelling byproducts of transportation. I’m sure mankind will eventually find a way to muck up our oceans in the name of progress, but there’s a lot more water than land, so maybe that eventuality will be a long while coming.”

“Do you ever leave it? Do you vacation in Colorado or Mexico City, somewhere far from water?”

“I never have.” To say I’d like to do just that would invite questions I couldn’t answer without lies. But if I had the chance right at that moment to board an airplane to anyplace I chose, I might pass it up to spend more time with this woman. The fragrance of her hair and skin carried on the night air were intoxicating. I wanted to tighten my arms around her and bury my face against her neck.

Behind us, I heard footsteps that told me Demarae had completed his call. Bringing my mind back to the subject of that communication, I turned to face him.

In the moonlight, Demarae’s expression was difficult to read. When it seemed he was going to take an eternity giving us information, I asked, “What did you learn?”

“Shaman Shawnte, after listening to what has occurred since Ayanna boarded the ship, seems confident he can reverse the Bokor’s curse and expel his presence. He didn’t seem at all surprised by the physical changes I described, and in fact believes he might have encountered this Bokor’s work at some point in the past.” He nodded, as if to himself. “We agreed to gather at his home mid-morning, if sea and weather permit. Regardless, he will remain available until we arrive.”

*

So far, we were making good time, but the northeastern sky suggested that might change.

“What recommendations did he offer until we arrive there tomorrow?” It might be the wee hours before passengers were stowed away in their cabins, leaving us the privacy to do another healing ritual in the dining room. Perhaps, instead, we could move Ayanna to my cabin, which was somewhat larger than her own.

“Shaman Shawnte believes we should take no further action.” Demarae’s smile expressed relief. “He recommends we not attempt another cure.”

Erin nodded rather emphatically. “I’m glad, actually. It was dangerous enough this morning with no one else on the ship. Who’s to say someone on board besides us might not be psychic enough to attract this devil’s attention?”

She was right, yet I hadn’t given that idea a passing thought.

“Then I hope Marisha has enough Dilaudid to at least keep Ayanna comfortable,” I said.

If not for the moon shining straight on his face, I might have missed it, but Demarae’s expression turned even sadder than when we were experiencing the peak of Ayanna’s transformation spasms.

“What is it you’re not telling us?” I demanded quietly.

He expelled one of his deep sighs. “Shawnte warned us not to give her more Dilaudid. He believes it may be the worst thing we could have done.”

Bloody hell! How could easing Ayanna’s agony be “the worst thing”? All right, along with numbing the excruciating pain, perhaps the Dilaudid also numbed her ability to fight off the Bokor. That made sense, and I had to agree that Shawnte might be right. Putting myself in Ayanna’s circumstance, however, I’d rather be lucid enough to fight the battle no matter how much it hurt.

So… what had we done to her? What was the Bokor doing to her even now?

The first drops of rain fell in a quick rat-a-tat, interrupting my thoughts. The storm had moved in. Wind and sea remained mild, but the clouds looked ominous.

“Cookie’s serving dinner,” I said, spying the helmsman returning. “Go. I’ll look in on Ayanna and give Marisha a break to join you.”

Eager to get indoors in case the rain thickened, they hurried off. I was glad to have a bit of time with my own thoughts. Every cursed soul that arrived aboard the Sarah Jane was cursed in a different way. Erin’s gift seemed more fortunate than most, but I felt certain she wouldn’t call it a blessing. Ayanna’s plight numbered among the worst I’d encountered.

As I made my way to her cabin, the vague notion of being followed overtook me. I glanced behind and saw only the crew who were on watch. Everyone not needed on deck would take part in the rainy-night festivities that would follow dinner, unless that northeast wind piped up considerably. Then it was all hands on deck. Passengers could entertain themselves with the games we kept for such occasions.

I knocked lightly before entering. Marisha was reading aloud, whether to soothe Ayanna or herself, I wasn’t sure. The doctor offered a thin smile, apparently glad to see me.

“Let me take over,” I said, “though my reading voice isn’t one of my better attributes. How is she?”

“Resting peacefully, as far as I can tell.” She closed her book over a paper marker and set it on the bureau.

“We can only hope.” I saw no reason to tell Marisha what Shawnte had said about the sedative she injected. Demarae would fill her in. In light of Ayanna’s restful appearance, I preferred to believe the drug might be hampering the Bokor’s nasty scheme. Shawnte’s advice came without his actually examining Ayanna, and since there was little we could do to reverse the sedation, why not believe the best?

When Marisha had gone, I felt too restless to sit. Noticing Ayanna’s altar to the orichas had been disarranged by the many pairs of feet in the room today, I knelt and neatened them. I was no shaman, and not even sure how much of their beliefs I understood, but I felt moved to light Ayanna’s candles. What could it hurt?

I had no food to replace what had gone stale, but the orichas were said to appreciate tobacco. My leather pouch held plenty to share, so I dropped a fair-sized pinch in each bowl.

As I lit the candles, it seemed important to pray. That formality was abandoned when my parents were killed, and despite everything I’ve seen, I’d never felt the desire to resurrect the practice. Not formally, anyway.

“This is a good woman,” I said. “She deserves your attention and all the help you can give to fight off this evil practitioner who means to claim her for his own sinister desires. Come, let your goodness shine on Ayanna. Give her the help she needs.”

Directly after the third candle was burning, Ayanna made a sound deep in her throat. Rising, I stuffed my pouch back in my pocket and walked to the side of her bunk.

Her yellow eyes were open and staring. At my approach, they slid sideways in their sockets and regarded me with a burning fierceness. Her leathery lips stretched in a fierce grin.

“Ayanna?” But I knew it wasn’t my first mate peering at me through those eyes.

The throaty sound came again, like a wounded bear trying to escape. Then her hands moved, not in the twitching motion as earlier but—

What I saw was not possible, yet there it was. With telescoping compression, her arms became shorter, the bones moving, adjusting beneath her skin with a sickening crunch.

She shrieked, groaned as the process went on and on, and I stood as helpless as marble. It was Ayanna suffering, but looking into those yellow eyes, I felt the Bokor’s wrath. He wanted me to see this, to see Ayanna’s pain and know that my anemic effort to engage the orichas had done naught but enrage him.

My hands gripped air as I desperately longed for a knife to cut my enemy’s throat and watch those arrogant eyes cloud over in death. But Ayanna was in there, too.

Wasn’t she?

Ayanna might not even be alive any longer, so why not beat the life out of this thing before it attached itself to some other unfortunate soul aboard my ship? If two healing rituals could not stop the Bokor from torturing Ayanna’s mind and body and turning her into a raging beast, why should I believe a third ritual would fare any better, no matter how powerful this new shaman? Why shouldn’t I end the Bokor here and now?

My fists tightened to deliver the first blow of many, to punch that horrible smug grin into pulp. Then Ayanna’s facial bones shifted beneath her skin, as her arm bones had done, pushing the nose and mouth outward, spreading the odious smile wider, the teeth longer, sharper.

I raised my fist.

Another groan escaped her throat, and in the sound I distinguished anguish in the voice I knew to be Ayanna’s—or thought I did. Impossible, of course. Yet the despair in that single muffled cry froze my hand in mid-air.

What was I doing?

Hatred and disgust for the fiend I saw behind that sub-human face kindled my savage urge to crush, destroy, obliterate. I stifled a howl of anger. Turning from the bed, I snatched open the door and ran.

I would have killed her. There was no doubt in my mind.

“Captain? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It was Jase Graham.

I must have appeared somewhat like a monster myself, my face twisted with fury and with the painful effort of breaking away from the madness that had taken me.

“Yes,” I managed. “Fine. Just…”

He glanced at the door. “Is Ayanna’s illness worse? I could go to the dining room, ask if there’s a doctor aboard.”

“No. We have someone treating her.” I wrenched the words from my brain with difficulty. “One of the newcomers is a doctor. I was sitting in while she went to dinner.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yes, actually.” I took a breath and did what I had planned to do earlier in the day. “You can assume the position of first mate for at least the remainder of this cruise. If Ayanna improves over the following week, we’ll reexamine the situation.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded and had the decency not to smile. “Thank you, Captain.”

“For now,” I added, “make sure the passengers are enjoying their meal and the evening festivities. Show that handsome face around the ship.”

He gave his usual casual salute and walked briskly away. Only after he had left my sight did I wonder how Graham happened to be in that precise part of the passageway at that particular moment.

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Bitch Factor, Chapter 20 – and Get a Free Book

Fessing up never came easy, though she’d had plenty of practice. Barney had told her there were two kinds of people, those who asked permission and those who forged ahead, begging forgiveness later. Dixie’d never learned the knack of asking for anything. But she understood quad pro quo.

Before resuming their domino game, she’d scraped the Mustang’s trunk free of snow and had found another pair of handcuffs. The two pairs linked together with some extra chain gave Dann nearly five feet of mobility, enough to take a bathroom break without asking and to sit comfortably in one of the wooden chairs. Watching him move around, she noticed he favored his right leg. An old injury?

She’d also made a fresh pot of coffee. Dann produced an airline-size pony bottle of Baileys Irish Cream to sweeten it.

“You won’t believe this, but I’m a moderate drinker, myself. Most of the time.” He played a six-five on her five-two.

“Right. That’s why you can’t remember what happened the night before the accident.”

“Hellfire, woman, I’d just hit a big sales quota. Happens maybe once a quarter, if I’m lucky. Sure, I celebrate! Deposit the check, hit the Green Hornet, buy drinks for the whole room.”

“Once a quarter?” She didn’t really want to argue about his drinking problem. It was the driving after drinking that caused trouble. “According to your file, you’re a twice-a-week regular at the Green Hornet.”

He flipped a domino down, flipped it back up.

“I stop there couple times a week. Play a few hands of backroom poker, down a drink or two. I’m too old to binge every week–not worth the morning after.” He stared at the dominoes, focusing on something deep in his mind. “Especially that last time. God, what a nightmare, like walking into a tunnel that gets blacker and blacker. Only the nightmare didn’t start until I woke up.”

Hearing the misery in his voice–and wondering if it was genuine–Dixie couldn’t resist asking: “What do you remember?”

He drew a domino from the bone yard.

“I remember it was a busy damn night at the Hornet. Fifteen, twenty guys from a computer software convention, along with the usual crowd.” He paused, spinning a domino facedown. “What I can’t figure out, thought, is where I was between three A.M., when Augie swept me out the door, and seven-forty-five, when… the little girl was killed. I mean, it’s only four friggin blocks to my house. That time of morning, that neighborhood, I rarely meet another car on the road. Not much chance of an accident. Otherwise I’d sleep it off right there in Augie’s parking lot.”

“Have you done that often?”

“Once or twice.” He flipped the domino up, looked at it, turned it down again. “Anyway, after a big night, I’m usually good for ten, twelve hours sleep. So what was I doing back on the road before breakfast? He looked up at her, then shook his head wearily. “Sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this shit. Even if you gave a damn, what could you do about it?”

He’s setting me up, Dixie thought. Selling me swampland. “Did anyone see you going back out the next morning?”

“Nope.” He scraped at a spot on the back of a domino. “Nobody saw me come, nobody saw me leave. Neighbor lady said she saw the car pull out about seven-thirty. Didn’t see who was driving.”

That much was true. Dixie had read it in his file.

“How were you dressed when the cops roused you?”

“Same clothes as the night before. Looked like dogshit, like I’d slept in them, which I probably had.”

“Where were your keys?”

“On the dresser, in this tray where I dump everything out of my pockets.”

“The door was locked?”

“Dead bolt, both doors.”

Also true. Someday she might tell him how easy the back door could be jimmied.

“Anyone else have a key to your car?”

“Nobody.”

“Keep a spare key anywhere?”

“A spare? yeah. Richards, my attorney, asked that, too. I kept a spare key in a magnetic gizmo under the car frame. Wasn’t there when the cops looked. They said it could’ve jarred loose anytime I went over a bump.”

“Plastic or metal?”

“Huh?”

“The key gizmo, was it hard plastic or metal?”

“Metal, I think. Does it matter?”

“It might. the plastic ones can melt and fall off if you put them too close to the exhaust. The metal ones stay on.”

“I don’t know… could probably find out. Bought it at the hardware store around the corner, the one the kid’s father owns.”

“Whose father?” Dixie felt the hair rise on her arms. “The girl who was hit?” She hadn’t realized Dann knew Betsy Keyes.

“Her folks own the hardware store and cafe. I used to eat in the cafe a couple times a week, stopped at the hardware store when I needed anything.”

Dixie stared at him. “So you knew Betsy before she was killed.”

“Her and her two sisters.” He must have noticed Dixie’s curiosity had turned to suspicion; his brows jutted together.

“How well did you know her?”

“Betsy waited on me at the cafe sometimes. Said she wanted to be a writer. I kidded her about being the next Danielle Steel.”

“Did you ever see Betsy outside the cafe??”

“Outside–?”

“Were you ever alone with her?”

His face turned red, hie eyes hot. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking–goddamn, Flannigan! I wouldn’t hurt that kid on purpose. That’s sick.”

“Did you ever see the girl outside the cafe?”

He slammed his dominoes down and shoved them away from him. “You want to know if I get a hard-on for little girls? Shit!”

“Dann, did you ever see the child outside the cafe?”

Turning sideways in the chair, he looked out the window, his jaw tight. Dixie stared silently at his back until he decided to answer, his voice had and flat.

“At the hardware store. She sometimes helped her old man. May’ve seen her playing with the other girls in their yard when I walked by, maybe stopped to talk. But what you’re implying… no.”

He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door against the chain connecting the handcuffs.

Dann’s denial left Dixie cold. Too many times, when prosecuting a case, she had listened to men deny their sick attractions to children. Once, an outraged father agreed to testify against a friend accused of molesting his own daughter. The witness had a girl the same age, and it turned out during the trial that both men had been sexually abusing their daughters for several years. But the outraged father considered his own situation different, claimed he was teaching his little girl how to satisfy a husband, preparing her for wifedom.

Dixe’s anger was like a rock–cold, hard and heavy in her gut. She knew it had more to do with herself that with Dann, and she had to deal with it. She shuffled and reshuffled her hand, snapping the dominoes with unnecessary force on the wooden table.

Picking up one of the worn black rectangles, she ran her thumb across six smooth, dished-out spots. She’d been six years old the first time one of Carla Jean’s men approached her, not yet old enough or savvy enough to know what he wanted; powerless against his advances. Carla Jean wasn’t intentionally a bad mother, but she was absolutely self-centered, incurably romantic, and too generous with her body. She believed in “happily ever after,” believed that someday a prince would carry her away to a golden castle. Meanwhile, she brought home every man she met who had a sexy smile and a pretty line of bullshit.

Dixie had been sitting in bed, reading a picture book about Amelia Earhart, when the man eased the door open.

“My, aren’t you a cute little thing?”

She didn’t know how to answer, had never considered herself cute. The other girls in her first-grade class were prettier. The man didn’t seem to expect an answer, anyway. He sat down on Dixie’s bed and lifted her chin toward the lamplight.

“I’ll bet you grow up to be as fine as your mother.”

Dixie didn’t plan to be anything like Carla Jean, whom she loved devotedly but who cried too often “the morning after.” Right now, Carla Jean was probably passed out from all the booze she drank when she had a “date.”

“I’m going to be an airplane pilot,” Dixie explained earnestly. Amelia Earhart was her current heroine.

The man took the book out of her hands.

“How about I put this aside for now and show you a game?”

Dixie liked games, especially card games. She always beat Carla Jean at Go Fish. But those weren’t the sort of games the man had in mind. His hand under the covers stroked Dixie’s leg.

From that night on, every time Carla Jean had a date, Dixie hid in the closet with a pillow and a reading lamp. Only a few of her mother’s “steadies” realized she had a daughter, and only Tom Scully was persistent enough to find Dixie no matter where she hid. Scully was a big man with strong hands and a temper.

“You don’t like it when I slap your mama around, do you?” Scully asked.

I don’t like it when you show your ugly face at the door, Dixie wanted to say. But she just shook her head.

“If you ever tattle to anybody about you and me, little girl, I’ll do more than black your mama’s eye.”

Telling Carla Jean had never done any good, anyway. She had a knack for not seeing what she didn’t want to see, for disbelieving anything that threatened her fairy-tale view of life.

When the closet trick stopped working, Dixie learned other evasions. If she saw Scully’s car headed their way, she would duck out and sleep at a friend’s house. One night, when she heard his voice after she was already in bed, she slipped out the window and spent the night on the roof.

But there were plenty of times during the next six years when she was powerless to avoid him. Carla Jean remained oblivious to the truth, even when Dixie tearfully admitted she’d missed her period.

“Honey, that’s natural at your age. Why you’ve just barely even got the curse.” At twelve, Dixie had been menstruating for two years, but in Carla Jean’s eyes her daughter was still a baby, in ruffles and hair ribbons.

A few nights later Dixie was rushed to a hospital, after a quack doctor finished scraping out the unborn fetus. She awoke at Founders Home, surrounded by teenage girls in similar situations. That night Dixie had vowed never again to be powerless.

Now, hearing water running in the bathroom, she dropped the blank-six in place beside the double and knew that her anger at Dann was the same anger she’d known as a child. The same anger she’d felt as a state prosecutor watching hairballs routinely beat the system.

Why hadn’t Belle mentioned this aspect of the case? It might’ve been in the case notes, of course. Dixie hadn’t read the entire file, only the details that would help her locate the skip. But if Dann had tried to molest Betsy Keyes and the child threatened to tell, he might have plotted the drunk-driving scheme to cover outright murder. The DA could be going for manslaughter because it was easier to win.

Or was Dann telling the truth?

He emerged from the bathroom, blue eyes as hard as stones, and Dixie felt the fox of wrath gnaw at her heart. She returned his stare. Would a child molester’s gaze be so steady? Or would it sidle away like grabby hands under a little girls’ dress when someone came near?

He’s as angry as I am, Dixie realized. But that doesn’t make him innocent.

Child molesters were shape-shifters, the dregs of humanity appearing to the world in the guise of decent men. They played the role so well they fooled most people.

Dixie recalled Carla Jean’s furious protests that her good old friend Scully would never diddle a little girl, much less her own daughter. Carla Jean’s disbelief had pierced twelve-year-old Dixie like a stab through the heart. In that one instant, Dixie had suffered more than in all the years of grabby hands, more than she suffered under the quack doctor’s knife.

Was Parker Dann playing a role?

She watched his fingers on the dominoes.

“What makes you so sure you drove home after the bar closed? Maybe you did fall asleep in your car in the parking lot.”

Dann looked at her and then away, as if summoning a memory.

“I guess… I don’t know for sure. Seem to remember driving home, but maybe I’m confusing that night with some other time. Usually, though, when I sleep  in the car I get a neck crick.”

“Did anyone see you drive away? The bartender, for instance. You said the two of you closed the place down.”

“Augie parks out back and leaves in the opposite direction. No one else was there.”

Dixie studied him, knowing she shouldn’t believe anything the man said, knowing he was probably selling her an empty sack, but interested in hearing him tell it.

“Okay, take me through the evening. From the time you arrived at the Green Hornet.”

He set a domino to spinning.

“Like I said, it was celebration time. Three-million-dollar sale, full commission, you know what that comes to? Two hundred thousand. I bought house rounds all night–“

“Remember any names? People who were there?”

“Sure, a few. Wrote them all down for Ms. Richards. First names, mostly. That’s all they ever gave. In my business, person’s name is important. Make a point of remembering.”

“What happens when Augie closes down? What’s the procedure?”

“Procedure?” He glanced up before continuing. “Fifteen minutes to closing, Augie makes last call. Some folks take the hint, leave right then. Others buy another round. Two-ten, he picks up any drinks left on the bar and tables. People drift out. Augie starts washing up.”

“I thought you said you didn’t leave until three o”clock.”

“Usually, I stick around till he finishes cleaning. Sit at the bar drinking coffee, flapping my gums.”

He makes coffee for the two of you?”

“Always has a pot for himself and for coffee drinks–“

“And he doesn’t mind you staying there while he cleans up?

“Actually… Augie sort of prefers it. Got robbed last year, three times in one month. Beat up pretty bad, lost four teeth, most of the hearing in one ear. I hang around to scare off the muggers, you might say.”

“A real Samaritan.”

Dann’s eyes sparked. “I hang around, that’s all.”

“Anything different about that night, other than the big sale? Anybody stay later than usual?”

“No one I recall… no, wait a minute. There was someone who stayed late. Drinking bourbon and Coke. We talked about selling fishing trips in the Caribbean. John, that’s his name. Didn’t seem ready to leave when Augie wanted to lock up, so I walked outside with him, talking as we walked. When we got to his car, I said I forgot my keys and went back–“

“Did you get his last name? See what he was driving?”

“Never said his last name.” Dann closed his eyes for a moment frowning. “Climbed into a foreign car of some kind, boxy, not sporty. Volvo, maybe.”

“Doesn’t sound like you were very drunk, if you remember all that.”

“I never said how drunk I was. Only that I couldn’t remember anything after leaving the bar.” He slapped the domino down and spun it. His face looked gray in the sunlight reflecting off the snow, his facial muscles slack, the lines more pronounced. “Look, I can give you everything I remember, step by step, minute by minute, and I still can’t say for certain whether I got back in that car the next morning, drove toward the school, and… killed that child–“

Something shot past Dixie’s face and hit the window with a crack! Dann had spun the domino so hard it flew off the table.

“Sorry.” He got up to retrieve it, the jerry-rigged handcuffs stretched to the limit.

He’s torn with worry. The realization hit Dixie like a brick. He’s worried about whether or not he actually killed Betsy Keyes. What if he didn’t? It looked open and shut, and the caseload for Houston cops was notoriously heavy.Maybe they rushed it through, didn’t dig deep enough.

Theories tumbled into Dixie’s mind. The man who stayed late that night might’ve followed Dann home and stolen his car for some illegal use–maybe a drug dealer who wanted an anonymous car for a deal going down. On his way to return the car, he hits the child. Such a scenario was more believable, in many ways, that pinning an ordinary citizen with vehicular manslaughter when he might very well have been at home sleeping off a bender.

Dixie realized then that she had bought Dann’s story. She forced herself to back up a step.

He stood at the window, where he’d picked up the errant domino.

“Look, Flannigan, I know what you think of me. High-rolling peddler, drifting from town to town, job to job. Got a little property, a few bucks in the bank. No close family in town, no real friends, no ties. You’re right, I’m not much, but I’m harmless. I like kids–not in any sick, twisted way–simply because they’re kids. I used to tease those girls, gave Betsy big tips to serve me coffee, dropped nickels in the little one’s pocket when she wasn’t looking. I never would’ve hurt them. Come from a big family myself. I know how this family must have suffered, especially with what happened to the other child so soon after losing Betsy–“

“The other child?”

“You didn’t know? Some kind of accident at summer camp.”

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Bitch Factor – Chapter 19

Emma Sparks’ kitchen smelled of baked apples and cinnamon, awakening a pang of nostalgia in Dixie. Cheeks rosy from the heat and wisps of white hair springing around her head, Emma was rubbing peanut oil on a plump turkey in a blue granite roaster. She looked as happy in her kitchen as Kathleen had always been in her own.

“Can’t recall the last time we had guests for breakfast. God sure does work in mysterious ways. Sends a blizzard to make us take time with each other.”

Dixie lifted a warming lid. “Smells great.”

“Honey, there’s not much trick to whipping up a batch of eggs and sausage. Now you grab a plate from the cabinet and fill it from those pans. There’s hot coffee and buttermilk biscuits on the sideboard. Remember, I don’t want a mess of leftovers to deal with.”

The early sunlight streaming through yellow-flowered curtains gave the kitchen a home glow. In the adjoining dining room, dishes clinked around a table. Conversations hummed. Dixie saw her henna-haired neighbor and a young man wearing a Ski Canada sweatshirt. She was tempted to sit down with them. But the antsy part of her mind was back in the room with Dann. Handcuffed to the bed, he couldn’t raise much havoc. Yet why risk leaving him alone to try something stupid?

Emma clucked sympathetically about Dann’s “cold.”

“You just pile both those plates high, and I’ll wrap them up good for you to carry back.”

As Dixie scooped spoonfuls from each dish, she watched the red-head chat gaily with everyone at the table. Somehow, the woman had tamed her mass of tangles into a curly mane that bounced like copper pennies around her shoulders, and judging by the freckles sprinkled delicately across her nose, the copper hadn’t come from a bottle, as Dixie first suspected. The woman’s skin had a translucent quality, like fine porcelain. She’d artfully tinted her eyelids lavender, which made her green eyes bright and vivid. A peachy blush colored her cheekbones. Not young–probably Amy’s age–but youthful and vibrant, she was the sort of woman who totally baffled Dixie.

Why did anyone spend that much time on looking good? For that matter, how did they know where to start? Somewhere there was a secret women’s club that passed these little tricks around. Dixie’d never been invited. Oh, sure, she’d played with makeup. Amy had insisted. “You only need a touch, Dixie, with your strong bones and naturally rich coloring, but you do need a touch.” And she’d had her “colors done” by a professional–also at Amy’s insistence. Dixie knew she wasn’t homely, she cleaned up pretty damn good at times. But there was something missing, a distinctly feminine quality this redhead possessed.

Amy had it, too, although the hard edge of her glamour had softened as she matured. Carla Jean had it in spades. Dixie’s mother was female extraordinaire, not a masculine bone in her perfumed, powdered, ruffle-clad body, and not a practical thought in her head. Carla Jean always presented herself as a princess, a tawdry princess perhaps, too often used and discarded, but always a princess. Maybe Dixie, in her fear of becoming like her mother, had bent too far the other way.

Scooping butter pats onto the plates, Dixie caught a glimpse of herself in a narrow beveled mirror above the buffet. She hoped she didn’t smell as scruffy as she looked. Forty-eight hours without a bath or change of clothes was probably pushing bad grooming to its limit. She turned away from the troublesome reflection–out of sight, out of mind–and was glad, after all, that she hadn’t sat down to eat with these people. One thing she didn’t have to worry about with Parker Dann was her appearance.

Buck held the door as she started back to the cabin between shoulder-high mounds of shoveled snow, the aroma of baked apples still strong in her nostrils. Now that the wind had died down, she hardly felt the cold. The sun had popped out strong and bright in a sky as blue as Texas bluebonnets. A brush-stroke of creamy clouds mirrored the snowscape.

She wished Ryan were here. He’d want to jump right in the middle of those tall drifts. Make snowballs. Build a space-age snowman. Hell, Dixie herself felt an urge to jump in the middle of a drift. God sends a blizzard to make us take time with each other, Emma had said. Those few minutes with the Sparkses had dredged up a slew of concerns. When Dixie didn’t show up for Christmas dinner tonight, Amy would be worried and upset. Ryan would be disappointed, opening his Cessna and having no batteries to fly it. And shucks! Dixie would miss meeting Old Delbert Snelling!

She grinned. Things could be worse. She could be shacked up with an ugly, foul-tempered, illiterate jerk. At least Dann was reasonably good company. Maybe she should loosen his rein some. Even in the harshest of prisons, criminals celebrated Christmas; and as Dann had pointed out, there was no way anybody could leave until the snowplows came roaring through.

With that settled, Dixie felt better about herself. Even a badass bitch should take Christmas off. After breakfast, maybe she’d telephone Amy.

*

“South Dakota?” Her sister’s mellow voice had picked up a worried barb. “Dixie, whatever possessed you to drive to South Dakota during a blizzard?”

“The blizzard happened after I drove up here. And the weather is beautiful again. I’m only waiting for a highway crew to clear the roads, then I’ll start home.”

“On Christmas Day? You think people are going to run those snow-shovel things instead of being home with their families?”

“Lots of people have to work on Christmas.” Including me. But Dixie didn’t want to remind Amy of the reason for her unplanned trip, because then she’d have to admit she was sharing a motel room with a prisoner. Amy would have nightmares.

“I hope you realize how upset Ryan’s going to be. I swear, Dix–“

“If you’ll put him on, maybe I can explain.”

“Well, I’m sorry. He’s not here.” She didn’t sound a bit sorry, she sounded pleased, but Dixie knew Amy was only venting her frustration. Her notion of jobs that constituted “women’s work” was not quite Victorian, but certainly pre-Margaret Thatcher. “Carl and Ryan are driving around, looking at the snow.”

“It snowed in Houston?”

“Enough to turn the ground white. Of course, it’ll burn off by noon. They should be back here in a couple of hours. Dixie, you’re not doing anything dangerous, are you?”

“A routine job. Nothing to worry about.” Someday lighting would strike her for telling these white lies, but the truth would set Amy to walking the floors.

“South Dakota doesn’t sound at all routine to me.”

“You should see it, Amy, it’s so beautiful up here. The couple who own the motel are cooking Christmas dinner for everyone who got snowed in. They’re really sweet… Of course, I’d rather be home with you guys.”

“I know. We’ll miss you, too.” Her sister’s voice softened. “Dixie, drive carefully. We’d rather have you arrive in one piece, even if it means you’ll get her a little later.”

“I will, Amy. Cheers.”

“Yeah… cheers yourself.” She paused. “I think there’s a nine-volt battery around here someplace that will fit the remote control for Ryan’s model airplane. I’ll tell him to save that package and open it when you call.”

“Thanks, Sis. I love you, too.”

Cradling the phone with a pang of regret, Dixie regarded Dann. He sat at the yellow table finishing his breakfast, one hand cuffed to the table leg, where he could rest it on his knee. She was not missing a traditional Flannigan Christmas for the ten-thousand-dollar fee, she reminded herself. She was not missing Christmas because of her loyalty to Belle Richards or because Belle didn’t want the jury to know Dann had skipped. She had taken he case because an eleven-year-old child would never see another Christmas. Accident or not, Betsy Keyes’ death was wrong. Dann could not be allowed to carry on with his own life as if drunkenly killing a child meant nothing.

Reminding herself why she was here helped ease the ache Dixie felt, missing the biggest day of the year with her family. But it didn’t ease that ache a whole hell of a lot.

“Guess it messed up your holiday, coming after me,” Dann said, as if reading her mind.

Innocent until proven guilty, Flannigan.

“Actually, the storm messed up my holiday,” she relented.

He stacked his plate on hers and set them both on the shelf above the table. Dixie had found a small radio in the closet. It sat beside Mr. Coffee now, tuned to Christmas music.

“Your family have big holiday plans?” Dann took a box of worn wooden dominoes from the nightstand drawer and turned them out on the tabletop.

“Not big, exactly, but mandatory. To miss a Flannigan family dinner requires a death certificate or, at the very least, a hospital admission slip.”

“Big family gatherings,” Dann said. “That’s what I miss most about Montana. Our whole clan used to pile in the hay truck, drive up the mountain to pick out a Christmas tree. Arguing all the while–which tree  had the bushiest limbs, straightest trunk. Back home, Mother would break out the apple cider, a bottle of schnapps, a box of tree trimmings. No matter how much we fooled around, rearranging the lights, by midnight Pop always positioned the angel and hit the light switch.” Dann sat down and drew a domino hand. “Good times.”

He had washed up and changed his shirt before she set out their breakfast. His chin stubble was starting to fill in, Dixie noted. He had the sort of face that looked good in a beard.

She’d taken her own turn with one of the tiny bars of Ivory soap, washing even her teeth with it, in the absence of toothpaste. Her overnight kit, which she kept in the Mustang’s trunk for emergencies, had been conspicuously absent when she brought their things in. After her last trip across the Mexican border, she’d removed the kit to replace the sample-size deodorant and mouthwash. She could see the brown, zippered leather kit sitting exactly where she’d left it, on a shelf in the utility room, handy for the next time she went to the car. But the next time she went to the car, her hands had been full and her mind busy with Christmas tasks.

Dixie ran her tongue over her teeth. She could sure use a slug of that mouthwash right now. And some fresh clothes. She resisted sniffing her armpits.

“At our home, it was Southern Comfort and eggnog,” she said, squirming her chair around so she’d be sitting down wind. “And pecan shells burning in the fireplace.” Dixie counted only the years after she became a Flannigan, never the earlier years. Holidays with Carla Jean were celebrated with turkey sandwiches from the Stop & Go.

“Had you figured as a teetotaler.”

“I’ve got nothing against alcohol. I just believe in moderation.”

Dann looked at her from under his heavy eyebrows, and something in his gaze reminded Dixie of a private investigator on a TV series. She couldn’t remember which one.

“Moderation in everything?” he said.

Now what the hell was he up to, flashing those blues eyes and dropping his voice into the sexy zone? She stared back at him.

He shrugged and shuffled his dominoes. They made surprisingly loud swishing sounds on the wooden table. Annoying sounds. Dixie glanced at her own hand, but didn’t see how it would improve with rearranging.

“Like soap,” Dan mumbled. “Soap can be overdone.”

“What?”

“You have a soap smudge.” He touched his jawline near the ear, and Dixie automatically mirrored him. “Other side.”

She slid her chair back, stalked into the bathroom, and closed the door. Soap smudge. Yep, there it was. Good thing she didn’t wear makeup, she’d probably paint her eyebrows red and her lips blue. She scrubbed the smudge off and splashed her face with cold water. Watching the droplets drip off her nose in the mirror, she wondered what sort of biological clock made a woman her age finally start worrying about appearances. No gray in her hair yet. No unsightly wrinkles. She  wouldn’t turn any heads at a beauty pageant, but she looked okay.

Drying her face, she noticed Dann’s comb lying on the countertop beside his toothbrush and toothpaste. Borrowing the toothpaste had seemed too intimate a request to make of a man you held prisoner. Of course, it was only her imagination, thinking she could still taste the Ivory soap after chasing it with breakfast. She looked at the comb, about four inches long, black, the kind barbershops gave away free.

When she picked it up, a single dark hair fell into the sink. The same brown as her own. shorter, of course. Her own collar-length hair was heavy enough that it fell more or less in place, but there was no denying it would improve with combing. She pulled the comb through it. No magical rays zapped her. After a few more strokes, she did look better. Felt better, too.

From the bedroom came the swish, swish, swish of Dann shuffling his domino hand. Probably shuffling hers, as well.

She eyed the toothpaste. In For a Penny, In For a Pound – as Kathleen’s maxim would state. She squirted a dab of toothpaste on a clean washcloth, rubbed her teeth and gums, and swished with water. Better. Monumentally better. Absolutely, fantastically, peppermint-flavored better. Only now, of course, she’d have to confess to toothpaste theft.

Join me right here next week for another Bitch Factor chapter.

Meanwhile, grab a Free Copy of Here Lies a Wicked Man, a traditional mystery featuring Booker Krane.

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Here Lies a Wicked Man, Chapter 33 – and Get the Book Free

“WHAT’S ALL THIS?” BRADLEY ASKED. HE’D STOPPED by to wash his clothes before the evening performance at Carey Theater.

Across the top of a three-column grid on a large sheet of paper, Booker had penned the headings: 1) Motive: Why kill Chuck? 2) Means: Can they shoot? 3) Opportunity: Where were they? Now he was transferring the napkin list of suspects.

“After you left the inquest this morning, the show heated up a tad. Turns out Fowler may’ve been murdered,” Booker explained. He related his visit with the coroner.

“You have Jeremy’s whole family on that chart,” Bradley protested.

“Along with Melinda and Gary Spiner.” Booker added Ramsey Crawford’s name. “Unfortunately, most murders are done by a family member.”

Bradley’s black t-shirt and jeans seemed to fit better than the ones he’d worn at the courthouse. Maybe theater techies hadn’t adopted the “slouch” look. He flopped in a chair, challenge etched in his scowl. “So, what’s this chart supposed to prove?”

“Doesn’t prove anything, but it’s a method for sorting out possibilities. The sheriff and the coroner narrowed the time of death to Sunday between four pm, when Chuck left Melinda’s house, and eight pm, when darkness takes over the woods in August. Even an expert bowman can’t hit a target he can’t see.”

“He could use infrared.”

Booker had considered that. “Infrared lighting would certainly extend the time frame, but it isn’t exactly standard archery equipment.”

“So?”

“I’ll find out if the Gilded Trout stocks it.”

“The murderer could’ve bought the stuff in Houston or Dallas or online. Can’t the sheriff investigate all the suspects’ recent purchases?”

Possibly, even with the limited manpower Grammon County could invest. Hoping Bradley would hang out so they could noodle ideas together, Booker made a notation in the “opportunity” column.

Under “motive,” he’d filled in every line, mostly with guesswork, not fact. He’d begun to think every resident in the county harbored a reason to kill Fowler. The man had incited people to passion.

Sarabelle’s motive, of course, was to preserve her status as Fowler’s wife and retain control of the family money. In Texas, half the estate became hers automatically unless a prenuptial agreement existed. In light of the thirty years they’d been married, that possibility seemed slim. Booker wondered if Chuck had left a will distributing his half of the estate. He wrote “will” in parentheses beside Sarabelle’s name.

“What happens when you fill in all the blanks? Everybody gathers at the lodge and you make like one of those closet detectives?”

“Closet?”

“Guessing who killed the dead guy behind the locked door.”

“Oh. Closed-room detectives.” Booker hadn’t heard the phrase put exactly that way. “More likely, Sheriff Ringhoffer will make his decision, gain an arrest warrant, and take the killer to jail.”

Killer, when applied to the people on his list, sounded melodramatic. Could any of them actually be a killer? Sarabelle Fowler? Melinda McCray? Gary Spiner? Jeremy? Aaron?

Aaron had wanted his father to invest in the auto dealership, and Fowler had refused. With his father dead, Aaron might inherit substantially, unless Fowler cut him out of the will.

Even then, the boy might figure his mother was an easier touch. He wrote “$40K” under “motive.”

Beside Jeremy’s name, Booker placed a big question mark.

“You don’t really suspect him?” Bradley made it sound like an accusation.

“He’s in the equation until we can rule him out. Jeremy wanted to study theater, while his father insisted he learn the sporting goods business. Maybe he refused to continue paying the boy’s tuition.”

“That sucks, Dad.”

Bradley grabbed a marker and underscored Melinda’s name. “What about her?”

“She’s a suspect. The problem is, she didn’t gain anything from Fowler’s death. Just the opposite, Melinda had hoped to marry the Fowler millions.”

“But she admitted he changed his mind. Maybe she couldn’t take rejection.”

“Seems to me she’d try charming him into reconsidering.” Booker had felt the persuasion of those charms first hand. “But if that didn’t work…” Under “motive,” he added “vengeance.”

“Good.” Bradley used a red marker to underline Ramsey Crawford’s name.

“Wasn’t he that man at the funeral with Ms. McCray?” When Booker nodded, he said, “Looked plenty dangerous. Where was he during the murder?”

“I don’t believe the sheriff has interviewed Crawford yet.”

“Why not?”

Booker bracketed Crawford’s name in black. “Sheriff Ringhoffer seems somewhat overwhelmed.”

“Coroner Birdwell should make the sheriff do his job. He can’t make you do it, can he?”

“I could quit, I suppose.” Once a quitter, always a quitter.

“Then tell him you won’t do it.”

Consulting the napkin list, Booker added Pete Littlehawk’s name to the chart. “I only agreed to lend the sheriff a hand.”

“It’s dangerous!” Bradley’s face flushed. “The killer might come after you next.”

Booker preferred not to think about that. He stared at Littlehawk’s name. Emaline had protested that he wouldn’t slap a gnat, but Pete and Chuck had competed for prize money, and in Littlehawk’s own words, Fowler didn’t like losing.

“Son, Chuck Fowler’s death was a crime of passion and circumstance.” Reluctantly, Booker added Roxanna’s name to the chart and wrote “debt” beside it. “Coming after me would be non-passionate, premeditated murder, requiring a completely different personality. Don’t you think?”

Bradley drew a red star beside Crawford’s name. “Passion or not, I think anybody would find it easier to kill the second time.”

True. “And Crawford’s a stranger, therefore the most appealing suspect. We don’t like to believe that people we know would commit detestable crimes.”

“Dad, I don’t know these other people, but Jeremy doesn’t belong on your list, and that dude Crawford looks like trouble.”

Booker had to agree, yet personal bias led to fallacious thinking. He stared at Roxanna’s name on the grid. No denying her anger about Fowler reneging on their deal, but after his death, Roxanna’s deferred down-payment balance became common knowledge. Eventually, she’d have to pay the estate, so what could she have gained by killing him? And for ten-thousand dollars?

The power of money, however, was always relative.

“You brought up a key factor,” he told Bradley. “Every suspect on our list had both motive and means.” He filled the grid’s “means” column completely with ditto marks and moved his marker to “opportunity,” the third column. “Which person had no alibi for the hours between four and eight on the afternoon of August sixth?”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it.” Bradley hopped up. “I have to head out, anyway.”

“Ride safely.” Booker studied the blanks in the third column. At the inquest, Sarabelle had said she was at home all afternoon, alone. Aaron was in Lowetta, and Jeremy was at the theater in Bryan, working on sets. Both boys’ alibis should be easy enough to check. Melinda also claimed to be at home, alone. And Roxanna—

Sheriff Ringhoffer’s silver pointer flicked the air, landing on the space beside Melinda’s name.

Startled, Booker gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge the sheriff’s childish antic. Outside, Bradley’s motorcycle rumbled to life.

“That woman,” Ringhoffer said softly, trailing the pointer around Melinda’s name, “does not sit around waiting for the phone to ring.”

True enough. Booker schooled his irritation into more productive channels.

“Melinda said she and Chuck argued before he went home around three on Sunday morning. Then Sarabelle came to her house before church and threatened to see her and Chuck dead before she’d ever divorce him—”

“All we have is her word that any of it is true,” Ringhoffer said.

“So you’re favoring the notion that Melinda, not one to sit around waiting to hear what her future holds, went to the woods to talk to Chuck?” Booker said.

“Mr. Fowler was known to be stubborn once he’d made up his mind.”

“So later that day, they argue again. When Fowler leaves, Melinda follows him to his target practice in the woods. She wheedles, Fowler stonewalls. When he refuses to make a commitment, Melinda grabs an arrow and strikes out in anger?”

“A woman scorned,” Ringhoffer said, shaking his head and frowning. “Perhaps Ms. McCray didn’t intend to kill him. But seeing what she’d done, she tried to cover up by rolling the body into the lake. Along the way, the arrow shaft breaks off and drifts ashore.”

Booker envisioned Melinda’s fury at seeing her rich lover squirm off her hook.

“The body eventually floats up, catches on a nail under my pier and Pup finds it.” All in all, not a bad summation of the facts.

“A pretty theory. Too bad we have no evidence.” Ringhoffer looked pained.

Since Melinda wasn’t a citizen of Grammon County, Booker suspected the sheriff would be pleased if she turned out to be the killer.

“Wouldn’t that same scenario apply to Sarabelle?” He circled her name in red marker.

“The lady told us her husband had changed his mind.”

“About Melinda, not about divorce.” Booker jotted two more alibis on the chart. Gary Spiner claimed he was at the Gilded Trout, and Roxanna was at the inn.

Studying the grid, Booker was reminded of logic problems. If Mr. Green washes his car on Saturday, and Mr. Brown lives in the house with red shutters, who owns the zebra? In college, he’d been a whiz at solving those brainteasers, just as he’d been damn good at uncovering white-collar crime. Pulling the pieces together, moving them around for the right fit, identifying the missing particles, Booker couldn’t deny he enjoyed the game.

“Mr. Krane, while my deputies and I question the suspects’ neighbors and anyone who might verify their alibis, why don’t you conduct follow-up interviews with the suspects themselves?”

With only a day left to meet his deadline for Southern Affairs, Booker resented covering ground already trod, but reluctantly he nodded. “I suppose I might find holes in their stories.”

“Except for Ms. Larkspur.”

Booker stiffened. “What about Ms. Larkspur?”

“I’m not doubting your professionalism, Mr. Krane, but considering your personal relationship with the lady, I’ll handle her interview.”

Booker didn’t like that at all. Roxanna was a newcomer, therefore a prime target for a sheriff who wanted to keep peace with his constituents. And if Ringhoffer saw the photograph on her office wall suggesting a long-time acquaintance with Fowler, Roxanna would leap to the top of the official suspect list.

“Roxanna’s a Masonville resident,” he protested. So were Melinda and Crawford. “Which falls outside Grammon County jurisdiction.”

“Grammon, Leon, Madison—officers in our area recognize professional courtesy, Mr. Krane.”

Booker’s stomach churned up the meal he’d eaten earlier. Conflict always wreaked havoc with his digestion. Roxanna wasn’t as fragile as she might appear, but he didn’t want her treated roughly.

“Sheriff, suppose we question the lady together?” Booker proposed, drawing himself to a six-foot-five glower. There were times when bullying a smaller man made perfect sense.

Ringhoffer stepped back and whipped the silver pointer shut with a snap.

“Very well. We’ll meet at the inn tomorrow after brunch.” He handed Booker a small spiral tablet. “These are my notes for your follow up. I can see myself out, Mr. Krane.”

Had that been too easy? Booker wondered if calling on Roxanna together was what the sheriff had in mind all along. The man certainly didn’t reveal much.

“What about Crawford and Littlehawk?” he asked. “Have you talked with them?”

Ringhoffer shook his head. Shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out a shiny new quarter.

“I’ll take one, you take the other, then we’ll swap for follow-up.”

“Sounds fair. Heads, Crawford, tails, Littlehawk.”

The sheriff flipped the quarter.

Booker called it and, naturally, drew first round with Ramsey Crawford.

Come back next Monday for the next chapter in Here Lies a Wicked Man.

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