Shattered Memories

By Sharleen Johnson

When Kelly Crenshaw regains consciousness after a brutal attack, she has no recollection of the incident. Will her memory be restored before a second attempt? What had she witnessed to make her a target for murder? The man who rescues her is determined to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharleen Johnson
• Release date: Jul 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466057951

Sharleen Johnson

Sharleen Johnson has been writing for several years and has published novels in three different genres, including historical, cozy mystery and romantic suspense. Sharleen lives in Ooltewah, TN (a suburb of Chattanooga) with her husband Joseph Rhinock. After the death of their 14 year old Norwich Terrier, Sharleen and Joe have become cat people. They own two "tuxedo" rescues. Her interests are still gardening, genealogy, casino blackjack and every sort of craft known to humanity. She especially enjoys helping new writers navigate the bumpy road to publication. Please visit her Facebook page and website for the latest news.

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SHATTERED MEMORIES

by

Sharleen Johnson

Copyright Sharleen Johnson 2011

Smashwords Edition

Although there is a Hinkston River in Kentucky, the city of Franklin and county of Chester are purely fictional. The characters, corporations, events and situations have been conjured from my imagination.

Cover art is by my son, the photographer

Michael Wooten

http://www.memphiswootens.com

author's website

http://www.sharleenjohnson.com

Prologue

SHATTERED MEMORIES

6:30pm, Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving

Fenway Pharmaceutical Company

Franklin, Kentucky

Kelly Crenshaw tried to peer through the rain as it splattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Fenway's ultramodern office building and wondered if there was an end to this storm.

It was nearly six o'clock and even if it had been visible through the thick layer of storm clouds, the sun had already slipped below the horizon. During the daylight hours the view from her third floor office was expansive, although not very exciting. Beyond the asphalt parking lot, a stretch of rolling pasture land, dotted by sleek thoroughbreds with their heads bent to graze, was set against a backdrop of hazy blue hills. There had been a couple of light frosts, however, serious winter weather was late this year and had not yet made a significant appearance in this area of the bluegrass country of eastern Kentucky. Their famous grass was still lush and green.

Kelly knew she had been a blithering idiot for the last six years for burying herself in this dead-end, albeit high-paying job. When she first went to work for Anthony Brighton and Fenway Drugs, she foolishly fell in love with him, even though he was married with two children. She compounded her blunder by blindly following him as he climbed the corporate ladder from Tampa, to Philadelphia, to Chicago, then to the grand metropolis of Franklin, Kentucky. There was no big-city skyline here. The tallest building in the entire county was the five-story regional hospital. From Kelly's point-of-view, a person could be just as lonely in a small town as in any large city. It was difficult for her to put down permanent roots and make friends when she was always on the move. Based on the gossip she often overheard in the ladies' lounge, it seemed that every one in Chester County was somehow related by blood or by marriage and she was definitely the outsider. On top of that, Anthony made a point of discouraging her from getting too chatty with her coworkers. As a result, they labeled her stuck-up.

It had been nothing more than a childish infatuation, not a sexual affair, but it had taken two years to get over her silly crush. His frosty detachment in their working relationship pushed her into reality. Now, she saw him for what he actually was--an arrogant snob. It was her inflated salary that kept her loyalty tightly glued to both Anthony and Fenway Drugs, especially her retirement package, annual profit-sharing bonus and medical plan--not that she'd ever used it. Her nest egg was up to six figures and safely tucked away in a wide variety of mutual funds, blue chip stocks and bonds. Although her official title was Administrative Assistant, in truth she was little more than a glorified secretary-slash-receptionist who ran interference between Brighton and the banal intrusions of the outside world. Ask Arty to come to my office, or take these documents to Miss Rachel in Accounting, or even worse, Kelly, fix me a latte, heavy on the cream. Hardly worthy of her college degree in business management.

Today was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and most of the employees of Fenway Drug had already left for the long, four-day weekend. Kelly had no plans for the holidays, other than sharing a turkey dinner with her elderly landlady. Home was where her widowed mother and spinster aunt lived in Bradenton, Florida, and it was too far away to make the round trip by car in only four days. Also, Franklin was so small, it had no commercial airport. Another consideration was that her brother, an officer in the Navy, was due for a long leave at Christmas time. Taking two weeks in late December would give her a welcomed respite and time to decide what to do with the rest of her life. Stuart was only four years older; however, she always listened to the advice he occasionally dispensed. The man was the most levelheaded member of the Crenshaw family. Most of her Irish kinfolk were brash and volatile, whereas Stuart's decisions were analytical and never based on emotion. Over the past six months, she had been wrestling with the idea of moving back to Florida and switching careers. Teaching a business course to high school students might be a pleasant change from the corporate world. She could take summers off and travel abroad. Her life was in desperate need of an infusion of excitement, something to derail her present journey into terminal boredom.

However, her current concern was filling the lonely hours over the next four days. With a noisy sigh, she turned off her computer, slipped into her suit jacket and walked into Anthony's elegant office to straighten up before going home. He was not a neat person. You would think that a man with the lofty title of Chief Financial Officer, and who managed the assets of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, could somehow stack a few files in an orderly fashion.

The paper weights he used were hand-carved, art-deco copies of the company's first and still most popular products--liquid cough medicine, vitamin tonic and powdered aspirin--dating back to the nineteen-thirties. Some country folk swear that if you drink a bottle of Fenway Daily Tonic every morning, you'll never catch a cold. The melodic little ditty could still be heard on country music radio stations: To make the flu bug stay away, drink Fenway tonic everyday. Yes, it works, if you can ignore the fact that your liver would look like Swiss cheese. The main ingredient of the tonic was alcohol--a hefty twenty-seven percent. The only modern improvement in the last seventy-plus years was a screw cap instead of a cork, and a dash of genuine orange flavoring.

Kelly took neatness and organization and turned them into major faults. She was the type of person who straightened crooked pictures and rumpled throw rugs, pushed in drawers left open, and adjusted hand towels so they would hang straight on the towel bar.

The bottom drawer on Anthony's massive oak desk was left slightly ajar, however, his oversight didn't elicit her usual slam-it-shut response. It was Anthony's secret drawer, the only one that was off-limits...even to her. She knelt to inspect the problem. There was a tiny sliver of a manila folder caught in the key-slot, preventing the brass lock from seating properly. Curiosity got the better of her and she slid open the drawer. His filing system was as haphazard as his desk top, with most of the papers askew in their folders, their corners jagged and dog-eared.

One file was labeled Switzerland.

What sort of personal business does Anthony have in Switzerland? She quietly wondered. He rarely travels abroad--maybe Spain or Italy a couple of times with his family. Fenway officials were still in the early planning stages of their worldwide marketing strategy. Strangely, Kelly's hand was trembling as she pulled one of the folders from the drawer and opened it.

Bank statements? Ohmygod! Look at these names. Ohmygod! Five million dollars...in MY name? Her gasp was audible, even over the rain pelting the windows.

That's my Social Security number. Balls of fire! All these accounts are in offshore banks. Is this about illegal drugs? Money laundering? Who else is in here? Rachel Robertson from accounting? She must be a part of this. What about shipping and receiving? Who else is involved?

Anthony's high-back chair squeaked slightly as Kelly sank into the soft leather cushion, her mouth agape in escalating shock. She replaced that folder then pulled out another and another. The word cocaine leapt from the page, launching a scorching blast of anger. That initial emotion was mild compared to the rage that was building like molten lava, rushing upward to erupt. She was so appalled by the information laid out so neatly in Anthony's own handwriting that she could barely catch her breath. The room seemed suddenly airless. Tiny beads of perspiration formed above the curve of her upper lip and in the valley between her breasts.

Time was frozen in suspension and, as she continued to read, the rain continued to fall.

A slight noise caused her attention to divert from the papers in her hands. A different sort of fear rifled through her body as Anthony's tall, thin and impeccably dressed form materialized in the door frame. His black bushy eyebrows were lifted into a quizzical arch while a deep furrow form between them.

M-mister Brighton? She seldom used such formality, but that's all that would come out. What is this? she asked and extended the folder as if making a supplication to God. How did my name and Social Security number get on a bank account in Switzerland? You have some serious explaining to do.

The brass clock on the glass etagere chimed half-past six; the noise seemed to hang in the air as their mutually accusatory gazes locked. His pale gray eyes were cold and impenetrable. The expression on his face evolved from a mere frown of annoyance into a condescending half-smile of forbearance and finally became totally devoid of emotion.

Miss Crenshaw, he responded with an onerous chill in his voice. Looks like you and I need to have a talk. A long, serous talk. How about over dinner?

Kelly was taken aback momentarily, half-expecting him to be simmering with anger over her inappropriate snooping into his privacy. She watched with intense fascination as Anthony strolled to his credenza, poured himself a drink with steady hands and tossed down two ounces of Jack Daniels in one quick swallow.

Well, yes, yes, I, I guess so, she finally stammered. We, we do need to talk about this. Temporarily unable to move or collect her thoughts into a logical response, she clasped the damning evidence next to her body.

Go freshen your make-up, my dear, he ordered as he pried the files from her rigid grasp with forceful but unhurried collectedness. You can use my private washroom. He replaced the folder and closed the drawer, making certain it was securely locked. When he looked up, his countenance had not changed, but appeared frozen in place. We'll go out my private entrance. It's raining to beat hell out there.

Chapter One

7:15pm, Green Valley Veterinary clinic

Doctor Nicholas Wainwright--the third was a suffix he hated--stripped out of his pale green surgical garb and tossed it in the hamper. Damn, that was an ungrateful patient, he said as he examined the long scratch on the under side of his forearm.

Siamese cats always are. What was the problem? his partner, Billy Joe Thornton, asked.

Caught his claw in the fabric of the bedspread as he was jumping down. Jerked the toenail out clean as a whistle. I put in a couple of stitches, taped his foot and sent him home. He'll have the bandage chewed off before Monday.

Better put something on that. The critter drew blood.

Nick pulled a bottle of alcohol from a cabinet and set about disinfecting the wound. Say, buddy, I appreciate you being on call for the holidays. I'll trade off and take emergency duty over Christmas.

No problem. We've got seventeen dogs, three cats, and one ferret being boarded. None of them sick. And, no sick horses, thank God. Oh yes, and one very talkative parrot. Eli can handle them. You going home to Louisville?

Yeah, sort of a family tradition.

This rain could turn into ice or snow.

You don't know my mother. Thanksgiving dinner will begin promptly at two come hell or high water--and that includes snow and ice. Predictably, she'll serve up turkey, ham and some empty-headed, doe-eyed blonde of a blind date. She drums them up from the ranks of Louisville's socialites. His voiced changed into falsetto mimicking his mother: 'This is Cynthia, the mayor's daughter.'

Billy Joe laughed and slapped one of Nick's broad shoulders. Wish my mother would play matchmaker. Of course, there aren't any stunning doe-eyed blondes in Franklin, Kentucky. Women here in Blue Grass Country go barefooted and are lucky to have a mouthful of teeth. Ah, remember those soft, sweet Alabama beauties of our college days?

Nick's temporary smile faded quickly. Believe me, Mom's matchmaking efforts get old after a while. I love her, but sometimes she's a pain in the ass. You want to trade places for the weekend? She nags me constantly about getting married and giving her a passel of grandchildren.

I can handle the part about making babies, it's the getting married that bothers me. You know me, I'm a love-'em-and-leave-'em type a guy.

I haven't found anyone worth loving, much less leaving.

You've got too damned much emotional baggage, my man. Your wife died three years ago. Get on with life, start having some fun.

Nick pulled himself erect, signaling with his body language that this was a prohibitive subject.

Billy Joe threw up his hands in surrender. Okay, okay. I'll change the subject. You work too hard on that damn house of yours. Why did you buy such a dilapidated joint?

It's got character. Old fashioned charm. You're a fine one to talk. You've been living at home with your parents for three years.

Hey, it's free. But that's getting ready to change. I just bought a bachelor pad--a condo at the Hampton Creek Golf Course. An end unit--they got more windows.

That's not the life for me. I like to putter around and fix things. What are you going to do over the holidays?

Same traditional bullshit as you. I'll be having dinner with my folks and about twenty assorted relatives.

You know, for once I'd like to crash in my sloppy old sweats and skip shaving for four days. Nick rubbed his hand across his stubbled chin. His thick dark hair created a heavy beard. I have dreams of becoming a couch-potato with my dad, drinking beer, eating junk food and watching a couple of old movies and some football on TV. When a volley of barking rang through the air, Nick's attention swerved to the rear of the clinic. Eli had arrived and opened the door to the kennel runs. One good thing about Eli Jones being stone deaf is he doesn't have to listen to the raucous noise.

Wait'll you hear that parrot. Somebody taught him how to curse--fluently. He keeps repeating that old limerick--'There once was a girl from Nantucket....' Billy Joe broke into gales of laughter.

Any last minute instructions you want me to give Eli?

I can't believe you went to all the trouble to learn sign language just so you can communicate with the kennel caretaker. Billy Joe made a few nonsensical gestures with his fingers in a comical effort to mimic signs. It's those beady eyes. The man gives me the creeps.

The honest truth is--I got tired of writing notes. Besides, he looks after the animals at my house as well. He has several jobs around town looking after pets and farm animals, Nick explained. I like the old guy. In fact, I bought a digital pager and taught him how to use it so he can communicate with me and his other clients as well. He lives alone and can't use a regular telephone. It vibrates and works great for his handicap.

You're an old softy, Nick. You love stray animals and stray folks. All of society's castoffs eventually end up on your door step. Who else would own a one-eyed dog and a three-legged cat?

Don't forget my crippled race horse.

Did you take Patterson's mare?

When she broke her ankle, he asked me to euthanize her. I couldn't stand to see a healthy, pregnant mare put down, so he signed her over to me. Said, 'If you can fix her, you can keep her.'

A pregnant thoroughbred? For free? When Nick nodded, Billy Joe shook his head. You're one lucky son of a bitch, and you have a very big heart.

She's due to foal within the next two months. Nick was always happy to have an opportunity to talk about his animal family. She was bred to a Derby winner from a few years back. Remember Smarty Jones? That foal will be the start of my very own stable.

You're a pushover for big round eyes, Nick. Just tell Eli to watch out for that ferret. They're escape artists.

The owner brought his own cage with a foolproof lock.

Ferrets aren't fools. They're very crafty with nimble little fingers. Oh, by the way. Billy Joe turned suddenly serious. When you get back, I want to show you the results of our latest experiments. You know, about all those mares miscarrying?

Yes, I know. The State Equine Center tracked it down to a mold growing on the grass.

Well, I think that last batch you and I mixed up is something that'll kill the bacteria without killing the horses or the grass.

Nick raised his eyebrows. "No kidding? No