Murder by the Book

By SQ Eads

Anne Marshall has it all. She owns a successful business in her hometown doing work she loves. She's happy and active in her church and community. Wonderful friends fill her days and evenings with laughter and joy. Life is great. There's just one thing missing...that special man.
Then Reid Derringer comes to town. He's handsome, athletic and intelligent, and a staunch atheist. He's a stranger with more secrets than the CIA. Why has he come to Roulette, LA? What is his connection to the recent murders and what is he doing sleeping in coffins?
Murder by the Book is a novel full of laughter, fun and romance. It is sprinkled with a little bit of mystery that will keep you reading to the very end.

What Readers Are Saying
"I am not usually a reader of murder mysteries, but I have enjoyed SQ Eads' books so much that I gave this a try. Unbelieveable! It has the usual clean romance that SQ readers have come to expect. However, this one will keep you guessing--who is the bad guy? There are so many levels that this is one big puzzle. It makes it very hard to put down--don't start reading unless you have a block of time or you will stay up late reading like I did:) This is one of my new favorites! "

"Just finished and I am breathless!! It was well worth the wait and your best one yet!!
This book captured my attention from the very first paragraph. Suspense driven but without all the gory details found in some murder mysteries. The underlying message of the love of God shines through without being "in your face"."

"Great mystery! Keeps you guessing and you cannot put it down until you finish it. Has romance and a spiritual component. I had no idea how it would end the whole time I was reading it. I would recommend this book to everyone whether you like mysteries or not. You will love it. "

• Language: English
• Publisher: SQ Eads
• Release date: Dec 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310373046

SQ Eads

SQ (Sunny) Eads, an award-winning author, was born and raised in southern Arizona. She received her higher education at Arizona State University in Tempe, Arizona and flew several years with American Airlines. Her love of Arizona and the mountains surrounding the state are evident in many of her novels. Sunny has lived in Arizona, New York, Pennsylvania, New Mexico and Texas. Inspiration for her characters comes from the hero she married, her two lovely daughters and especially her six wonderful grandchildren. Sunny believes that fiction portrays many of life's situations and that good fiction should be entertaining as well as educational, causing laughter and even a few tears. She hopes her readers find peace and joy in the midst of life's journey and eventually come to know the true giver of all life.Sunny is the author of several inspirational novels and her children's storybook, The Adventures of Ricky the Rock Squirrel. All are available at your favorite ebook distributor and also in print.

Book preview

Murder by the Book

Copyright 2015 SQ Eads

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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

"So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God,

who makes things grow." 1 Cor. 3:7 NIV

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual place or any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover Photos:

© Kirsty Pargeter | Dreamstime.com

© Jmboix | Dreamstime.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eithteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

About SQ Eads

Other books by SQ Eads

Connect with SQ Eads

Chapter One

The knife slid between the fourth and fifth ribs straight into the heart. In and out. One quick move. The act of an expert – exactly as I'd read in the book.

With a gasp of mingled pain and surprise, the old man dropped to the ground. I watched blood bubble from the wound and form an ever widening circle on the starched white shirt.

"For you, Isaac, it is finished!"

Standing over the body of Isaac Olstein, my second victim, I realized it had been easier this time. That encouraged me. I didn't enjoy killing, but I would see this to the end. Too many years lay wasted arguing with myself I should – I shouldn't. Once I determined I should, I'd wasted no more time in devising meticulous plans. Details were key.

Deftly I bent over and pinned a peppermint carnation boutonnière over the quiet heart. Plucking the petals from a red rose and scattering them over the black-suited corpse, I then tucked the denuded stem into Isacc's gnarled hand.

"Bertrum Brand didn't REMEMBER what he owed LB. And you, Isaac, killed the LOVE between you."

I stood for a somber moment at attention. Le Bouquet!

As I turned away, my shadow slithered across the body. I stepped through the door, already intent upon my next victim.

Chapter Two

Reid Derringer sat quietly in the dark, soaking up the atmosphere. It was what gave him the edge. What brought in the big bucks. What gave him the ability to call the shots. Getting into a person's skin, so to speak, was the key to his success.

He never started a project until he felt thoroughly familiar with the area, familiar with the victim, familiar with any peripheral characters, and familiar with the crime scene. Carefully walking through each step of the killing, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, detailing in his mind's eye the probable reactions of both killer and victim. These were the traits that kept him in demand. This is what put him at the top.

Slowly he rose, rubbing his hand across two days worth of stubble and hearing the scrape in the deathly silence of the room. He stepped toward the dimly lit area. Ascending the small, elevated platform, he threw his long leg over the metal side of the coffin. A moment later he stretched out on the soft, cream-colored satin lining. His head settled comfortably on the fluffy, pleated pillow. He wiggled his hips trying to straighten his six-foot-three-inch frame.

Must have made this tin can for a short body. He needed to take that into consideration.

He lay quietly, folded his hands across his stomach in the traditional pose and closed his eyes.

He focused on relaxing. Starting with his toes, he imagined stepping into the thermally-heated waters of the hot springs baths in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Another step and the warm, mineral water caressed the hard muscles of his legs, then surged up his back and over tightly knotted shoulders. As he mentally settled onto the shelf that left him immersed in the massaging power of the one-hundred-five degree water, all tension drained from his body. He expelled the air in his lungs with a deep sigh. His breathing slowed and became shallow, unnoticeable.

Perfect. Now, all he had to do was wait.

****

Anne Marshall snagged the last bouquet. I'm out of here.

Wait! We have one more order that just came in while you were loading, called Callie. I'll have it ready before you can change your smock.

Anne laughed and plopped the white pot onto the nearest table, setting the flowers into motion. The tall, flame-colored gladiolus and yellow poms swayed to and fro, flickering like a campfire on a windy night.

You're so subtle and diplomatic, Callie. Any other person would say 'Your smock is filthy. Change it.' Maybe you should have gone into politics. I can see it now – Callie Jones for president.

Callie laughed. I don't think so. I'm exactly where God wants me to be.

Amen to that for both of us. Anne emptied the deep pockets of her soiled jacket, shrugged out of it, rolled it into a ball and deftly slam-dunked it into a wicker basket. She slipped her arms into a freshly laundered cover-up, and stepped in front of a battered, old mirror to straighten her collar. The bright salmon color of the smock brought out a hint of pink in her cheeks and set off her moss-green eyes. With long-fingered hands, she smoothed her cap of blue-black hair.

Meanwhile, Callie stabbed the last stem into the moist oasis, added a bow and stepped back to check her creation. All done. She turned to hand the flowers to Anne. Wow. You look like one of those new gerbera daisies we got in yesterday.

Thanks. Anne smiled. I guess that's a compliment?

Callie laughed and teasingly tugged a strand of Anne's short, black hair. Except you're upside down...the potting soil should be on the bottom, not the top.

Very funny. Anne looked up at her best friend who topped her own five feet, five inches by a full six inches. Born in the same hospital only hours apart, they had forged a life-long relationship when they slipped into scarred, wooden desks next to each other in the front row of Mrs. Freely's kindergarten class.

Just for that remark, you get to clean out the containers in the big fridge.

They both laughed and automatically wrinkled their noses. Cleaning the slimy, black, rotting vegetation from the flower vases was their least favorite job.

Callie shook her head, her long, blond ponytail swishing back and forth like a pendulum. How can flowers that smell so wonderful when fresh, stink to high heaven after they've been in water too long?

God made 'em that way, stated Anne. The familiar phrase was one she and Callie had used all their lives to explain everything they couldn't understand. A quick glance at the giant sunflower clock over the door sent Anne scurrying.

Yikes. I've got to get going. She grabbed the two bouquets, one in each hand, pushed the swinging door open with her hip, zipped through the storage room and hit the back of the shop at a run. One shove on the heavy exterior door, habitually left ajar for flow-through air, and Anne exited the building – all before Callie could offer to help.

Anne fitted the last two pots into the specially equipped van, secured the rear door, checked the side doors and climbed behind the wheel. As she pulled around the building and onto the street, she sent up a quick prayer thanking God once more for her Aunt Ruth's legacy. A surge of joy swelled within her as she passed the freshly painted sign above the front door of the building. The Flower Pot - Anne Marshall, Owner.

The Flower Pot was originally her aunt's brainchild, and it was due to her instruction and patience that Anne had come to love working with flowers.

Summers, holidays, and Saturdays, if Anne and Callie weren't playing basketball, they would finagle some way of spending time at the flower shop. Their budding, creative talents were allowed to blossom and grow under Ruth's loving tutelage. Now, Aunt Ruth had gone home to be with the Lord and The Flower Pot had passed into Anne's capable hands.

Anne slowed and turned the corner onto Main Street. A left at the traffic light, two blocks and turn right into the back parking lot of Chevalier's Funeral Home. She could drive this route from her aunt's flower shop – MY flower shop, she reminded herself with a satisfied sigh – with her eyes closed.

She laughed under her breath. Not exactly something to brag about. She doubted there were many people envious of her ability to get from the flower shop to any of the three funeral homes in town – eyes open or closed. Expertly she drew the shiny white vehicle close to the back of the huge, buff colored building, shut off the engine and gingerly hopped to the ground.

She slid back the side panel of her van, then went to prop open the extra-wide door that led into the mortuary. With her sneakered foot, she jammed a hard rubber wedge into place to keep the door propped open.

Years ago, while still in high school, she had learned the hard way that it only required a small gust of wind to slam the heavy door shut. Her medium-sized human body, holding baskets of flowers, had proved to be no obstacle for the monstrous metal doors. She'd sustained a broken jaw and dislocated shoulder that resulted in her being parked on the bench for the last half of basketball season that year.

She fingered the tiny crescent-shaped scar by her right ear, her only visible remaining souvenir. Anne knew what it felt like to be the ball that was slammed against a concrete wall by a mighty, steel paddle. She had no desire to repeat the experience.

Door secured, Anne carefully slid the blanket of cream-colored roses into her arms and stepped into the dimly lit hallway leading to the main chapel. She knew that the services for Mrs. Palmer were scheduled for that evening, and she wanted to make certain all the flowers were tastefully and artistically arranged. She entered the chapel through a concealed archway and made her way to the silvery-blue casket.

For a moment, she stopped to scan the familiar face of her high school Sunday School teacher. Tears filled her eyes. Thank you, Lord, for the impact this precious lady had upon my life. Thank you that I can know she is with you, today, in paradise. Comfort her family, Lord. Amen.

Anne gently laid the blanket of roses on the casket and carefully unrolled it. She took a pair of snippers from her cavernous pockets and made a few minor repairs.

You would really love these roses, Mrs. Palmer. They smell so sweet. I can almost hear you telling us that our giving to the Lord with a cheerful heart was like 'a fragrant aroma, an acceptable sacrifice, well-pleasing to God'.

Picking up a small corsage of the same pastel roses, Anne bent over the casket. Your family told me you wore roses at your wedding and that your husband gave you roses for every one of your fifty-two anniversaries.

Deftly pinning the flowers to the shoulder of Mrs. Palmer's blue dress of nubby linen, Anne continued her monologue. You always used to tell us not to worry over our looks, our bodies, our earthly tents. Well, your old, earthly tent looks lovely, Mrs. Palmer, though I'm sure you are much more beautiful today, as you stand beside your Lord. Goodbye, sweet lady. I'll see you in eternity. But, right now, I have a lot more flowers to bring in and arrange. You touched many a heart here in Roulette. With a final twist to straighten the corsage, Anne patted Mrs. Palmer's cool, dry hands.

Callie's oft-repeated question suddenly popped into Anne's mind, as she made her way back to the van. How can you so calmly touch dead people?

Anne wondered herself, at times, why she felt so at home in a situation that made most people very uncomfortable. She probably would have made a good mortician, but that career had never interested her. She much preferred working with flowers.

Unlike Callie, however, she never minded arranging flowers in the caskets or pinning corsages and boutonnières on the bodies. It was a good division of labor – Callie stayed in the shop and Anne took care of all the funeral deliveries.

She hustled back and forth from the van, carrying as much as her arms would hold. She liked to get everything into the chapel before hanging the sprays on the wall hooks and arranging the free-standing bouquets around the casket. Humming a favorite hymn, Anne hauled the last of the flowers into the chapel and artfully placed them. With a smile of satisfaction, she headed back down the long, carpeted hall.

She stopped short. Something didn't seem quite right. She had made several trips along this same hallway and not noticed a light in the smallest visitation room. She stepped to the partially closed door and pushed it open. Sure enough, a casket sat on the raised platform.

She walked forward, wracking her brain for some lost bit of information. Had she missed an obituary listed in the paper? John Chevalier, the director of Chevalier's Funeral Home, always called her when they were scheduled to do a service. Surely he wouldn't have forgotten. She stepped onto the carpeted stage and approached the copper-colored casket.

A quick glance told her it was no one she knew. However, it was her habit to pray for all the grieving families. She rested her hands on the soft, satin lining that draped the side of the casket. Closing her eyes, she asked the Lord to comfort this man's family. He may have left behind a sweet, young wife and little kids. How they would miss him. Help them, Lord. Let them feel your presence and draw them close to You.

Anne opened her eyes and scanned the man laid out before her. He was casually dressed in a worn pair of jeans, a faded-black sports shirt, open at the neck, and white sneakers that had seen better days. Not the normal burial garments, but everyone did their own thing these days. She also noticed the strong, square jaw shadowed by golden stubble. Now that was unusual -- he hadn't been shaved. His honey-brown hair could use a trim, too.

She reminded herself that lots of men were into the new scruffy look, thinking it made them appear more masculine and virile. However, this guy didn't need any enhancements. He'd probably broken more than his share of hearts in his short lifetime. Good-looking, I pray that you knew the Lord.

A string, hanging from a seam in the satin lining, suddenly fluttered in the slight breeze. It caught Anne's eye. Right in the center of some tucks, she realized that when the casket was closed the string would dangle directly above the man's classic, aquiline nose. I guess that won't bother you, mister, but it bothers me.

She pulled a pair of long-bladed ribbon scissors from her pocket and leaned forward to clip the loose thread.

Chapter Three

Reid shivered with excitement. Pictures filled his mind.

The thrill of the chase. Two figures embraced in mortal combat. He loved it. He could smell the fear. Sense the hopelessness. Taste the victory.

It rejuvenated him. Scene after scene washed over him. The colors of life and death vividly danced across his mind. A single drop of bright red blood dripping from the gleaming point of a long blade...

Suddenly, darkness snuffed the light from his mind. All his bright imaginings – gone like smoke in the wind. He held his breath, every sense straining to grasp the change in atmosphere, to understand what was happening. He felt an infinitesimal nudge against the casket. A soft swish of fabric teased his ears, a light essence of flowers tickled his nose. Breathing – the final tendrils of a deep sigh caressed his face. Someone stood nearby. Danger crackled in the air like static electricity, raising the hairs on his arms and sending chills down his spine. His toes tingled. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. He flung his arms up to protect himself as the light glinted from the shining steel blades descending towards his chest.

****

A strong hand suddenly shot up from the casket, grasping her wrist. The corpse jerked upright. Pandemonium ensued.

Anne screamed. The corpse screamed. They both screamed. High pitched, then a deeper roar rolled after it, followed by another until the entire room filled with the terrified sounds. Screams ricocheted off the walls and echoed in the once quiet area. It was enough to frighten the demons in the bottomless pit.

Anne jumped backward.

The corpse followed. With incredible agility, it heaved itself out of the coffin, maintaining a grip on her arm. Together they hit the floor, rolling over and over, locked in mortal combat. The scissors flew from her hand. Her only defense - gone.

****

Reid was fighting for his life. He tightened his grip on the arm of death until he heard the scissors fly away and clang against a metal chair. With a mighty shove he slammed his attacker to the floor and straddled him.

He had won. He had beaten another killer. His chest would have swelled with pride if he'd had enough air to fill his lungs. Battling a desire to plant his fist right smack in the guy's kisser, he leaned back. As he did so, the dim light shone on the blue-black hair, creamy skin, pink lips and wide, green eyes of...a WOMAN!

A WOMAN? His pride as a great warrior fizzled like a leaky balloon. A woman, he moaned.

He struggled to catch enough breath to demand what this crazy female thought she was doing. Did she just go around stabbing people with scissors? Even more weird...did she go around plunging scissors into corpses? Sick. Though he wasn't dead, she hadn't known that. After all, how often did one find a live body in a casket? He shivered and unconsciously tightened his grip.

A soft moan drew his gaze once more to the woman trapped under him. Her leaf-green eyes flashed. One minute they seemed to plead for mercy, only to sparkle with angry indignation the next.

He was afraid to release her. Even without her scissors he figured she'd fight like a wildcat, and he had no desire to end up scratched and bleeding. He could already feel his shin throbbing where he hit it bailing out of that box of death, and his knees screamed with pain as he knelt astride the female lunatic.

Only a faint light shown down on them as he studied her again. Could he release her? Was it safe to move away and let her up? She wasn't very big, but the way she'd wielded those scissors, she could easily snuff out someone's life. His, for instance! His choices were limited. He couldn't call the cops. That left him with one option...take care of her himself.

Too bad. She was a pretty little thing...in the semi-dark, at least. He'd reserve judgment until later. If there was a later. He needed to decide his best course of action and do it now!

She tugged against his grip and struggled to throw him off.

OK...lady! What was that all about? Are you an escapee from the local loony farm?

ME? Loony? Look who's talking! The woman gasped.

He jerked into a sitting position, pulling her small frame with him while maintaining a firm grip on her wrists. He could feel the fine bones beneath his fingers. The light now shone more directly on her face.

He felt like he'd been kicked in the solar plexus. She wasn't just pretty. In the words of his favorite film mobster, 'the dame is superbly ornamental.' What's wrong with you, man? You've seen gorgeous ladies before – and even killed off a few. A laugh fought for release and he squashed it.

His heart pounded in his chest. It's not