Dairyland Murders Book 6: Woman in the Wind

By Chris Seaton

Is it really over? Has Bernice left Evan for good, betrayed by his emotional infidelity and her own feelings of guilt, self doubt, and inadequacy? Is the misfit crime fighting couple finally accepting that love and sexual compatibility just can’t overcome troubled inner psyches and baggage from complicated pasts?
Not if Evan Wyatt has anything to say about it. He’ll stop at nothing to find Bernice and show her how important she is to his future, his sanity, his everything. Of course, he wasn’t counting on having to save her life and solve a murder in the process.
Bernice Hordstrom, meanwhile, is just trying to cope with getting up in the morning and minding her own business without pissing anyone off. When someone copycats a murder that is very personal to Bernice, she realizes she failed miserably on that front. So, on the run she must go, to hide from her past, from Evan, and from this stalker who’s decided to take Bernice out once and for all. She must disappear to whereabouts unknown. Bernice needs to be the woman in the wind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Seaton
• Release date: Dec 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370481118

Chris Seaton

An introvert by nature, Chris Seaton has spent her life blending into the background and absorbing the personalities of everyone around her like a Scandinavian sponge cake. In her mystery/romance series, Chris tries to capture the brutal beauty of the Upper Midwest. She sees it in the people that dwell there in their steadfast resilience. It's home.

Book preview

Woman

in the

Wind

Dairyland Murders Book 6

by Chris Seaton Copyright 2014

Smashwords Edition

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download own copy and find other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Acknowledgments and Dedications

I dedicate this book and series to all the strong, opinionated, and funny women I've had the privilege to know (and all the handsome oblivious men they inevitably put up with).

I’d like to also send out an extra thank you to my friend, Rae, for her professional expertise, as well as Kim, Brenda, and Carla for their help.

Please Note:

All the characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to an actual person or persons is purely coincidental. Furthermore, all representations of government officials and offices are fabricated by the author and bear no resemblance whatsoever to actual public employees, their duties, or their places of employment. No offense or malice of any kind was intended regarding said persons.

Chapter 1

In his anger, everything went and not very gently: all the clothes and makeup, all the shoes, and most of her undergarments, minus a few notable exceptions that Evan would mentally torture himself with later.

Anything of nostalgic value from Bernice Hordstrom’s past was put into a box to ship back to her home at Lollygagger’s Acres. Evan tossed the rest into the back of the pickup and covered it with the new comforter Bernice had bought for their new bed. He tied it down with bungee cords. Once the load looked reasonably secured, SAC Evan Wyatt drove away from the little house off of Atwood Avenue in Madison, Wisconsin and headed northwest.

He had texted his older brother, Travis, earlier. The former troublemaker was almost entirely domesticated in his old age. This state was thanks to a steady but patient wife of seventeen years and two boys who were so rambunctious growing up that they sucked the piss and vinegar right out of him. As far as Evan was concerned, it was poetic justice.

Evan had texted Travis to make sure no one would be at the family shack. Set off in a scrub of woods bordering county land, calling it a cabin would have been giving the ramshackle building an undue compliment.

The 300 square foot room had a slanted flat roof, tar paper walls, and indoor/outdoor carpeting of an obnoxious shade of blue. The carpet was old and bare in spots. Cheap rag rugs were held down with duct tape to make up the difference. Much of the décor of the shack had been scavenged from an old camper that had suffered rollover damage from a tornado. Doug Wyatt, Evan’s resourceful father, had saved the windows, door, cupboards, cushions, table, even the tiny sink.

Furniture was rudimentary and sparse. If one wanted comfort, one brought it in. The saving grace for the shack was its location along a Class A trout stream. It was also private, which was why Evan was utilizing it.

With the single-minded purpose he brought to his job as a Wisconsin state investigator, he undid the bungees, opened the back of the pickup, and carried Bernice’s belongings by clumsy handfuls to a spot next to the seasoned burn pit.

Once the truck was empty, he parked it next to the shack, retrieved his whiskey bottle, gas can, and lawn chair.

He didn’t burn her stuff all at once. He chose to toss in a few items at a time, giving them proper reflection, fueling his anger.

The spiky black power pumps were what started the ranting, although the half bottle of Jack probably helped.

You bitch, Evan cursed Bernice as her sexy shoes melted in effigy. You fucking bitch, he grumbled a little louder. He could feel the lump forming in his throat, his own body battling against him for using such insults to describe the woman he loved.

But it was the pain and rapidly boiling rage which propelled him out of his flimsy lawn chair to stomp precariously in front of the fire.

Look what you’ve done to me! he yelled at Bernice’s smoldering possessions. Look at what you’ve reduced me to! How could you do this to me? He kicked at the pile, sending items into the flames willy-nilly. Some rolled back out the other side, smoking and making tiny fires of their own.

What! Did you think I would wait for you? Take care of your shit while you were gone? Why? You said to forget you! This is how I forget! Evan hauled off and kicked at the pile again.

And that’s when he saw it. It was light enough to take to the air and missed the fire completely to roll to a stop in the dirt.

The rage crumbled. Evan’s lip trembled, and his voice degraded to a whisper. No, no, no, he chanted, stumbling over to retrieve the object he suddenly decided in his intoxicated state was precious to him.

In his act of retrieval, drunk Evan chose to plop his butt down in the dirt and cradle it in his hands.

Its seasoned counterpart long gone with its owner, Evan had purchased a new hair clip for Bernice as part of a stocking stuffer for Christmas the previous winter. From that moment on, every time they were together, she had made it a point to wear it specifically for him.

At the time, he hadn’t noticed. Now, the memories came back in fresh, heartbreaking detail. He could see Bernice sticking the clip in her hair, fresh out of the shower, smiling at him as she made coffee for their breakfast. He remembered her constantly trying to stuff clumps of hair into it as she bent over her tiny garden in Madison. He also pictured her right after sex when the clip was the only thing Bernice was wearing. The poignant stab was the fact that she had chosen to leave it behind like she had left him and their life behind.

Evan was drunk, dirty, and sobbing like a child as he brought the silly plastic hair clip to his chest and began to rock. Why? he whispered hoarsely. Why did you leave me? Come back to me. I need you, Bunny, my Bunny. Come back, Bunny!

It was daylight when someone kicked him.

Well, Travis Wyatt remarked as he towered over his younger brother and sipped his coffee. You sure are a fucking mess.

Apparently, Evan was to be the morning’s entertainment for Travis out at the family shack. The man up-righted the neglected lawn chair and watched Evan crawl about ten discreet feet before retching his guts out. Travis had the audacity to laugh.

Wow! That was impressive. Glad I skipped breakfast this morning.

Urrrugh… Evan croaked. The dry heaves commenced quickly after.

Wouldn’t have a problem taking you back to town though. Breakfast is on me. How about some nice runny eggs?

Uch…Uch… All Evan had left in him was a painful belch.

Well, it sounds like you’re about done then, Travis judged with professional authority. I got a V8 and some aspirin waiting for you in the shack. He rose at that point and hiked his thumb. I’ll be down by the stream. Come join me when you feel up to it.

Travis didn’t even wait for Evan to get seated next to him before making his opinion known. You know, up until now I would have sworn Mom must have screwed the mailman to conceive you because we were just too damn different to be brothers.

Rather than comment with any sound that a person would recognize as speech, Evan grunted into the lawn chair waiting for him and nursed his tomato juice. He looked out at the bubbling stream with hooded eyes.

I mean, you were with that uppity bitch, Lexi, for what, ten, fifteen years?

After clearing his throat a little, Evan managed to croak out, Fourteen.

Right, Travis agreed, casting his fishing line. And when she kicked your dick to the dirt after all that, there was barely a reaction out of you at all. One minute she’s your wife, the next she’s not. That whole thing was some cold ass shit all right.

Now, this Bernice chick, Travis had to crack a grin at the mention of her name, You’ve barely known her a year, and when she leaves, you go fucking nuts, even coming out here to burn all her shit and howl at the dark like a lunatic.

His last cast bore no bites, so Travis reeled the line in and tossed it back out again. Honestly, dude, I didn’t think you had it in you. The thought struck him funny, and he snorted in poor humor. Of course, it’s out of you now and all over the ground. Terrible waste of hooch, you ask me.

Well, Evan finally replied with some coherence, I’m glad I can entertain you with my misery.

Oh, dry up, Travis shot back. What did you think would happen when you let Lexi into your life again? He raised a hand to stop Evan’s objection. Don’t even pretend you didn’t go to see her. I know you better than that. Better yet, I know Lexi wouldn’t pass up the chance to throw her new title in your face. Travis sighed and shook his head, hovering over his thermos cup of coffee. Well, the damage is done. No point in harping on it.

He sent a sideways glance at his younger brother, watching Evan cringe as he downed the last of the tomato juice. Travis picked up the travel mug he kept in his tackle box, opened it, and sniffed the inside. Satisfied it was passable, he poured some coffee into it from his thermos and passed it to Evan.

At Evan’s dubious look, Travis shrugged. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Evan accepted the mug. The coffee was hot and black. It cut through the thick tomato juice, making his throat feel cleaner. It also amped up the weak aspirin and took the edge off of his headache.

So what’s your next move, Agent Wyatt?

Evan scowled at his brother’s question instead of answering it.

I know that burning all her shit was somehow your way of taking her out of your life, Travis acknowledged, but I think that’s a mistake.

Evan scoffed derisively. Oh yeah, why the hell should I do anything?

Anyone who can drive my stone cold brother this crazy has earned the right to be my sister-in-law. Travis’ rod began to jerk a tiny bit. This is how nuts I would be if Jen left me. She would rip my heart out if she pulled a stunt like this. I’d be a useless wreck. My life wouldn’t be worth shit.

The small jerk turned into a big one, and his line went taut. Travis stood at that point, pulling the rod and working the reel, setting the hook into the fish’s mouth to bring it in.

Evan watched with no emotion as Travis hauled in the feisty brown trout. Travis gathered it under his arm and worked the hook back out. Letting his pole drop to the shore, he walked to the edge of the stream and gave the fish a heave-ho back into the water. Bringing fish home today was not the point of the trip.

Yep, Travis repeated, watching his catch disappear into the swiftly moving current. If Jen left, I would move hell and high water to get her back, because there would be no other option. Travis turned to Evan then. Catch my drift?

Chapter 2

Darlene was barely paying attention as she listlessly drifted down the aisles with her shopping cart at Sam’s Farm Supply, which explains why she ran over the proprietor’s foot.

Ow! Jesus, Darlene!

Oh, I’m so sorry, Sam, Darlene blurted an apology. She quickly backed up her cart. You all right?

Oh yah, you ain’t got much in there, so we’re good. Sam looked at Darlene’s face with concern. Everything okay at the farm? Your shindig didn’t get canceled, did it?

Darlene produced a smile, but the action did little to lighten the gloomy expression on the rest of her face. No, the shindig looks to be right on time.

Well, I don’t want to pry, which was Sam’s passive aggressive way of telling Darlene that’s what he was itching to do.

You’re coming out, aren’t you? Darlene changed the subject and smiled a little wider.

Oh, wouldn’t miss it! Sam looked at the floor as he expressed himself with embarrassing exuberance. I just hope I fit in with all those hoity-toity folks you got coming in from the Cities.

You and me both, Darlene agreed. But Cam says Foodies make the best cheerleaders when it comes to the farm to table movement he’s trying to promote.

Foodie? Sam cracked a shit-eating grin. Farm to table, ain’t that pretty much how we been feeding everybody all along?

Darlene sighed. It’s a good thing my husband’s not here to give you one of his long-winded lectures. We’d be standing here all day.

Yah, Sam agreed, though his face registered bewilderment. Your fella happy out here in the sticks? Sam’s eyebrow cocked in judgment. He ain’t trying to change you, Darlene, is he?

Darlene assessed Sam’s eyebrow and shook her head. Sam Markhempsey had known Darlene from birth, went to her parent’s wedding, and had witnessed several suitors wander in and out of Darlene’s life, all without any rude comment.

But Sam was old school, from a long line of rural white folks who just didn’t get those black people, not that there was anything wrong with them. They just didn’t get them. Why Darlene never seemed to get strapped to that prejudicial wagon, she couldn’t say. Of course, that didn’t preclude her from having other bigotry demons, particularly with Native Americans.

My husband is the best thing that ever happened to me, Darlene proclaimed with the politest smile that she could muster. And he’s a damn good cook, so I’ll be looking forward to seeing you out at the farm this afternoon. Bring your appetite.

Sam knew a proper chewing out when he heard one, so he swayed into a walk and nodded his head in affirmation. Will do. See ya.

Yah, see ya, Darlene answered and made her way to the checkout. At least her ire got her out of her little pity party, even if it was just for a moment. She sighed and mumbled. Well, at least he didn’t ask about Bernice.

Bernice Hordstrom was never a morning person. In the past, while gainfully employed, the alarm would wake her up. When she had lived on the farm, it was usually Darlene, stomping around the house like an ornery wildebeest, that guilted Bernice out from the warm covers. With Evan… well, remembering how she would wake up with him was what kept her in bed for almost a week after she had settled into her latest landing spot.

When she had first seen the large open third floor of the house, complete with her own bathroom, Bernice had entertained romantic notions of the sun rising over Lake Michigan to rouse her from her slumber. She soon realized, despite the fact that the sprawling house sat atop a hill just a mere block from the shore, the only lake view afforded to Bernice was upon the toilet in that bathroom. She accepted the fact in disgruntled resignation, observing the play of pretty pastel colors over the expanse of grey-blue water as she took her morning pee. Figures, she grumbled.

Once she stopped wallowing in self-pity, Bernice began to explore the quaint fishing village of Merna, Wisconsin, starting with the long walkway that seemed to follow the shore practically to the next county. It started at the base of a bridge over the mouth of a river that met Lake Michigan. This river was very popular with the fisherman for salmon and brown trout, as attested to by the boats that lined its banks.

The walkway continued down a path that followed a stone wall and brought Bernice past a winery, of all things. The winery was quite old, predating the founding of the state of Wisconsin, and Bernice had eventually tasted all of their fares. Their raspberry rhubarb wine was divine. The tartness of it reminded Bernice of Lollygagger’s Acres, and she was just itching to send a bottle back home.

But she knew she couldn’t. As she continued along her journey toward the lakeshore, waving at the fishermen who were gutting their catches at the cleaning stations, her thoughts turned to Evan. The phone call she had placed while en route to Merna made the consequences of her actions very clear. Evan was angry and unrelenting. The part where he related her to a criminal was especially poignant. He’d use every option at his disposal, ethical or otherwise, to find her. And she didn’t know what he would do when he did.

He just needs time, Bernice mumbled to herself as she worked her way along the cement piering and up the steps. We both do. It was what to do once the requisite amount of time had passed that stymied her.

Bernice cut through the parking lot next to the beach to pick up the path at a more scenic spot. The wind had a bit of a bite to it that morning. It was a reminder that summer was almost through. She lifted her face to it and squinted her eyes toward the lake. The waves were choppy with turbulent foam. Thick rolls of clouds buried the sun. Colors appeared muted with an overtone of gray. Or maybe it was just her mood.

She shook her head and turned on the path to go back the way she came. Time for breakfast, she decided and produced a small smile.

She always took the walk back a little quicker, almost jogging. Sometimes Bernice would even be breathing heavy by the time she made it back to the bridge. The exertion was how she rationalized going over the bridge, down the street, and across the road to get breakfast.

Opened at the ungodly hour of four o clock in the morning for the fishermen, Bernice thought Vivian’s Sweet Bakery was way too cute for burly guys in waders.

With a name like Vivian, Bernice had initially pictured some wisecracking, middle-aged ex-stripper with teased hair and a clingy catsuit behind an apron, preferably in an animal print. What she got was a proper ex-school teacher covered head to toe in a white uniform accessorized with a hairnet. She was Bernice’s age too, but still wisecracking, which a person would have to be to serve wader-clad fishermen at four in the morning.

However, it wasn’t the attitude or the swanky name that drew Bernice in just about every single morning the last three weeks. It was the rows and rows of freshly baked danishes, rolls, doughnuts, and cookies. She had picked a different baked good every day, had yet to run out of options, and had yet to find one she didn’t like.

Well, good morning, Vivian greeted her cheerfully, refilling an almost empty tray of frosted cake doughnuts. Pick a favorite yet? She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Bernice grimaced. Don’t rush me. I haven’t decided. She bent down to take a closer look at one of the trays. Her eyes widened in happy surprise. Are those rosettes back there?

Vivian produced a Cheshire grin. My grandmother left me the irons in her estate. My mother is just green with envy. She keeps asking to borrow them, but I’m afraid I won’t get them back.

Bernice was only half listening to the story. The delicate deep fried and sugar coated pastries reminded her of her own dearly departed grandmother. Even though it didn’t matter, she asked anyway. How much?

Vivian shrugged as she straightened the rows of doughnuts. Same as the danishes, seventy-five a piece.

Bernice shook her head and pulled out the wad of dollar bills from her back pocket. How do you make money in this place? You cookin’ meth back there? Bernice held up four fingers.

Vivian fluffed open a white paper bag. Na, the equipment would take up too much space, and I’d never get the taste of brake fluid out of the deep fryer. With scrubbed raw hands showing through loose plastic gloves, she carefully extracted the fragile rosettes, one by one, slowly laying them inside the bag. As long as baked goods are still legal, I think I’ll stick to this. I seem to have a knack for it.

No shit, Bernice agreed, following her over to the register. She plopped four bills on the counter in exchange for the bag. Keep the change.

Now be careful with that bag, Vivian warned.