Across A Bright Field

By Rebecca A. Engel

Lauren Clark had certain expectations when she accepted an invitation from a college classmate to a mini-reunion in her new rural home. But it was what she didn't expect that threw her life in turmoil.

Lauren expected the reunion to give her time to reconnect and reminisce with three old friends. She also expected to spend some time deciding on the direction her life would take now that her job as assistant to her best-selling author father has ended with his death.

What she didn't expect was that her dog would run into the woods near her friend's home and uncover a dead body.

Lauren also didn't expect to discover that what she remembered as halcyon college days were anything but that, and others' resentments over past events are not far beneath the surface.

And that death may be right around the corner.

Set in Wisconsin, Across A Bright Field is a mystery with a twist of romance and suspense and a hint of cozy. Scoll up and grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: Nov 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519916655

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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The initials in the left-hand corner of the pale blue envelope, M.T.G., brought no one’s name to mind. The return address was a post office box in a town in Wisconsin with which I was unfamiliar. What set this letter apart from all the other correspondence I’d been handling was that it was addressed to me personally, in care of my father’s publisher. But since I recognized neither the initials nor the return address, it was unlikely it was from someone I knew. One of my father’s fans must have found my name on the internet, and assumed their letter would get more attention were it addressed to me. Sighing, I turned the envelope over and resolutely slipped the letter opener underneath the flap.

There were two handwritten pages inside. Was there something familiar about the handwriting, or was that my imagination? I flipped the pages over to see the signature. The letter concluded, Hoping to see you soon, Myra.

I had known one Myra, Myra Taylor, a friend from college. We had kept in touch for a short time after graduation, but for the last three or four years I hadn’t received as much as a Christmas card from her. It wasn’t all that surprising that she should write to me now. The news of my father’s death had brought cards and letters from many people, both friends and strangers. For the last week, I had been working my way through the mound of correspondence that had accumulated while I completed my work on Dad’s last book.

Myra’s letter began like the others, with kind words about my father. His loss, she wrote, was not mine alone but one that was shared by the reading public everywhere. That certainly was true, for my father’s books had been popular worldwide. A few minutes ago, I had responded to a note from Australia, and there had been cards and letters from Germany, Japan, South America, and England.

After her words of sympathy, Myra informed me that she was now happily known as Myra Goodson as she had married ten months ago. She and her husband had recently purchased a farmhouse in Wisconsin.

And therein lies the real purpose of this letter. I know we’ve lost touch these past few years, but I’d like to re-establish our friendship. Would you like to come here for a visit, for however long you’d like – a week, a month, two or three, it’s up to you. I’d like to spend some time with you again.

I’m also extending this invitation to Jenny and Candice. Wouldn’t it be great if the three of you could all be here at the same time, a sort of class reunion – of the ones who mattered in our class! Please write and let me know you’ll come (cell phone reception here is spotty at best, and we don’t have a landline). I’ll be waiting to hear from you.

I put the letter down on the desk. There was a certain amount of irony in getting this letter at this time. Myra had lived in New York immediately after college. Was I making an erroneous assumption that she had continued to live here until her recent marriage? The irony came from the fact that it wasn’t until she was half-way across the country that she wanted to renew our friendship, when it would have been so much more convenient to do so while we lived in the same city.

This fortuitous invitation was the answer to a need I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge. The task of completing my father’s final book had kept me fully occupied for the last month, but it was finished. Answering the sympathy cards and letters was a monumental chore, but I was making good progress. Once that was done, all that would be left for me to do was to make a decision about the direction my life would take after the one job I had wanted and held, that of assistant to Bronson Clark, my father, had ended with his sudden and unexpected death. But after these last grueling weeks, I wasn’t up to making any kind of decision.

If I accepted Myra’s invitation, it would give me a much-needed retreat, with time to think and to put the pieces of my life back together. And I would love spending time with Jenny Mangoli and Candice Bard again. Jenny had been Myra’s roommate in college, and Candice mine. Jenny, currently an actress with a touring theater troupe, called me every time she was in New York, but the last time I had seen her was over a year ago. Candice lived in Atlanta, and despite the distance, I had remained closest to her. We talked on the phone a few times a month. Seeing them again, staying in the same house with them, would be like going back to those carefree college days. I needed a time like that, a breathing space, in my life.

But there were other matters to consider. The diamond solitaire glinting on my left hand was one of them. I was certain Peter would not be pleased with the idea of his fiancée taking a trip by herself to visit old friends. Since I had completed the book, there had been pressure from him, subtle but persistent, to set a date for our wedding. I put him off each time he brought it up with the excuse that it was far too soon after my father’s death to think about getting married. But that was not the real reason for my hesitation. Too often lately we were at odds with each other, with Peter obstinately insisting that matters I considered important were of no real consequence. I found myself doubting if there would be a wedding.

The other factor that kept me from making a hasty flight to Myra’s house was sleeping at my feet. I reached down and scratched behind the ears of my scraggly mongrel, Patch. How’s my dog? I asked as he blinked sleepily at me. My dog. That phrase brought a fresh wash of grief over me. Not that long ago, he had been Dad’s dog. After Dad died, Patch had become as devoted to me as he had been to Dad, and I enjoyed his companionship. If I were to go to Myra’s, he would have to come along. I couldn’t bear the thought of Patch locked up in a kennel, and Peter’s building had a strict rule against pets.

I pushed aside the note cards I had been using, took some full-sized stationery out of a drawer, and began to write to Myra. I thanked her for her kind words about my father, congratulated her belatedly on her marriage, and told her about my own engagement. I’d love to see you and Jenny and Candice again, and, of course, meet your husband. But I have a dog that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. Could you possibly see your way clear to accepting another visitor, one of the four-legged variety? The decision would be Myra’s, not mine. If she was willing to accept Patch’s presence, then I would accept her invitation; if not, I would stay in New York and come to terms with my situation here. Until I received her answer, I would not mention the possibility of this trip to Peter. Why risk an argument with him over a trip that might not happen?

I put the letter with the other cards I had written, and placed the stack on the hall table. I would mail them this evening when Peter and I went out to dinner.

~ ~ ~

The doorbell rang exactly at seven. One of Peter’s best, and sometimes worst, characteristics was that he was always punctual. Patch ran ahead of me to the door, barking ferociously in his best watchdog manner, but stopped the minute the door opened and he recognized Peter’s scent.

My, Lauren, don’t you look nice, Peter murmured before he kissed me. Knowing in all likelihood he would pick me up directly from his office and be in a suit, I had put on a dress instead of jeans, and had taken extra effort to create soft curls when blow drying my hair.

How’s it going with answering the condolence letters and cards? Peter asked as he stepped inside.

See for yourself, I said, gesturing to the hall table as we headed toward the living room. I’m almost done. I should finish the last of them tomorrow.

You should have let Elliott’s assistant handle that for you, he said. It’s been a strain on you. You look tired.

Less than a minute ago, you said I looked nice, I reminded him. Besides, you know why I want to answer the cards and letters myself.

Peter had been with me the day after the funeral when Elliott McKenzie, my father’s editor and close friend, had come over with a number of letters, sympathy cards, and print outs of emails my father’s publisher had received after the announcement of his death. Elliott thought I might want to look at them before he had his assistant acknowledge them. Elliott was surprised, and Peter annoyed, when I said I would prefer to do that myself.

Dad always had time for his readers, I reminded the two of them. That’s why he kept our phone number listed and why he’d talk to anyone who recognized him and stopped him on the street. Elliott, you should know that Dad always said if it weren’t for them, he would have been teaching high school all his life. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll answer these and any others you might get myself. These people took the time to send a card or write a letter or an email. They deserve a response from his family. I didn’t need to point out I was all the family Dad had left.

Elliott looked dismayed, but said nothing to try to convince me otherwise. Peter gave an exasperated sigh. Under different circumstances – if Elliott was not there, or if my father hadn’t recently died – Peter would have argued that it was my father’s egocentric personality and not any gratitude to his reading public that accounted for his availability to them.

Lauren, I did have a reason for wanting my assistant to handle that mail, Elliott confessed a few minutes later. It may be that I’ll need your help myself. He stood up and paced the room, traversing it several times before he turned to me and asked abruptly, "Can Alexander be finished?"

Bronson Clark began his career as a high school history teacher. He soon discovered he had a talent for making historical figures come alive during his lectures in a way that engaged even the most disinterested students. My father then found that this talent extended to the written word. His first book, a novelized biography of Mary, Queen of Scots, had found a wider readership than his publisher had expected. His second book, about Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, made the bestseller list. My mother, Dad was fond of saying, urged him to give up the idea of writing as a career, and stick to teaching as it was ‘good, steady work, with summers off.’ But he had not listened to her, had quit his teaching post and devoted himself to writing full time. His next novel was not about a famous historical figure, but about life in England at the time of the Crusades.

Your mother, he had told me many times, wrung her hands every day while I was working on that one. She said over and over that no one would read it, and we would starve.

She was wrong, and continued to be wrong. With each new book, my father’s popularity grew, until his name was synonymous with the best in historical fiction.

My father had been working on the story of Alexander the Great when he died. Yes, I said, in answer to Elliott’s question, "Alexander could be finished. Dad had the last two chapters to go. He’d already done a rough draft of the second to last chapter, and made extensive notes about the final one. I’m sure it could be finished."

Good. Elliott walked over and stood before me. I want you to do it.

What!?

I want you to finish your father’s final book. Who else could do a better job? You’ve lived with the man all your life, and you’ve been working closely with him for the past four years. You know where he was going with this book. You could finish it in the way he intended. Frankly, if I didn’t think you had the ability, I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you.

My mind whirled at what Elliott was proposing. All my life I had wanted to make myself indispensable, irreplaceable, to my father. Elliott’s belief that I could complete my father’s last work told me that, in his eyes, I had attained my goal. But the thought of completing Dad’s book, of doing his actual work and not simply assisting him, was daunting. I was about to open my mouth to protest and to refuse Elliott’s request, when Peter spoke.

Isn’t there someone else you could get to do it, some ghost writer? Peter asked. Bronson’s death was quite a shock to Lauren. It’s too much to ask of her. I don’t think she should do it.

Since we’d been engaged, Peter often had too proprietary a manner toward me. At times I found his protectiveness touching, but the statement he’d made overstepped those bounds and bordered on insult. He didn’t think I could do it!

I think you’re wrong, Peter, I said calmly, managing to hide my anger. I think working on the book might be the best thing for me. I turned to Elliott. Are you sure you want me to do this?

He was. For the next few weeks, I spent practically every waking moment on the book, anguishing over each word, each sentence, wanting the chapters to be perfect, a final tribute to my father. Dad would have probably finished the book in a week, but it took me a month to produce two chapters of which I was proud, and which met with Elliott’s approval.

Peter’s voice brought me back to the present. Do you want to eat outside tonight? It’s pretty nice out.

Although it was mid-May, summer weather was already with us. I agreed to his suggestion and we headed to a favorite restaurant of ours; it had al fresco seating crowding the sidewalk in front of its building when the weather was good.

Conversation on the way to the restaurant and during most of dinner centered on the case Peter was preparing for trial. I hoped it would stay on that neutral level. But over coffee, Peter changed the subject.

Have you made up your mind what you’re going to do?

I shook my head, hoping he would let that suffice for the moment, but Peter, being Peter, did not.

Honestly, Lauren, I think you should go ahead and give Elliott your own manuscript. He thought it was good, and his children’s editor is bound to think the same thing. It’s about time you pursued a career of your own.

The manuscript to which Peter referred was a children’s story I had written and illustrated. While working for my father was what I had always wanted to do, I would admit – to myself if not to Peter – that it wasn’t always that satisfying. During some slow periods, when Dad was between books or on one of his trips, I had played around with a story of my own about a mischievous dinosaur set loose in the modern world.

My own manuscript was sitting on my desk one day when Elliott dropped by to see my father. An admitted snoop, Elliott had picked it up and read it when I was out of the room getting him coffee while my father was tied up with a phone call. Elliott was enthusiastic about it. Children’s stories were not his milieu, he conceded, but he wanted to show it to the children’s editor at his publishing house, and was sure she would want to make an offer on my story. By then my father had finished his call, joined us, and heard Elliott’s statement. A look of betrayal passed over my father’s face at hearing those words and was instantly gone, but it was enough to make me refuse to let Elliott take my manuscript with him. I wanted to do nothing that would displease my father, although I didn’t understand why he would view my writing as a betrayal. Elliott, however, would not let the matter drop and asked me about my manuscript regularly, the last time in Peter’s presence. Peter had become more persistent about it than Elliott.

I can’t help thinking, Peter continued as we left the restaurant, that your father had something to do with your refusal to pursue publication. Either he didn’t want to share the limelight, or he didn’t want to lose his twenty-four-hours-a-day helper.

I said nothing to refute Peter’s statement. It would have made me happy to tell Peter that what he said wasn’t true, but I couldn’t. The idea of my becoming a published author in my own right had displeased my father, but I hadn’t garnered the courage to ask him why.

You have to admit that job wasn’t all that fulfilling for you, Peter added.

I admitted nothing, but although it was the job I’d wanted, what Peter said was true and precisely the reason I’d written that first children’s book, and unbeknownst to both Peter and Elliott, two more after that first one.

Anybody else’s father would have been happy for them, encouraged them, but not your father, Peter said.

I pulled away from the arm he had encircled around my waist. How dare you talk like that about my father! I know you two didn’t like each other, but that’s no reason for you to slander him, especially—

I’m sorry, Lauren, Peter hurriedly apologized. I didn’t mean to upset you.

Then drop it! I walked away from him quickly, but he was soon at my side, though he made no further attempt to touch me. At my building, he followed me inside.

There’s no need for you to come up, I said coldly, so Peter would understand he wouldn’t be spending the night with me. I was angry enough with him not to want him around, but in truth, I wasn’t comfortable with Peter sleeping under my father’s roof despite my father no longer being there.

Peter had at times been amused, at other times irritated, at my own refusal to spend the entire night at his apartment. Your father knows you’re an adult. As an adult himself, he knows it’s not necessary for us to spend the night together in order for us to sleep together. You’re not fooling him about anything by insisting you sleep under his roof each night, he had pointed out more than once. If you don’t want to flaunt our relationship by staying with me, why not get your own place? That way what you’re up to when you’re not working for him wouldn’t be his concern. What I’d prefer myself is for you to move in with me.

I couldn’t tell Peter my father paid me what barely amounted to a token salary, and that I couldn’t afford my own apartment, or to share the expenses if I moved in with Peter. My father had always justified my low salary by saying I lived rent-free and had all my meals provided for me; I needed nothing more than a little pocket money. I had once floated the idea by my father of getting my own apartment. He had neither supported that idea, nor offered to increase my salary to enable me to move out, although he had to know that what he paid me would not get me a room in the most rundown SRO hotel. I did not bring up the idea again.

But Peter’s response to my refusal to let him come up wasn’t quite what I expected. He didn’t protest but simply said, There is a reason for me to go up with you. If you’re planning to walk Patch tonight, I want to walk him with you.

My anger at him dissipated somewhat. I appreciated the fact that he did not want me walking alone on the streets of New York City at night despite my having the protection of my dog and staying within the sight of my building’s doorman.

We rode the elevator up to my apartment, where Patch greeted us with a joyful dance, then raced anxiously back to the door when he saw me with his leash in hand.

Peter picked up the outgoing mail from the hall table. Is this one something special? he asked, indicating the larger-sized envelope I had used for my letter to Myra.

An old college friend wrote to me. That’s my reply to her, I responded, and held my breath, fearing he would ask more. I exhaled with relief when he did not.

But Peter did have something more to say. When you responded to the emails sent to the publisher, you didn’t use your personal email address, did you?

Of course not. Did he think I was that naïve? Elliott gave me an email address to use through his company.

Good, Peter said. You know, simply because someone liked your father’s books doesn’t ensure that they’re trustworthy. You wouldn’t want someone hacking into your accounts online, or bombarding you with hard-luck stories asking for financial help.

This time I said, I’m not naïve, aloud as I opened the front door.

Twenty minutes later, we were back at the entrance to my building. It’s good that I’m not coming up tonight, Peter said, almost making it sound as if that idea had been his. I’ve got an early court call tomorrow. In fact, my schedule’s pretty heavy for the next few weeks. I may not be able to see as much of you as I’d like.

That’s all right. I have plenty of things to keep me busy.

No doubt most of them having to do with your father. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Someone’s got to take care of things, I said as neutrally as I could.

I know, I know. But I wish you could get on with your own life. We stood silent for a few seconds. Give some thought to turning your manuscript over to Elliott.

I’ll think about it, I said, making no other promises, but those words satisfied Peter. He kissed me quickly, as Patch was pulling at the leash, wanting to get to the fire hydrant that was a few feet from the building’s entrance.

I’ll call you, Peter said as he walked away. I watched his retreating figure for a few seconds, thinking that he was considerate and meant well, but wishing he would ease off a bit about my manuscript. Then I went inside.

~ ~ ~

A little more than a week later, I received Myra’s reply. By all means, bring your dog, she