Deadly Deception

By Ellen Rogers

Lanie Montgomery knows everyone in horse-centric Pinehurst, from the pony-clubbers to the trainers to the grande dames. When wealthy philanthropist, Anne DeKeyser, summons her to the exclusive Bald Head Island, Lanie goes—just in time for the discovery of Ted DeKeyser’s body. Lanie cannot walk away from a mystery, and Ted’s death is one. To solve it, Lanie must peel back layer upon layer of the DeKeyser family’s history. The closer she gets to center, the more she becomes a threat to someone who has already killed once to keep that history secret.
Meanwhile, Lanie’s own life takes on new complications, an attack-cat named Charlotte, the ongoing heart versus head tug-of-war involving SBI agent Michael Donovan, and whoever keeps sending her orange roses.
Every time the bells over Lanie’s shop door ring, the reader looks up to see who has come in. It’s always someone interesting, funny, and sometimes dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Rogers
• Release date: May 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997448436

Book preview

one

He cut the engine, tossed the fenders over the starboard side, and let the Boston Whaler’s momentum carry it to the dock where it bumped gently into the pilings. He threw the stern line over the cleat before scrambling to the bow to secure it. That done, he hit a button to light the face of his watch. The operation had taken longer than he’d anticipated. It was now three o’clock in the morning, and if he was going to make it to the beach in time for low tide he would have to hurry.

He left the key in the ignition where he’d found it, knelt on the dock, and began to replace the canvas cover. The owner would never know he’d borrowed it. Serves them right, he thought as he snapped the last button into place and stood up. He glanced up at the dark outline of the house overlooking the creek and surrounding salt marsh. It was isolated and rarely used, the owner careless. He gave a grateful salute before striding down the dock toward shore.

Behind him he heard a sharp whistle. He whirled around, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes strained to see in the starlit quiet of the marsh. Off the end of the dock he saw a spray of water as the dolphin rose and whistled again. He cursed under his breath.

He’d first noticed her as he left Bald Head Creek and turned into the Cape Fear River, a silent, ghostly escort off to his right. She’d continued to follow as he crossed over the submerged sandbar and entered the waters of the Atlantic. When he reached his destination, she’d hung around the drifting boat while he struggled to get his cargo over the side.

What difference does it make? he thought. She can’t tell anyone. He turned, walked down the dock, across the lawn, and vanished into the tangle of live oak, strung with ghostly Spanish moss, and yaupon that shrouded the house.

———

Eric Evans stepped out of the Island Bound Cafe, cup of coffee in hand, and strolled down to the dock, anxious to see her before he retrieved his bike for the short ride down Federal Road to the Island Conservancy. The perfect job, he told himself again, allowing him to do research on his beloved sea turtles, as well as give seminars and guided tours to the volunteers and tourists. If only it paid enough to cover his living expenses, he thought, and the exorbitant alimony the court had ordered him to pay his ex-wife.

While they’d settled the property issues, the custody battle was still to come, and, to really rub salt in his wounds, the bitch refused to let him see his daughter, Amanda, until that got hammered out. The few times he had seen her, she’d been withdrawn, with little to say. No doubt her mother’s doing.

The financial obligation was the reason he’d agreed to the dead-of-night drop-offs. He felt like a spy in a John le Carré novel: meetings in the depths of the maritime forest, clandestine exchanges of cash. But it was becoming too risky; the fear of getting caught was keeping him up at night. He knew he needed to extricate himself, but he didn’t know how. Even if he did, he knew his contact wouldn’t let him go without an argument. Maybe worse.

Determined to put it out of his mind for the moment, he set his coffee on the dock, slid down onto the metal grate he’d installed several feet below the marina water level, and scanned the horizon. Gentle waves lapped just above his knees, flirting with the hem of his khaki shorts. The normally calm marina waters had a slight chop to them this morning. Abbey, the first named storm of the season, still languished out in the Atlantic in no apparent rush to move on. With wind speeds hovering at just over thirty-six miles per hour, she was barely spinning fast enough to deserve the category of tropical storm, but preliminary forecasts predicted she could potentially be a threat to the southeastern coast, and Bald Head, if conditions changed. He turned and picked up the Styrofoam cup of coffee, blowing gently on its surface before taking a sip.

She was late this morning and he felt a pang, worried she’d finally decided to leave. He knew he should let her go, break off the relationship once and for all. But the sheer joy of seeing her, being the beneficiary of her carefree, happy nature made it impossible to do what he knew in his heart was the right thing for both of them. For now, for whatever reason, she’d chosen him, and he intended to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

His reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps coming down the main dock that ran along the wall. Smaller finger docks jutted out perpendicular to it to form slips for a myriad of fishing boats and sailboats. He turned to see a man strolling in his direction, a small, tow-headed child scraping her fingers on the marina wall as she trailed reluctantly behind, keeping as far away from the water as she could get. The man was short and heavily built, with a faded Pittsburgh Pirates tee shirt stretched over a prodigious beer belly, a matching baseball cap shading his eyes from the already-fierce sun. A bottle of Miller Lite, beaded with condensation, dangled from the fingers of his right hand.

Looks like it’s going to be another hot one, he said, coming to a stop behind Eric.

Bald Head can be pretty hot, even in June. Eric smiled at the child as she caught up to her father. Hi, I’m Eric, he said to her. What’s your name? She turned her head, refusing to look him in the eye, and her shyness tugged on Eric’s heart. Amanda was roughly the same age, and prone to fits of shyness.

Justine, her father answered for her. Justine the fraidy cat. He gave his daughter an impatient glance. My name’s Randy. Me and the wife been here all week and haven’t been able to get her to put a foot in the water. She’s afraid some fish will nibble on her. We’re going home tomorrow.

Justine flinched at the accusing tone of his voice and ducked her head as she scuffed the toe of her sandal on the weathered wood of the dock. Eric rested his arms on the dock and gave her a reassuring smile.

I used to be afraid of things in the water when I was your age, he said. It’s kind of scary when you can’t see what’s down there, isn’t it?

She looked at him from under the fringe of blond hair that fell across her eyes, then quickly down again.

But the ocean’s full of fascinating creatures, and not many of them want to harm you, he continued. If you stick around for a minute you can meet one of them. Would you like to do that? He smiled encouragingly. I promise you’ll love it.

Justine peered down at him, and a flicker of longing flashed across her face. She glanced up at her father before retreating back behind her corn silk colored hair.

Eric heard a splash of water behind him, and turned to see a broad round head pop up in the marina a few feet from where he stood. Warm water struck his face as she ducked and sprayed water from the blowhole in the top of her head. Justine squealed and hid behind her father, clutching tightly at his legs.

Justine, this is Soka. Eric kept his eye on the dolphin. Soka, can you say good morning to Justine? He signaled with his right hand, and the dolphin chattered noisily before gliding over to Eric and rolling onto her back for a belly rub. He laughed and pulled a whistle from under his tee shirt. No rewards until you’ve earned them, lazy girl.

He glanced back at Justine and grinned. Soka is a young bottlenose dolphin. I’ve been teaching her a few tricks over the last few months. Would you like to see one or two?

Justine peered around her father’s stout legs, her eyes wide. She nodded slowly.

Okay, here we go. Eric raised the whistle to his lips. He blew several short blasts and Soka rose from the water, her sleek gray body glistening in the morning sunlight. She balanced on her tail and took several leaps backward before she flipped over and disappeared beneath the water. She surfaced again, dipped her rounded nose in the water, and splashed it at him, dousing all of them.

Hey! Eric protested, wiping his face dry with his shirt. That wasn’t nice.

Behind him, he heard Justine giggle. He turned and gave her a mock frown, shaking his forefinger at her.

Don’t encourage her to be bad. he said.

Justine giggled again. She splashed me!

That she did. He nodded solemnly. So, her punishment will be that she has to give you a present to make up for it.

He turned back to the dolphin bobbing in the water and lifted the whistle to his lips. Soka, go get Justine a present. He waved his hand, gave three short blasts, and the dolphin rose, flipped backward, and disappeared.

That was really something, Randy waved the beer bottle in the direction Soka had disappeared. How’d you get her to do that?

I spent a couple of years working with the dolphins at a resort in the Bahamas.

After a minute Justine cautiously ventured out from behind her father. She crouched down on the dock beside Eric.

Where’d she go? she whispered.

To find you something pretty as an apology for getting you wet. You might want to step back a few feet, because when she comes back with it she’s going to drop it on the dock about where you’re standing. I don’t want you to get any wetter than you are. He and Justine shared a smile before she scrambled back toward her father.

Moments later the dolphin emerged in front of Eric and deposited a barnacle encrusted object on the dock before subsiding back into the water. She chattered away, proud of her accomplishment, expecting praise.

He turned and peered at the oyster shell, then turned back to Soka. Justine doesn’t want a filthy oyster shell. He waved his hand. Go find her a real present. He blew the whistle again, and Soka disappeared, slipping rapidly under the water, headed for the marina entrance and the Cape Fear River. Water lapped gently at Eric’s knees as they waited for her to return.

She was gone so long Eric was afraid the ferry would arrive from Southport, blocking her return to the marina, before she could get back. He scanned the water anxiously, and was rewarded with the sight of her dorsal fin speeding fast in their direction.

There she is! Justine pointed.

Sure enough, Eric replied.

Justine took several steps forward in anticipation and waited as Soka rose from the water, deposited her gift with a clatter, and disappeared back toward the river.

Eric peered at the object in puzzlement. It was a heavy metal band wrapped around a doughy substance, like a small jellyfish or squid. He poked it gingerly with his finger, rolling it over. It was a ring, with a large, greenish-orange stone, the surface of which was carved with a heraldic crest. His gaze returned to the substance it was wrapped around, and he gasped.

What is it? asked Randy. He leaned over to get a closer look, pushing Justine behind him. It almost looks like a finger.

Eric snatched the baseball cap off Randy’s head, and covered the bloated object with it. He nodded at Justine. Get her out of here.

Randy scooped his daughter up in his arms and hurried toward the steps.

No, she protested, struggling to get down. I want my present!

Her screams faded away down the dock as the Bald Head Island Ferry made its first approach of the morning, its horn blasting a warning as it slowed to enter the marina.

Eric reached into his pocket for his telephone and called the police.

two

Sunday morning classes had come to a close at the CDI-W and Lanie Montgomery, a former event rider turned trust and estate attorney and currently the owner of a feed and tack store in Southern Pines, was more than pleased with the weekend’s sales. She breathed a sigh of relief as the announcer keyed off his mic and relative quiet descended on the Carolina Horse Park show grounds. As the W indicated, the CDI was a World Cup qualifier, the first one hosted by the horse park, and had drawn dressage competitors from all over to vie for the opportunity to move to the next level.

Lanie stood and stretched her aching back. I’m glad this weekend’s almost over, she said.

Me too, her best friend Betsy Anderson replied. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned widely.

Lanie stepped outside of the tent where she’d set up her tack shop for the weekend. Two riders stopped in front of her, their gaze intent on their score sheets, their horses standing quietly behind.

I hate being in that far arena, one of the young riders said to the other. She yanked her helmet off and pulled the netting from her sweat-soaked hair, ruffling it with the fingers of one hand. She shifted the helmet to the crook of her left arm, her expression reflecting frustration as she scanned the judge’s comments. Ernie feels so isolated out there and it really shows in our score.

Her friend nodded absently, intent on her own score sheet. Can you believe this? she exclaimed indignantly. We only got a seven on our walk!

Lanie looked at Betsy and rolled her eyes. Dressage queens. She shook her head as she turned and walked back into the relative cool of the tent.

Betsy snorted. Spoken in the true spirit, and with just the right amount of condescension, of an ex-eventer.

Lanie smiled. She knew Betsy was right. I’m going to get something to eat. Can I bring you anything?

Betsy rubbed her stomach, considering. I’ll have a cheeseburger, loaded, fries, and a funnel cake. A grin flashed across her broad, freckled face. But don’t take too long. I feel really isolated here.

Lanie laughed and pulled money from the cash box. As she stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans she surveyed her friend fondly. Dressed in clogs, faded blue jeans, and a man’s shirt, her ashy blond hair looking like it was cut with pruning shears, Betsy exuded purposeful calm, a useful trait for a veterinarian when dealing with sick or injured horses.

What?" Betsy asked.

Nothing. Anything else?

Better bring me a pack of Lance crackers. The peanut butter ones. I might feel peckish later on.

Lanie shook her head and stepped outside, squinting against the brightness of the mid-day sun. She saw no relief from the oppressive heat that had settled on the Sandhills in the cloudless Carolina blue sky. The smell of grilling sausage and coffee from the nearby Shining Light A.M.E. Church’s food truck hung heavy in the air, reminding her she’d missed breakfast.

Competitors lined up in front of the registration office to pick up their score sheets and ribbons from a table set up under a towering oak. Show officials whizzed past in golf carts, dodging grooms leading horses to the warm-up rings and lines of competitors and spectators queuing up for food.

She threaded her way through the throng and strolled in the direction of the food tents, relishing the sounds and smells of a horse show in full swing: the excited chatter of competitors dissecting every footfall of their rides; horses neighing to stall mates back in the stabling area; the tantalizing aroma of grilling hamburgers, sausages, onions, and green peppers mixed with the earthy odors of sweaty horses, manure, and cedar shavings. She spotted Lisa Blythe’s tent up ahead and decided to make a detour.

Hey, Lisa! Lanie said as she ducked out of the heat.

I was hoping I’d see you, Lisa said. Is the meeting with Anne still on?

Yes. I’m supposed to meet with her on Tuesday at her place on Bald Head.

I’m sorry you have to go so far, but I’m thrilled at the prospect of getting a big check from her. I’m tired of emptying buckets every time it rains.

Lanie and Lisa both served on the board of The Dancing Unicorn, a therapeutic riding program in Southern Pines. They’d been tasked with raising sufficient funds to purchase appropriate horses for the disabled participants and to repair the barn roof.

Anne DeKeyser, the wife of one of Southern Pines wealthiest men, had donated lightly-used saddles, bridles, and blankets to the program in the past. Since then, Lanie had been cultivating her in hopes of obtaining a large cash donation, with an eye toward a future gift that would allow them to buy ten acres of land nestled off Lake Bay Road. One step at a time, she reminded herself.

It’s for a good cause, Lanie replied with a shrug. And, I’ve never been to Bald Head. It will be a nice break after spending four days here.

No kidding, Lisa said with a smile. You having a good show?

Great. How about you?

Lisa brushed a thick sheaf of dark hair off her forehead. Actually, she confessed, it’s been better than I’d hoped. For some reason the dog coats have been a big hit, despite it being hotter than hell. She shrugged. You never know what the public’s going to buy.

Not exactly the season for it, Lanie agreed, but I’m in the market for one myself. A Christmas present for Rommel. Snert’s impervious to the cold, but Rommel really feels it.

Rottweiler, right?

Lanie nodded.

I’ve got just the thing in my car, Lisa said. And since it’s ninety degrees outside I’ll give you a good deal on it. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.

Lanie strolled around the tent while Lisa went to retrieve the dog coat from her car. She picked up an apron made from a man’s shirt with the sleeves removed and held it up for inspection. She wasn’t sure who she’d give it to, but the lovely shade of green with a pale purple stripe appealed to her. She folded it up and set it on the counter by the cash register at the back of the tent. She’d started to turn away when she heard footsteps on the other side of the canvas wall and then a man’s voice, one she didn’t recognize, saying in a harsh whisper, I’m tired of excuses. I want my money.

I told you I’d take care of it. Just be patient a little bit longer.

She froze. She recognized that voice.

I’m done being patient, came the reply, no longer in a whisper.

Lower your voice. Urgency bled through the hushed tone. You shouldn’t be here.

You got that right. I shouldn’t have to chase you down for what you owe me.

I don’t have it, but I will. The tone was pleading. There are some legalities involved, so it may take a couple of weeks, but I promise you’ll get your money.

I’m done being put off. If you don’t have it, get it from your rich daddy.

There was a brief silence. I can’t do that.

You can, and you will. Or you won’t live to regret it.

What do you think about this? an excited voice said at Lanie’s shoulder.

Startled, she spun around. Lisa was holding up a dog coat, fashioned like a New Zealand horse blanket, in a beautiful blue and green Campbell tartan corded in black.

Lanie held up a finger. I’ll be back in a sec. She stepped out of the tent and almost collided with Theo DeKeyser, Anne’s step-son, his expression a mixture of anger and anxiety. It was confirmation that it was his voice she’d recognized, though she’d never heard it with that pleading tone before. In fact, she’d never seen Theo look, or sound, anything other than completely in control of any situation he found himself in.

Sorry, Lanie, he said. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Llewellyn is waiting back in the stabling area for her lunch.

Lanie didn’t comment on the fact that his hands were empty and he was headed away from the food trucks.

No worries, she replied. You okay? You look a little rattled. If Betsy were with her, she’d tell Lanie to mind her own business, and not to poke her nose in where it didn’t belong.

No. No, everything’s fine, he responded.

Say hey to Llewellyn for me.

I’ll do that, he said, hurrying off.

She looked around for Theo’s co-conspirator, if that’s what he was, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, just a river of men and women in the ubiquitous, asexual uniform of the horse show; jeans, riding britches, paddock boots, and clogs, hair hidden under baseball caps. Whoever the other man was, he’d blended in with the crowd and was now indistinguishable from the throngs of people crowding the food trucks and tents sheltering under the long-leaf pines. Giving one last look around, she re-entered Pins in the Pines.

Is everything alright? Lisa asked, her face etched with concern.

Lanie smiled reassuringly. Yes, sorry. Just wanted to catch a friend before he got out of sight.

Lisa held the coat up again. I think this would look stunning on a black dog, don’t you?

It’s perfect. I’ll take it. And the apron, too.

She paid her bill and left, promising to let Lisa know how the meeting with Anne DeKeyser went. Outside again, she made her way to the Shining Light A.M.E. food truck area, wondering why Theo was in such desperate need of money, and who was demanding he pay up.

———

When she returned to her own tent, arms laden with Betsy’s order and her own purchases, she was too hot to eat anything heavier than a salad. Betsy reached into the cooler and brought out a chilled bottle of wine, holding it up to Lanie, her expression questioning.

Please, Lanie said, extending a plastic cup. As she took her first sip she saw JoAnn Williams approaching the tent, her expression tense.

Hey, JoAnn, Lanie said as her friend stepped in out of the heat. How’s the show going? We’ve been so busy we haven’t been able to watch any of the rides. She held up the wine bottle. Refreshment?

I wish, JoAnn replied. One of the scribes didn’t show up and I’ve got to find a replacement before the afternoon classes start. She shoved her short, blond hair off her forehead. I was hoping one of you could scribe for Sigrid Gundersen. She’s the C judge.

Not me, Betsy said. My scribing experience is limited to pony club shows.

Lanie looked down at her dirty jeans and worn paddock boots. I’m not dressed for it, she said, and I haven’t scribed for an FEI judge in years.

You’ve got everything you need here. Just pick something, JoAnn pleaded, pointing at the racks of riding apparel in the tent.

Lanie glanced at Betsy, who nodded. I can handle things here, she said.

Lanie turned back to JoAnn. Okay. Where do you need me?

Ring Four at one o’clock. I owe you. JoAnn gave her a grateful hug, then hurried off to the next crisis.

Lanie changed clothes, grabbed her salad, and ate it on the way to Ring Four, careful not to drip Parmesan peppercorn dressing on her white riding britches.

She arrived at the wooden structure set at the end of the dressage arena