Broken Heart Attack E-Book

James J. Cudney

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Who killed Gwendolyn Paddington?

When an extra ticket becomes available to see the dress rehearsal of King Lear, Kellan tags along with Nana D and her buddies. But when one of them dies of an apparent heart attack in the middle of second act, Nana D asks Kellan to investigate.

With family members in debt and secret meetings, Kellan learns that the Paddingtons might not be as clean-cut as everyone thinks. Can Kellan find Gwendolyn's killer, or will he get caught up in his own stage fright?

Leseprobe

Broken Heart Attack

Braxton Campus Mystery Book 2

James J. Cudney

Copyright (C) 2018 James J. Cudney

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgments

Writing a book is not an achievement an individual person can do on his or her own. There are always people who contribute in a multitude of ways, sometimes unwittingly, throughout the journey from discovering the idea to drafting the last word. Broken Heart Attack: A Braxton Campus Mystery has had many supporters since its inception in September 2018, but before the concept even sparked in my mind, my passion for writing was nurtured by others.

First thanks go to my parents, Jim and Pat, for always believing in me as a writer, as well as teaching me how to become the person I am today. Their unconditional love and support have been the primary reason I'm accomplishing my goals. Through the guidance of my extended family and friends, who consistently encouraged me to pursue my passion, I found the confidence to take chances in life. With Winston and Baxter by my side, I was granted the opportunity to make my dreams come true by publishing this novel. I'm grateful to everyone for pushing me every day to complete this second book.

Broken Heart Attack was cultivated through the interaction, feedback, and input of several beta readers. I'd like to thank Shalini G, Lisa M. Berman, Rekha Rao, Laura Albert, and Nina D. Silva for providing insight and perspective during the development of the story, setting, and character arcs.

A special call-out goes to Shalini for countless conversations helping me to fine-tune every aspect of the setting, characters, and plot. She read every version and offered a tremendous amount of her time to advise me on this book over several weeks. All the medical points were reviewed with Shalini to be sure I covered them appropriately. I am beyond grateful for her help. Any mistakes are my own from misunderstanding our discussions.Nina also read all the versions and provided in-depth and varied feedback on character relationships, actions, and personality traits. She's a keen eye for knowing what will and won't work. She messaged back and forth for weeks to keep me focused and provide the motivation to challenge myself. Many thanks!Much appreciation for Lisa, who has become a fantastic friend and confidante in the last few years. I appreciate all her time and effort into reading my books before launch. She always finds those items I miss, and I'm grateful more than I can say.A huge welcome to Laura for joining the team with this book. Laura provided lots of ideas for how to grow the characters, but she also found a few dozen proofreading issues, which made my life so much easier. I'm truly thrilled to be working with her this time around.A big welcome to Rekha for joining the team with this book. Rekha read and reviewed the entire novel over a weekend and provided helpful comments on scenes that worked well and some that needed more pop. Thank you!

Much gratitude to all my friends and mentors at Moravian College. Although no murders have ever taken place there, the setting of this series is loosely based on my former multi-campus school set in Pennsylvania. Most of the locations are completely fabricated, but Millionaire's Mile exists… I only made up the name and cable car system!

Thank you to Creativia / Next Chapter for publishing Broken Heart Attack and paving the road for more books to come. I look forward to our continued partnership.

Welcome to Braxton, Wharton County (Map drawn by Timothy J. R. Rains, Cartographer)

Who's Who in Braxton?

Ayrwick Family

Kellan: Main Character, Braxton professor, amateur sleuthWesley: Kellan's father, Braxton's retired presidentViolet: Kellan's mother, Braxton's admissions directorEmma: Kellan's daughter with FrancescaEleanor: Kellan's younger sister, owns Pick-Me-Up DinerHampton: Kellan's older brotherNana D: Kellan's grandmother, also known as Seraphina DanbyFrancesca Castigliano: Kellan's supposedly deceased wifeVincenzo & Cecilia Castigliano: Francesca's parents, run the mobAlexander Betscha: Nana D's cousin, doctor

Braxton Campus

Ursula Power: President of Braxton, Myriam's wifeMyriam Castle: Chair of Communications Dept., Ursula's wifeFern Terry: Dean of Student AffairsConnor Hawkins: Director of Security, Kellan's best friendMaggie Roarke: Head Librarian, Kellan's ex-girlfriendYuri Sato: Student, Dana's friendCraig 'Striker' Magee: StudentArthur Terry: Fern's son, works at Paddington's Play House

Paddington Household

Millard Paddington: Brother to EustaciaEustacia Paddington: Sister to MillardGwendolyn Paddington: Sister-in-law to Eustacia and MillardJennifer Paddington: Daughter of GwendolynTimothy Paddington: Son of GwendolynOphelia Taft: Daughter of Gwendolyn, Married to RichardRichard Taft: Married to OpheliaDana Taft: Ophelia and Richard's daughterLilly Taft: Ophelia and Richard's daughterSam Taft: Ophelia and Richard's sonBrad Shope: NurseBertha Crawford: Housekeeper

Wharton County Residents

April Montague: Wharton County SheriffMarcus Stanton: Braxton Town CouncilmanOfficer Flatman: Police OfficerFinnigan Masters: AttorneyBuddy: Works at Second Chance ReflectionsTiffany Nutberry: HR EmployeeLindsey Endicott: Friend of Nana D & Paddingtons

Overview

When I decided to write a cozy mystery series, I adhered to all the main rules (light investigations, minimal violence or foul language, no sexual content, murder happens off-screen, protagonist is an amateur sleuth, and set in a quiet, small town). Some authors push the boundaries with variations, and in the Braxton Campus Mysteries, I followed the same route… just differently. Kellan, my protagonist, is a thirtyish single father, whereas traditionally a woman is the main character. Children aren't often seen in most series, but Kellan's family is important to the story. Kellan is also witty and snarky, but intended in a lovable and charming way, just like his eccentric grandmother, Nana D. Both are friendly, happy, and eager to help others, and they have a sarcastic or sassy way of interacting and building relationships… hopefully adding to the humor and tone of the books.

Cozy mysteries are different from hard-boiled investigations, thrillers, and suspense novels; the side stories, surrounding town, and background characters are equally important to building a vibrant world in which readers can escape. I hope you enjoy my alternative take on this classic sub-genre.

Chapter 1

March weather in Wharton County, Pennsylvania was as unpredictable as a cutting jeer from Nana D. Although bound to happen, the actual impact boasted an infinite range unlike any missile I'd ever seen launched. There might be a blizzard worthy of a Christmas snow globe furiously shaken by an over-eager child, or spring could test its feverish desire to burst through the frozen soil with an unparalleled zest for life. While thunder rolled above me in a murky gray sky, I read my nana's latest message for the third time, wondering if she realized the extent to which she could confuse people and make them want to cry—all in a single, random meandering text.

Nana D: Can't stand these old whiners. Save me. You better not be late. Did you get a haircut yet? I've seen more attractive farm animals than you lately. Sometimes I can't believe we're related. Made you a special dessert. Why didn't you talk me out of this stupid race? I'm proud of you for coming back home. What's an emoji again? I need to find us both dates. Do I swipe right or left if I'm interested in a man? Hurry. Hugs and kisses.

Since we enjoyed torturing one another in a loving yet competitive way, I ignored my grandmother's craziness, hoping it'd lead to a conniption fit in front of her friends. That wind-up Energizer bunny desperately needed a case of extra-strength Valium while I craved the warmer, drier weather as my drug of choice. Instead, I stared depressingly at an over-stuffed storm cloud threatening to torture us again. We'd already suffered through a nasty four-day bout of torrential rain that made everything feel like soggy bread. And in case it wasn't obvious, no one liked soggy bread. Truthfully, my entire week had felt like soggy bread mischievously sprinkled with a side of unrelenting and peculiar death.

Fresh off accepting a new job as a professor at Braxton and unravelling my first murder case, I was hopeful for some relaxation. Unfortunately, everything morphed into swiss cheese with holes the size of the Grand Canyon. No, I wasn't a police detective or private investigator. I got lucky solving the murder of two colleagues before our county's crabby sheriff finally nabbed the misguided culprit, yet that wasn't the most scandalous thing about my recent return home after a decade's absence.

When I told my in-laws that I was leaving Los Angeles and moving back to Pennsylvania, I learned through ordinary conversation that my supposedly dead wife, Francesca, wasn't really dead. Nearly two-and-a-half years ago, her family had led me to believe she'd perished in a car accident when a drunk driver plowed through a red light at a dangerous intersection. No longer true! 'Alive today, gone tomorrow. Hey, I'm back again. The afterlife wasn't too fun, so I changed my mind about dying. Just not for me!' Maybe things happened like that in the menacing world of my in-laws, The Castigliano Family, but definitely not in mine.

Francesca's parents had staged the car accident after someone tried to kill my wife as revenge for a multitude of mob faux pas. My in-laws sat at the helm of a ruthless LA crime syndicate, and somehow Francesca—who never told me anything about this aspect of her life while she was alive—had gotten caught up in their web of deception. The only way for them to protect Francesca and our young daughter, Emma, was to fake Francesca's death.

My emotions had been incredibly erratic and raw for the last five days since learning the truth. I couldn't tell anyone except my sister, Eleanor, who'd been present when Francesca showed up. And just as easily as my no-longer-dead-wife had materialized, she vanished again under the dark iron curtain that was the protection of her parents. Was there a handbook for dealing with a wife who'd come back from the grave? Had a cult performing some maddening initiation rite kidnapped and brainwashed me? Seriously, what did I do in the past to be saddled with the mother of all gut punches? Sadly, I had no answers, but as far as priorities went, my presence was imminently required elsewhere for a different kind of brutal torture.

I was driving to visit my almost seventy-five-year-old grandmother, Nana D—known to everyone else as Seraphina Danby—who'd declared her intent to run for Mayor of Wharton County in a surprise press conference earlier that week. Five-foot-tall, less than a hundred pounds wet—mostly from her wild, henna-rinsed red hair taking up half her height—and full of boat loads more sarcasm than me, Nana D was preparing for her first major campaign activity. I'd promised to organize all her old, whiny volunteers for the mayoral race, since none of them knew where to begin.

Although a proper tea would be served at Nana D's, I popped into The Big Beanery, Braxton's charming and crowded South Campus student café, and ordered an extra-strong, extra-tall, salted caramel mocha to go. I drooled at the pastry counter despite knowing Nana D had baked something delicious I'd undoubtedly consume everything like a pig from a trough. I scanned the room, searching for any of my students who might've been hanging out with their friends or reviewing class materials in study group, but I only saw one person I recognized who was not a student by any means.

Why was Dean Terry on campus on a quiet Saturday? While waiting for my overly complex coffee and assuming she sat by herself, I moseyed over to the table to brighten her day. That's the kinda guy I was. Although I was a mere three inches shy of a full six feet, my colleague tipped the other side of the scale and unwisely kept her hair extremely short. Built like a quarterback who'd recently eaten way too much salt, the dean had been using her thick, towering presence to intimidate students for twenty-five years at Braxton. Once you got beyond the surface, she was truly a pussycat.

After getting used to the idea of being colleagues, I refrained from calling her Dean Terry and addressed her by her first name. With a smile, I said, “Good afternoon, Fern. Don't you ever take a break?” She'd almost been awarded the coveted presidency of our well-regarded institution last week. The Board of Trustees had surprisingly gone with someone else and instead offered her a leading role on the committee that would convert Braxton from a college into a university over the next two years. She was disappointed, but once we reconnected and realized we could make a vast difference together, Fern quickly got on board with the decision.

“Kellan, so nice to see you. I'm meeting my son for brunch. He's stepped outside to fix an issue with the school's King Lear production.” Fern's tone had more verve than I was ready to handle at that time of day. Although I'd always known her academic and disciplinarian side, I'd recently connected with the dean on a more personal level, finding we had a lot in common. Between our mutual love of black-and-white films and traveling cross-country by train, we were destined to develop a stronger friendship. Where was that love when she'd raked me over the coals for something my frat had done while I was a student ten years ago?

As far as I recalled, Fern only had one son who'd graduated high school with me. Instead of going directly to college, he'd moved to New York City to become an actor before returning three years later to obtain his bachelor's degree. “How is Arthur? I haven't seen him in years.” I pushed away wavy, unruly dirty-blond hair from my three-day unshaven face. Nana D had astutely remarked I was overdue for a haircut, but since I hadn't been to a barber in Wharton County in a decade, I had no idea where to go. Eleanor had tried to convince me to let her trim it, but that would never happen. A steady grip with a pair of scissors and erring on the side of caution were not her strong points.

“Arthur's directing Braxton's play this semester. Unfortunately, it means he's working for a tyrant, but he's dealt with far worse on Broadway, I'm sure.” Fern shrugged, then offered me a seat. My mouth watered over the gooey cinnamon roll sitting on her plate inches away from my nimble fingers.

“No, I shouldn't. I have to be somewhere but thought I'd say hello.” I prepared to leave while Arthur returned from his phone call and stormed up to the table.

Hints of a ferocious dog came to mind when his alarming expression and cold, dark pupils centered on his unsuspecting mother. “That woman is a miserable old cow, Mom. I don't know how you cope working with her every day,” Arthur snarled. He was tall with round and puffy features like his mother but instead of a gray pixie-cut, thinning, sandy-colored hair was combed over in a failed attempt to hide what was inevitably going to happen relatively soon. Although he was thirty-two like me, early crow's feet and cavernous lines had already dominated his face. “Oh, wait… Kellan Ayrwick, is that you?”

I nodded. “I can only imagine you're speaking about my wonderful boss, Myriam Castle. I'd appreciate any tips you might have for dealing with that venomous barracuda!” It'd spilled from my lips before I could stop my verbal diarrhea. Myriam was one of my least favorite people. Ever. I'd barely known her for three weeks, but every interaction left me bristled and inflicted with a rash the size of Texas. Between her nasty, chirpy tone and inciting way of quoting Shakespeare, it often felt like a nails-on-chalkboard episode of Twilight Zone or a sinister case of Candid Camera. I waited for someone wearing a demon mask to jump out and yell surprise, but sadly, it never happened. I would've popped that charlatan right in the schnoz for messing with me.

“If only.” Arthur sat forcefully on the chair, wiping wet hands across his jeans. He'd regrettably gotten caught in the deluge without an umbrella. “Run. That's all I can say when it comes to that—”

“Now, Arthur. We all know she can be difficult, but let's not say something you'll regret.” Fern patted her son's forearm. “Remember, this is your opportunity to get into directing and away from acting. Isn't that what you said you wanted?” Fern fretted like a mother hen trying to calm her little chick. I'd rarely seen this side of her, but she handled her son with aplomb and tact.

“I know, Mom. Myriam's squashed the entire opening scene we'd been rehearsing for days. Now I have to reblock the stage before tomorrow's dress rehearsal.” He grunted and took an aggressive bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich. His canine teeth resembled a ravenous vampire's fangs.

Arthur answered an incoming call from someone named Dana on his cell phone. Since he and Fern were busy and my coffee grew colder on the counter, I excused myself to leave. I pretended not to hear Fern gasp when Arthur told Dana he also wanted to kill some woman for what she'd said at the previous night's rehearsal. I felt bad for Arthur, who'd have to work with the corrosive woman, or she'd make his life miserable.

When Myriam had become the new chairperson of our department, I suddenly took direction from her since I was teaching a full course load on broadcasting writing, television production, and history of film. We'd held our first supervisory meeting this week where she'd made things exorbitantly clear—once my father officially retired as the president of Braxton College in the coming days, I no longer had anyone to protect me. I might've been granted a one-year contract, but Myriam articulately clarified the new president—her wife, Ursula Power—could override it.

I grabbed my coffee and took off for Nana D's. She owned and operated Danby Landing, an organic orchard and farm in the southernmost section of Wharton County. At one point in the county's history, it had the largest acreage of any homestead, but Nana D had sold off a sizeable chunk after my grandpop passed away. As I turned onto the dirt path leading to her farmhouse, I quarantined thoughts of my back-from-the-dead wife and loony boss and focused on the next irrational mess I had to deal with.

When I pulled up at Danby Landing, my six-year-old daughter raced out of the house and jumped in my arms. I swung Emma from side to side and kissed her cheeks. She'd slept at Nana D's the previous night, so they could have a fancy slumber party—no boys invited, apparently.

“Daddy! We made s'mores. I got to ride the tractor with Nana D's farmhand this morning. He has a daughter my age. Can I play with her? When are we going to the zoo?” Emma asked, unable to control her glee. Her crimped dark-brown hair was pulled into pigtails, and she wore an adorable pair of denim overalls Nana D had sewed the previous week. Emma inherited her mother's olive-tinted skin, which made me unable to forget my wife's enchanting beauty.

“That sounds like fun, baby girl!” I placed her on the swinging bench next to me to spend a few minutes together before dealing with the old whiners. We played a few rounds of Cat-in-the-Cradle and discussed the sleepover, then Emma dragged me inside the house. While she poured herself a cup of juice and turned on a video, I trudged into the den to be terrorized.

There were four others in the room besides my nana, all of whom I'd met in the past. It was a meeting of the founding members of Braxton's Septuagenarian Club: Nana D, Eustacia Paddington, Gwendolyn Paddington, Millard Paddington, and Lindsey Endicott. They'd formed the group years ago upon turning seventy to celebrate a revival of their youth. They'd initiated at least forty new members and ran amok trying to reclaim any remaining independence from their family who'd locked them in nursing homes or taken away their driver's licenses. Nana D was the ringleader and caused the most disturbances around town. 'Not my monkey, not my circus,' I often reminded myself when anyone begged me to stop her from whatever trouble she'd brewed up.

“If it ain't the little bedwetter,” taunted Lindsey Endicott, a seventy-six-year-old retired attorney whom Nana D and Eustacia Paddington were both dating. His bright pink polo was two sizes too small and revealed way too much of his rotund beer belly. As soon as he'd sold his law practice, he'd opened a microbrewery in one of the well-frequented downtown shopping areas. The only problem was that he was his best customer and had never learned when or how to cut himself off.

“Awww, he hasn't done that in years, right, Kellan?” Eustacia's electric-blue track suit fit properly, but she obviously wasn't wearing anything underneath it. I shook my head in disbelief at the multitude of oddly shaped age spots and diverted my sight anywhere but in her direction. She continued, “I remember when he had that awful problem. Poor Seraphina had to change the sheets whenever that boy stayed over.”

Could we get any more embarrassing? I'd been three years old and had a nervous bladder. I'd gained full control of the situation for close to three decades at that point. “Cut it out, you two. I'll toss your little blue pills down the garbage disposal, Mr. Endicott. How do you like that?” His eyes opened wide, sending two giant, bushy eyebrows in every direction like ants in search of a morsel of food. “And you, Ms. Paddington… I'll slice several inches off your cane and see how you like hobbling around.”

Millard Paddington, Eustacia's older brother—by less than a year, Irish twins as she often called them—blushed a shade of red I rarely saw anymore. He was the only truly gentle human being in the bunch. “Leave the boy alone, you rascals, or I'll swap Gwennie's high-blood pressure pills with Eustacia's gastrointestinal medication. Neither of you will know what hit you. Don't we have important business to attend to?” Millard was the tallest of the bunch, rail thin, and had lost his hair years ago. He'd grown a handlebar moustache and had almost perfected the curls, but the children at the library held a penchant for yanking on it when he'd read to them. Calling it spotty would be a generous description, yet he seemed to enjoy all the attention from the boisterous toddlers.

Gwendolyn, or Gwennie as her fellow club members called her, had been married to Eustacia's and Millard's brother, Charles, who'd passed away the prior year. She was exceedingly prim and proper and had a habit of being hasty and judgmental. I'd luckily rarely been on the receiving end of it, but Nana D had to put the woman in her place many times in the past. Gwendolyn remained silent with her upturned nose, looking as snooty as possible—old schoolmarm after tasting a rancid, sour grapefruit.

“As much as I'd love to keep getting roasted by the old timers' club, Mr. Paddington is correct. How can I help with Nana D's campaign?” I relaxed into the only remaining chair in the room, which left me practically sitting inside the roaring fireplace. “What have you prepared so far?”

Silence. No one said a word, just looked back and forth at each other, waiting for someone else to chime in. We continued like this for another five minutes until I finally encouraged them to produce a list of the top ten changes they wanted to see happen in Wharton County. I was pleasantly surprised to discover at least six of them were pragmatic ideas others could get behind. The remaining four were not—free massages in the park by 'the hot little number at the Willow Trees Retirement Complex' and a new dating app called 'Let's Get Lucky' for the over-seventy crowd seemed a tad unnecessary and inflammatory to me. Then again, I might want those things in forty years, too. Who was I to judge or put the kibosh on someone's late-in-life carnal desires? I won't even mention the other two ideas.

While I assigned everyone tasks, Gwendolyn excused herself to use the powder room. “I'm borrowing your cane, Eustacia. I'm not feeling too steady on my feet the last few days.”

As Gwendolyn walked down the hall, Nana D teased, “I'm sorry I don't have a chamber pot, you old bat. Here we call it a restroom! No one says powder room anymore.” Was Gwendolyn avoiding her responsibilities, or was the absence a coincidence? As if she were privy to the conversation going on in my head, Nana D turned and said, “She always does that. When she returns, Gwennie will rush out saying she has to deal with an emergency. Just like Millard whenever I asked him to sleep over. That's the reason things didn't work out between us. He was selfish when it came to intimate things like—”

“No, Nana D. Please stop. I can't listen to it,” I begged once my insides cringed and turned to Jell-O. “We've talked about this many times. I don't want to hear anything about your love life. And in return, I won't bother you with anything about mine.”

“Does that mean you have a love life to speak of? Because last time we chatted, your ability to flirt and any awkward sex appeal you still clung to had disappeared the way of the pony express.” She then kissed her finger, touched her derriere, and made a sizzle sound. Her tiny noise erupted into a room full of irritable senior citizens hooting at my expense.

“I'm only here for a little while, Nana D. You need to use your time wisely, or I might not help you win the mayoral race.” I filled Gwendolyn's box with campaign promotional flyers and walked out the front door to load them in Lindsey's car. He'd carted the gang over to Nana D's given he was the best driver in the entire group. When I got to the porch, I heard Gwendolyn on her phone as she shuffled to the far corner.

Gwendolyn said, “Well, if you can't make it, then I'll find someone else to take your ticket. It's not the first time you've disappointed me, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I've sponsored this production of King Lear. The whole family is supposed to be there to support our generous donations. Maybe you're not cut out to be a member of this clan anymore.”

I watched the sourpuss expression deepen until it was her turn to speak again. When she did, even I got the chills from her icy tone and unexpected threat.

“You remember that when I'm no longer around. Family is supposed to look out for one another as they get older. Not throw them to the curb like trash. Maybe I need to make another trip to the lawyer to look over my will again.” A few seconds later Gwendolyn shouted into the phone, “You've always been useless. I've got a good mind to take you down right now. We'll see how you like it when things don't turn out as you expected.” Then she hung up and struggled with the clasp on her vintage 50s-style handbag. She finally got it open, flung her phone inside, and agitatedly clutched it to her side.

I'd already stepped onto the porch and couldn't sneak back inside without her noticing me. As she turned around, Gwendolyn sneered. “You eavesdropping on my call? What kind of manners did your nana teach you, Kellan? I've got a good mind to—”

“I'm sorry. I was bringing this box to the car and didn't know you were out here.” I cautiously held up my free hand and balanced the box against my chest with the other. I felt bad for interrupting her privacy but was shocked at what she'd said on the phone. “Is everything okay?”

“No, my awful family keeps taking my money but refuses to do anything nice for me. I'm about to learn how dreadful one of them truly is. What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked in a raspy voice.

Other than preparing for classes and trying to contact Francesca, who'd left me no number to reach her when she absconded with her mother to New York, nothing was planned. “Spending time with my daughter and helping Nana D prepare for her upcoming debate with Councilman Stanton.”

“Well, find yourself a babysitter. You're coming with me to Braxton's dress rehearsal for King Lear. One of my useless kinsfolks canceled and I have an extra ticket.” Gwendolyn wiped a speck of dust from her eye. A woman like her never cried about family. She complained about them to anyone who'd listen. Or even those who didn't.

“I'm sure they love you. Maybe it's a misunderstanding,” I suggested, sympathetic to her plight. Nana D had mentioned several times how Gwendolyn's kids had either abandoned her or gotten into trouble ever since their father had passed away. Her husband, Charles, had been the family's center of gravity while he'd been alive, but lately they all treated her like a burden or an ATM.

“That's certainly a load of petrified cow dung! They'd be happier if I kicked the bucket on the drive home tonight. I'm concerned one of them might try to kill me. Something ain't right with how I feel lately. Going to the doctor on Monday to find out.” She steadied herself against the doorjamb and huffed loudly. “Stupid ungrateful beasts. If I find out one of them has been gaslighting me, I'll have them arrested. No two thoughts about it. We might be family, but they're all a bunch of vultures.”

Gwendolyn plodded inside to corral the rest of the Septuagenarian Club. I rubbed my temples, loaded the box into Lindsey's car, and returned to the house. After everyone left, Nana D pulled me into the kitchen, away from Emma's curious ears. “Did I overhear Gwennie tell you someone in her family is trying to murder her?” Nana D asked with a peculiar twitch in her left cheek.

“Yes, I assumed she was upset about one of them not going to the show. I guess I'll be going with you now.” I sighed as if the weight of the world rested on my shoulders. I loved my nana, but her friends were harder to handle than standing upside down catching a greasy pig in a mudslide.

“No, brilliant one. That's where you're wrong. Something is whackadoodle in that family. She's been acting strange for weeks. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those Paddingtons was trying to kill Gwennie. You're gonna help her figure out which crazy one it is before they succeed, right?”

Chapter 2

After leaving Nana D's farm, Emma and I went shopping at a local bookstore. An hour later and a hundred dollars deeper in debt, we exited the charming literary wonder set between the two Braxton campuses with our hands full of recycled bags stocked with books. I'd snagged a copy of the debut novel in a new mystery series that had caught my eye. Next stop, the Pick-Me-Up Diner for an early dinner and much-needed therapy session with my sister. Since she was the only person I could talk to about Francesca, Eleanor would have to suffer through endless conversations about what to do next.

When we arrived, I ordered Emma to wear a hard hat in case she bumped into any of the construction in the currently being renovated Pick-Me-Up Diner. Emma joined Manny, Eleanor's chef, who was in the kitchen testing new recipes even though the place wasn't accessible to the public. It still needed a final inspection on Wednesday morning before allowing in any paying customers.

“She seems to be adjusting well.” Eleanor pulled her dirty-blonde, curly hair into a bun on the top of her head and wrapped a scrunchie around to hold it in place. While our older siblings had inherited our father's lanky body structure, Eleanor and I split the dominant Danby and Betscha traits in resemblance of our mother. Eleanor got saddled with wider hips and shorter arms than she'd liked, and I ungraciously accepted untamable hair and a tiny button nose that refused to properly balance my glasses. “Still haven't said anything to Emma, right?”

“No, I wouldn't know how or where to begin. I'm living in one of your daytime dramas lately.” I teased my sister even though it hadn't felt like a laughing matter. I loved Francesca, and the day I buried my wife was the worst day of my life. I was having trouble believing her reappearance wasn't a dream.

“Tell me again exactly how the Castiglianos pulled this off?” When Eleanor had met my mother-in-law to pick up Emma, Cecilia sent my daughter upstairs in my parents' log cabin, aka Royal Chic-Shack as we all called it, while she informed Eleanor to wait in our father's study. A few minutes later, Cecilia snuck Francesca into the small, private office nestled in the far corner and locked the door. Eleanor shockingly learned that Francesca was alive, and I was summoned home immediately.

“I had less than one hour with her, then Cecilia whisked Francesca away to New York, refusing to provide any way to reach her. All communication must go through my controlling in-laws,” I replied. It was like a Woody Allen movie playing out in front of me, not my own life. “I'm hoping to see her again when they return tomorrow.”

“You're seriously telling me Francesca's been hiding out at the Castigliano mansion for over two years?” Eleanor asked with bright eyes and an exaggerated amount of air blown through her lips to push rogue bangs away from her forehead. “Diabolical!”

“Yes, the whole macabre series of events happened quietly and quickly. A few days before the fake car accident, a rival mob family, the Vargas gang, had kidnapped Francesca. I never knew about it because I'd been away on a film set. Her father's goons killed one of their men, and as retaliation, the Vargas mob captured Francesca. When he found out what'd happened, Vincenzo instructed his henchmen to do whatever it took to return his daughter.”

“But how did she end up faking her death? You've never explained that part.” Eleanor peered through the small window in the kitchen door to verify Emma was still helping Manny prepare dinner and not listening to our conversation.

“The only way Vincenzo could protect her was to stage an accident that looked like the Vargas family's newest driver had killed her. He bought off a local cop who poured alcohol all over the other guy's car and had the medics attempt to rescue Francesca. They never caught the driver because there never was one. When the police called to tell me about the accident, Francesca was in the room with them, trying to convince her father to find another solution.”

“I can't believe she'd hurt you like this. Painful.” Eleanor acted as if it were her wife who'd lied and disappeared. I knew she was empathetic, but no one could understand the impact to my world.

“I remember seeing a few random thugs checking out the accident. They must have been there to ensure Francesca looked dead and to report my reaction. Vincenzo eventually convinced the Vargas family that he'd suffered enough by losing his daughter. Everyone agreed to call off their turf war and carefully observe proper boundaries in the future.”

“Does she have to stay dead forever? What kind of life is that?”

“I wish I knew. We only had time to agree on not telling Emma for now.” It'd made me so happy to see my wife, but my body filled with an intense anger I'd never experienced before. “Francesca's been spying our daughter at the Castigliano mansion whenever Emma slept over. When I told the Castiglianos I was moving back to Pennsylvania, Francesca freaked out. It meant she could no longer watch Emma from a safe, comfortable distance.”

“That's why she came back from the dead now?” Eleanor said without blinking for a long time.

I nodded. Francesca tried to abide by her father's rules and stay hidden, but when the possibility of never seeing her daughter again became a reality, she snuck onto the plane with her new fake identity to convince me not to take Emma away. Francesca had worn a costume, dyed her hair, and sat far away in coach from Emma—Cecilia had undoubtedly flown first class. “I have no idea what to do next. I can't let this impact Emma, but if her mother's alive, shouldn't she get to be part of her life?”

“Only if it isn't dangerous. What about you? Are you thinking about getting a new identity and disappearing somewhere to rebuild a life together?” Eleanor looked disappointed and worried that I would leave town again.

In the forty-one minutes Francesca and I had together, all of which were supervised by my mother-in-law, we only discussed what to do about Emma. “I haven't thought about it. Right now, I just want to find out what she's been doing the last two-and-a-half years. I don't even know if we're technically still married, or how any of this works.”

“Don't you still want to be married to her? You loved Francesca so much.” Eleanor hugged me, then stepped away.

“I'm overwhelmed. I want to reclaim what we once had, but she lied to me. She ended something intimate and passionate. We were great together, and now, it feels strange to be around her.” I paused to keep my emotions from exploding. “The new Francesca has short blonde hair, wears colored contact lenses, and speaks differently. I don't recognize my wife anymore, Eleanor.”

My sister leaned in to kiss my cheek, but my ringing cell phone interrupted us. I looked at the screen and groaned. What did my boss want with me on a Saturday evening? I preferred to ignore her but needed a temporary break from thinking about Francesca's reappearance in my life.

“Good evening, Myriam. How's your weekend?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster. Eleanor patted my shoulder, then went into the kitchen to check on Emma and offer me some privacy.

“I've no time for small talk. I'm fixing gargantuan issues with our upcoming King Lear production. I suddenly remembered you were supposed to drop off your course recommendations for next semester. You seem fond of keeping me waiting for you to get your job done properly,” Myriam said haughtily. Her normal appearance backed up the narcissistic attitude, too—she always wore immaculately cut power suits and kept her short, spiky gray hair perfectly styled. I'd suspected at one time it was a wig, and if I ever had the chance, I'd rip that sucker off to test my theory. It didn't matter that she could be old enough to be my mother. The viper needed to be taken down a notch or two.

While Myriam was correct about the deliverable, we'd agreed on Monday being the due date. It was only Saturday. I'd completed them that morning but hadn't planned to submit them until the last minute as retaliation for her giving me such a short deadline. It was the only way I could irritate my boss without crossing any overt boundaries. “Certainly. I thought we could discuss them in our weekly meeting next Tuesday. I'd be happy to email them to you tomorrow.”

“That simply won't do. I need time to review before we meet, and I'm in rehearsals all day tomorrow. I distinctly asked you to get them to me in advance, but it seems you struggle with listening and punctuality. 'Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.' Wouldn't you agree?” Myriam ordered me to hold on, then shouted at someone in the theater about annunciating properly.

“As you like it,” I replied, naming the Shakespearean comedy from where her line came.

“Now you understand who's the boss. Drop it off in thirty minutes at Paddington's Play House. And don't dawdle. I'm sure it'll take me hours to revise and comment on it,” Myriam growled before hanging up.

As I tapped my fingers on the diner's dusty table, I considered my options. If I stood my ground, Myriam would continue to itemize everything she'd felt was an influential enough reason to push me out of Braxton. If I let her obnoxious attitude roll off my shoulders like it meant nothing, she might eventually tire and bore of chiding me every moment of every day. Before I acted too severely, it'd be beneficial to have my first official meeting with Ursula to understand her perspective on the situation.

Eleanor agreed to drop Emma off at our parents' place on her way home since our mother was remaining in for the evening. Our father had an out-of-town golf game that weekend, which meant our mother planned to curl up with the latest regency romance novel from her favorite author—her sister, Deirdre.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the South Campus parking lot and grabbed the printed course outlines and film suggestions from my briefcase. As I entered Paddington's Play House, someone shouted terse stage directions at the actors and loudly dropped a prop. It sounded like something made of glass when I heard the earth-shaking shatter as it hit the stage. I ambled around the lobby, hoping whatever commotion was stirring up inside the theater would settle down.

Paddington's Play House had been built by Charles, Millard, and Eustacia's father in the late 1940s while his children were young. None of the other colleges had a theater program or entertainment venues, and the Paddingtons were determined to always be first in every endeavor. Built in the shape of a large octagon that resembled Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, it seated up to one-thousand guests. Unlike the original Globe Theatre, there was no standing room. A large cathedral ceiling with reclaimed wood beams, antique gilded and cushioned seats, and plastered walls painted an ivory white offered a charming and bespoke atmosphere. The college played four shows a year, one of which was always a Shakespearean production to properly celebrate the Bard.

I admired the inlaid, two-toned natural wood flooring as I descended into the seating area, hoping the ruckus had died down. Arthur and Myriam attempted to co-direct several reticent actors on stage. They both waved their hands furiously and stomped across the narrow expanse, demonstrating what the actors should've been doing. I was too far away to hear their words or see the expressions on their faces, but it was obvious they provided contradictory direction.

Two female voices startled me from the corner. A dark brunette in designer jeans and low-cut red blouse said, “He told me how pretty I looked earlier. I think maybe I have a chance.”

“Get out. He's too old for you, Dana. Why would you be interested in him?” the thin, taller girl with a pasty complexion and nasal voice replied. She'd pulled her neon-green hair up under a baseball cap and was dressed in a pair of old, ratty sweats.

Dana said, “I know he's not exactly the hottest guy and he might be a little on the older side, but he's hilarious. And he knows so many famous people.” She swooned as she spoke, then looked toward the stage. As her head turned, she caught sight of me.

I nodded in her direction. “Excuse me, would you know when they'll take a break? I need to drop something off for Myriam Castle.”

“Ugh, you better wait until she's done. Dr. Castle doesn't like to be interrupted,” Dana said.