Legally Blind Luck E-Book

James J. Cudney

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Surprising new family members. A hidden talisman. Deadly curses. Murder. Months after tragically losing a loved one, Kellan learns his relative's death wasn't an accident.

Someone has discovered a cursed talisman, and a rogue government agent will stop at nothing to retrieve the heirloom. Unfortunately, it has already changed hands and found its way on campus. Moments before Braxton's controversial art exhibition opens, Kellan stumbles upon another murder victim, and it appears he might be next on the avenger's list.

Can Kellan protect the talisman's true heir and prevent the killer's nefarious plan? Given all the suspects have ties to prominent Braxton citizens, he's uncertain whom to trust. Together, Kellan and Sheriff April are determined to solve the mystery - via legal means or blind luck.

Leseprobe

Legally Blind Luck

Braxton Campus Mystery Book 7

James J. Cudney

Copyright (C) 2021 James J. Cudney

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 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 accomplish 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. Legally Blind Luck, the seventh book in my Braxton Campus Mysteries series, has had many supporters since its inception in the fall 2020, but before the concept even sparked in my mind, others nurtured my passion for writing.

First thanks go to my parents, Jim and Pat, for always believing in me as a writer and teaching me how to become the person I am today. Their unconditional love and support have been the primary reason I accomplish my goals. Through the guidance of my extended family and friends, who consistently encourage me to pursue my passions, I found the confidence to take chances in life. Thank you to Roda for all the kindness and fun a big sister provides. With Winston and Baxter by my side, I was granted the opportunity to make my dreams of publishing this novel come true. I'm appreciative to them for inspiring me each day to complete this book.

Legally Blind Luck was cultivated through the interaction with and feedback from several talented alpha and beta readers who volunteered to read an early draft of the book. These amazing nine readers and friends found most of my proofreading misses, grammar mistakes, and awkward phrases. I couldn't have completed this wonderful story without Shalini, Lisa, Nina, Didi, Misty, Anne, Laura, Anne, and Valerie. A major thanks to them for encouraging me to be stronger in my word choice and providing several pages of suggestions to convert good language into fantastic language. I'm grateful for their kindness and big-heartedness to play such an integral role in catching the things my eyes and mind completely overlook. They've also supplied insight and perspective during the development of the story, setting, and character arcs. I am indebted to them for countless conversations and multiple readings that have helped me to fine-tune every aspect of this tale. You really learn who you friends are when they offer to do so much to help you.

Thank you to Next Chapter for publishing Legally Blind Luck and paving the road for additional books to come. Their support and focus on my novels in the past three-and-a-half years have been a key reason I'm able to keep on writing more. I look forward to our continued partnership.

Overview of the Braxton Campus Mysteries

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.

Legally Blind Luck: Death via Curse is the 7th book in the series, and the title, as always, is a play on words: Legally Blind and Blind Luck. I trust you'll figure out all the connections within the mystery. This story isn't based on any known curse that I've come across, but I wanted to add a little flavor to the series in this latest book. Queen Tessa and Governor Yeardley are fictional, yet the impacts of apartheid and the history of the South African tribes in the last four centuries are real.

While each book's main mystery is stand-alone, I recommend reading the series in order because of the side stories and character progression. I provide a summary of the key characters at the beginning of each book because there are a lot to remember. To date in the series, we're at 135 characters. In this book, I keep it to under 40, some of whom are minor connections to the past. Don't get overwhelmed! I'm only trying to create a family and setting we fall in love with and want to repeatedly visit. I hope you enjoy this book.

-Jay

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

Who's Who in the Braxton Campus Mysteries?

Ayrwick Family

Kellan: Main Character, Braxton professor, amateur sleuth, April's boyfriendEmma: Kellan's daughter with FrancescaUlan Danby: Zach's son, being raised by KellanZach Danby: Nana D's son, Ulan's fatherNana D: Kellan's grandmother, also known as Mayor Seraphina DanbyWesley: Kellan's father, Braxton's retired PresidentViolet: Kellan's mother, Nana D's daughter, Braxton's Admissions DirectorDeirdre Danby: Nana D's daughter, Zach's sisterEleanor: Kellan's younger sister, owns Pick-Me-Up DinerHampton: Kellan's older brother, attorney, Natasha's husbandNatasha Reed Ayrwick: Hampton's wife

Wharton County Administration & Residents

April Montague: Wharton County Sheriff, Kellan's girlfriend, Fox's estranged wifeAugie Montague: April's younger brotherConnor Hawkins: Wharton County Detective, Kellan's best friend, Maggie's boyfriend, Victor's sonMaggie Roarke: Braxton's Head Librarian, Connor's girlfriendFrancesca Castigliano: Kellan's ex-wife, Emma's mother, Cristiano's girlfriendCristiano Vargas: Francesca's boyfriend, former mafia headOfficer Flatman: Wharton County Police OfficerUrsula Power: Braxton's President, Myriam's WifeMyriam Castle: Braxton's Chair of Communications Dept., Kellan's boss, Ursula's wifeFern Terry: Braxton's Dean of Academics, Jordan's aunt, Ivy's sisterEustacia Paddington: Head of Paddington family, Nana D's frenemyFox Terrell: April's estranged husband, Wharton County JudgeConstance Garibaldi: Psychic medium (Madam Zenya)

The World of South African Art & Mysterious Curses

Queen Tessa: Ancient high priestess (Deceased)Governor Yeardley: Savage colonial (Deceased)Peter & Gemma Hawkins: Connor's South African grandparents (Deceased)Victor Hawkins: Connor's South African fatherRenee: Zach's South African girlfriendLindsey Endicott: Cain's father, Nana D's ex-boyfriendKathy Endicott: Cain's mother, Orlando flight attendantCain Endicott: Lindsey & Kathy's son, Chair of Braxton's Art DepartmentSawyer Jaccard: Bitsy's husband, art importer/exporterBitsy Jaccard: Sawyer's wife, museum curatorRhett Ballantine: Ivy's ex-husband, Jordan's fatherJordan Ballantine: Rhett & Ivy's son, MBA studentIvy Natcher: Jordan's mother, Tobias's wife, Fern's sister, Rhett's ex-wifeTobias Natcher: Ivy's husband, businessmanGiovanni: FBI / ICE agent

Chapter 1

“Are you certain she didn't kill him? Let's postpone until next week.” I scraped several cinnamon roll crumbs off the coffee table, concerned the feisty secretary would bestow her trademark death look upon me again. Three times in under ten minutes had broken her record.

“Pop a squat and settle that keister, Kellan. Your incessant pacing has inflamed my arthritis. President Power will oust Cain Endicott in a jiffy.” Prior to stomping toward the door, Ursula's dictatorial and ornery assistant switched off her Victorian lamp and locked her vintage mirrored desk. “If that rocky discussion shudders your innards,” she added, flicking her pearl-adorned neck in the opposite direction, “yesterday's bickering would've ruptured your blood vessels. Professors and students congregated outside the building to identify the source of the ruckus.”

I shrugged noncommittally while she hastily escaped Prentiss Hall in her high-performance jogging shoes, charcoal-gray pantsuit, and festive pashmina, precariously dangling four-inch pumps and a bedazzled handbag from her fingertips. A terse mention of her husband purchasing almost-impossible-to-locate theater tickets for that night accompanied her plummy voice. Attending a hot new musical sounded way more appetizing than performing my imminent song and dance routine.

After tossing the dirty napkin into the trash bin, I tiptoed closer to Ursula's door to listen for any death blows signaling the end of their argument. I wasn't normally prone to eavesdropping, but snooping occasionally happened when something important—okay, yes, it was true—I listened to other people's conversations ad nauseam. Nana D suggested I inherited my nosiness from her, but mostly I believed it was my adorable charm and unique dedication to pursuing the truth. An occupational hazard for academic folks with a keen love of mysteries and drama. After fifteen months back home, I fully embraced my innate tendency to solve unusual homicide cases, only because I couldn't retain any self-control for minding my own business.

Behind the wood-paneled interior door, Ursula shouted something about thousands of dollars over budget and lacking the proper authority, to which Cain retorted, “African art is expensive. Did you honestly think I would be the laughingstock of all the institutions in our immediate academic circle? Come on, President Power, this is unnecessary. Surely you'd agree I am capable of….” His voice dropped too low, so I pressed my five-foot-nine frame against the door to overhear the remaining conversation.

As Ursula responded, the outer door from the main hallway blasted open, and Dean Fern Terry raced inside like a galloping giraffe. A single drop of sweat trailed the center of her creased forehead. We were both scheduled to meet with Braxton's esteemed president, but I wanted to disappear like the rabbit in a cheesy magic trick to avoid whatever hell fury was about to rain down. Especially when Fern trapped her foot under the corner of a leather ottoman, tumbled to the floor, and inadvertently hurled her giant stack of folders in my direction. Ursula and Cain must've heard the commotion, because within the subsequent five seconds I fell backward against the interior office door just as Cain opened it. I landed spread eagle on the carpet, littered with Fern's ridiculous paraphernalia, and cringed as Cain's cup of hot tea puddled on the front of my khakis—in an overly sensitive and embarrassing spot.

“Argh! What the—”

Cain interrupted my soon-to-be blasphemous outburst with his profusive apology, brushing back a rogue chunk of blackish-brown curls from his high and broad forehead. “I'm so sorry. What happened out here? Looks like a tornado swept through the office.” Among his classic Roman features—wide-set eyes, a hooked nose, and a powerful jaw—lurked an inquisitive yet angry gaze.

“There can only be one reason you're in the fetal position, Kellan,” Ursula chastised in between chuckling and offering me a bunch of wadded up tissues. Her almond-shaped emerald eyes sparkled from the sun piercing through the windowpanes. “You're a magnet for unnatural disasters. I hope you understand if I don't help clean that mess. I'm dealing with enough HR issues these days. Pour some club soda on it before it stains.”

Fern organized her papers while I blotted and spritzed water on my pants. Ursula had readily handed over a spray bottle, filled to the brim explicitly for painstakingly misting her exotic plant collection. I sighed before yielding like a trapped critter, then uttered, “No worries. I've got this one all by myself. Maybe we should defer our chat until the inclement weather subsides?”

“Huh? It's sunny and clear out. What are you babbling about?” A moment later, Cain craned his neck and realized I was being facetious. He vigorously shook his head, stretched for his briefcase, and pointed an accusatory finger in Ursula's direction. “Over my dead body will I concede. You know I'm right, President Power. We're shelving it tonight and will address what's best for Braxton on Monday.”

While Ursula and Cain exchanged a handful of professional but incisive jibes, Fern and I regained our composures inside the presidential office and scouted for two spots near the bay window. We'd been asked to show up for a six o'clock discussion but had no knowledge of the meeting's purpose. All Ursula's austere secretary had articulated that morning was, “She asks. You appear. Need I explain more?”

I'd reached an unbearable limit of authoritarian women. Our spring graduation had just concluded, and my boss, the doughty and acerbic Dr. Myriam Castle, insisted I cover the next term even though I'd been assured no classes that summer. Braxton would soon convert from a college into a university, and I sat on the committee to facilitate the relaunch. I had non-existent time to teach a six-week compacted lecture in foreign literature and films, but when the irritable despot who also happened to be married to the college president mandated something, the word no wasn't an option.

As if Myriam weren't slinging enough abuse, Nana D—my spitfire grandmother, also the mayor of our secluded north-central Pennsylvania county—had stepped up her regular harassment routine and prodded me daily on several urgent matters. Ever felt two red-hot pokers jabbing your derriere like twin needles on a sewing machine? Not a pretty sight! Given the recent immense tragedy in my life, I craved essential downtime before my head exploded from stress and sorrow.

While I settled into an uncomfortably petite sofa, Cain stormed out of Ursula's office, and she gracefully ensconced herself behind a white pine desk. “That man has a death wish!” Performing a calming yoga technique, she switched gears and said, “I've always loved this building. So much history! Don't you agree?”

“Over two hundred years old. Must be difficult to concentrate with everything to admire.”

Prentiss Hall, an architecturally stunning, four-story Georgian structure overlooking the South Campus cable car system, housed many of Braxton's vital administrative departments. Resplendent with exquisite symmetry, the exterior masonry boasted dozens of pediments, arches, and columns, including an English ivy-covered facade. Ursula's office commandeered the penthouse level, which had been divided into the presidential suite, encompassing a private bathroom and bedroom; an octagonal antechamber, accommodating the secretary's desk and a waiting area for guests; and a large conference room, used for board meetings and other executive-level summits. With a flair for European minimalism, aerodynamic design, and pale, airy, and lustrous decor, she insisted on spending her own money rather than Braxton's. The room's color scheme primarily drew from blue, gray, and beige tones, easily relaxing guests and suggesting a place of harmony. Except, apparently, for that day.

“I agree. It's vastly different from my dreary offices on North Campus.” Fern glanced back and forth between Ursula and me, then hiccupped. “Excuse me,” she softly added, humbly requesting a pardon for her bluntness, and chugged from her eco-friendly water bottle. “What's on the agenda this Friday evening, President Power?”

“Let's take a minute to center ourselves. I apologize for the tirade you've just witnessed. We are at a crossroads with Braxton's forthcoming exhibition.” Ursula explained that Cain Endicott, the chair of the art department, had submitted an unorthodox proposal to her months ago, claiming it would bring a plethora of rich donors to Braxton. His unsubstantiated theory projected that they'd exceed the funds required to complete the fall rebranding as Braxton University.

Fern tugged on her ear, a nervous tick she'd stopped trying to control, and grinned as wide as her quarterback-size shoulders. Her pixie hairdo, pallid complexion, and menacing linebacker body frame kept the student population in control, primarily out of fear and respect. “It's quite thrilling. I've heard so much about next week's opening.” When Ursula nodded, Fern mentioned her brother-in-law would speak at a session in the controversial event.

“I forgot about your connection to the panel of revered guests. Maybe he'll contribute something about that infamous African idol.” Ursula crossed her long, shapely legs and arched her back. Somewhere in her forties, she was Braxton's youngest president. She'd already piloted the campus for a year, deemed an impressive successor to the former head—my father, Wesley Ayrwick.

Dad had retired in parallel to convincing me to return home and teach at Braxton for a year. I'd recently signed on for another term, something I still aggressively debated in my soul every waking moment. Money versus sanity. Family versus relaxation. Happiness versus potential incarceration because I locked them in an underground storm shelter simply to gain an ounce of privacy and a much-deserved break from their lunacy.

Upon checking my watch and realizing I only had thirty minutes before another pressing engagement, I awkwardly cleared my throat. “Not to be rude, but I have to be somewhere soon. Could we address the reason you asked to meet?”

Although Ursula erred on the down-to-earth and open-minded range of personalities, Braxton's president wielded the upper hand in all conversations. She extended me more leeway than most other professors and administrative staff, and I tried my best not to exploit such charity. “Of course, this shouldn't take too long. It's imperative someone get Cain back in line. His grand plans and lavish spending for the upcoming art exhibition have run amok, and I don't have the time to babysit him.” Ursula explained that his ideas had originally impressed her, and she'd granted him a tad too much slack in the previous weeks. Everything needed to align with our meticulously designed marketing program for the university's future.

Fern eagerly agreed to sort through the chaos with Cain, despite her primary role as Dean of Students. Our Dean of Academics had resigned, and the influential and much-coveted position was still unoccupied, so Ursula juggled more than usual. I failed to understand why they'd roped me into the melodrama. “Is there any specific value that I offer here? I'm a professor in the communications department. My specialty is film and series productions. I'm not sure what I have to do with Cain's request for more money.”

Fern released a disturbing guffaw. “Well, I suppose one could say you often motivate others to do the right thing. Your natural charm and wit put people at ease. They ardently trust you.”

“Quite true. You also pose an intelligent and obvious question, Kellan. I'd planned to tap someone else, but he took an unexpected family leave this summer,” countered Ursula, flipping her honey tresses off her shoulders. “Myriam suggested you'd be the perfect replacement candidate. Something about the fortuitous connection between the art exhibition and the impending literature and film seminar you'll teach. I assume that means something to you. I, unfortunately, am not familiar with every course in the curriculum this semester.” Ursula dispensed two folders, indicating they contained all the details on the exhibition's budget, schedule, panel of guest speakers, and her specific goals and objectives.

If I weren't so fantastically adept at solving murders, I'd maim and kill my boss. Knowing my luck, I'd resort to helping the sheriff, coincidentally also my girlfriend, arrest and prosecute myself for Myriam's untimely demise. Images of Myriam drowning in a sea of Shakespearean quotes—she expertly inserted one into every conversation—triggered me to stifle a childish giggle. “I will have to thank her for this… generous… vote of confidence. I should buy a nice plant for her office. Is your wife fond of poison ivy or foxglove?”

Ursula released an unexpected snort as I spat out the words through gritted teeth. “Are you two still at each other's throats? I trust you'll continue to improve your relationship to show students the importance of respectfully disagreeing but nevertheless moving the dial forward. Part of me thinks you inspire one another to excel in your respective areas of expertise.” As she stood, an unspoken sign implying the meeting's conclusion, Ursula added, “Also, some business school friends have agreed to guide Braxton's interests in next week's exhibition. I'll give them your contact information. Don't be fooled by your initial impressions. This is one situation where it won't benefit you to judge a pair of books by its covers. I'm sure the Jaccards will be in touch after I take them to a new restaurant in Woodland this evening. Have a great weekend.”

Fern enthusiastically grabbed my hand and ushered us both out of Ursula's office before I could object, whine, or throw a tantrum. “This will be exciting! My sister taught me oodles about paintings and sculptures. We're having dinner after her flight lands tomorrow. She and her husband are frequent intercontinental travelers. I can hardly keep track of my own life these days, especially with a new grandchild.”

“Hmmm… you and I have drastically opposing definitions of exciting,” I barked back as we scurried to the parking lot and arranged our meeting for the following day.

“Oh, Kellan, you're entirely too dramatic for a man in his early thirties. How do you put up with yourself?” Fern withdrew a car key from her pant pocket and sneered in jest at me.

“A modern wonder, huh?” With a cheesy grin and two thumbs up, I encouraged a handful of dedicated runners obsessing about their heart rate monitors. They'd just crossed the pedestrian bridge over a man-made pond the science department had dug the previous year. Though deep enough to stock a few species of fish, it wasn't large enough for students to swim in or fraternities and sororities to conduct illegal hazing practices. As Fern shut the car door, I queried, “Any idea what she meant about the Jaccards' appearance? Are we being punked?”

“No clue. Maybe they're one of those mis-match couples… you know… where they are total extreme opposites but click perfectly well together?” While rolling up her window and nearly trapping my fingers, Fern ruefully tossed her hands in the air.

“Hmmm… somehow, I don't think that's what she implied. See ya tomorrow.”

I'd luckily scheduled myself off for the entire weekend, mostly so I could plan the summer class Myriam had dropped in my lap. All my free moments belonged to others; none remained at my discretion except spending quality time with loved ones—the only activity keeping me sane since the Orlando airport catastrophe had struck ten weeks earlier. Since then, I'd spent an inordinate amount of time investigating my family's life-changing tragedy. My mind and body were exhausted, but my heart and soul had suffered indelibly upon learning of Uncle Zach's death in a devastating explosion.

Chapter 2

My mother's younger brother, a big-game veterinarian, had lived in South Africa for the previous two years, protecting a rare species of elephants from extinction. After the first year's commitment, Uncle Zach sent his teenager to live with me, citing little time to focus on his son's welfare. Ulan had been in my care for six months when he flew to Disney World with my parents and daughter for Spring Break. Uncle Zach had arranged a surprise appearance at the Orlando airport—where he'd subsequently return with the family to our Pennsylvania hometown—while things would theoretically be under control at the elephant camp. Unfortunately, after Uncle Zach had deplaned and rented a car, an explosion in the short-term parking lot permanently changed those plans.

A lot of rumors had surfaced about Uncle Zach's demise. Truthfully, it wasn't clear to any of us. A taciturn FBI or Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent—we weren't certain at which government institution he worked—had tracked us down at the hospital just as we'd brought in my sister-in-law to recover from a lunatic who'd shoved her off a cliff. As Natasha hovered between life and death, a family friend and psychic, Constance Garibaldi, hysterically darted into the hospital waiting room to inform us that her tragic predictions weren't over and that we still faced impending doom. None of us could've anticipated she'd foreseen Uncle Zach's death.

The government had been following Uncle Zach because they thought he'd stolen a priceless tribal figurine before leaving South Africa. Upon finding no traces of it in the remains of the car or his luggage, they concluded he wasn't guilty and abandoned their investigation. Although we were all grateful Natasha had survived the tumble, and we hoped she would regain the use of her legs, saying a permanent goodbye to Uncle Zach had wrecked us. Nana D holed up in her farmhouse for days, refusing to talk to anyone but me, and even that came in limited quantities. Unfortunately for the authorities, she demanded answers and summoned the big guns to apply pressure. My grandmother wouldn't believe the randomness of his accident, noting Uncle Zach had not been himself in the days preceding his flights to the US. “My son was afraid of someone. This is an unequivocal fact. He all but said the words,” Nana D had insisted when she crawled out of her temporary recluse, eyes swollen and hair torn astray.

Was my uncle's death truly the result of a clerical error—that someone had forgotten to repair a leaky fuel line on his rental car? Or had someone else followed him, secretly engineered the explosion, and pilfered the rare African idol? Maybe Nana D had overlooked critical information Uncle Zach revealed on their calls. Poor Ulan had fixated on playing his favorite video game for forty-eight straight hours without any sleep after his father's death. While I frequently soothed my cousin, I also further helicopter-parented my own child who'd been nearby during a second explosion in the parking lot.

While pacing Braxton Elementary's designated pickup area and waiting for Emma to finish an after-school program, I dialed Nana D. We usually chatted a few times each week, but following Uncle Zach's accident, I talked to my grandmother every morning and again around dinnertime. After ten weeks, she'd painstakingly obscured her grief to the exterior world, but I knew instantly how ravaged she was by the tone of her voice. “What's the four-one-one, Nana D? I hope your current agency temp made it through the full week.” Since her previous assistant had run off with a foreign husband, she hired and fired the woman's replacement weekly as an outlet for her heartache.

“Canned. She had the nerve to ask if I needed help with the latest updates on my iPhone.”

“Isn't that what assistants do?” I rolled my eyes and bent forward to hug Emma as she approached the car.

My daughter assertively shook her head and stepped to the side so I couldn't reach her. With one hand on her hip and the other scolding me in a waving motion, she also gave me the stink eye. What was her problem? Luckily, when she tried to escape, I snagged the back of her hoodie and pointed to the door. After I whispered, “Nana D,” she relented, and her playful espresso-colored pigtails bounced in unison with her lengthy stride as she climbed into the backseat. If she grew any taller—one of the beneficial traits she'd inherited from her mother, along with flawless olive skin and impeccable bone structure—she'd surpass Nana D's five-foot stature. Emma's dark-brown eyes mushroomed like giant bugs as she formulated a strange half-smile and half-grimace. I'd ask her about the mini tantrum once the call ended with Nana D.

In the background, my grandmother operated a blender on a low enough speed that we could still hear one another. Margarita Fridays with Eustacia Paddington had become a tradition at Danby Landing the previous month—nothing like alcohol and humor as one's emotional therapy. “That paper-pusher rudely hinted I'm too ancient to do it myself. Goodbye. Adios. All feet are insane.”

That line perplexed me. “Do you mean Auf Wiedersehen? The German words for goodbye?”

“Pish! I know what I said. Her crazy feet can do some walking!” The blender stopped chopping ice long enough for her to invite me over for cocktails and to express her pent-up anguish. “I miss my son, Kellan. Mothers aren't equipped to send their children out of the world. Only to bring them into it. This is unnatural.”

When I heard Eustacia consoling her in the background, I gently declined the invitation. “I won't pretend to understand, only support you as best I can. Your great-granddaughter wants to say a brief hello while we drive home. But first, how was your day?” As Emma snapped her seatbelt, I pulled away from the curb.

“I suppose I'm coping,” replied Nana D before notifying me that Eustacia had spilled a third drink on her blouse and torn off her bra. “We're making plans to visit South Africa. I want to find out what my son was up to before he got on that plane to Orlando. I need to do something to process my feelings. I've got survivor's guilt.” The bleak crack and lilt in her voice were heartbreaking on multiple levels.

Losing one of her kids in the prime of his life, fifty-two, had devastated my grandmother. Parents weren't supposed to outlive their offspring. Besides him and my mother, Nana D had also raised two other children—Deirdre and Campbell—both of whom lived outside Braxton. Aunt Deirdre had gotten married and given birth to her first baby the prior year, and she and her husband continued to reside in England and occasionally travel to the US. She wrote romance novels, and he was the CEO of a major corporation, Paddington Enterprises. Campbell was a more complicated story for a different day.

“One day at a time. Book nothing until we coordinate schedules. I told you I'd take you there when things subside this summer.” I convinced Nana D to behave herself and to focus on connecting with the rest of her children.

Between Uncle Zach's shocking death and Natasha's paralysis, my entire family barely held it together. Hampton had managed his wife's company, ReedWell Corporation, since the tragic murders earlier that year. My grouchy older sibling would soon meet a potential buyer, which could generate a positive trajectory for their future. Leading the business, watching over his partially incapacitated wife, and caring for their four young children had undoubtedly taken its toll on him. Even though we rarely got along, I did all I could to comfort him in his misery.

“The facts don't add up at the rental agency. They were too eager to offer a settlement and close the investigation.” Nana D hollered something at Eustacia about not plugging in the hair dryer near the sink. “Help! She's gonna burn down my house, Kellan.”

“Please do not electrify yourselves. I've had enough issues this year.” I agreed that the car company's responses were strangely generous. Even our sheriff had dug into it but failed to elicit anything valuable in her conversations with the local police. When we finished speaking, I handed the phone to my daughter so she could comfort Nana D. “You're in charge, Emma. Make her listen to you.”

“Of course, I'm always the boss. My teacher says so!” she stated, snickering in response before addressing her great-grandmother. “You should see Daddy right now. He's a hot mess!”

After Emma hung up with Nana D a few minutes later, I asked why she'd run away outside the school. “Eh, embarrassment, Daddy. You must've had a rough week.” During the remainder of our drive home, Emma informed me about her day, culminating with a strange request. “Now it'll cost fifty dollars to join the new club. Nana D said you better cough up the dough, or she won't bake you any pies.”

I parked in the driveway and unloaded our belongings. “That's nice, honey. Don't listen to Nana D anymore. Her brain has extended its hiatus.” Obsessed with hazarding guesses over Emma's puzzling comments, I sidestepped her appeal for the funds. I'd recently bought a rundown Victorian, newly renamed Garzenwyck, and renovated both the interior and the exterior. Money was tight. Upon entering the front hall, I swooned at my appalling reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Despite my classic baby blues, high cheekbones, and radiant dimples, a few disastrous problems refused to be snubbed. Not only were Cain's tea stains showing on my crotch, but I must've dropped catsup from my fries at lunch down the front of my shirt, and my wavy blond hair rivaled a ransacked bird's nest. No wonder my eight-year-old daughter had done a double take and darted away in the parking lot. “Fine, you win. I'll pay for your new club. What was it again?”

“Yippee! Archery. I get to shoot arrows at real targets.” Emma immediately dragged Baxter, our black-and-tan shiba inu dog who harbored a tendency to eat socks and randomly growl at the basement and attic doors, outside for playtime before dinner.

“Please don't kill anyone I know. Or me!” I dropped my satchel on the floor and sighed with exasperation. Ulan had already returned home to prepare our meal. Latching on to cooking and baking had temporarily centered his concentration on something other than his father's death. I approached while he obsessively stirred a pot that smelled amazing. “Hey kiddo. What's on tonight's menu?”

After shaving his hair earlier that year to support a friend who'd been diagnosed with cancer, a bunch of brown sprouts clung to Ulan's oval-shaped head. His swimmer's build and chocolate-brown puppy dog eyes often lit a fire in the hearts of all the girls at Braxton High. I'd fended most of them off during his dad's funeral service, at his request, so he could focus on his own emotions. “I didn't hear you come in. Ummm… a variety of seafood dishes. My dad's favorite. I invented a bunch of sauces, and I've got a shrimp boil simmering on the stove and a dozen parmesan-baked clams in the broiler.”

Ulan would turn sixteen during the summer, and I knew he missed his father terribly. For every prior birthday, they'd taken an excursion to a remote island to study its wildlife. New Zealand had been on tap for later that year. It would no longer happen.

I wrapped one arm around his shoulder and nudged him closer to my chest. “Your dad would be proud of you. Let's consider a trip to South Africa in August with Nana D. It won't be the same as your past explorations, but it might offer some closure.”

He sucked in a whoosh of air while turning off the burner. “It would be really cool to show you where we lived. I could plan a safari too.” With his head a little wobbly and his eyes glistening, he swallowed a heavy lump in his throat.

“Only if you're ready. I mean, we have to go at some point, but I've talked to a contact who's checking on your dad's apartment.” I'd only been a parent to Emma for eight years—a learning experience every single day, especially since I'd raised my little girl by myself for most of her life. Mentoring a teenage boy on the cusp of becoming a man—indisputably sooner than necessary—was a scarier and more arduous task.

Ulan poured the pot's contents through a colander in the sink, carefully keeping most of the broth for his sauce. Steam enveloped us, mirroring the fuzziness manifesting inside our brains these days. “You've been awesome, Kellan. I don't know how I could've gotten through this without you.” He'd regularly assured me that being around family prevented him from crumbling over his father's death, but he rarely expressed the fullness of his devastation. Ulan's mother died in childbirth, and it had been just himself and his dad from that tragedy forward. The woman had been estranged from her family for many years. Ulan and Uncle Zach lived in various cities around the world, which meant he hardly called a single place home. “I'm only supposed to stay here three more months, but are you gonna… I mean, do I have to… leave?”

My heart excruciatingly disintegrated into pieces. I wasn't the most touchy-feely guy, especially being the middle child in the Ayrwick family. I'd mostly felt lost and ignored, so I kept to myself—bookish nerd met prankster met Curious George. I transferred the shrimp pot from Ulan to the counter and pulled him into my arms. Then I hugged him as though I were preventing the force of gravity from stealing my soul. “You don't have to go anywhere. I've seen what happens when a kid's mother passes away, but I can't imagine what it's like to also lose your dad at such an early age. I won't ever replace your parents, but you're welcome to live with me as long as you want.”

During the preceding months, I'd gained someone else to mentor—an orphan within a large extended family. Ulan desperately needed an advocate in his corner, someone to steer him on the proper course. Was I really in a position to function as a stable pseudo-dad to him? When Nana D and I had discussed the topic over some freshly baked Snickerdoodle cookies the previous week, she encouraged me to let Ulan decide his fate. “Trial by fire,” she'd declared while huffing heaps of cinnamon. “Got three years before he graduates from high school and becomes an adult.”

When Ulan pulled away, I shared how much Emma also loved having him around and how Nana D thought we should handle decisions incrementally. “We need you just as much as you need us.”

“Meaning, if I'd like to live here sometimes, I can. And if Nana D wants company, I could stay there too?” Ulan wiped his cheek, clarifying he wasn't afraid to weep in front of me. “My dad taught me it's okay to cry, even for a man. I wanna do him proud, Kellan.”

“You couldn't disappoint him no matter what, kiddo. You're his greatest achievement.”

Uncle Zach and I had briefly chatted a day before he left South Africa. I'd thought the conversation was odd, especially when he asked if I would keep Ulan permanently should anything happen to him. But I was so wrapped up in my own dramas, I hadn't understood any potential veiled messages. I'd thought Uncle Zach was keen to ensure his son had a guardian in case he suffered a freak heart attack or plane accident. Was my uncle worried something awful like murder could fell him? Had I disregarded a significant clue?

Ulan confirmed he was eager to stay with me for the immediate future. “Once we figure out what truly happened to my dad, we can talk about next steps, okay?”

I hesitated before responding, unwilling to let his strange comment linger without an explanation. “What do you mean, figure out what truly happened? The Orlando Airport's official statement confirmed your dad's death was related to a fuel line issue with the car. The insurance company has agreed to settle, and you will get a lot of money from them, Ulan.”

Emma wandered back inside with Baxter and kneeled on the floor to remove his leash. I smiled at her, uncertain how to react to Ulan's mystifying expression. All I wanted to do was snap my fingers, travel back in time, and reroute Uncle Zach's plane to anywhere else.

“I'd give all the money away if I could uncover the real facts, Kellan. I've been thinking about it a lot today. His girlfriend called during my lunch break. She convinced me to trust my instincts. To seek the truth. I've made a major decision.” With his back toward us, Ulan spooned dinner onto our plates.

I wasn't aware Uncle Zach had begun dating a new woman. “I'm unsure I understand what she has to do with your dad's accident or your newfound instincts.” In that precise moment, my ringing cell prevented me from further responding to his bold announcement. “Hold that thought for one minute.” I picked up the phone and strode in the opposite direction. “Hey, gorgeous. I'm thrilled you're back.”

April Montague had just returned home from an out-of-town convention for state law enforcement personnel. “Me too. I can't wait to see you. Give me thirty minutes?”

As the sheriff of Wharton County—a hidden gem located ninety miles south of Buffalo, New York in north-central Pennsylvania—April oversaw the police force for four primary towns. Fully surrounded by the Wharton Mountains and Saddlebrooke National Forest, our welcoming haven boasted a residency of ten thousand citizens. Woodland was the most affluent of all the municipalities, followed by Braxton. Both claimed well-respected colleges and regularly competed against one another. Lakeview and Millner Place had smaller schools and populations but proffered stunning escapes from urban life. Between Crilly Lake and the central downtown shopping district, the entire area represented an oasis of beauty and a balance of all the natural elements.

I slipped into the mudroom, ensuring Ulan couldn't hear me. I quickly told April what he'd revealed less than five minutes ago. “We should hold off on getting together tonight. I need to find the underlying cause of this shocker while he's keen to talk about it.”

“Not a problem. I could use the sleep.” April graciously offered to swing by first thing in the morning. “You owe me one, babe. I plan to collect on it too. Don't forget… I can be a creative woman.”

Once we hung up and my body cooled down, I approached the kitchen and squeezed the back of my cousin's neck. “So, that's a lot to digest. Care to explain what's going on?”

Ulan rotated one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and gawped directly at me with renewed confidence. He spoke in a startling, emphatic voice. “My dad's girlfriend convinced me that he was murdered. Renee claims to have proof, and she's on her way to Braxton to beg you to find his killer. I think we need to seek justice. You'll fix this, right?”

Chapter 3

As much as I'd wanted to make up for lost time with my girlfriend, eliciting what Ulan knew about Renee was the prior night's priority. Although April and Ulan had bonded extraordinarily well, I worried he might not say much in front of her, especially since she'd previously shouted from the rooftops to stop my foolish habit of investigating murders.

April and I were officially dating for six months, and during most of the early courting days, we'd been jointly involved in a bunch of homicide cases. She legally investigated them as the Sheriff of Wharton County while I conveniently poked around and pontificated about the alternative paths she'd missed. Not so much missed as avoided leads she couldn't follow because she lacked the warrant, motive, or justification for interrogating others. I could get away with unofficial inquiries because I'd formerly directed a TV crime show in Los Angeles. I technically still consulted for Dark Reality, but a good friend had taken over my responsibilities and run with them. April, on the other hand, rarely valued my input and had all but handcuffed and thrown me in jail when I interjected myself. A healthy American man had a constitutional right to his wicked and wild fantasies. But she made it indisputably clear I wouldn't enjoy the ones she considered as options to keep me in check.

“Good morning, sunshine. That coffee smells heavenly.” April let herself in the back door while I scrambled eggs and cheese. “Did you get any sleep? I did, but only after I found an old Matchbox Twenty t-shirt you left behind.”