Diverted: A Jayden Morrow Mystery

By C.J. Graves

She may be a hundred and twenty pounds of pure attitude, but when P.I. Jayden Morrow does a swan dive off the roof of her Cape Cod home, she still gets a concussion—and a whole lot more.
Her nosy neighbor, Miss Mildred, insists she hire Billy Bob, a small-time contractor with big-time connections. Soon after, she receives threatening phone calls, her house is trashed, and Billy Bob disappears.
With dark clouds moving in, Jayden races to locate her AWOL roofer and keep ahead of the rain. Instead, she finds herself pushed into a perfect storm of mistaken identity, the mob, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Graves
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310904349

C.J. Graves

Ah, the dreaded profile--right up there with root canals and query letters. Let’s see...I grew up poor, chubby, and fatherless in a small Pennsylvania town. (Ouch.) But none of this has stopped me from becoming super-wealthy, movie star svelte, and happily married, living in a fabulous area of North Carolina. (Okay, some of this may be exaggerated.)So what is the truth? What IS truth, for that matter? And how much does it matter for a fiction writer? Despite the deliciousness of these questions, they will have to be answered by greater minds than that of C.J. Graves. But here are a few bits of information that are mostly true:-I have a B.A. in Interior Architecture and Design from the University of North Carolina.-I lived in Japan for a couple years. Konnichiwa!-I started out writing nonfiction, then screenplays, then novels--three different genres. (I may have writing ADD. Is there a support group for that?)-I like rolling on the floor with sweaty guys and hitting people. (I know what you’re thinking, but before you get all excited, I’m talking about mixed martial arts not BDSM!)-In my previous life, I was a harried mother of twelve, living during the Victorian era. (I don’t know if this is true, but it seems a reasonable excuse of why I don’t have children and enjoy period movies.)So this is me--kind of. How about you? If you like mysteries, dark romances, and/or paranormal YA, please try my books--Crossed, Belted, and Antichrist 16. Happy reading!

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DIVERTED: A JAYDEN MORROW MYSTERY

By

C.J. Graves

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by C.J. Graves

mailto: [e-mail]

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from C.J. Graves. 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, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

To my husband--all my love.

Chapter 1

I love action movies. You know, the kind where the hero is more a superhero, action figure come to life, braving rapid gunfire while shimmying along a roofline by the dilapidated gutter. The bad guys close in. The heroine—of course, she’s female—is wounded but determined to make it to safety—not so much to save her own life but in service to the greater good of humanity. I think I love those movies, because I imagine myself to be that hero.

Unfortunately, I’m not that hero.

How do I know? Well, because I found myself in this very situation, minus the bad guys with guns and my concern for the greater good of humanity. In a fit of dogged independence, I tried to patch the leaky roof of my Cape Cod by myself. My descent from heroic greatness into fallible human was swift and painful.

As I lay semiconscious on the grass, wondering if I was dead, something poked my thigh. I opened my eyes to a white-haired angel in a flowing robe. But then my vision focused, and I realized it was only Miss Mildred wearing a housedress, jabbing at me with her cane. Miss Mildred Fanning was my elderly neighbor and friend. She used a cane for a bad hip, but I often wondered if it wasn’t an excuse to carry a weapon and make unsuspecting neighbors do her maintenance chores. I didn’t question the latter due to the former.

I’m calling an ambulance, Jayden.

No, no. I’m okay. Just give me a second. Slowly, I took stock of my body parts, moving each one in turn and trying to gage the situation. Nothing seemed damaged beyond recognition—no paralysis or broken bones. However, I’d been shot in the shoulder while solving my last case and was still recovering. It was one of the reasons I couldn’t swing myself back onto the roof. The pain from that wound had already faded into a dull ache, my right wrist felt slightly sprained, and a headache spread steadily from the base of my neck. With trepidation, I sat up.

I really think you should see a doctor! Miss Mildred’s original look of concern morphed into something closer to disapproval.

I’ve got an appointment tomorrow for my shoulder. I’ll make sure he gives me a thorough going over. I used my uninjured hand to get my feet under me. The world swam for a moment but slowly leveled out. No one else saw me, did they?

If you mean Cynthia, then no. They’re not home.

Good.

What a stunt, Miss Mildred chastised. It’s no wonder she doesn’t like Catie hanging around you.

I shrugged. It’s not like I invite the kid over.

Catie Connell was my eight-year-old neighbor on the other side. She idolized me. Her mother, Cynthia, on the other hand, made no secret of the fact that she objected to my life’s choices, probably because they ran so opposite to her own. Cynthia was a married, stay-at-home mother of two with a husband who mowed the lawn. She likely had enough sense to hire a professional to fix a roof. I was a twenty-nine-year-old, unmarried, childless, Iraq veteran turned private investigator with a renovating disability who thought she could do it all herself.

I need a drink, I said.

I have coffee made in the kitchen, Miss Mildred answered.

That’s not what I had in mind.

I know what you have in mind, but that’s not going to help.

I twirled my wrist and winced. I beg to differ.

I told you not to go messing around up there. I knew you’d get hurt. Why can’t you hire a roofer like a normal person?

I’m special.

As she grasped me by the crook of the arm, leading me towards her house, I turned to face my fate—a fate worse than the pain and humiliation of falling off my roof—the barrage of I told you so.

Once we settled into Miss Mildred’s country kitchen, the floodgates really opened. I listened dutifully for a few minutes, sipping my hazelnut coffee and picking at the edge of the worn, plaid tablecloth. When she finally came up for air with a question, I formed my words carefully. Anything I said would be on the lips of the local gossips for a few weeks at least.

Will you please stop fidgeting and tell me what happened? She leaned forward and raised a painted eyebrow.

Well, the whole roof needs replaced, you know that. And I’m looking at the possibility of getting a professional roofer.

Both of her eyebrows shot up this time.

I am. Really. Okay, that was a lie, but if you were in my place, you’d do the same thing. Self-preservation. I continued with caution. But with the snow we had yesterday, melting, it was leaking into the kitchen. It’s not too bad yet, but it’s making a circle on the ceiling that’s growing all the time. I can’t have that, can I? She didn’t answer, but I knew Miss Mildred couldn’t stand the thought of a water spot on her kitchen ceiling, messing up the tidiness of her sacred space.

So, I thought I’d go up real quick and patch the leak, I said. You know, until I could get some estimates.

Well, how did you fall? Her look softened.

There was an icy section I didn’t notice where that big oak throws shade. One minute I was walking along the edge, and the next thing I was hanging off the gutter like a hundred and twenty pound icicle.

Miss Mildred recoiled, covering her heart with her hand. Well, I still think you should have called someone to do the patch.

Here we go again.

Don’t roll your eyes at me, she said. I told you Billy Bob would be more than happy to come take care of it for you.

I have a problem hiring someone named Billy Bob to fix my roof. I don’t want globs of tobacco spit raining from the sky every time I go to check the mail.

Don’t be prejudiced.

I’m not prejudiced.

You are. You have a problem with southern folk. She refilled my cup deftly as any diner waitress and pushed the creamer my way.

I do not, I said a little too loudly and felt myself squirm. How dare she say I was prejudiced of southern people?

Hmm.

I wagged my index finger. Hey, do you know how many times people have told me since I’ve been in North Carolina that I was a rude Yankee? I’m not rude because I’m from the north. I’m rude because that’s my personality. If you don’t like it, bite me.

Yes, that proves everything, doesn’t it? she said, eyeing me over the rim of her mug.

Are you telling me this Billy Bob doesn’t chew tobacco?

Now it was her turn to squirm. I’m just saying that he built my shed two years ago, and it’s sturdier than this house. Why, there must be four feet of concrete under that shed. You should give him a chance.

I sighed and covered my face with my still sore hands. With Miss Mildred, you may win the battle but never the war. Best to call defeat before the casualties killed your spirit.

Okay. Give me his number. I’ll call him today. There. Are you satisfied? Can I have some coffee cake now? Please?

She smiled with triumph and moved toward the breadbox on the counter. Of course, dear.

*

Miss Mildred finally allowed me to leave after swearing again I would call the infallible Billy Bob immediately and see the doctor tomorrow. Moving through my front door, I shuffled past the staircase with its missing spindles and down the hall into the eat-in kitchen with its plywood floors. The roof wasn’t the only thing needing work. It was just the most insistent. The house gave new meaning to the term, fixer-upper. My last case had netted me a tidy bit of money, and my plan was to take a little vacation and do some of the work on the house I’d been putting off. That was before I did a swan dive off my roof.

A soft beeping sound drifted from the kitchen counter. I picked up my cell phone and hit the button for messages, groaning when I saw my mother’s number flash. Thanksgiving was in a week and a half, and all the relatives were coming over to gorge themselves on food and drink until eventually someone got in a fight over a long ago slight or who should get the last turkey leg. It was all I heard about from both her and my sister. That and I can’t believe you got shot. How can you still consider being a private eye? It’s too dangerous. You’re what? Going to put a new roof on your house by yourself? What, have you gone mad? You’re still recovering. What about that new friend of yours, Max? Can’t he do it?

When she discovered what had happened, she’d flip out. Maybe I could hide the truth—tell her I decided to take her advice and hire someone to fix the roof.

Who was I kidding? She probably already knew I’d fallen fifteen feet onto my keister. The call would surely confirm this. My mother didn’t know how to retrieve the text messages off her cell phone, but she always knew when I’d done something stupid. Especially when it was something she’d warned me about. Well, I had enough brow-beating for one morning. She could wait.

At that moment, the phone rang in my hands, making me start.

How did she know?

I looked at the display, breathing a sigh of relief. It wasn’t her. I eased myself into a chair and answered.

Hello, Jayden Morrow Investigations.

Well, hello there! a booming voice answered back.

I held the phone out an inch from my ear.

This is Billy Bob. Your neighbor, Miss M, said you needed some help with your roof.

I was momentarily speechless. I couldn’t decide whether to be angry at Miss Mildred for not trusting me or admire her insight.

Hello? You there, Little Miss?

Uh. Yeah, I’m here.

Well, I’d be happy to come over and fix you up… he said with a pause during which I imagined him switching a wad of chew from one cheek to another. How’s ‘bout tomorrow around noon? I don’t reckon that’d be too early for a night owl like’n yourself.

What makes you think I’m a night owl?

Why, Miss M told me you’re a private spy. I figured you do a lot of creeping around after dark.

Okay.

So’s how’s that sound to you?

Do I have a choice?

His laughter exploded through the receiver along with my ear drum. Not with the likes of Miss M living next door, you don’t! I’ll see you tomorrow. He hung up before I could reply.

As I stared at my phone, I wondered how much this was going to cost me. The answer, as it turned out, was more than anyone realized.

Chapter 2

If I thought Miss Mildred disapproved of my fall from the roof, or that my mother would freak out, it was minor compared to the conniption fit the doctor had. My check-up the next morning revealed the sprained wrist I knew about, renewed bleeding around the gunshot wound I suspected, and a mild concussion of which I was oblivious. I’d already been on strict orders to take it easy and minimize the use of my upper body. But people who knew me knew how well I take orders—especially from men in uniform. My face still burned from Dr. Roe’s scathing lecture as I drove home to make my twelve o’clock appointment with Billy Bob, roofer extraordinaire. I could hardly wait. Not that I had to.

Billy Bob’s silver Dodge Ram sat in my driveway as I approached. At first I couldn’t see where he was, but then a large blob appeared from over the ridgeline of my house. Billy Bob, dressed in faded jeans and a red t-shirt, looking like a giant candy apple, hadn’t wasted any time getting to know the job. I parked my diminutive Ford Ranger beside his behemoth vehicle and hopped out.

Hey there, Little Miss! His voice catapulted from the sky. He waved cheerfully and disappeared once more, likely heading toward the ladder which still leaned against the back of the house, just five feet away from a large ass print on the grass.

When Billy Bob emerged from the backyard, his face was close to the shade of his shirt. Small rivulets of sweat streamed along a hairline with more gray than the blond of his youth. The puffiness of his face and neck paled in comparison to the size of his girth. If some guys have a six-pack and some have a beer belly, Billy Bob could be said to have a kegger.

He slowed his approach and raised his eyebrows before extending his hand. I was used to people being surprised at my appearance—I’m quite petite with clear, grey eyes and long, dark hair, usually kept in a pony tail—neither Sherlock Holmes nor Magnum P.I. Plus who knew what Miss Mildred had told him about me. Despite my injury, I shook firmly, wishing my sleeves were long enough to cover the wrap on my right wrist. His smile was wide and genuine, if a little strained.

Hi, I said. I’m Jayden Morrow.

Sure, sure. Excuse me if I stare, but you’re the spittin’ image of someone I know.

Who, your daughter?

His laughter seemed half-hearted. No, not exactly.

Well, I have one of those faces. People are always saying I remind them of so and so.

It’s not just your face. His eyes skimmed lightly down my body in a way that was all too familiar.

A harsh cough and scowl seemed to snap him out of it. If Miss Mildred thought I was going to allow a beach ball with eyes ogle me from my own roof for two weeks, she was mistaken. As if on cue, the infamous Miss M. came hobbling down the sidewalk. Billy Bob broke from me and swaggered out to meet her. He gave her a bear hug until she rapped him on the back with her cane.

Put me down, you dog! Don’t you know you could hurt an old woman like me?

He set her lightly to the ground, and she made a big show of smoothing down her dress. Nothing could hurt you, Mother. Everybody knows that.

Hmmph. Well, I’ve seen you’ve met my young and reckless neighbor who thinks she can do everything herself. I’m hoping the doctor and you can set her straight, since I’ve never had any luck.

I felt my face turn three shades of crimson. I didn’t want ole Billy Bob thinking I was some sort of co-ed neophyte. My injury was an accident, I explained, and wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t recovering from a gunshot wound. There. Let him choke on that one.

Yeah, said Billy Bob with a twinkle in his eye. I read about it in the local paper. That must’ve hurt real bad. I know. I took a bullet in Nam. You were in the service, weren’t you? How’s it going over there in I-raq? I hear they got air-conditioned tents. He turned to Miss Mildred and shook his head. Can you believe that? Man, if you wanted air-conditioning in Nam, you’d have to cut a hole in your britches. He laughed, spit tobacco juice near my foot, and slapped his leg like he was on Comedy Central.

Meanwhile, I felt my blood pressure rising, and my fingers made tight fists. If this joker said one more word about my service, he was going to drink his beer intravenously. If I hit him hard enough, maybe he’d swallow his chew.

Miss Mildred must’ve seen my murderous intent and gave him a stern look. Now, Billy Bob, Jayden doesn’t like to discuss her time in the military, and that’s her right. You mind her privacy, or I won’t be able to recommend you for this job, understand?

Billy Bob lowered his head in deference. Yes, ma’am. He turned to me with a smile and small nod. I meant no disrespect. I admire all the members of our armed forces, men and women alike. I was just ridin’ you a little. No offense.

I let my hands relax, but before I could respond, Miss Mildred said, Good. Now let’s go look at Jayden’s roof. She grasped the crook of his arm and led him down the sidewalk talking about prices and pointing toward my house with her cane.

I followed reluctantly, aware of my marginal status in the midst of this transaction.

Between long bouts of small talk between Billy Bob and Miss Mildred, a plan finally evolved to tear off the old roof and replace it with thirty-year architectural shingles. After some tag-teaming, I also agreed to him installing new gutters and downspouts. The total cost, although surely reasonable, was still more than the cost of my first car and way more than me doing it myself. I watched my newly padded bank account drive away with the roar of a diesel engine and a cheerful honk.

He seems very happy with the arrangement, don’t you think? Miss Mildred asked, still waving her cane farewell.

Of course he’s happy. I just paid for six months of payments on that truck.

Well, having a roof over your head is important.

So is sex, but I don’t like paying for it.

Jayden!

I’m sorry. I just hate spending that money, okay? I was going to go on a trip or something. Now I’m stuck here with Boss Hogg stomping around on my roof, after which it will be Thanksgiving, and I get to suffer through Hell, part two, where my mother will continually ask me when I’m going to get married and have babies, my sister will regale me with the stories of their newest time-share purchase, and my good-for-nothing uncles will smirk as they get waited on hand and foot.

Miss Mildred smiled mischievously. Well, Billy Bob seemed to think you were quite attractive. Maybe you could come to some sort of arrangement. You know, since you don’t want to pay for your roof or your sex.

Miss Mildred!

What?

You’re terrible. Besides, even I have standards. I’d hate to see the woman willing to pay that price. I shuddered.

She laughed as she turned and continued down the sidewalk to her cottage-style house, swinging her cane casually. My, but you’re hard to please.

I waved her away and headed back inside. It was close to two o’clock. Karate didn’t start for another four hours, so I thought I’d try to obey doctor’s orders and catch a nap. After kicking off my boots, I went upstairs, carefully changed into a worn t-shirt, and climbed under the still rumpled covers of my single bed. The thought of Miss Mildred’s suggestion brought a mental chuckle. Then I got a picture of me and Billy Bob—yuck. I closed my eyes and my mind to it all and within five minutes fell asleep.

*

I woke sweaty and out of breath. I sat up and stared at the necklace hanging at the end of my bed. The delicate, gold cross had been given to me by my fiancé, Paul, while we both served in Iraq. He died in combat, a fact that continued to make my heart feel like it’d been stuffed in a blender, and even though it’d been over two years, I relived the event over and over in my nightmares. For me, Iraq was no longer a place but a state of mind—another dimension to be slipped in and out of without regard for my whereabouts or the company I was keeping at the time. The clinical term was post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD for short. Getting treatment was possible but out of the question. Well-meaning people would tell me, with time, I would forget what had happened there. It would fade in my mind like bad memories of childhood. But I didn’t want it to fade. I didn’t want to forget. Forgetting Iraq meant forgetting him. Fading meant fading away.

The best way to leave nightmares behind was to move the body. The clock read five o’clock, but someone was always at the dojo early. I slid on a pair of jeans, grabbed a fresh uniform from the closet, and headed downstairs. After locating my duffel bag of gear, I used the restroom and fastened my dark hair into a ponytail. My hand rested on the doorknob when the phone rang. I hesitated. It was probably my mother, trying other avenues since striking out with the cell phone. But it could be someone else—a new job prospect. One of the problems with running a home business was it made it hard to screen calls. Hiring a private investigator was a secretive, clandestine sort of venture. Some potential clients wouldn’t leave a message.

Ring three. Two more and the machine would get it. I dropped my stuff and ran for the phone in the living room. Before today I might’ve been able to afford not to answer, but now I owed a kidney to the richest redneck in town.

Hello, Jayden Morrow Investigations.

Silence met me on the other end. I started hanging up, thinking it was one of those telemarketers when a gruff voice said, Tell your boyfriend we’re watching him.

The closest thing I had to a boyfriend was Max Westfall, a guy from karate, and he wasn’t really my boyfriend. Well, okay, maybe he was, but it wasn’t anyone else’s business. I was about to say this very thing when the guy continued with, And we’re watching you too, Bitch.

Hey! Who is— The click was loud in my ear. I stared at the receiver for a moment and shrugged. Max would be at class. He had some explaining to do.

*

Tiger Claw Karate snuggled between a hair salon and a credit counseling place in a worn but well-known strip mall. Occupying the space of two stores had allowed my instructor and mentor, Master Flynt, to stretch out and expand his business as needed. A few die-hards were already there, sparring and practicing kata in front of the floor to ceiling plate glass windows. David, a lanky blue belt, called out to me as I made my way past the weight lifting equipment to the back.

You’re late, Morrow, he said with a smirk.

Without any juniors there yet, I gave him my single digit response. Laughter followed me into Master Flynt’s office.

Knock, knock, I said.

Master Flynt looked up from the whirlwind mess he called an office. An exotic blend of African-American and American Indian lent him movie star looks. His size was average and less than intimidating, but a glance at his calloused knuckles and a hardness about the eyes let you know he could take care of things if needed. And if you weren’t convinced, he could always whip out his badge. Master Flynt was a cop.

Go home, he said.

Excuse me?

"You heard me. It was against my