Harte's Deception, Third in the Pet Shelter Series

By Shayla McBride

Christie's got trouble! When Fran Marshall's math-whiz daughter returns to university for her sophomore year, she knows there will be serious problems. She'd got a whiff of it the semester before, and now she's on the trail of a sophisticated, brutal conspiracy by a group of legacy athletes. What Christina doesn't count on, as she pursues data and makes spread sheets, is that someone blabs. Fran, concerned that Christie is incommunicado, schemes to visit her only child, to no avail. Trapped by the increase in her marshmallow business, and challenged to find an acceptable employee, Fran works long, anxious hours wondering what her darling daughter is up to. When Fran does find an employee, a childhood friend of Christie's, her throwback landlord takes exception to the woman's gender orientation. Django wonders if his marriage proposal to Fran, made the night of the shelter's big fundraiser and accepted instantaneously, will ever come to fruition. Fran's dodgy about the date, about the ceremony, about even discussing the event. Their talk is of neutral subjects, even Christie's improbable liaison with Clive Campbell, the rugged security chief twice her age, is off limits. And Fran won't consider moving in with him, even though her house has just sold. Is their romance on the rocks and she just hasn't told him? When disaster strikes, the fragile family Django hopes they are building threatens to crash. The urgency of the moment takes Django and Fran on a wild, unpredictable ride into unknown territory to keep Christie safe. When former Special Forces officer Clive Campbell gets into the equation, Django Harte must decide how much violence and deception he is willing to accept. And how he can bring himself to deceive the woman he loves and the girl he hopes to save.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shayla McBride
• Release date: Mar 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463907467

Shayla McBride

Shayla McBride lives on Gulfcoast Florida. At one point, after several years in the Peace Corps, she planned to live in Paris. France. But her kids live in Florida so here she is, living a sweet tropical life and not luxuriating in la Belle France. But, oh, for a decent bit of bread!Shayla's keen on gardenng (or at least keeping the greenery at bay), third-world travel, Asian street food, anything to do with kitchens (from total renovation to totally new recipes). She's a sucker for things literary, felines of all sorts, almost any red wine, darkest chocolate, and writing.New writers hold a special place in her heart; she was one for way too long. Now she seeks to help those on that path. After A is for Author, it's back to suspense fiction, destroing whole cities and taking people out.

Book preview

FOREWORD

Confession time. This was supposed to be a novella. A novella, normally about 35K to 40K words, (word count, not page count, is how writers keep track of manuscript size) is shorter than a novel, which is normally 60K words or more. This one is over 70K. Essentially, a novel.

How did this happen?

The more I got into the story, the more there was to the story. It was, in part, inspired by an article in The Atlantic:5 in 1000 rapes result in a sentence for the rapist. That’s a horrible statistic. Had I kept to that one story, this would’ve been a novella. But the story grew like a zucchini plant in high summer. Do you recall the big banner displayed during a football game protesting sexual harassment at Stanford? That kept me going.

In the end, I had quite a few story lines to keep track of, and in the novella form it’s usually best to keep story lines to one. Here I had three (count ‘em). If you add Clive, maybe four. Like the zucchini plant, the thing grew and grew and somehow there really wasn’t much of anything to cut.

So…here you have over 70K words, which is a novel, not a novella. You will note the price for the e-book is a measly $3.99, definitely not a novel price. But, hey, it should have been a novella, so that’s how I priced it.

Enjoy.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter One: Put a sock in it.

Chapter Two: There’s no such thing as too much money.

Chapter Three: If there wasn’t trust, there was nothing.

Chapter Four: The coppery scent of the blood.

Chapter Five: Christina. you’re not telling me the truth.

Chapter Six: Never marry a man hoping he’ll mature.

Chapter Seven: I know how flighty the ladies can get.

Chapter Eight: What’s a mother to do when her child won’t talk to her?

Chapter Nine: Django. Do you think I’m risk averse?

Chapter Ten: Who was that? Was that really my Christina?

Chapter Eleven: Christie grabbed her hand. No police.

Chapter Twelve: I’m so not cut out for this management stuff.

Chapter Thirteen: —accused of multiple attempted murders.

Chapter Fourteen: We’ll need to be at the top of our game.

Chapter Fifteen: You don’t think I did it?

Chapter Sixteen: There’s photos. And…and videos.

Chapter Seventeen: It’s what I do best. Take out terrorists.

Chapter Eighteen: "What if they’re targeting my friends?"

Chapter Nineteen: And then we’ll have a nice big cry.

Chapter Twenty: If she drinks it, and they take her out of here—

Chapter Twenty-One: "And don’t you bloody think of getting in my way."

Chapter Twenty-Two: She never will know.

Chapter Twenty-Three: But…she was a kid. Barely old enough to vote.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Your life as you know it will end.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The little creep. He thinks it’s funny.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Don’t forget to brush your teeth.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: It had been gauchely charming.

Why Write a Review?

Afterword

Other Books by Shayla McBride

HARTE’S DECEPTION

Shayla McBride

PantserPress

ONE

DJANGO HARTE surveyed the echoing, partially finished space. It was big and bare. Exactly what Fran needed for her new kitchen. Exactly what Fran, judging from the look on her face and the stubborn set of her shoulders, didn’t want. After checking out six other even more unsuitable spaces, his girl was again showing her no-way face.

The building owner, an overweight know-it-all with an unwarranted superiority complex, droned on about how the space would be ideal for a candy kitchen. Got the water and electricity stubbed in, your electrician’ll whip it together overnight, Fran. Fran. Suddenly they were good buddies.

Wesley, he said, the decision on sub-contractors will be made later. If at all. For the moment, some peace and quiet would be helpful.

Got it, Wesley Brumbaugh said heartily, shifting his belly higher over his belt. He winked, went on in what he might’ve thought was a whisper. Them little women just can’t make decisions in a hurry, can they? He chuckled moistly, a sound to be expected in a movie featuring slimy creatures from outer space. Poor things just can’t think in a straight line. I know my missus, bless her li’l heart, takes days to make up her mind on the tiniest little thing. That’s why the Bible tells us men to—

Put a sock in it, Fran said clearly.

Brumbaugh pretended he hadn’t heard. Django pre-empted any further comments by Fran’s possibly future landlord.

I’m sure you’re busy with other concerns, Mr. Brumbaugh. Okay if we just walk and talk alone for a few minutes?

They’s features in here we haven’t talked about, the man said, his lower lip jutting like a thwarted three-year-old.

It’s twice the space I need, she said as Brumbaugh floated a half-dozen impractical scenarios in a loud, nasal voice. Django knew she thought he saw an empty canvas – which it was - ready for the Michelangelo touches they’d bring. A wall here, the bathroom there, shipping on that side…

He nodded, spoke when Brumbaugh paused for a breath. It’s twice what you’re used to, sure, but that garage was a small space for you. And if you’re going to scale up…

***

Scale up. She hated that phrase. It gave her nightmares. It’d take a small fortune to get this set up. It’s enormous. She shot a glare at the owner, who’d wandered off to check the electrical stubs. And there’s him.

The size is a plus, Django said. All those others were too small. Room for plenty of expansion. We’ll draw up the plans. You can design a regular production line, it’ll be more efficient than what you had.

Stung, she protested. I made a million marshmallows in that space, fella. And it worked just fine.

Except at the holidays when it took over your house. What you had was small and would’ve been cramped with only a ten percent increase. And you’re looking at a lot more than that, right? Isn’t that what Amy and you talked about?

Aargh! Amy and her money! She rued the day she took Amy Fishman Marker’s generous, no-strings check. Amy liked to support women’s enterprises and, as both she and her brother Howard were addicts of Fran’s Pedigreed Sweets, she’d scribbled out a five-figure check that had left Fran dizzy and gasping. What little talking they’d done had been of a very general nature. No specifics, no deadlines, no must-do’s. And now she was flailing about in search of specifics.

Django swept on, clearly pleased at the scope the space allowed. He’d been a Wall Street mover and shaker of some sort, and apparently his first instinct was to think big. She, however, thought small.

Howard’s promised a crew, I can supervise them if need be. All you have to do is pick out the stuff you want. He’d smiled down at her, big and confident and totally annoying. You’ve got the money from Amy, and the insurance payout, so you’re good to go.

But…she had no idea how to scale up. At heart, she was a worker bee, not a management drone or an entrepreneur. Sure, she’d created the entire company, had brought it to the success it enjoyed. But Amy’s money and advice was to go big, then bigger. It was an adjustment in thinking Fran couldn’t seem to make.

The bomb’s destruction had accelerated the future she’d been stalling on into the present, forcing her to make decisions she wasn’t ready for. Didn’t want to make. Forced her to look at things she’d never before considered.

How big did she want to get?

How long could she support herself and her daughter on the present income? There had never been a big margin between cost and income. Hiring people to do the work was out of the question.

How long could she keep up the demanding physical labor involved in making endless batches of marshmallows? Definitely not forever. Before the blast, her right shoulder had popped nearly every time she lifted a pot of hot syrup over the mixer. Her damaged ribs constrained her even further.

How did she expect to keep up?

Now, Fran, Brumbaugh said with a motion that hinted he meant to slip one arm around her shoulders, honey, it’s really pretty simple—

Django almost body-checked the idiot. We’ll get back to you. He hustled her toward the door before things got any testier.

You sure about that? I got other folks looking at this space. Couple of ‘em look ready to make a move.

As the bible says, there’s a time to sow, a time to reap. And a time to go to lunch. We’ll get back to you.

Don’t hold your breath, she muttered, steaming out the door.

***

Their favorite Creole restaurant had a table in one corner of the black-and-white dining room. Tucked behind a huge pot of palms, it was the perfect place for the upcoming discussion. Django waved away the menu but Fran took hers and buried her face in it. His girl was still upset.

How about a glass of wine?

She let the menu fall to the old marble tabletop. I’m not even hungry. That pompous, condescending jerk! Who the hell—

Yeah, he is a jerk. But it’s a great location, you’d have maybe a six-minute commute. And the space will be perfect.

How do you figure that? It’s empty! Everything has to be brought in, even a bathroom. And it’s too big, it must be twice the size of my old one.

Which is no more.

He wondered why she mentally held on to the space as if it was a treasured artifact. It had been inefficient as a working space. It held few treasured memories. The scene of her miserable marriage, after the blast she’d decided to put the house up for sale. Step into the future. Every time she retreated, he questioned whether or not he’d be part of that future.

But you were bursting out of the garage. You needed better, more organized space. You needed a separate shipping area, and a place to store bigger amounts of basic supplies. You needed space away—

I know that, Django. She looked up as one of their usual waiters came up. Hey, Pearl, can I have a glass of Pinot Grigio? And a shrimp Caesar?

Same, please, he added and switched his gaze to Fran. And another thing—

I hate it when you say that—

You do?

Of course. Don’t you? She sipped her water, looked at him over the rim of the glass. Her eyes were that stormy cobalt blue she sometimes got. He’d come to regard that color as a warning signal. Listen, it’s not only the space, it’s that jerk. He’s the kind that comes in too often and either wants a free marshmallow or just to chat. Neither of which would I be inclined to give him.

I’ll talk to him.

She sniffed. "You will? The little lady isn’t capable? I will."

That’s not what I meant—

I know what you meant. It was a benign and well-meant version of Brumbaugh’s toxic patriarchal condescension.

He sat back in his chair. Wow. You’re bringing out the big guns.

Brumbaugh brings out the big guns in me.

Pearl returned with two glasses and a large carafe. She saw the surprise on their faces. Hey, you two, I know a working, drinking lunch when I see one. Her majesty says it’s on the house. Pearl poured the glasses half full and left.

That was nice, Fran said. I needed a touch of nice.

I’m not nice? He faked a wounded look.

Of course you are. Why do you want me to rent that place? Do you know how much money it’ll take to put it together? How much time? Time I don’t have? I can’t use Paulette’s kitchen forever. She had appealed to an old employer, a baker of specialty cakes, and used her kitchen at night. At times, all night. But it was a finite arrangement.

"No other place offered a much better situation, time-wise. Fran, don’t take this wrong, but do you want to have a new kitchen?"

Her eyes rounded in surprise. It’s how I make my living. It’s how I support myself and my daughter. Of course I do. Why did you even ask?

This is the perfect time to change course.

She frowned. It’s all I know. I’m good at it. But even with Amy’s money, it might not be enough. And her money is earmarked.

Look. You can handle Brumbaugh. The plans are just a couple of hours work. We can get the job done in a week, he said.

Come on, who moves that fast without huge bonuses? The insurance money will be miniscule, you know that. She put her hands to her temples, a rare signal of distress. This is costing me so much—

Fran, I can help—

You’ve got your own bomb damage to pay for. That’s got to be your first priority—

He reached across the table, captured one hand in both of his. Hey.

Well? You know that’s true—

Listen to me, just a minute. There’s something we’ve never talked about. She raised an eyebrow. I’m not comfortable talking about it but at this point it needs to be said. Problem is, I don’t want it to change anything between us.

I can’t imagine anything that would. Unless you messed around. She raised her free hand. Joke, joke.

Well, this might. He ran one thumb across the back of her hand. It’s kind of sensitive.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. I’m not sure whether I should be scared or intrigued.

Choose window two.

He waited until she’d taken another sip of wine and had set the glass down. Here’s the thing. Money isn’t an issue.

What does that mean, exactly?

It means I’ve got enough to pay for your kitchen. And my house.

But it’s my kitchen, I should pay for it.

Fran. You don’t get it. I’ve got the money, and then some.

Well, fine, but it’s my kitchen and you shouldn’t have to dig into your savings to pay for my kitchen.

This wasn’t going how he’d hoped. He sighed. Looked around the room. Leaned forward.

Fran. My last bonus when I worked in New York was twelve million dollars.

She froze. Her eyes rounded. W-what?

After taxes, it wasn’t as much, but… He shrugged. So, worrying about money? Don’t bother.

That’s kind of a shocker. She gave a nervous laugh. So, if I may ask, why are you working at The Ark? The pay’s not that good.

The pay is zero. Pro bono. I’m pretty good at managing money. At the time, The Ark needed a good manager or it’d have gone under.

She was silent a moment, toying with her silverware. This is… More toying. Wow. That’s a lot of money.

And that was only the last bonus. He couldn’t resist a little brag. Until he saw the stricken look on her face. Hey. It doesn’t matter, Fran.

Yes, it does. I wish you’d told me sooner.

What would you have done differently? Not danced with me? Not let me get between you and that knife? Not welcomed me into your life, your bed? What?

I don’t know. Its like you hid it from me.

She was upset. Why? Most people would be turning cartwheels. A touch of irritation swept through him, left behind a bit of uncertainty. Why would she be upset at learning he had money to burn? Bonfires of it. But he’d keep that to himself.

Well, hell, yes I did. And for good reason, I’d say. You’re freaking out over it. I’m telling you it’s not important. He leaned across the table, knew his eyes blazed intently, tried to throttle back. Look. Until two minutes ago, who was I? He let a beat pass. And has who I am changed at all? I’m still me.

Pearl arrived with their salads. Silently, she put them down, topped up their glasses with the last of the carafe, and left. He sat back in his chair. Their own silence was enormous, a chasm.

I’m still me, dammit, he said, stabbing at a blackened shrimp.

She didn’t answer.

TWO

BURIED DEEP in her subconscious had always been the fear that this romance wouldn’t last. That something would drive a wedge between them and she wouldn’t have the mental or emotional toughness to challenge and defeat it.

Now it had happened, and over an issue she had never dreamed would be of any consequence. Money. She had always regarded money as a necessary but not primary concern. Naïve, perhaps. Maybe that’s why she never had too much of it, only barely enough.

Ed had obsessed over money enough for a dozen people, and she’d seen what it did to him, and had done to their marriage. In the end, his fixation on money had been the outward manifestation of his insatiable drive for dominance and control. Everything, even the unpriceable, had a price. And everything was valued by the price he put on it. One of his parting shots had been that she was worthless, and their decades-long marriage a bad investment.

Her sister BethAnn was intimately familiar with the subject pf money, but it was one she herself paid little attention to. Baba gave money a great deal of weight in her life: having it, pretending to have it, calculating how to get it or keep it or spend it or save it. Rarely that last.

As if drawn by mysterious waves, Baba dropped by late that afternoon, high from a shopping spree at her favorite upscale recyclers. For the first ten minutes she didn’t notice Fran’s non-reaction to her modelling efforts.

Well, don’t just sit there, Baba scolded. Isn’t this gorgeous? Makes me look like Eurotrash, doesn’t it? Howard’ll fall over when he sees me in it, won’t he? Wont he? Is there too much cleavage? Is there ever too much cleavage? Yeah, these days there is, isn’t there? My god, Frannie, what’s wrong with you?

It had finally dawned on self-absorbed BethAnn that there was indeed something wrong with her. She shrank from any discussion of the reason for her depression. But her sister was nothing if not persistent.

Uh-oh, this is Django-related, isn’t it? Isn’t it? What happened? Surely he isn’t playing around on you, he's not the type. She had another thought. Oh my god, it isn’t Christie, is it? Is she okay? I know you’ve been worried about her. Fran sighed. Baba swept on. Health? You’ve had bad news? No. No, that’s not it, it’s Christie isn’t it? What’s wrong? Is she okay? She didn’t flunk out or anyth—

Oh, please stop, Fran burst out. You’re just…just stop, okay? It’s none of the above, it’s—

A-haa! Money.

Fran nodded. Yes. Money. Seeing the calculating light in her sister’s eyes, she hurried to explain. Not lack of. No, it’s too much.

What do you mean? There’s no such thing as too much money.

Why bother talking to BethAnn? They were on totally different pages. But who else might understand? Christie, yes, but her daughter was hiding out somewhere on campus four hours away, never returning her calls or texts, only responding when she sent a letter begging her to get in touch.

How had her life gotten so chaotic and unpredictable? How had the certainty vanished, replaced by the sensation of walking on thin air? Since the bomb blasts everything had fallen into chaos.

Do you know how much money Django has? No. No, forget I asked that, I didn’t mean—

BethAnn plopped down beside her on the couch. Fran. What are you saying?

Forget it.

Don’t be ridiculous. That is not the type of question a person ever forgets. Particularly a person like me. The answer, by the way, is no, I do not. But now I am curious. What do you mean? She shook her arm. C’mon, it’s got you upset, I can see that. What’s up?

He’s rich.

Hm. Rich how? Ordinary rich? Howard rich? Russian oligarch rich? Jeff Bezos rich? What?

She shook her head. Somewhere between ordinary and Howard, I guess. I really don’t know. We didn’t go into details. He never told me before, we’ve never discussed it, but he told me today that his last bonus in New York was t-twelve million dollars.

Holy shit. How’d he do that?

He ran some kind of venture capital thingie, didn’t he? Or was it some department at one of the big banks? Or maybe… hell, I don’t know.

"Didn’t you ask him? Reading the answer on her face, Baba rolled her eyes. Fran, you have to be a grown-up and ask these questions, even if it’s momentarily awkward. How else do you find out things? So he told you he has money, so what?"

He hid it from me.

Oooh. Hid. I get it. She stood, brushed down the Eurotrash dress and headed toward the kitchen. You got wine open?

It’s too early to drink wine. Besides, I have to work tonight. I’ve got a dozen pans to make.

It’s six o’clock and I want a glass of wine. She rummaged