Accidental Target: An Iris DeVere Mystery

By B. Payton Settles

Iris De Vere may be immature and easily confused, but she's clear about one thing: she needs a job so she can stay in San Rafael with her grandmother. When the only thing available is office assistant at a one-man detective agency, she takes it. When she discovers the reason for the vacancy-t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Jun 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953789624

B. Payton Settles

B. Payton Settles lives in Sonoma, California. Stone Cold Dead, her second paranormal mystery and third published novel, draws on the author's fascination with Petaluma, California's colorful history and architecture. In this thriller the town is tactfully renamed Miwok after the original residents of this beautiful area.

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B. Payton Settles

ACCIDENTAL TARGET

An Iris DeVere Mystery

First published by Level Best Books 2021

Copyright © 2021 by B. Payton Settles

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

B. Payton Settles asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-953789-62-4

Cover art by CS Ruskin

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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To Jim, Tom, and Shauna

Chapter One

Dark lace curtains covered the plate glass windows on the front and side walls of the Little Shanghai Chinese restaurant, filtering the daylight and establishing a serene atmosphere for people entering from the downtown sidewalk. Paper lanterns along the rear wall and an aquarium containing one orange-and-white Koi carp made up the décor.

That fish is doing laps, from one end of the aquarium to the other. Poor thing. What a boring existence.

Iris pushed the fried rice and princess prawns around on her plate, waiting for a break in Donny’s chatter. Finally, it came.

Donny…, She attempted a smile. This wasn’t going to be easy.

At that moment, the pretty Asian waitress stepped through the beaded curtain from the kitchen, carrying a tray with fortune cookies and the bill. She hovered discreetly nearby.

Thank you, miss. Iris smiled.

Donny shoveled fried rice into his mouth, mumbling, I can cover this, babe. He reached for the check.

No. I suggested lunch. I want to pay for it. Iris forced herself to meet the stare of the handsome, athletic man who’d been her boyfriend for the past four years. Although they were the same age, Donny could argue circles around her and loved to interrupt with his own opinions.

Maybe I can get through this while his mouth’s full.

Donny, I’m not moving to Chicago with you.

Surprise flooded Donny’s face. Is this your idea of a joke?

No. I know I should have told you sooner. Sorry. Iris hesitated. Chicago and a career in law enforcement—that’s your dream, not mine. I want to stay here, with Gram.

Donny looked away, out the window. When he turned back to Iris, his face was closed, unreadable. The plane leaves tomorrow. You can’t drop a bomb like this the day before we go. His eyes widened. Are you breaking up with me? That’s it, isn’t it? Helping your grandmother is just an excuse.

It’s a reason, not an excuse. I want you to go to Chicago, take that cop job, but I have different goals. A tear rolled down Iris’s cheek.

Donny’s mouth set in a hard line. I thought we agreed your grandmother’s grief isn’t your business. His glance flickered to the Koi carp in its’ artificial world, then back to Iris, the slim, dark-haired girl whose blue-violet eyes he’d taken for granted all through college. You know there’s no work for an English major in Marin County. What’re you gonna do, write the Great American Novel? He grinned. Get real. Chicago has lots more to offer than this backwater.

Iris willed herself to finish the speech she’d practiced. We were really good together in college, Donny. I’ll always cherish those days. She attempted a smile. But—this is my chance to be there for Gram. I have to do this. She could hear the pleading in her voice.

Donny’s mouth turned down in a little-boy pout. His fingers played aimlessly with a wooden chopstick. So, now that we’re through school, it’s, see ya? The chopstick snapped between his fingers.

The remark registered like a slap in the face. With an overwhelming impulse to run, Iris grabbed a fortune cookie, dropped a twenty on the table, and stood. I have a job interview at 1:00. I’ll call you later.

Don’t bother. Donny shook his head. This conversation is over. We’re over. He looked away.

Iris moved, zombie-like, past the aquarium and outside. Standing in the doorway, staring numbly at the rain gusting along lower Fourth Street, she became aware of the crumbled fortune cookie in her hand. She sighed and broke it open. Dark clouds are on your horizon read the bit of paper inside.

Correction, they’re here.

She gazed at the sheeting rain, then looked in through the restaurant window at Donny. He was still at the table, smiling up at the waitress.

Willing herself to ignore a sharp pang in the region of her heart, Iris dashed to her ancient Nova. She unlocked the door, plunged inside and, when her shaking fingers got the key in the ignition, started the car and pulled away.

Focus. Get to the interview. Don’t think about what you just did.

A glance at her watch showed Mickey’s white-gloved hand pointing to 12:45. The interview was at 1:00.

Shaking the rain out of her hair, Iris cranked the steering wheel hard to the left and nosed around a corner. As the grey-green clunker made its way through downtown traffic toward the freeway, a merciful splash against the windshield cleared just enough space for visibility.

When a red light lit up on the dash, she muttered, You’ll have to wait, pal. If I get this job, I’ll buy you a whole case of oil.

With the rolled-down window as a defogger, the Nova made its way onto the freeway. An air horn immediately blasted, and a semi’s blinding lights lit up the car’s interior.

For crying out loud, where’d he come from?

At the Terra Linda exit, Iris turned onto the downhill off-ramp toward Ranchero Road. Half-way through the curve, the brakes grabbed, and the car swerved dangerously close to a roadside bus shelter. Inside, people scrambled back. One man looked right at Iris and raised his fist.

‘Sorry,’ Iris mouthed. Her heart thumped double time.

I almost hit them! Damn these brakes.

As the Nova eased through the next intersection, Iris saw a small figure running down the grassy hillside.

That child was in the bus shelter.

For the next few minutes, rain pelting the windshield took her complete attention.

Then, when the Ranchitos Road sign loomed through the mist, she had to focus on finding her way through the Northgate mall industrial area.

On this side of the mall, massive office structures nestled against hills once studded with oak trees and home to rabbits, foxes, and even a few turtles. Now, the concrete and asphalt landscape sheltered commerce and technology. It had all the warmth of a well-maintained graveyard.

Through the downpour, number 1100 glistened, emblazoned in gold on the glass entry doors of a multistoried high-rise. Iris parked, grabbed her jacket and briefcase, and dashed through the rain to her interview.

Twenty minutes later, back in the Nova, she leaned her head against the side window and stared blankly through the water-streaked windshield.

I can’t believe that woman let me come out in this storm when she’d already filled the position. She could have at least called to cancel. Now what do I do? That was the last interview on my list.

Donny’s jeering words popped into her mind. She brushed them away, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. A rivulet of water seeped through the car’s worn lining. She pushed the lining back into place, sighing. Her first paycheck—when she got a job—had to go to car repair.

She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

I’ll take another look at Craig’s List. And I’ll check the Gazette.

* * *

So, Sunshine, you get that perfect job yet? Manny ran a rag across the Corner Market’s counter, smiling widely.

The tall, handsome Hispanic youth probably thought flirting was part of his job. Iris grinned, remembering the arrogance that came with being eighteen.

Perfection takes time—right, Manny? Hey, maybe your boss could use a sophisticated woman clerk.

He frowned. Yeah, I can just see you wrestling cartons of canned peaches at five in the morning.

Iris studied the newspaper rack. The weekly paper’s slot was empty. Courier here yet?

Manny shook his head. Nope. Hey, check the bulletin board. My uncle posted something. He pointed to a cork board covered with notes and flyers.

Iris walked over to the hodge-podge of business cards, rental notices with tear-off phone numbers, and ‘For Sale, Cheap’ flyers. Dead center on the board—in smudged pencil—a white index card announced OFFICE HELP NEEDED. It listed an address, but no phone number, no name.

Your uncle, huh? What kind of office?

Manny shrugged. Human services, he calls it.

Iris copied the address onto a scrap of paper. "Can’t say I’m impressed with his ad. I mean, pencil? But hey, if he’s your uncle, he can’t be all bad—right?"

Spoken like a chick who really needs a job.

Iris felt the smile leave her face. You don’t know the half of it. She stepped outside, calling back, Thanks, Manny.

"No biggie. Tell Tiò José, Manuel sent you."

The Nova cruised slowly along Lincoln Avenue as Iris looked for number 622. The rain had stopped, but the architectural whimsy and overgrown shrubbery in this old section of town made street numbers hard to find.

Gramps used to talk about his great grandfather driving a butcher wagon up and down Lincoln. It was called the Petaluma Road, way back then.

After a minute of musing about wagons moving along a dirt road past the elegant old houses, Iris spotted number 622 partly hidden by the red flowers on a giant rhododendron bush.

She continued to Fifth Street, turned around, and slid into a parking space at the curb.

The building, a run-down Victorian house, had a boxy addition protruding from its’ front like a grizzled chin. A sign in the addition’s window announced: J. Camargo, Inv.

Inv.—investments, invalids, invertebrates? Manny said human services. I wonder what a job pays around here?

The rain had stopped. Iris slipped out of her damp jacket, fluffed her hair, and climbed from the Nova. She did a mental check of the contents of her briefcase—resumé, pen, reference list—and stepped through the front door of number 622 Lincoln Avenue.

The décor of the tiny office was nothing to write home about: two plastic chairs, a dented metal file cabinet with matching desk, and an old tea cart with coffee makings. Iris thought of her earlier interview.

At least this stuff is genuine—everything in that other place was probably on loan from Grantree Rentals. I doubt there’ll be a repo truck backing up to the door at J. Camargo, Inv.

From the adjoining room, a man’s baritone resonated. Tío José was evidently on the phone.

Iris raised her knuckles to knock, but before her hand touched wood, the door opened a crack. A sad-eyed bulldog looked up at her, growling.

With a gasp, Iris stepped back, caught her heel on the carpet edge, and stumbled—into the arms of the thirtyish, Latino man who’d opened the door. He gave her a moment to get her balance, then stepped tactfully away. Sí, señorita?

Uh, Iris kept her eyes on the dog. It had one paw on her shoe and was still growling.

All right, Pancho, the man said. Good job. Now, vamoose. The dog turned and waddled away, jowls swaying counterclockwise.

Totally flustered, Iris looked up at this much-to-close-for-comfort, extremely masculine Latino. She took a calming breath before saying, You’re Manny’s uncle?

He was taller than Manny, six feet something, and more compactly muscular. His sharply planed jaw and intense gaze made Iris shiver—there was no teenaged innocence in this guy.

The man nodded. You must be Iris DeVere. Please come in.

That’s right. How—?

That was Manny on the phone. You got here fast. Tío José put out his hand. I’m José Camargo. Please take a seat. Did you bring your résumé?

Iris gave his hand the briefest of shakes, threw a quick look at the dog—now settled in the doorway, watching her—and perched on the edge of a client chair. She handed the man her résumé, scanning the room while he read. Camargo’s inner office was less horrible than the reception room—nicely-framed certificates lined the wall, and a soccer trophy graced the top of a wooden file cabinet. Even so, this office would never be a contender for Office Decor Magazine.

Résumé looks good, Camargo commented. Majored in English, I see. Great job opportunities with that, right?

Iris forced a smile. The joke was an old one.

I might as well be up front with you. Camargo frowned. My office assistant—she answered phones, filed, typed letters, and did the billing—hasn’t shown up for more than a week. I can’t hold the job open for her. He cleared his throat. It doesn’t pay a lot: five bucks over minimum to start. Oh, and benefits? I’m working on that.

Iris folded her arms and sat back.

This guy needs me as much as I need the job.

Like the résumé shows, my office experience is sketchy. I’m a fast learner, though. And I live here in town, so you can depend on me.

Camargo shrugged. You got any Español? Some of my clients have limited English.

Iris frowned. I understand more than I speak. And I could take an online class if you want. Tempted to paste on her interview smile, she decided against it. The way her day had been going, she didn’t feel like smiling.

The handsome Latino drummed the desk with his fingertips. Manny said you just graduated from college. Why aren’t you looking where the money is—San Francisco or the South Bay?

Good question. Iris waited a beat. I have family here. My grandmother. She avoided thinking of Donny.

Commendable, if real. Loyalty makes easy lip service. He looked at his watch. My business is Investigations. Some of the people who drift in here will be less than pleasant, especially to a young white woman. Can you handle that?

Iris sat up straight, out of patience with arrogant interviewers. Mr. Camargo, I’ve been to more than a few offices in this town in the past month, trying my best to get someone to hire me. I have decent skills and I’m honest. I’m worn out with reasons I don’t fit the jobs I’ve applied for—believe me, nasty clients won’t chase me off.

She looked over at the dog, feeling the absurdity of the scenario—the odd little office with its’ guard dog, this gruff, suspicious man , and her best reference a kid from a convenience store. I may not be as frightening as your dog—what’s his name? she murmured. But I can type.

José Camargo’s mouth twitched. Pancho, he said. Pancho Villa.

The phone rang. He picked it up, listened. His relaxed expression disappeared. That a positive ID? Lita, for sure? How’d the body get way out there? Then, with a side glance at Iris, he said, Yeah, I’m on my way. He disconnected, putting a hand to his face.

After a minute, during which Iris tried to think of some words of comfort—the call had obviously distressed him—Camargo cleared his throat. I’ll check your references, senorita. His voice caught. My secretary’s not coming back.

Chapter Two

Hey, Manny. Iris stepped through the doorway of The Corner Store. I just came from your uncle’s office. Keep your fingers crossed for me, will you? She could feel herself glowing.

Manny pulled his eyes away from an inventory list. Survived the initial encounter, huh? No blood, no bruises—I’d say you’ve got it. His smile turned to a crafty leer. "Ah, you want the Mannster