Doctored Truffles

By Suzanne Grant

For Polly Morton, life on the Oregon coast with her husband, Stan, is an endless series of ups and downs—mostly downs. She’s turning forty, and she plans to celebrate it in style, with Stan and a night on the town. If only she hadn’t snacked from that beautifully packaged box of chocolate truffles someone left at her front door, then Stan might still be alive, not dead in his recliner on the back deck. Soon Polly’s not-so-happy birthday is spiraling toward total mayhem, and it’s up to her to untangle the mess Stan created and flush out a killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Grant
• Release date: Jul 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9780984015481

Suzanne Grant

Suzanne Grant caught the writing bug during her growing-up years on Central Oregon’s High Desert. Her life revolved around a wealth of local kinfolk, small town life, music, and horses. At an early age, she grew to appreciate her native state’s natural beauty and unique culture and the many mysteries peppered throughout its history. Adulthood found her living in the Willamette Valley, where she raised two sons and pursued a career in education. As a reading and writing teacher, she helped others enjoy the magic of words. Now she’s immersed in that magic as she pursues one of her greatest loves—writing novels.

Book preview

DOCTORED TRUFFLES

A MYSTERY NOVEL

BY SUZANNE GRANT

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Suzanne Grant

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This is a work of fiction. Except for historical facts, all characters and incidents are created by the author and are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely incidental. If you think you are portrayed on these pages, please be assured that you are not.

suzannegrant.com

For my seaside-loving sisters and brothers-in-law—Sandy, Anne, Rick, and Steve—who have embraced life on the Oregon coast and shared it with me.Thank you.

Cover photo of the beach at Lincoln City, Oregon courtesy of Ian and Mackenzie Lewallen

When I first heard of Nancy Boggs’ floating brothel, I was intrigued by the resourceful madam who managed to evade paying taxes for more than a decade by conducting her business on a floating vessel in the middle of the Willamette River. Yes, she had her challenges, but she used the river and the fact that, at that time, Portland was actually three separate cities, with different police forces and different governments, to solve them. I hope you enjoy learning about Portland’s seedy early days and Nancy’s floating brothel as much as I did.

CHAPTER 1

Stan looked dead, mouth hanging open like a dying fish, hand dangling lifelessly. My insides leaped, then wilted. Birthday wishes didn’t come true.

Besides, I really hadn’t meant it, had I? It was only a vengeful blip, a gut reaction to his unceasing thoughtlessness. Only lately those wicked flickers were more a raging blaze.

Well, you deserve it, you jerk, I muttered, eyeing the sheen reflecting from the empty beer bottles dumped beside his cedar recliner. No doubt, come morning they’d still be there for me to haul to the recycling tub.

"Grrr," I snarled as my eyes searched the shadowed deck. Something had jerked me from my late night napping. Certainly not Stan.

Pools of hazy light floated around the solar lights nestled in clay pots overflowing with summer foliage—petunias and geraniums, sweet alyssum and daisies. Beyond the deck, the golf course, a rippling sea of dark hues, reached out to the sprinkling of lights beyond.

Not enough lights; it was later than I’d thought. Evidently, my few minutes of rest had turned into several hours of sleep. And Stan had taken advantage of it. I pictured him tip-toeing to his sanctuary, six-pack in hand, careful not to awaken me and have to face his latest transgression. Jerk! Well, he could just snooze there until morning.

A shadow shifted on the darkened course not far from the deck. I squinted hard, a sharp prickle running up my spine, and watched an ashen blob flit towards me, then dart to the right and disappear from view.

I sighed. Probably some ϋber fitness fanatic running the golf course trails while the pro shop patrol wasn’t around to nail him. Maybe he’d twisted his ankle or tripped over a raccoon or something equally as painful. All else was deep-into-the-night still.

But who knew what lowlifes and pesky animals lurked in the shadows? Plus, if Stan ended up sick from lying in the cool night air in his shorts and precious Guns N Roses tee-shirt, I’d have to nurse him back to health. My stomach tightened at the thought.

You don’t have to, Polly, I protested. But I knew I would. I’d chosen this path and now I was stuck, like one of those old paint-chipped windup toys, plodding the same worn, rutty surface over and over until there were times I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from shrieking.

This was one of those times. With my free hand, I rubbed at a gritty eye, a futile attempt to wipe the fog from my brain, then grasped the doorknob and pushed the French door open. Heavy dampness saturated my face and hair. I breathed deeply of the salt-tinged air, and the cloying fragrance of ripe blossoms tickled my nostrils. Steeling myself, I stepped toward my sleeping husband.

Tinglings of unrest crept across my shoulders. Actually, he did look dead, splayed on the cushioned lounge as if a giant seagull had dropped him there, legs spread-eagle, both arms hanging awkwardly, a thin strip of pudgy belly exposed. A pillow from our bed lay on the deck—glaringly out of place—not far from him, as if it had been thrown there.

I rubbed my fluttering stomach. Except for the faint whisper of ocean waves, all was quiet. Too quiet. Stan snored like a struggling chainsaw, especially when he was drunk. Where were those snores now?

I stood rooted, unable to move. A sick, panicky feeling throttled me and tingled in my limbs. There had to be an explanation—Stan was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t require much air. Or his body temperature had dipped so low that he was barely breathing. Or his body had finally acclimated to an inebriated snooze.

Or he was dead.

Get a grip, Polly. You’re overreacting again—please, God, I prayed as I inched forward to stare down at the man whom I had to have once loved.

Soft rays from the solar lights created dark crevices and contours across his slackened features. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes closed. I stood as still as the iron cranes guarding the deck from errant golfers, fearing, yet willing, those eyes to pop open. In the dim light, I noticed that his chest didn’t rise and fall. Leaning down, I placed a trembling hand on it. No movement. No heartbeat. Nothing.

A strangled whimper seeped through my lips, and I sank to my knees and leaned forward to place an ear next to his open mouth. Nothing.

No. No. No, I pleaded as I grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse, his hand like lead in mine. When I thought about death, which wasn’t often, I’d imagined that it would feel like this—cold and clammy and firm, like beeswax. Stan wasn’t just dead; he was really dead.

But why? He didn’t have any fatal health issues, none that I was aware of anyway. He was relatively young, still a couple of months from his forties.

My eyes flitted over his body, searching. No bullet holes. No knife wounds. No face frozen in terror. No blood. Nothing.

Then they landed on the rumpled pillow. When had Stan ever brought a pillow on the deck? Never, that’s when. So how had it gotten here?

Ever so slowly, my gaze traveled to the open door and beyond to the puddle of amber light enfolding the bed we still shared in sleep, if nothing else. When he’d come home, I’d been asleep on that bed, still wearing the pricey dress I’d purchased for our evening of celebration, the one he’d blown off. With that memory, anger jabbed aside some of the fear that had my insides tangled into tight knots.

Yes, I’d been furious . . . and hurt. Surely not furious enough to wish him dead though?

But I had, hadn’t I?

I pictured myself staring at that truffle with the one lonely candle—it should’ve been a luscious, three-layer cake covered with forty blazing candles—and replayed the fleeting death wish in my mind. Then I’d blown out that candle and eaten every bite of sinfully rich, liqueur-laced chocolate. But something, maybe the alcohol or maybe the burning ache inside me, hadn’t sat well in my empty stomach. I’d dragged myself to my bed, where I’d curled into a ball, tears tickling my cheeks.

And that’s all I remembered until something awakened me hours later, and I’d spied Stan sleeping on the deck.

Only he isn’t sleeping, is he? I murmured, an effort to affirm the reality of this nightmare. He’s dead. And you need to call for help. But whom? Phil and Javier from next door or Laura from across the street? An ambulance? The police?

Dragging my neighbors into this mess in the middle of the night seemed selfish. And since Stan was already dead, he certainly didn’t need an ambulance. Which left the cops.

But what if he was murdered, and they think I did it? my mind screamed.

My eyes flicked to the pillow. Had I done it, some out-of-mind experience of which I now had no knowledge? It happened. I’d seen it on television and in movies, read about it in books. Had hurt and anger consumed me to the point that some vengeful inner demon took control over my body to seek retribution?

I stared at Stan’s dead hand panic churning inside me, then placed it across his exposed midriff. Had I seen him sleeping off his six-pack and snuck out here, his pillow clutched in my hands, my intention to press it over his lying mouth until it could lie no more?

It didn’t feel right. If I were to kill someone—a huge if—it wouldn’t be like that. Too personal. Too up close. No. I’d need to be far away from my victim when it happened. The idea of murdering someone with my own two hands, of witnessing a death, was downright terrifying. Deep down, I knew I hadn’t murdered Stan. Didn’t I?

But the police didn’t know me, didn’t know what I was incapable of doing. I covered my eyes with my hands and rubbed hard, searching my muddled brain for a way out of this mess, then studied the darkened golf course. In a few short hours, it would be daylight, and someone golfing past the house would surely notice Stan sprawled on his recliner. Then they’d yell at him and figure out something was amiss.

It was hopeless. Unless I dragged his cold body across the darkened golf course and buried him in the sand trap or pushed him into the irrigation pond, I had to deal with Stan’s death now. There was no way out of it. I needed to get my butt into that house and call for help.

I closed my eyes and breathed evenly, then pushed myself up onto my trembling feet and plodded to the door. Just tell the truth, and everything will be fine, I assured myself. More than likely, Stan’s caustic lifestyle choices had simply taken their toll.

Still, before I entered the house, I turned back and grabbed Stan’s pillow off the deck. Inside, I tucked it neatly into place on the bed, stacking throw pillows haphazardly around it. The comforter was disheveled where I’d slept on it; I didn’t touch that.

My cell phone lay on the kitchen counter next to a gold-foil-lined box that held the five remaining truffles—someone had remembered my birthday. My empty stomach churned. Chocolate might settle it until I ate some decent food. Grabbing my phone with one shaky hand, I selected a glossy mound with the other and bit into it. Rich, sweet decadence enhanced with a kick of alcohol melted across my tongue, but I barely tasted it, my mind futilely scrambling for words that made sense.

Stan was really dead. How could that be? Some deep down part of me wanted to curl up and cry over my loss, mostly over the loss of hope that things would again be as they once were. Or maybe it was only as I thought they once were. Whatever the case, an aching emptiness wallowed inside me. Now there was no hope.

My body felt too heavy; my limbs too weak. I swiped at the prickle of a tear on my cheek and bit a chunk from the lump of chocolate, then shuffled into the living area to settle into an overstuffed chair. My thumb flicked the phone. Lights flashed, but they were blurred, other worldly. Squinting at the shifting colors, I stuffed the rest of the chocolate into my mouth and touched the screen.

But my eyelids closed and refused to open. Giving in to the overpowering urge, I swallowed the lump of sweetness in my mouth and relaxed into the chair’s comfort.

***

Stan’s incessant snoring was so irritating. Every time I drifted off, the gravely drone of his breathing or a loud snort disturbed me. I reached out a hand to shake him—anything to get the raucous racket to stop.

But Stan wasn’t there. And I wasn’t in my bed. Tugging my mind from the drowsy shadows, I lifted my eyelids. Stan wasn’t there, but the annoying noise was. And I lolled in a chair in my living room, not in my bed.

Murky light sifted in through the wall of windows that faced the golf course. It was early, very early, and a hazy layer of beach fog hovered beyond the glass, obscuring my view. Some poor soul was preparing the course for today’s herds of tourists, the sonorous buzz of his lawnmower a crime at this early hour. So if Stan wasn’t here beside me sawing logs, where was he?

Like a havoc-wreaking sneaker wave, it hit me: Stan was on the deck—dead.

A bomb landed in my stomach and burst, burning in my throat until I thought I’d choke on it. I grabbed my gut and touched soft fluff.

What the heck, I breathed as my eyes dropped to the furry mound stirring in my lap. Bright eyes stared up at me.

The kitten—the scruffy, shrieking stray I’d found on the deck several days ago. The one that was supposed to be hidden away behind closed doors in my office. It stretched its mini legs and rose onto its tiny white paws, arching its back.

My heart hammered in my chest. Kitty claws stung my thighs. If Stan saw the kitten, its life would be a short one. Stan hated cats.

Stan’s dead, I reminded myself.

Air seeped from my lungs. I tugged the claws from my legs, then rose unsteadily to my feet. Something hit the floor, and my eyes dropped—my cell phone. That’s right; I’d planned to call 9-1-1. Only I hadn’t, had I? The shock must’ve been too much for me to handle because, instead, I’d drifted into a deep sleep.

What was happening to me? Was I going crazy? It could happen. I’d read about it happening to others. When stress in your life becomes more than you can handle, your mind does all kinds of bizarre things. But surely it wouldn’t make you murder your husband, even if he is lazy and self-centered, and he lies to you, and he forgets your fortieth birthday and. . . .

I shook my head to rid myself of useless thoughts. After all, I could reminisce forever about Stan’s shortcomings. It wouldn’t help me now. Or him.

But maybe my mind had played a trick on me. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. Maybe Stan wasn’t even out on that deck, his body now bloated and frigid, legs and arms rigid.

I stiffened my spine and set my back teeth. Then I tucked the kitten close to my chest, stroking its softness, and stepped resolutely to the windows to gaze into the misty morning. Fog muted everything—the gray decking, the lime green umbrella, the vibrant blossoms, and the body sprawled in the cedar recliner.

Tears stung my eyes. I closed them to swallow at the fire in my throat. I wouldn’t cry for him, not now. He’d made my life intolerable at times. And I’d stuck with him, determined that things would improve, that if I worked at it hard enough, everything would get better. Well, it hadn’t gotten better. And now it was even worse; he’d left me with this mess.

The sight of his body stretched out in the cold mist made me feel like ocean waves were churning and swelling inside me. I turned from it and retrieved my phone from the oak floor, then set the kitten down and sank into the overstuffed chair. Punching in numbers, I said a silent prayer that there was a rational explanation for Stan’s abrupt demise, one that had nothing to do with me.

***

Twenty minutes later I was again cocooned in the comforting folds of that overstuffed chair, numb and shaky, my insides roiling, clutching the poor kitty like it was my only link to sanity. Brewing coffee fumes pestered my queasy stomach.

The county sheriff had arrived. I’d gathered what remained of my fortitude to trek to the door and face the man who might soon incarcerate me.

After minimal introductions, I’d pointed towards the deck, then plopped back into the chair. No way was I going back out there until Stan’s body was gone. An image of him lying there, mouth gaping, was imbedded in my mind. Every time I closed my eyes it tormented me.

Three chimed notes chased the vision away. I glanced down. Another message from my best friend Laura who lived across the street. Clearly, Laura had noticed the official-looking vehicle outside my house, and her rabid nosiness had her speed texting. I’d thumbed a brief note to assure her I was okay, but I couldn’t reply to her other messages yet. Not until I knew what was going on.

It was odd that I hadn’t received a barrage of texts from Phil and Javier next door, too. I pictured them sitting at the wrought iron table Phil had artfully welded, sipping on their flavored lattes and perusing the newspaper while they tried to inconspicuously peer through the fog, as if they lounged on their deck in the mist every morning. If they figured out it was Stan’s body that sheriff was examining, they’d be cheering and dancing a saucy salsa. They’d probably even throw a party to celebrate the neighborhood’s loss. Phil and Javier detested Stan.

But not George and Denise, my next-door neighbors to the left. No, George would be in his garage buffing his boat. And Denise, she’d plaster her surgery-enhanced nose against the kitchen window and secretly watch the goings-on on my deck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Stan—a living, breathing Stan. I was pretty sure Denise had a thing going on for Stan. I was even more certain that Stan wouldn’t jeopardize a lifetime of free fishing trips with George to fulfill Denise’s latest fantasy.

The melodic chime of the doorbell jolted me. I clutched the kitten to my heart to still it and pushed myself out of the chair, then paused. Was it Laura, her curiosity running amuck? Give her two minutes on my deck, and she’d be joining the latte celebration next door. Laura would claim that Stan had given me the perfect birthday gift.

I sighed in resignation, then stepped to the door and opened it.

Two men in dark blue uniforms greeted me. My eyes dropped to the gurney they carried, and my stomach heaved. Reality washed through me, zapping my remaining strength. They would take Stan away. Forever. I couldn’t talk through the painful lump in my throat, so I just pointed.

After they disappeared through the French doors, I eyed the chair’s comforting arms. No, I whispered. The sheriff would want to talk with me. I had to pull myself together, to think clearly.

My eyes dropped to the red dress I’d been so proud of, now wrinkled and, under the circumstances, garish. I was a denim and cotton woman, but I’d wanted to surprise Stan, to show him that I was still attractive, so I’d paid way too much for a dress I’d never wear again.

How many times in the past few months had I mentioned that all I wanted for my fortieth birthday was a romantic evening on the town with him there to help me get over that steep peak? Too many to count, that’s how many. As so many times in the past, I’d convinced myself that this time he would come through. That our forties would be the start of our new life together.

Laura had even seemed convinced, enough to help me prepare for my special night out. She’d treated me to a day at Saunia’s Spassage—massages, facials, manis and pedis, makeup and hair. I’d felt like a princess sipping champagne and nibbling on chocolate-coated strawberries while being oiled and rubbed, buffed and polished. And for what? So I could sit at home all evening by myself, hope gradually turning to a deep, aching throb in my gut that had become way too familiar.

The click of a doorknob drew my eyes toward the deck. My breath hitched. My pulse skyrocketed. I fought to blink back tears while I searched my memory for the sheriff’s name. Dickson or Johnson or Bronson—that was it—Sheriff Bronson, like Charles Bronson. Only he was as far from Charles Bronson as a man could get with his roly-poly body and short, toothpick legs that were now marching toward me. Large horn-rimmed glasses perched on his pudgy cheeks, their lenses so thick that his eyes appeared miniscule as he studied me.

He sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring. Coffee? he asked.

I nodded. Help yourself. The mugs are in the cabinet above the pot. If he doctored it with cream or sugar, let him search for it. I needed to get off my trembling legs before I fell off of them.

Plopping down into my cushy haven, I set the squirming kitten on the floor and forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly. Just tell the truth . . . well, except about the pillow, I told myself. Maybe Stan had died from a stroke or a heart attack or some weird disease he’d picked up from wild game. It happened all of the time; I’d seen it on TV reality shows and read about it on facebook.

After all, Stan’s main nutrient sources were Doritos and queso dip, Twinkies, chili dogs, and Tillamook’s latest ice cream flavor. If Sheriff Bronson pooh-poohed that, I’d walk him out to the garage and show him Stan’s stockpile of Twinkies. Now that they were being produced again, they’d probably end up in a landfill. Or maybe I could butter up Sheriff Bronson with a crate or two. He was still in the kitchen rooting for something—coffee additives or maybe breakfast.

You got any sugar? he demanded.

I struggled out of the chair and trudged to the kitchen, then pulled a plastic container from a cabinet and set it on the granite countertop next to a mug filled with what looked to be more cream than coffee. When I opened a drawer to get a teaspoon, my eyes landed on the box of truffles. One chocolaty mound nestled in the beautiful box. I’d only eaten two, which meant that someone else had eaten three. Surely, not the sheriff? As I handed him the spoon, I searched his mouth for telltale brown smudges, then sniffed for chocolate whiffs in the air. There were none.

So who had indulged in my birthday truffles? For sure, it wasn’t Stan. He detested everything about chocolate—the look, the taste, the smell. Once a chocolate chip had accidently strayed into Stan’s pancake, and he’d ranted and raved for days about it, as if I’d tried to poison him, which is something I was quite truthfully contemplating by the time he finally let it go.

Thanks, Sheriff Bronson muttered as he stirred his coffee, his bespectacled eyes drifting toward the deck, then back to me. He dropped the spoon on the counter. We need to talk.

My insides clenched. Would I soon be flaunting my new dress and hairdo in my mug shot?

I considered a cup of black coffee for myself—maybe my last taste of gourmet roast—to help me think more clearly, but my gurgling stomach shrieked no.

Let’s sit in the living room, I mumbled.

There was something reassuring about my safe chair, its comforting arms enfolding me. Sheriff Bronson sat facing me in Stan’s leather Barcalounger. He took a healthy swig of coffee, then shuffled a bit, struggling to perch his ample midsection with it’s arsenal of gadgets onto the edge of the mammoth chair. His boot-clad toes barely touched the floor. With his free hand, he pushed aside a couple of Stan’s remotes on the side table and set his mug in the bared spot.

After a few final squirms, he removed his cap and set it on top of Stan’s stash of outdoor magazines, revealing an unruly mop of grayish hair. Finally, he pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. Then his chunky lenses landed on me. So what happened here? he asked.

Where to start—three years back when I’d ignored the barrage of glaring warnings and, instead, had ridden a white-knuckled shotgun in Stan’s dent-riddled red Firebird to my seedy wedding in Reno? Would he understand that I was going through a rough spell, that after watching my father pass on and my daughter head off to Oregon State, I’d panicked at the thought of being alone?

Would he believe me when I assured him that, though Stan had a few faults—well, actually, more than a few—I really did love him? Or maybe it was more that I’d loved him at one time. Or had I only convinced myself that I loved him? I honestly didn’t know. Whatever the case, I’d willingly become Mrs. Stan Morton, and I was determined to make my marriage work.

Probably, it would be best not to burden Sheriff Bronson with the minutiae of my less than perfect marriage. The many sordid details would be unveiled later, during my trial.

I fought to distance myself, then shoved my protesting memory back to the previous night. My insides clenched. My pulse pounded. Well, I saw Stan sleeping out there on the deck. When I went outside to wake him up, I noticed he was dead. So I called the police.

That was this morning?

Why not? my mind screamed. But what if someone had seen me holding Stan’s lifeless hand—someone like nosy Denise from next door? Well, actually it was more in the middle of the night, I admitted.

Like two furry creatures, his bushy eyebrows crawled up from behind the thick black rims on his glasses. I thought you made the 9-1-1 call this morning?

I did. Only, I really meant to make the call earlier. I was trying to punch in the numbers, but I . . . fell asleep. Even to my ears it sounded lame.

He nodded. You’d been drinking.

Why not? I swallowed the urge. No, not at all. The only thing I had last night were a couple of chocolate truffles.

The ones on the kitchen counter?

Yes. Someone left them at my front door yesterday. It was my birthday.

And your husband ate the other three?

Oh, no. Stan doesn’t eat chocolate. Evidently, Sheriff Bronson didn’t snack on those truffles either. So who did?

Someone else was here then? He dropped his notepad and grabbed his coffee to take a healthy swig.

No, I was home alone, well, except for Stan. He must’ve come home after I fell asleep.

I paused, my mind swirling. Was I a sleepwalker, eating and murdering during the nighttime hours? Was that why I could no longer squeeze into my skinny jeans? I don’t know what happened to those truffles, I quickly added.

He gulped coffee, studying me with his tiny eyes. You have somewhere special to be today? he finally probed.

Somewhere special? What was he getting at? The funeral arrangements? Jail? I shook my head. No.

His brows levitated again, and his gaze slid from my gel-set auburn bed hair down to my flashy red toenails.

Mine did the same. Oh, you mean my dress. I . . . we’d planned to go out for dinner, to celebrate my birthday. But Stan must’ve been held up. Finally, I went to bed.

In your dress?

I lay down on my bed for a few minutes, and I fell asleep. It happened—all of the time, actually.

Last night?

Yes. Then I woke up several hours later. Like a speeding slideshow, disturbing images flashed in my mind. Like I said, I glanced out on the deck, and there was Stan . . . dead.

What made you think he was dead?

I didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it. When I did, my voice was shaky. He wasn’t breathing. His chest didn’t move at all. No heartbeat. And he felt like he’d been that way a while, cold and kind of . . . rubbery. Dead. The moment felt right to sneak in a little inside information. "I thought he’d had a heart attack or something—he had a thing for junk food, and he spent a lot of time in that chair watching TV.

Anyway, I rushed inside to get my cell phone, but I fell asleep as soon as I sat down. I made the call when I woke up this morning.

He rubbed the rim of the mug against his lips, then sipped. And no alcohol? Maybe a glass of wine . . . or two? Medication? His voice dripped skepticism. And why wasn’t he writing any of this down?

No. None, I affirmed. The only thing I can think of is maybe my brain couldn’t handle the shock, so it shut down.

Yeah, right, his look said. Did you go out and check on him this morning?

No. Another mark against me. I looked out there. He was still there, and he was still dead.

He huffed, then eyeballed his mug and set it on the table. So you’re all gussied up, ready to celebrate your birthday, and he doesn’t come home. That make you angry?

It’d make any woman furious, I silently avowed. I was a little upset, I admitted.

Did he call?

I shook my head. Did he ever?

He do that very often?

My insides clenched, the hurt too raw. You know men . . . sometimes, I murmured.

Did it make you mad enough to wish he was dead? Mad enough to do something about it?

"No! I was angry and hurt, but I would never do something like that." But I had wished he were dead, right before I’d blown out that candle. It’s like I said: I finally got tired of waiting and fell asleep, maybe around ten o’clock. Stan must’ve come home after that. The security alarm wasn’t set, so it didn’t beep. I didn’t hear him come into the house.

I eyed the streak of black clawing its way up my drapes. But I know he did, because my kitten was behind closed doors in my office. When I woke up this morning, it was in my lap.

Of course, that didn’t make sense either. If Stan had seen that kitten, it wouldn’t be shredding my window décor now.

He drink a lot?

Blinking my focus back to the sheriff, I contemplated his question. Sometimes. It was really more like always. When it’s warm enough, he sits on the deck before he comes to bed. It’s not unusual that he was out there drinking beer late at night. The unusual part is that for no apparent reason, my husband is dead.

Sheriff Bronson worked his lips and shook his head. No, the unusual part is you claiming he’s dead.

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his words, then muttered, Why’s that unusual? If someone’s dead, they’re dead.

He leaned forward, hands on his thighs. "Mrs. Morton, your husband is not dead."

CHAPTER 2

I knew my mouth gaped. I couldn’t help it. Sheriff Bronson had just tossed a grenade, one that left me shell-shocked.

Stan was alive—living and breathing and surely plotting payback for my rash decision to drag the county sheriff into this nightmare. Then he’d rant about how callous it was of me to leave him out on that cold, damp deck all night. Forget about my trashed birthday celebration and all of the other dreams I’d discarded due to Stan’s callousness. No, I was going to hear about this for a long time.

Why can’t you be dead? The words flitted through my mind. I eyed the sheriff, hoping he hadn’t heard them or seen the guilt I felt over that one renegade thought.

After all, the possibility of growing old in prison no longer loomed before me, and I was being given a second chance to salvage my marriage. I’d work harder. I’d be more understanding, not so sensitive. Maybe I was too self-centered. I could work on that, too.

No! Stan was dead—or at least he was last night. No doubt about it, he’d been dead. Had he come back to life—some miracle? I’d heard people on television talk shows claim it had happened to them. But Stan? Would God think Stan deserved a second chance at life?

Alive? I wheezed. I hefted myself out of the chair and shuffled shakily to the French doors, my heart pounding so hard I pressed on my chest to contain it.

Angelic rays of sunlight pierced the filmy haze, revealing blue sky in splotchy patches. It promised to be a glorious July day on the Oregon coast for golfers and tourists and beach junkies. But not for me.

Stan’s eyes settled