Missing, Assumed Dead

By Marva Dasef

Prejudice, murder, insanity, suicide: Every small town has its deadly secrets.

When Kameron McBride receives notice she’s the last living relative of a missing man she’s never even heard of, the last thing she wants to do is head to some half-baked Oregon town to settle his affairs. But since she’s the only one available, she grudgingly agrees.

En route, she runs afoul of a couple of hillbillies and their pickup in an accident that doesn’t seem . . . accidental. Especially when they keep showing up wherever she goes. Lucky for her, gorgeous Deputy Mitch Caldwell lends her a hand, among other things. Her suspicions increase when the probate Judge tries a little too hard to buy the dead man’s worthless property.

Working on a hunch and trying to avoid the Judge’s henchmen, Kam probes deeper into the town’s secrets and finds almost no one she can trust. With Mitch’s help, she peels away the layers of prejudice, suicide, murder, and insanity. But someone in town doesn’t like her poking around, and when they show their intentions by shooting her through the police chief’s office window, the stakes are raised. Kam must find out what really happened to her dead relative before someone in this backward little town sends her to join him.

And she thought Oregon was going to be boring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marva Dasef
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311573391

Marva Dasef

Born in Eugene, OR and a grad of the UofO, I still made a success of my life by constantly changing jobs and cashing in miserable 401K earnings. Finally, I decided to hell with it. If I'm going to be poor, I might as well be a writer.

Book preview

Missing, Assumed Dead

By Marva Dasef

Dedication:

For my granddaughters Janae and Audrey.

They light up my life.

Discover other books by Marva Dasef at

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mgdasef/

https://sites.google.com/site/mdasefauthor/home/

Copyright Information

Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Previously Published in ebook format by: MuseItUp Publishing

Also available in Print and Audio

Layout and Ebook Production by Marva Dasef

Cover Art © 2012 by Marva Dasef

Print ISBN: 978-1479270200

Smashwords ISBN: 978-1311573391

Acknowledgments

I must thank my gang of dedicated critters and beta readers: Liz Brenaman, Lorrie Struiff, Dawn Keur, Joan Szechtman, and Dottie Crocker. They corrected my mistakes and plotholes. Anything left that is wrong is entirely my fault. Of course, without my husband Jack’s support, I’d not have the chance to write. I’d also like to thank Anne Duguid and Penny Ehrenkranz for their hard work editing this book for MuseItUp Publishing.

Prologue

Seven Years Ago

Salvadore Vasco poured coffee into a tin mug and clumped out onto the rickety porch fronting his wooden shack. Sun glare off the bare, brown rocks scattered about the yard made him drop his head, so the brim of his hat shielded his eyes. Today would be another scorcher. He took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid and stood quietly for a moment inspecting the only thing he owned: this scruffy acreage a few miles outside a tiny town in eastern Oregon. It might not be much, but it still brought a smile to his lips. He propped the shepherd’s crook he used for a cane against the siding. Bending to sit in the rocking chair, he grimaced. Not even seventy yet, and his bones didn’t cooperate this early in the morning. Sign of a hard life to be stove up so young.

On the horizon, dust billowed up from the main road. It drifted east with the morning’s hot breeze. Sitting up straighter, he watched and waited. Once the good Lord took Miranda away, nobody came out here anymore. It crossed his mind it might be his only friend, but Ray wouldn’t leave his diner during the day unless something big came up. Jack and Jill’s, the name Ray gave the place, had been there so long it could prob’ly run itself, but you couldn’t tell Ray that.

Not much reason to come here unless somebody died.

The vehicle wound its way up the dirt track leading to his house. Salvadore heard the rough engine of an older truck just before he made out a white pickup. Looked like a Dodge Ram.

It stopped a few feet from his porch, dragging the road dust in with it. He covered his mouth and nose with a big handkerchief until the cloud passed and then stood to greet his visitors. He didn’t recognize either of the men. The driver was in his forties, the passenger younger, maybe thirty. When they opened the pickup doors and stepped out, they hitched up their gun belts in unison.

It wasn’t unusual for men to wear sidearms in these parts, so it didn’t worry him. Salvadore noted the rifle rack in the back window of the truck. Most likely hunters. Both wore their hair close-cropped and were dressed in khaki camo trousers and black T-shirts. The outfits reminded him of uniforms. Tattoos covered the bigger one’s arms. Salvadore stared at the spread-winged eagle on his upper arm. It seemed familiar. Howdy, fellas. Can I help you?

The driver looked at the other man and smirked. Anybody up here, old man?

What do you mean? I’m up here.

I meant any other people, old timer. We’re lookin’ for somebody. Thought he might have come up this way.

A chill crawled up Salvadore’s crooked spine. Nope. Haven’t seen nobody but you two. He instantly regretted his too honest answer. Now they knew he was alone. He pointed north. If you’re wantin’ the best place to hunt bighorn, you should head that way.

The driver moved closer. Salvadore took a step back.

A dark mark on the man’s neck looked like a swastika. Pockmarks speckled his cheeks. He planted his boot on the first step with a thud and bared his teeth in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Salvadore moved his hand to the left and gripped his shepherd’s crook. Nothing here of value, boys.

We’re not planning to rob you, old man.

Good to hear. So you can just move along.

Oh, I don’t think we want to do that. Pockmark smirked at his partner. Do we?

Both men came at him. He raised his crook to protect himself.

It did no good.

Chapter One

July, Seven Years Later

Kameron McBride shifted the strap of the computer bag to her left shoulder and fumbled for keys. She opened the mailbox, pulled out a rolled mess of ads, bills, credit card offers, and a thin, white business-sized envelope.

She flipped it over. Justice Court, Rosewood, Oregon. What the heck? Must be one of those camera speeding tickets. But how would I get one? Her brows pinched together. She hadn’t visited Oregon for ages. Not since she was a little girl. She vaguely remembered her dad’s relations there. An old lady who smelled like mothballs. A man with a beard. But as far as Kam knew, they died long ago. She headed for the elevators. After pushing the up-button with her pinkie, she studied the envelope. The bell dinged.

After exiting the elevator on the third floor, she fumbled open the door lock. Inside her condo, she stacked the letter with the rest of the mail on the glass-topped coffee table. Shucking her jacket, she headed toward the kitchen to pour a glass of chardonnay. She carried it back to the living room and flopped on the black pseudo-leather Ikea couch.

Lucky purred his way over to take up his usual position, half on, half off her lap. Two years ago she had pulled the rain-soaked and shivering cat out of the dumpster behind her building. He’d clung to her like a kitten, his broken hind leg flopping loosely. Sucking in her own breath in empathy, she felt the leg with tentative fingers. He mewed but didn’t claw her. The now three-legged tom had claimed her affection and, with it, a cushy home.

Kam took a good swallow of the wine and scratched under Lucky’s chin, his favorite spot. While she gave him his due amount of attention, she gazed out the sliding door at the sun setting over Lake Union, a view she rarely had a chance to enjoy. Work consumed most of her time, often keeping her from dawn until long after dusk.

Setting down her glass, she retrieved the mystery letter, ripped open the envelope, and scanned the single page. Hmm. Somebody named Salvadore Vasco had died, and the court had named her executor of his estate. Odd, she’d never heard of him. Why would they want her to act as his executor? Maybe he was a distant relation to the mothball lady on her dad’s side. But Vasco sounded Spanish or Mexican or something, not the Irish name she expected. Kam almost tossed the letter into the wastebasket, but decided she should notify the court they’d made a mistake.

Maybe they had an email address? She examined the letterhead. Just a P.O. box, not even a phone number. She groaned, wondering how anybody could be so out of the technological mainstream to not even have email.

She hauled her Netbook out of its case and searched on-line for the man’s name. Nothing. She tried the town and only got a brief description on a site devoted to the Oregon high desert country.

Perhaps this man was related to her after all. Perhaps her father’s side of the family did have some Spanish or Mexican relations. Tomorrow was Saturday, and she planned to visit Mom. She’d ask about this Vasco character before doing anything. Mom would know. Flipping on the news, she watched till bored and then headed to the kitchen to heat up something in the microwave.

* * * *

Pulling her Prius into her mom’s driveway the next afternoon, Kam smiled and breathed deeply of the fresh country air. The climbing roses practically covering the front porch and those around the chimney were in full bloom, their red clusters of cabbage-style blooms letting off a glorious fragrance. Eileen McBride’s home in the little town of Carnation, Washington was the envy of the neighborhood with its quaint old-fashioned charm—straight out of a Thomas Kincaid postcard. While Kam often wished her mom would move closer to Seattle so she could visit during the week, this house held all their ‛good time’ memories. Even after Dad died in it of an aneurysm at forty, Mom had no intention of ever moving.

As the Prius shut itself down with an electronic grumble, she pushed back her long brown hair and walked up the wheelchair ramp. Her mother had finally succumbed to the inevitable crippling of multiple sclerosis years ago. Kam could still remember that awful day in the doctor’s office when they heard the diagnosis. A total shock, it had hit Kam hard, but it hit her mom even harder. The woman who had been her rock all her life could now barely bathe herself. A home aid worker visited twice a week to help with the more difficult chores.

Kam had moved back in with her mother and commuted to Seattle for over a year. Eileen’s disease progressed rapidly. Probably her depression following Kam’s father’s death had a lot to do with that. Even as she went from cane to crutches, she came out of her dark hole and ordered Kam to move out and on with her life. Kam protested, but her mom had an iron will, which made argument futile. She did agree, however, to let Kam take her to the doctor and run errands occasionally.

She opened the door and poked her head inside. Mom. It’s me.

Kam heard the low-pitched whir of her mother’s chair. She entered the tidy living room with its old-fashioned lace curtains and overstuffed couch. Her mother zoomed through the extra wide kitchen door.

You’re a maniac. Kam put on a mock stern face. Show me a wheelie?

Eileen stopped her chair expertly in the spot that used to hold a wingback chair. Its counterpart still sat on the opposite side of the fireplace. Kam plunked herself down in it and grinned at her mom. You’ve got flour on your nose.

Kam’s mother extracted a white hanky from the wheelchair’s saddlebag and wiped it across her face. Well, at least I still bake.

Yeah, I could smell the cookies from the porch. Kam stood. I’ll serve the tea if they’re done.

Her mother waved her hand toward the kitchen. Cooling on the counter.

Kam returned to the living room and set a tray loaded with pot, cups, and cookies on the low coffee table. She sat and stretched out her long jeans-clad legs. Pulling her purse onto her lap, she dug out the letter from the Justice Court. I got this letter saying I’m supposed to be the executor of the estate of a guy named Salvadore Vasco. Do you know him?

Vasco? That doesn’t sound like…. Oh, of course. He’s your father’s second or third cousin, I believe. Grab the photo album, and I’ll show you.

Books and albums filled the shelves on both sides of the fireplace from floor to ceiling, carefully arranged by name and date. Which one? Her mother had collected hundreds of family photos and records stretching across time and space. She had probably mapped the genealogy of the family back to Fred Flintstone.

Should be the one with ‘McBride 1945-55.’

Kam retrieved the book. Her mother rested it on her lap, flipping through the pages. Kam craned her neck to watch the black and white photos zip across her vision. Her mother stopped at a page, reversed the album to face Kam, and set it on the coffee table.

She examined a grainy, slightly out of focus picture labeled Vasco Family, Jordan Valley, OR. A short, middle-aged man with dark hair and complexion and a pretty, light-haired woman stood by a wagon with a donkey harnessed to it. Sheep dotted the landscape behind them.

A shepherd in Oregon? That’s kind of, um, rural. Kam squinted at the picture and wondered whether she needed glasses. The rest of Dad’s family lived in the Midwest, didn’t they?

Yes, but some of the Vasco line emigrated from Spain to Oregon as well.

They’re Spanish?

"Not Spanish but Basque. I did a bit of research on their immigration to the U.S. when I learned your father had Basque cousins. A lot of them moved to

Reviews for Missing, Assumed Dead

[ajlewis2_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Intriguing story by an excellent writer. I thoroughly enjoyed the reading and will be on the lookout for more of her adult novels. I'm hoping for a sequel to this one, because I love the characters and story line.