Hickory Dickory Dead

By Cheryl Bradshaw

Feisty. Ballsy. Bold. ... And not your average seventy-year-old woman.

 

Maisie Fezziwig wakes to a harrowing scream outside. Curious, she rises from bed, walking outside to investigate. The sleepy street is still and calm at first, until Maisie stumbles on a grisly murder that will change her life forever.

 

If you love a fast-paced mystery with a surprising twist, you'll enjoy Hickory Dickory Dead, written by a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author.  

 

Readers are saying: 

 

"Love Maisie's sassy attitude and fear of nothing." 

"Unexpected twists and turns that kept me glued to the end." 

"A mystery played out perfectly. I couldn't guess the murderer." 

"Kept me up until 2 a.m. reading!" 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Bradshaw
• Release date: Jun 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533768957

Cheryl Bradshaw

Born and raised in Southern California, Cheryl Bradshaw became interested in writing at a young age, but it was almost two decades before she put pen to paper. In 2009 Bradshaw wrote Black Diamond Death (Book One: Sloane Monroe series). Within six weeks it entered the top 100 in two different categories and remained in the top 100 for over a year. Since that time, Bradshaw has written three additional novels in the series, and is now hard at work on the fourth. In 2013, Bradshaw introduced a new pranormal thriller series: Addison Lockhart, the first book titled Grayson Manor Haunting. Bradshaw is the founder of IWU on Facebook, a writers group with over 1,800 members. In August 2012, Bradshaw was named one of Twitter's seven best authors to follow.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Zoey Marshall reclined back on the sofa, kicked her feet over the edge of the coffee table, and clicked the remote on the TV. It was just after two in the morning, and she was exhausted. She’d nursed Alice on and off for the last half hour, and now it was time to take a moment for herself before crawling back into bed with her husband.

As the late-night talk show beamed to life in front of her, she reminisced on the past year of her life. It had been intense, at times feeling like a whirlwind. First meeting Lane, then discovering she was pregnant with Alice a few months later. At the tender age of twenty-one, being married with a baby hadn’t been part of her plans. She’d always told herself she wouldn’t marry until she was thirty, wouldn’t have a baby until she was thirty-five. Then life intervened, and she was forced to choose—an education, or a baby, husband, and marriage. Looking at Alice’s precious face several minutes earlier, she couldn’t believe there had been a time when she considered looking into alternatives.

Even with all the diversions and surprises, everything had fallen into place.

The house.

Lane’s job at the construction company.

Continuing her education online.

Life was good.

Really good.

Almost too good sometimes.

Thoughts of motherhood and marital bliss filled her mind as she nodded off, waking several minutes later to a strange, unfamiliar sound, a clicking, like someone was fooling with the knob on the front door. Thinking it was nothing more than another creak in a series of creaks she’d noticed since moving into the old house, she remained still for a moment, listening to see if she heard it again. When the room fell silent, she shrugged it off as nothing more than the old house working out all the kinks after a long day.

She stood and yawned, stretching her hands over her head before going back to bed again. She needed whatever sleep she could get. Alice would be awake again soon. She reached the foot of the stairs then froze. There it was again. The clicking. Except it wasn’t coming from outside the house like she originally thought. It was coming from inside the house, somewhere near the entryway. Apprehensive, she turned toward the front door, but it was much too dark to see anything.

Hello? she said. Is someone there?

A man stepped out of the shadows. Hello, Zoey.

She couldn’t see him, not clearly, but the iridescence of the moon cascaded just enough light through the panels of glass for her to make out the outline of his shape.

Stocky.

Muscular.

Masked.

His physique alarmed her, but not as much as the outline of a gun in his outstretched hand. A gun pointed right at her.

 She tried to inhale a pocket of air, but couldn’t. Her chest felt tight, like the air inside her had been sucked out. Not knowing who he was or why he was there, she assumed he was a

burglar, thinking maybe if she kept her cool and gave him what he wanted, he’d leave, sparing her life and the lives of her family. She controlled her breathing, then said, What do you want?

Through the hole in the mouth of the mask, he said, Where’s Lane?

Lane.

This man was no stranger.

Who are you? How do you know my husband?

It’s not important.

Something in his voice was familiar. Did she know him?

Who are you? she asked.

It’s not important.

You broke into my house. I’d say it matters a lot.

Where is your husband? he repeated.

Why should I tell you where he is?

Tell me. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find him with or without you.

He took two steps toward her. She stood strong, legs wide, arms crossed, blocking him from passing. If he intended to shoot her, he’d do it either way. And she wasn’t going down without a fight.

Get out of my way, he said.

She remained still. "Why do you have a gun? Are you planning on shooting him? Shooting me?"

Yep.

Uncontrollable spasms pulsed through her body, a mixture of anxiety and panic from not knowing what was about to come next. Will you tell me why, at least?

Why what?

Why do you want us dead? We didn’t do anything.

Yes, Zoey. Yes you did.

What did I do?

Last chance to stand aside. I won’t ask again.

His voice was more insistent now, impatient and rough, like he’d reached his level of tolerance. Down the hall, Alice stirred in her crib. The man’s body shifted toward the sound of the infant, sending Zoe into protective mode. Regardless of what happened to her or to Lane, her precious baby girl needed protecting. Feeling like she had no other choice, she bowed her head, took a deep breath, and said, Follow me.

Together they climbed the stairs, Zoey in front, the man following close behind, gun pressed against the small of her back. They entered the master bedroom. Lane was asleep on the bed, his chest rising and falling, blissfully dreaming like it was just another ordinary night. Zoey reached a hand toward the wall, attempting to flip the light switch, illuminating the ceiling fan above so she could get a better look at him. He anticipated her move and reacted quickly, grabbing her arm, and yanking it back.

His hot breath filled her ear. Don’t be stupid.

Lane woke, rubbed his eyes, then sat up in bed. Zoey? Is that you? What are you doing?

Hello, Lane, the man said.

Where’s Zoey? Where’s my wife?

I’m here, Zoey said.

Who’s with you? Lane asked. What the hell is going on?

Where is it? the man answered.

Where’s what?

The gun. Where’d you hide it?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Turn the light on. Let’s talk about this.

The light stays off for now, the man said.

I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you have one minute to get out of my house.

Stop it, Lane, Zoey said. Now’s not the time to get cocky. He has a gun.

Did you really think you could get away with what you did? the man said. Did you really think you could just move on with your life, never having to pay for your crime?

My ... crime? Lane asked.

You killed a man, left him for dead in the alley like he was a nobody, a penniless piece of trash.

Says who? You? Look, man. I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I didn’t kill anyone.

The man you murdered was innocent.

Innocent? Lane laughed. Uhh ... look, man, he wasn’t innocent.

Lane! Zoey said. Stop it! Stop talking!

Once again she felt the barrel of the gun push against her back. She closed her eyes and waited.

Is this it?

Is this the end?

I’ll tell you what, the man said. You don’t need to tell me where the gun is. Doesn’t matter anyway. What’s done is done.

"What does that mean?" Lane asked.

The man leaned toward Zoey once more. Turn the light on, hun.

But I—

It’s okay. Do it.

She complied.

Both men looked at each other. Lane spoke first. Should I know you? You seem to know me. Take off the mask, and let’s see who you really are.

The man ignored the questions and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a knife. He pressed the knife against the back of Zoey’s neck, then handed her the gun. Go on, take it.

I don’t want to, she said. I don’t like guns.

Really? the man laughed. Your husband sure does. Now take it.

He shoved it into her hand. She pointed the barrel toward the floor, even though she wished she could turn, point it at the man, pull the trigger, and make the nightmare go away.

The man leaned forward. No, no, no. That won’t do at all. Aim the gun at your husband. Aim it right at his heart.

What? No. I can’t. I don’t want to—Please.

Do it!

Eyes blurred with tears, Zoey raised a shaky, unsteady hand.

Good, the man said. Now, shoot him.

Her limbs were pliable and weak, like her legs were about to give way beneath her. No, I can’t do it. I could never—

Of course you can. It’s not hard, hun. Just aim for his chest like I told you and squeeze the trigger. And hey, if you don’t get it right the first time, you can always try again.

No.

She wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

She opened her hand, allowing the gun to slide down her palm, clanking on the wood floor below.

The man drove the tip of the knife into the side of her neck, giving her a taste of what was to come if she defied him. Pick it up! Now!

Blood dripping down her neck, Zoey locked eyes with Lane, seeing the terror in his eyes, his pain in knowing there was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he could do to help himself.

Stab me if you want, Zoey said. I’m not picking it up.

I guess you’ll have to decide then.

Decide what?

Your husband or your baby. Which one dies tonight?

No! Please! How could you? She’s innocent. She’s just a baby. She has nothing to do with this.

He was unmoved. It’s simple, really. Shoot your husband, or I’ll shoot your baby. You decide.

Palms sweaty, tears flowing down her face, Zoey reached down and picked up the gun, once again pointing it at her husband. Lane, I ... I’m so sorry. I love you.

Lane waved both hands in front of him like the gesture would stop the bullet from hitting him when the gun fired. He looked at the man and said, Please. You don’t have to do this. Think about it. I’ll tell you where I hid the gun. I’ll show you. All right?

Do you really think I care about the gun? I’ll take it if you want to give it to me, but that’s not why I’m here.

I’ll confess, Lane said. I’ll ... tell the police everything.

You don’t get it, the man said. I don’t want you in prison. I want you dead. The man turned toward Zoey. "Shoot him. Now. Or he dies and your baby dies."

Zoey closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The bullet exploded out of the gun, ripping through Lane’s shoulder, exactly where Zoey intended. Taking advantage of the few seconds she had, she spun in the man’s direction, fired, and missed. He snatched the gun from her hand, pointed it at Lane’s head, and fired. Lane slumped over.

Zoey grasped at the mask around the man’s head, her fingers digging beneath it, prying at it until it snapped off his head. She looked at him, recognizing his face, and then she screamed.

CHAPTER 2

Thirty Minutes Earlier

The masked man sat inside his car, eyes fixed on the house across the street. It was dark out, after midnight, but through the open slats of the mini blinds in the living room he had the perfect view of the back of Zoey Marshall’s head, which, at the moment, emitted a soft glow due to the luminescent light shining from the screen of her flat screen TV. She was sleeping. At least, she appeared to be sleeping. Her head was tilted to the side, resting on an afghan she’d bunched up behind it about a half hour before. She seemed so content and peaceful. Happy. Too bad it was all about to change.

His focus shifted, turning instead to the seat next to him, which was empty except for a single item: a revolver. Looking at it now, the weapon seemed simple and innocent. So small, and black, and ... deadly.

It was remarkable, really, how such a little thing had the capability of taking a human life, or multiple human lives in some cases, ending another’s existence when they least expected it. For some, it was justifiable, the way it had to be,