Roadkill: Double Barrel Mysteries, #1

By Barbara Ellen Brink

Blake and Shelby Gunner think they're living the perfect life. He's a hotshot homicide detective and she is doing what she loves best, small theatre acting. But after an arrest goes badly and Blake is shot and injured, they decide to leave the crime-ridden city for the quiet, quirky little hamlet where he grew up. Nestled along Lake Superior in the upper peninsula of Michigan, Port Scuttlebutt isn't as calm and serene as they anticipated. Below an innocent Mayberry surface are secrets as dangerous as the great lake's rip currents.
Staying at The Drunken Sailor Bed and Breakfast, they learn that the proprietor's wife was killed in an unsolved hit-and-run and there's more to this mystery than meets the eye. The mayor, the librarian, a homeless man, and a rich old woman all have legitimate motives for murder. Can the Gunners figure it out before the killer's next victim is lying dead in the road?

~~Editorial Reviews:
"ROADKILL by Barbara E Brink has it all. It is an on the cozy-side mystery, fast-paced suspense, and laugh out loud humor. Her characters are strong, easy to like or not, and I found myself easily stepping into the world of Port Scuttlebutt, MI. Blake and Shelby Gunner are in the middle of a life-changing decision when murder and mayhem threaten to derail their dreams. Blake, a former cop is drawn into an old mystery fraught with personal danger. Shelby loves her man and isn't about to let him go solving mysteries and murders by himself, and decides she's the perfect woman for the job. Author Barbara E Brink's talents shine most brightly in this first book of the Double Barrel Mysteries series. -Joy DeKok, Author of Between the Lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Ellen Brink
• Release date: Apr 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386601746

Barbara Ellen Brink

Barbara Ellen Brink is a multi-published author, supported financially by a loving husband who just happens to have a better paying job. She is the author of the Fredrickson Winery mysteries, Entangled, Crushed, and Savor. She is also the author of an award winning thriller, Split Sense; inspirational suspense novels; and a young adult series, The Amish Bloodsuckers.She grew up on a small farm in Washington State, but now lives in the mean “burbs” of Minnesota with her husband and their dogs, Rugby & Willow. With her kids now pushed out of the nest and encouraged to fly, Barbara spends much time writing, motorcycling with her husband in the summer, and hiking through the snow with the dogs in the winter.

Book preview

Other Novels by this author

Much Ado About Murder

Midsummer Madness

Christmas in Port Scuttlebutt

A Man Can Die but Once

Entangled

Crushed

Savor

Split Sense

Running Home

Alias Raven Black

Trial by Fire

Chosen

Shunned

Reckoning

Potluck (A collection of short stories)

ROADKILL

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Rugby, my sweet Cavipoo lapdog. He was my faithful writing companion through nine novels and was always available to take me for walks or help me eat snacks whenever I grew weary of sitting and typing. He loved me unconditionally and was always generous with a cuddle or thump of his tail for encouragement. He was the best pup this writer girl could ever ask for and my lap will be forever empty without him.

I miss you, bubba.

Before

November 2013

THE WOMAN AND HER DOG moved at a brisk pace down the side of the county road. Bundled in a brown coat with a fur-trimmed hood tied up around her face, she could have been any woman, but he recognized the dog. The big German Shepard and he were nearly on a first name basis. A month back Buddy had taken a bite out of his leg. Now he’d even the score. After all, man’s best friend shouldn’t be separated from his mistress.

He swigged down the last of the beer from the long necked bottle and dropped it carelessly to the floor with the other empties. They clinked together and rolled apart. One last time he peered up and down the empty road. No other vehicles had passed by in the twenty minutes he’d sat parked, waiting. With the pickup in gear, he slowly eased out from behind the trees onto the two-lane. The engine rumbled and the woman stopped to look back. She lifted a gloved hand in a neighborly wave before turning around and continuing her walk, the dog trotting protectively at her side.

Before he could rethink his decision, he pressed down hard on the accelerator and roared toward the woman and her stupid mutt. At the sound of his acceleration, she turned her head, and in that brief moment before the truck’s front grill made a crushing impact, their eyes met. Some innate sense of humanity reared its head, and he slammed on the brakes. But it was already too late.

As though time suddenly slowed, he watched the woman and the dog thrown into the air and finally come to rest in the leaves and tall grass of the ditch up ahead. He stared hard at their crumpled, bleeding bodies, but they lay unmoving. His fingers grasped blindly for the door handle before he came to his senses. He pulled his eyes from the scene and glanced furtively in the rearview.

Still no cars.

Cursing under his breath, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor again, sending the pickup lurching forward with a squeal of rubber against asphalt and another loud crash of glass bottles on the floorboards.

He didn’t slow until the road curved off onto the highway and Port Scuttlebutt was left far behind. Bleary eyed, he drove on. When he started to cross the center line, a car honked loudly and swerved to avoid him. He jerked the wheel back, over-compensating so that his tires hit the gravel shoulder and dust bellowed behind the truck before he could straighten up between the lines again.

Shaking started in his legs and moved up to his hands. He needed to relax. He needed a drink. He lifted the last bottle from the cardboard carrier on the seat beside him and twisted off the top. Everything would be fine. He’d done what he had to. Survival of the fittest; that’s all it was. He took a long pull on the bottle and didn’t see the huge buck bound out of the ditch in front of him.

Chapter One

April 2014

WHEN I WAS FIVE, MY mother died of pancreatic cancer. My father, vying for a Purple Heart in suffering, moved us from everything we knew and loved to a bleak, small town in the Iron Range of Minnesota. With nothing much to do there but read, my love of the written word went into overdrive. Being the daughter of a literature professor, the books lying around were not written by Dr. Seuss.

My name is Shelby Gunner and I’m the daughter of an alcoholic. I say that up front because it colors everything about me. For good or bad, my past experiences have much to do with who I’ve become. I love egg rolls, big band music, and Shakespeare. I detest the smell of Listerine in the morning, the song from the Scooby Doo cartoon, and blue-eyed pity. Some day I may tell you why.

I married the man of my dreams three years ago. Blake is a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department. He loves me, his job, and singing in the shower. Loud and proud. He has the mistaken notion that if some big record company exec happens by our home on a summer day when the windows are thrown open wide, he’ll pound on the front door and beg my husband to sign a record contract. The first po-po rappin’ about slappin’ on cuffs and making arrests. I’m sure the boys in the ’hood will be all over that. Did I mention that Blake is slightly deranged?

Blake and I were married on one of the coldest days of the year, and the same day three years later was no exception. April in Minnesota is often schizophrenic. One day it can be sixty degrees, the next it’s dropped to single digits and blowing snow. But despite blustery wind gusts rattling sleet against the windows, inside our cozy townhome, an electric log glowing in the corner fireplace, and Blake and I cuddled into a pile of down pillows on the bed, it was as warm as a summer day.

Curled together, my head snug against his bare chest and his arms around me, we lazily watched the sports channel on our flat screen television with the sound turned off. Blake loved hockey almost as much as he loved being a detective, so getting him to turn the sound off and gift me even half his attention on our special day was a huge win for me.

While The Wild moved a puck around the ice with lightening speed and got into minor scuffles with the opposing team, our sporadic conversation involved where we’d go on vacation once the case Blake was working was resolved and whether or not we should get a dog in the near future.

So I thought... I paused and ran one nail lightly down his cheek to get his attention, maybe we should stop by the animal shelter tomorrow and see if our puppy soul-mate is there just waiting for his new family...

Blake Gunner, my husband and best friend–since I didn’t yet have a dog–pumped his fist in the air. Yes!

Yes? I frowned and pushed up on one elbow. I couldn’t believe it. He’d agreed so quickly and easily. I thought it would be much harder to get him to see our need of a dog. I hadn’t even tried my misty-eyed look on him yet.

Hmm? He peeled his gaze away from the screen for a second and looked up at me as though just noticing I was still there. Did you say something?

I rolled my eyes. I said, this game is so exciting I can hardly stand to watch.

Babe, you know I’d do anything for you, he said, managing to plant a quick kiss on my cheek before his eyes slanted back to the screen, but can we do it after the game is over? I promise I’ll... His words trailed off and he was gone.

Now you might think this story isn’t going anywhere, but that’s when the phone rang. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have answered it. God knows we humans would never choose the storm, but without rain there is no growth. Living things flourish in adversity. The strongest trees are regularly buffeted by the wind. Humans are no exception.

By mutual consent, we had both turned off our cell phones before climbing into bed two hours earlier, so hearing the home phone ring in the hallway outside the room was a little surprising. We’d talked about canceling the landline. The only people who called that number were either affiliated with a political campaign or trying to sell something... which is actually the same thing. Oh – and of course, someone with an imagined emergency who couldn’t get through on our cells.

Blake looked toward the open doorway. Guess one of us should get that, huh? He didn’t budge an inch.

I released a dramatic sigh and rolled to the side of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. With my new gauzy pink robe wrapped around my naked form, I moved past the end of the bed, blocking his view of the game for a split second, just long enough for the Blackhawks to plow past the Wild’s defenses and score. He yelped and threw up his arms in frustration.

Oh my goodness! I said, pausing in the doorway, hands on my hips. You’d think there was no such thing as instant replay.

He tossed a pillow playfully at my head and snatched up the remote, clicking the sound back on. With the announcers shouting over one another in the background and a grin on my face, I stepped into the hallway and picked up the ringing telephone. Boy, someone was persistent. Hello?

Shelby, baby! How ya doing? Called to wish you and Gun a happy anniversary! Can I speak with him a minute? The overly friendly tone of Blake’s partner made me scrunch up my nose like I’d smelled a dead rat. He might be a good detective, but he was a terrible liar.

What do you want, Donny? You agreed to leave Blake alone today. You have him at your beck and call 364 days a year. I only have him for one.

I know, I know. And I’m real sorry. I wouldn’t interrupt your special day for anything other than a true blue emergency. I swear.

Yeah, sure. I covered the mouthpiece with three fingers. Blake! It’s for you! I called out, wondering if my husband would be upset about having to cut our anniversary short or only because he’d miss the end of the hockey game.

Don was still saying something to me and I put the phone back to my ear. ...make it up to you, ’cause someday I’ll meet the right woman, and you can interrupt our anniversary. I promise.

I laughed. Donny, you will never meet the right woman. There is no such person.

The commercials had come on in the nick of time. My husband reluctantly slid off the bed and followed me into the hall. I handed him the phone as Don started to explain to me, for probably the billionth time, why chicks just didn’t get him. I know I didn’t. He was a nice enough guy if you liked overbearing, mannerless thugs, who’d obviously been raised by a colony of Neanderthals, but most contemporary women didn’t. As my husband’s partner, I knew Donny would always have his back and even take a bullet for him if the opportunity arose. Unfortunately, women found him about as attractive as a plate of greens when they’re craving chocolate. It tastes bad and gives you gas.

Hey, My loquacious husband said, phone to his ear. He moved back toward the television and sat on the end of the bed. He nodded a couple of times and then glanced at me with that quirk of his eyebrow that used to make my heart race, but now made it sink like a stone. He was measuring me up for disappointment.

I sighed and sat beside him, resting my head on his shoulder while he finished his conversation. It wasn’t every day we got to enjoy spending the afternoon in bed together, even if it was mostly spent watching a hockey game. As anniversaries go, this one hadn’t been so bad.

Blake worked crazy hours as a homicide detective. If there was a fresh case to solve, he worked day and night, obsessed with catching the bad guy or gal so the victim could rest in peace. He said a murder had to be solved within a few days or the leads turned cold, and he couldn’t stand the thought that one of his cases would be filed away in a box and stored in a dark room, until the murderer was eaten up with guilt and walked in to confess. Which is what his partner would refer to as a nut-job miracle. Like the sighting of a unicorn or three-headed toad – it rarely happened.

I’ll meet you there, he finally said and clicked off. His smile was lopsided and meant to convey regret, but I knew he was also eager to be off to catch a killer. Sorry, hon, he said, standing up and pulling me into his arms. I’ll make it up to you. Maybe we can have a late dinner. I’ll pick up carryout from China Jade on my way home... with a double order of egg rolls. His kiss was quick before he moved to the closet and pulled on a pair of faded jeans. He took a blue knit shirt from a hanger and tugged it over his head.

I watched him dress in silence. This scenario was becoming a regular thing. Murders were up in the city, which meant homicide detectives were overworked and in short supply, and homicide detective’s wives were left alone to their own devices.

Mine was theatre.

Blake adjusted his shoulder holster before shrugging into his favorite brown leather jacket, then went and looked in the mirror over the bathroom sink to run a comb through his sandy-colored hair. His hair had a slight curl to the ends and always managed to look a bit messy and out of place, shaggy over the collar and forehead like a thirty-year-old Dennis the Menace. I loved it. He retrieved his badge and wallet from the dresser drawer and slipped them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

I hope Donny’s snitch is right and the perp is still holed up in that motel where he was spotted. Maybe we can throw his butt in jail tonight, and you and I can get a good night’s sleep for once. He pulled me close again.

If anyone can wrap this up in record time, it’s you Gun, I said, using the nickname they called him on the job. Come home safe. I’ll be waiting. Like always.

You’re never waiting. I bet before I pull out of the garage you’re dressed and ready to run off to that theatre you love so much. He grinned and planted a kiss on the end of my nose.

I followed him down the hall to the kitchen and watched him grab a banana to eat on the way. I flashed him a smile. Sid did say we could use another practice.

That’s my girl. He opened the garage access door. Better to stay busy than sit around and worry, like some cops’ wives.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow, I quoted softly, and felt a sudden tingle of fear at Juliet’s famous line.

Blake didn’t seem to notice. He blew me a kiss and went out to his truck.

I stood rooted to the spot, a definite chill moving up my spine as gooseflesh broke out along my arms and legs. I didn’t believe in omens but... I glanced at the kitchen clock. Three minutes before three in the afternoon, on our third anniversary, three days before the opening of Romeo and Juliet at the Rapturous Dinner Theatre, I had a premonition that my husband was in danger. Three had always been bad luck for me. Well, sort of. When I was thirteen – which has a three in it – I fell from the schoolyard monkey bars and broke my ankle, thus ending my ballet career forever.

Rubbing away the gooseflesh on my arms, I shook my head, instantly dispelling such thoughts. It wasn’t a premonition; it was an actual gust of cold air from the open garage door when Blake went out, and me in a sheer robe. As Blake liked to say, my inner drama queen was showing again. I hurried to the bedroom to dress into something warm, comfortable, and appropriate for spending the evening rehearsing lines with Sid and the rest of the cast. That old theatre could be pretty drafty as well.

DON WAS ALREADY WAITING outside the station in his car, the engine running and blue-tinged smoke billowing from the tailpipe. It coughed and sputtered every couple of minutes like a smoker enjoying one last cigarette before dying from emphysema. With the little knowledge Blake had of vehicle maintenance, even he knew that was not a good sign.

He pulled his mint condition 1996 Bronco into the parking space alongside Don’s junker and got out. With custom paint, chrome running boards, and shiny spoke wheels, his ride was not exactly made for a stakeout. In the neighborhood they planned to visit, it would probably be stripped bare while they were still in it.

He slid into the passenger seat of his partner’s car and automatically declined the offer of a donut from the paper bag crammed into the space between the windshield and the dash. Don held a big gulp coffee in one hand and munched on a glazed cinnamon roll. At least the gas tank would be full. The Hurry Up & Out Gas & Grocery was where Don purchased most of his meals and all of his donuts and coffee. He ate more hotdogs than Matlock and looked like his clothes were pressed from sleeping in a La-Z-Boy.

About time you showed up. Getting one more quickie in before leaving your bride behind? Don snorted a laugh and then slurped loudly from the plastic lid on his cup.

And you wonder why you can’t get a woman to go out on a second date, Blake said, pulling his seatbelt and clicking it in place. "Maybe you should try the tall, dark and silent routine. Obnoxious isn’t working for you."

Don stuffed the rest of his pastry into his mouth, jammed his coffee into the cup holder between them and pulled out of the parking lot. His heavy-footed, nervous use of the brake pedal was par for the course, but today it was as if his foot had gone completely to sleep. He stomped down hard at a stoplight, causing the seatbelt to cinch tight across Blake’s chest and sending the open sack of donuts flying into his lap. A fine dusting of powdered sugar whooshed from the bag, covering his jeans.

What the heck’s the matter with you! he said, grabbing the sack and tossing it into the backseat with the rest of Don’s garbage. Candy wrappers, fast-food bags, and pizza boxes littered the seat and floor like a college freshman’s dorm room.

It was a rhetorical question and Don just took another long pull on his coffee lid while they waited for the light to turn green.

A few minutes later, Blake pointed. Take a left at the light. Maybe we can come around the backside of the motel, he said, keeping his eyes peeled for trouble. The perp was a known gang member, and his crew would back him up with a hail of lead if they thought they could take out two cops without getting caught.

When the building came into sight, Don slowed. He pulled behind a white service van parked along the street and cut the engine. They both scanned the area before unbuckling and stepping out of the car. Two rusty dumpsters took up one side of a small parking area behind the motel. Four cars were parked on the other side, designated for Employees Only. The rear door of the motel banged open and a man backed slowly out, pulling something heavy. He wasn’t a big guy, but he looked strong, muscles bulging under a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Blake slid Don a look that said, here’s our chance, and they both made a beeline for the open door. The guy stopped to catch his breath and get a better grip on his load, and Blake grabbed the metal door before it could slam shut.

Just about got yourself locked out, he said, pushing a piece of wood under the door to keep it open.

The guy stared, suspicion evident in the stiff set of his shoulders when he straightened and dropped the rolled up carpet he’d been dragging.

Need some help with that? Don asked, bending over to lift the other end. With his gut hanging over his belt, he didn’t look physically in shape enough to be lifting anything heavier than a double cheeseburger, but Blake knew from experience his partner was a lot stronger than he looked.

The offer of help seemed to confuse the younger guy. He automatically bent down to pick up his end. Thanks, dude, he said, and started moving toward the dumpster again. We had a broken pipe yesterday. All the carpet on the ground floor was waterlogged. The owner decided now would be a good time to upgrade.

Too late, Don realized water was soaking into his shoulder and trickling down his side. He glared at Blake as though he’d forced him to pick it up. Good decision. It smells like cat pee, he said, wrinkling his nose.

The guy laughed. Among other things. It’s like forty years old. He maneuvered his end toward the open dumpster and they shoved it in. The carpet stuck out the top about six feet but wasn’t going anywhere.

Blake decided to trust the kid. He flipped out his badge. "Maybe you can help us now," he said.

He shrugged. Whatssup?

Don adjusted his wet jacket, nose wrinkled in disgust. We’re looking for someone. He was seen checking in here a couple hours ago. Hispanic, short, a goatee and slicked back hair. You see him?

I’m just maintenance, the guy said, edging toward the door.

Blake stepped between him and his escape route. But did you see him?

Maybe. He glanced around, obviously afraid to be seen talking to cops. I saw a guy who might fit that description on the second floor. He poked his head out the door when I was putting a new lock on the room down from his.

Is he alone? Don asked.

He shrugged again. I don’t know. He gave me the finger, not an invite to his party.

Party?

Just a figure of speech. He was mad ’cause I was using the drill. Said I woke him up.

Room number?

Twenty-five.

Is there another way out of there besides this back exit and the front door? Blake asked, unsnapping his holster and removing his Walther. He slid the safety off and held it at his side.

The guy’s eyes widened, and he backed away toward the employee parking area. Not unless he jumps from the balcony. He pointed toward the west side of the building. Around there.

Hey, where ya going? Don called as the kid turned and sprinted to an old Pontiac.

We don’t need him, Blake said. I’ll head up the stairs. You cover the balcony. I have a feeling that’ll be his exit plan. The front door is too vulnerable.

Gotcha, Don moved around the corner of the building.

Blake hurried down the hallway. He passed a Coke machine and ice making machine, a small coin laundry and a manager’s office. He turned a corner and spotted stairs going up to the second floor as well as an elevator with an Out of Order sign taped to the closed doors. There was no sign of a clerk at the front desk, but a television blared from the back room and he assumed they were taking a break.

He moved stealthily up the stairs, the barrel of his gun up. A door banged somewhere down the hall and he waited, listening. Footsteps retreated toward the far end of the hallway, and then he heard the clunk of a soda can falling from a vending machine. A soda machine on each floor. Pretty fancy for a dump.

He waited until he heard the footsteps return and the thunk of the door closing again before turning up the hallway. Like most cheap motels, it was poorly lit and smelled like a combination of dirty diapers, sweat, and cigarette smoke. He glanced at the room numbers he passed. 21, 23... 25. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it.

Standing to the right of the door, he held his gun ready and banged with his left hand. Police! Open up!

He took a step back in the nick of time. Two shots rang out and splintered the cheap wood of the door. He heard glass shatter, aimed his gun, and kicked the door in. The wood splintered some more, and the door banged against the wall, giving him a view of a rumpled bed where a young woman wearing nothing but a thick covering of eye shadow, screamed bloody murder. He shifted his gaze across the room. Their guy was still yanking his jeans up while trying to climb out the broken window of a sliding door. Obviously, the ancient slider hadn’t been used for quite some time and refused to open the normal way. Blake ran across the room, grabbed the perp by his shoulder and yanked him hard.

A shot rang out. He thought Don must have fired from below. He flipped the perp onto his back and started to cuff him, but pain shot through his leg like a jolt of electricity and he collapsed on top of the guy. The woman continued to scream, interspersing her non-verbal wails with Spanish swear words. She sounded more hysterical with each passing second. He couldn’t get up. It felt like his leg was on fire. But he managed to keep his gun in hand and held it close to the perp’s ear so he wouldn’t try anything.

Pounding footsteps up the stairs and down the hall heralded his partner’s arrival. Don burst through the door like a samurai in full war mode. He swung his gun back and forth, taking in the entire room, before focusing on the woman and yelling, Drop your weapon! Now!

Blake snapped the second cuff on his perp’s wrist and rolled off. The room was beginning to spin, and he felt like he was going to black out. He watched Don shove the woman to the floor and handcuff her beside him. He grinned weakly up at his partner. "Why’d you shoot me,