Emerald City: The Return

By Rebekah Shelton

After 20 years in exile, Kenzie, the heiress of the Rudolph empire and fortune, returns to a haunted Emerald City to lead a mundane life and hopefully find love. But who will she fall in love with? Will she find her forever with the handsome and alluring shapeshifter with maniacal motives or the ghost who watches over her as her guardian angel and protector? Kenzie struggles to reunite the Rudolph and Morton families so the ghosts on Emerald Knoll can cross over. Gracey and her siblings are shocked when more of Rafer Henrikson's progeny arrive uninvited and unannounced. Gracey can no longer stand back and ignore the destruction and death. She shows a side of herself never seen before to stop the needless and brutal killings while seeking her own revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Shelton
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311230188

Rebekah Shelton

Rebekah Shelton, originally from Northeastern Ohio and now residing in Middle Tennessee with her husband, is an empty nester who found her passion for writing through her love of reading. Her literary journey began with her first book, "Emerald Eyes," which started as a tragic romance but evolved into a captivating paranormal romance. Captivated by the characters she created, Rebekah continued to delve into their world, crafting the ongoing series known as the "Legend of the Snow Wolves." Expanding upon her storytelling prowess, she ventured into the realm of the supernatural with a mythological twist in her spin-off series, "The Red Wolf Chronicles."Driven by her addiction to sci-fi movies and her boundless imagination, Rebekah embarked on her third series, titled "The Battle for Zarcon," immersing readers in an exhilarating science fiction universe. Displaying her versatility as an author, she co-authored a book alongside her husband, Jeff, entitled "Operation De-ICE - The Battle for Earth," delivering a collaborative tale filled with thrilling adventures and epic battles."Address for Murder" draws inspiration from a real-life incident that sparked the author's imagination. The story revolves around a woman who faces difficulties receiving packages at her post office box, which had previously been rented by an FBI agent. Intrigued by the possibilities, the author began contemplating what would unfold if the box came into the possession of a CIA agent entangled in a dangerous web of deception and betrayal. Thus, "Address for Murder" was born, weaving a thrilling narrative that explores the consequences of a double or even triple cross, putting the life of an innocent girl in jeopardy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kenzie Rudolph stood at the window of her five-star hotel room, looking toward the mountains. She stared stoically at the circling birds of prey, eagle-like birds, that were native to the area. Trying to distract herself, Kenzie looked back to the sky. There were clouds today, but she knew it would not rain; it was the dry season.

Kenzie forced herself not to look through the trees, toward the ground at the hovel surrounding her wealth. She did not want to see the filth and disparity below her perch. The impoverished scene of the scantily dressed woman hanging her freshly washed clothes on a line strung between a tree and an old fence clashed with the serene canopy of trees filled with brightly colored pink and orange blossoms. Kenzie did not want to look past the colorful foliage and see the naked children playing in the dirt. She did not want to see the goats or the abandoned guard shack made of scrap wood and discarded corrugated steel at the exit of her palace.

The sound of the afternoon train jolted Kenzie from her daydream just as it disturbed her nightly dreams. The train whistles and the inaudible announcements had constantly interrupted her life. Kenzie looked down at the interweaving aggregation of bicycles, motor scooters, rickshaws, cars, buses, and trucks. The deafening noise from the street below was muffled slightly from inside her rented quarters. The incessant honking of the horns as various vehicles swerved through the lanes. There was always more than one vehicle per lane, straddling the faded painted lines on the concrete. Each driver aimed to get ahead of the other, only to bring traffic to a standstill.

To say the roads were dangerous would be an understatement. Accidents were commonplace. Trying to cross the street except at a designated crosswalk on foot was parallel to suicide. Dead pedestrians would lay in the road for hours until claimed by their next of kin. The drivers were impervious to the other vehicles and humans or animals. The only thing in their line of sight was the opportunity to outmaneuver the other driver. Each vehicle fought to be in the lead, to get to its destination first. It was a race. Yet, promptness was not customary. Tardiness was the norm.

Kenzie turned away from the street only to see the colorful slums barely out of sight. Green, blue, yellow, pink, and orange painted shacks reminded her of the bungalows in New Orleans she had seen years before as she left the United States. She had been traveling from continent to continent for nearly twenty years for her protection. She lived in isolation; her family was still fearful of the massacre which had occurred almost two decades prior.

Kenzie had been living in India for three years. She had become acclimatized to her surroundings. The thick marble floor beneath her bare feet no longer shocked her with its coldness. She was no longer overwhelmed by the smell of the Indian spices as she left her room. She donned a sweater or shawl in the evening, chilled by the cooler temperatures. Kenzie no longer used bottled water to brush her teeth. She no longer tried to hide the fact that she was different than her human counterparts. She was immune from contracting the illnesses they would; malaria, typhoid, and hepatitis.

While Kenzie slept, the hotel put up more holiday decorations. It was a week before Christmas. There were tiny pots of plastic poinsettias on the ledges and stairs. Hundreds of glittery Santa Clauses, stars, bells, and reindeer hung from the ceilings. There were painted cardboard wreaths on the marble columns and five-foot-tall polystyrene snowmen pointing the way to the various restaurants. Kenzie recalled the snowmen she made as a child when they were lucky to get enough snow in Lone Hill, Tennessee. She remembered the happiness and laughter of a snowball fight and making snow angels. But the best memory was of her mother and the oversized mugs of hot cocoa topped with as many marshmallows as the cup would allow. It was a much happier time.

Kenzie stepped out into the hallway and stood at the railing overlooking the private dining room for the elite guests on the fifth floor while her guards stood back on each side of the door to her suite. The staff looked up and smiled a sad smile at her. All of Kenzie's meals were delivered to her suite. Her only companionship was her guards, assistants, and her parents.

Kenzie looked around and observed the Christmas tree at the private dining room entrance for the elite guests. Kenzie smiled for a moment but quickly was saddened. In a way, she had hoped there would be no Christmas decorations this year. The absence of decorations would have made it easier to endure the holidays, being far away from her home and the rest of her family. However, the hotel did it for their European and North American Christian guests. The tree was fake, pre-decorated with a few colored glass bulbs.

Kenzie noted the lack of a star or an angel atop the tree. It was intentional, a way to minimize the religious connotation. Kenzie longed for a quilted tree skirt to hide the terra cotta pot at the base. Silently, she was relieved by the absence of Christmas music, but the silence was deafening. Kenzie strained her ears to hear the music playing on the piano in the tea room on the main floor. Still, even with her acute hearing, it was too far away to be of any comfort or distraction.

The diminutive tree reminded Kenzie of the Dickens classic 'A Christmas Carol' and the impoverished character, Tiny Tim. The penury she witnessed outside of the hotel was a tragic reminder of the abject poverty level of most of the population. Whenever she and her parents left the hotel, they were often accosted by beggars, children, the elderly, those disfigured from leprosy, and the lame. They would knock on the window of their transport or follow them on the street. There were men at the traffic lights selling boxes of tissues or orange towels used for cleaning vehicles. Others sold their wares along the roadside. Some pushed their goods by cart. Other purveyors had four-foot by four-foot shacks lined up along the side of the road, one after another, for miles with no end in sight.

Kenzie stepped back into her suite and walked to her window. She looked back outside at the disappearing canopy attempting to camouflage the shacks below her. The trees were wilting. There had been no rain for months. The trees would be dormant and bare at home, dropping their leaves and exposing the entire scene behind them. Kenzie was grateful for the drying leaves that clung to the trees. It kept the squalor and heartache below her out of sight.

Kenzie noted the temperature would fall below 50 degrees Fahrenheit that night. The Indian winter was upon them. The 35-degree drop from daytime to nighttime was a shock to the body. At night, the outdoor workers wrapped themselves in scarves and blankets. Kenzie had not seen any of them wear gloves or socks. They would light small fires at the curb to warm their hands and feet.

During the warmer months, Kenzie occasionally slipped out of her suite just before the sun came up to watch the sunrise from the hotel's roof. While there were a pool and restaurant on the roof, the roof was usually vacant in the early morning hours. Kenzie was grateful for the few moments she could spend outdoors, her guards at the elevator and staircase while she looked out over the city. On the rare occasion, she would take a quick swim in the pool before the temperatures reached a scorching 135 degrees by noon during the warmer months.

Kenzie rarely got to leave the hotel. She was a prisoner; her family feared for her safety as she was the last heir to the Rudolph banking empire. The drive to the shopping areas during her rare excursions outside the hotel provided the senses with smells and sights that could not be described. The smell of car exhaust was so overwhelming it made you cough. The odor of burning trash on the side of the road would singe your nose. And the smell of human waste would activate your gag reflex. During the daylight, dogs lay lethargically on the wayside, lazy from the heat. Only at night did they run around with any vigor, running in packs like wild animals. Some even took to chasing cars and other motorized vehicles.

Whenever Kenzie did get to venture out, she took in every sight, trying to remember everything. She commented on the buildings she saw. She could see past the ruins of the now dilapidated English-style bungalows to the splendor they once were. She could imagine how beautiful the summer vacation locale was during the British occupation over a hundred years before. The old homes now housed small businesses and schools. The roofs were toppling, and the walls cracked with vegetation trying to force their way through. Kenzie noted the rocks atop the corrugated steel roofs to hold the roof in place. The walls of the compounds were often topped with barbed wire, and the top of the bricks was reinforced with broken glass embedded in concrete to deter unsolicited visitors. The gates were secured closed with a rope or a torn piece of fabric.

There were cities of thatched tents or canvas and corrugated huts. Laundry was dried atop rocks on the roadside with the ever-present dust kicked up. People cleaned themselves in the break of the water pipes, which brought the drinking water from the massive reservoirs into the city. Men urinated on the side of the road, barely turning away from those passing by. It was a custom Kenzie had also witnessed in the Philippines.

At night, Kenzie would see people sleeping on the streets, under the railroad bridges either in makeshift shelters or wrapping themselves from head to toe with a blanket. It was frightening. It looked like a sea of corpses.

Kenzie and her parents had discovered a place outside the city that gave retreat from the deafening vehicle horns, the train, and the whistles. The resort was on the river and usually deserted. They would sit and watch the cows and goats roaming the opposite bank. Occasionally they would see a crane or a few ducks. Usually, there was a calm breeze, and the water level was high enough to send a soft, trickling sound into the air. In contrast, the air would be foul if the river was low.

They would watch in amazement when a native denizen would wander down to the river and, after wading in, turn facing the bank and squat. More puzzling was their ritual of cleaning their soiled backside with the polluted river water.

Kenzie and her family were also intrigued with the local version of a bidet, usually a hose with a spray attachment found on the American kitchen sink. The locals preferred it to toilet paper. They conveyed it left them feeling moist and fresh. This was strange to Kenzie and her parents since Americans liked to feel dry.

Restroom stall dividers went from ceiling to floor to prevent the occupant of the adjoining compartment from accidental spraying. The floors, walls, and fixtures were always wet. The three often wondered aloud how the locals kept their clothing dry. An American visitor who had worn a traditional Punjabi suit (with its drawstring pant, long split-side kamzee top, and long scarf) found it challenging to use the restroom, let alone a bidet. Another mystery was the small bucket of water beneath the faucet (near the floor) in the absence of a bidet. They couldn't imagine washing any body part with stagnant, dirty water. Kenzie and her family were thankful for the western style toilet instead of the hole in the ground that required squatting. Some public restrooms had communal towels instead of paper towels. On excursions, they learned quickly to carry tissue, hand sanitizer, and bottled water.

A visitor once commented on how colorful most of the people dressed. Kenzie reminded him in a place so dreary and full of squalor, they needed the bright colors to cheer up their surroundings. They adorned themselves and their vehicles and even painted the horns of their oxen. Since flowers were abundant and very inexpensive, they were used freely for decorating. The enormous staircase in the hotel would be lined with unbelievable amounts of bright orange daisies and garlands for weddings. The price for such extravagance could not be afforded back home by anyone but the ultra-rich.

The culture in India was so different than theirs in America. Love was not commonplace. People rarely smiled, downtrodden by their fate and personal situations. Marriages were arranged. Brides and grooms often met each other at the altar. Yet the families celebrated the four-day marriage ceremony. So much money was spent on the ceremony and the bride’s dowry. Most couples did not marry until they were thirty years of age so the bride's parents could provide a handsome dowry to the groom's family. They would start buying gold as soon as their daughters were born to ensure the bride was suitably adorned on her wedding day. The wedding date was set only after consulting star charts to ensure marital success.

There were so many wedding customs Kenzie had heard about but not seen. There was the wedding parade, the groom arriving on horseback, and the silver carriage. There were flower garlands, henna-painted feet and hands, and gold-adorned brides in bare feet. The four-day event included a ring ceremony, a social wedding, a legal wedding, and a reception followed by fireworks. There were ankle bracelets and toe rings depending on the sect or caste.

One night Kenzie encountered a soon-to-be bride and her mother in the hotel salon putting the finishing touches on the bride and the wedding costume. The mother was excited, announcing her daughter was about to be married. When Kenzie congratulated the bride, the bride did not smile but fought back her tears. It was evident she was being forced into an arranged marriage.

This was a country in which the caste system was still in place. One did not marry outside their caste, religion, or skin complexion. Marriage brokers were often used, and parents placed solicitation ads to find suitable mates for their offspring. So much work when love could have sufficed. The married couples Kenzie saw often looked so unhappy. It was commonplace for men to have affairs. Life without love, it was a sad existence.

Unmarried women did nothing without their parent's approval regardless of age; work, go out with friends, anything. Kenzie frowned, realizing they were imprisoned, much like her.

Married women did not work. Pregnant women were sequestered. Kenzie had been in India for three years and had seen only a few pregnant women from her window. It added a new meaning to barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen. Kenzie had been told that the mother ate last in a traditional Indian home. It was a double-standard Kenzie had a hard time coming to grips with. She had been raised in a family where the males and females were equal. Everyone worked; everyone contributed.

The Indian customers at the hotel were much more demanding than the European or American guests. Even in a buffet setting, the local clientele wanted to be served. They demanded the food be brought to the table, each item in individual dishes, and spooned onto their plates. Kenzie watched a Sikh use a knife and fork to eat a sandwich so as not to pick it up with both hands, yet she noted that he was left-handed when he signed the check. She chuckled at the irony. The right hand was used for eating and the left for cleaning their behinds.

Kenzie tried hard not to eat with her left hand but found it impossible. While the locals had mastered tearing roti and naan with one hand, she could not. Whenever she picked up food with her left hand, she quickly moved it to her right, hoping no one noticed. They always did. Today, she watched a group of Japanese businessmen sharing their lunches from her seventh-floor perch. Asians practiced communal eating. Americans never shared. Americans found the practice of someone's fingers or utensils touching their food disgusting and offensive.

Kenzie enjoyed the local cuisine. Each day she would have the restaurant manager bring her a variety of entrees and desserts. She found almost everything delicious. Still, she yearned for more meat and a more extensive selection of animal protein. It was mostly fish and chicken, as no one ate pork, and the Hindus did not eat beef. The hotel did not serve either. The coffee was like thick espresso and looked like mud with milk. The sugar granules were the size of rock salt and took a long time to dissolve. The milk was rumored to be boxed. Kenzie had seen glimpses of these blue cartons behind cabinet doors and beneath the tablecloth-covered food carts. She longed for a good cup of coffee and milk from a cow.

The wait staff in the private dining room was a strange lot. They were not always attentive, but the waiter would come running if a customer tried to do anything for themselves. The customers couldn't pour their own coffee or tea or use the three-foot-tall pepper mill. Some hotel guests would play a game of trying to do something for themselves before hearing the footsteps and the command no.

Even in Kenzie’s suite, an attempt to help a worker clean the floor of a spill was met with a servant-like mentality. The staff found it hard to believe Americans, especially Kenzie’s family, did their own cleaning and did not have domestic help. The caste system was still used, and anyone of moderate means had ‘domestic help.’

The civil rights movement had not totally eliminated the caste system in the U.S. But only the truly wealthy had servants. Kenzie’s family was different. They did not have housekeepers. They did all their own cooking and cleaning to maintain their secret and true identity. Despite their wealth, they went about their daily life much like an average middle-class family.

During one of the guarded trips to the Tea Lounge for an afternoon snack, Kenzie watched as the hotel concierge prepared to light the candles in the entry foyer. He first poured water into the basin below the bird-shaped figurine. He then lit the candles. Kenzie wondered if there was any religious significance to the display or if it was just for show. There was always a sand painting around the base of vivid colors. It looked like crushed chalk, but she could not be sure. (Kenzie later learned it was colored flour.) There were many traditions and beliefs in a country with many religions. Many traditions were ancient and pagan, many without explanation.

There were so many things Kenzie had wanted to learn while she was there. So many things she had wanted to do. She never got a chance to see how her Indian peers lived. She never got to go to a local dhaba or experience a motorcycle ride with them. She never got to be one of them, to see life as they saw it. Kenzie wanted to see the beauty when others only saw despair.

On the weekends, the music from the dance club in the basement vibrated through the entire building. Kenzie’s heart filled with self-pity. The music made her feel like someone had forgotten to invite her to the party. She felt very lonely. She missed the family dinners and celebrations. She missed dancing. At thirty-three years old, she had never danced with a man other than her father or maybe an uncle. She only danced with her teenage brother or cousin as a teen. She had been too young to attend the school dances.

Kenzie tried to remember the last time she had any fun. Sadness overtook her. It had been nearly twenty years.

Chapter 2

Soon Kenzie would be leaving India. As a gesture of goodbye, Kenzie, and her family, agreed to a dinner with the local bank executives at one of the other hotels the evening before Kenzie's departure. Kenzie was traveling alone. Her parents would join her in a few weeks.

The hotel had an outdoor dining room and only a few dinner guests. One of the bank employees, Amit, urged Kenzie to have her fortune told by the seer, an astrologer employed by the hotel.

Kenzie was curious but hesitant. Amit finally convinced her to give it a try. He took her by the hand and led her down the steps just as he had when she needed an escort to the wash closet. Kenzie was never allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied.

The astrologer did not speak English and Amit had to translate for Kenzie. The astrologer looked at her palm, and the words came and came. Kenzie was amazed as his statements were so accurate. He told her that she was full of love and giving but had hardships with her parents, relationships, and job. Someone was holding her back. He told her she was a hard worker who did not receive the rewards she deserved, but things would change in about six weeks. She wanted her family name known, even in India. He went on and on as if he was looking into her soul. It was so surreal Kenzie had to take Amit’s hand for comfort. The seer spoke of a black horse, but Amit could not understand the message, nor could he translate it accurately, leaving Kenzie confused. Lastly, the astrologer told of a ring.

The astrologer offered Kenzie a plain silver-colored plastic ring that she was to wear on a chain around her neck. She was to take the paper it was wrapped in and, after passing it over her eyes three times, bury it beneath a tree. She was never to reveal why she was wearing the ring, or it would not bring her luck and happiness. Nor could she show anyone the writing on the paper. Kenzie was doubtful, but Amit insisted she take it. Amit paid the man, and they arose.

Later Kenzie looked at the slip of paper. The words were in Sanskrit, and she could not read it. Nor could she show it to anyone for translation. Her future was still a mystery. She slipped out of her suite and onto the roof late at night. She found a small tree planted in a giant ceramic pot. She dug with her fingers into the warm soil and slipped the parchment into the dirt. She reached inside her top and wrapped her hand around the ring she had placed on one of her many gold chains. She brought it to her lips and kissed it. Silently she hoped it would bring her luck and happiness.

Kenzie's luggage was packed, but she was not ready to leave. She stood at the window one last time. An eagle flew close to the window as if giving its blessing as they made eye contact. Kenzie took one long last look at the city she learned to call home and quickly turned away.

There was too much time before she was to go to the airport, and she was anxious to leave. Still, there were too many memories, both good and bad. It had been her home for three years. She had more goodbyes she wanted to relay, but she could only look out from the rail outside the door of her suite.

The dining room staff looked at Kenzie and wished her a happy journey and a quick return. Kenzie tried to smile, but she was leaving a piece of her heart behind. There were small waves, sad faces, and tears; gifts of thanks and wishes of pleasant journeys and quick returns. Promises to stay in touch as addresses were exchanged. There were so many goodbyes. A part of her wanted to stay…at least a while longer. Kenzie had fallen in love with the country, or maybe it was the people or her way of life here. Everyone was at her beck and call and happy to help her (by your grace, madam). She would miss the smiles that lit up the room when she entered, everyone scurrying to greet her, to spend a moment with her. It was more love than she had experienced in some of her other temporary prisons. But deep down, Kenzie knew her true fear was uncertainty, not knowing what awaited her when she arrived at her next destination.

Kenzie wished she could capture the smells and the sounds of India to take with her. Only then would she be able to honestly describe her adventure. She could still detect the scent of burning wood. During the day, the passengers of the dilapidated buses hung their heads out the window just for a breath of air. Because of their spicy diets, the scent of the curry and spices emanated from their pores. It was said you could taste the curry on their skin.

Kenzie thought about the multitude of contradictions of the country. Words and photos could never wholly describe the place she was living in. Without the sounds, odors, and heat, no one could begin to comprehend the splendor and squalor of her surroundings.

Kenzie chuckled at the words her Indian acquaintances used instead of the words she would use. There were always doubts, never questions. They spoke of issues, never problems. Each sentence uttered was filled with innuendo, never a direct answer, never an honest answer. Kenzie was living in a world of lies. She was surrounded by people trained to say what they thought you wanted to hear or skirting