Deathtrap

By Paula Sardone

Who is the demented perpetrator tormenting a wealthy couple and why?

Who buried a silencer in their rose garden? Why?

Who left a suspicious, enticing disc at the couples residence? Why?

These terrifying concerns and many more were questions asked by private investigator Darien Arnett as he was plunged into the perp's secretive world as he followed carefully placed clues.

His many interests and pleasantly described friends and relatives attempt to help him and are drawn into the mysterious web culminating in a startling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503580169

Paula Sardone

Paula was trained as a reporter as part of a youth program by the Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester, New York, and later became a weekly newspaper editor in both Rochester and New Orleans, Louisiana. She was in charge of public relations and block advertising for a midsized company and freelanced. She lives in Rochester, New York, with her husband, Allen, and their two dogs, Vera and Benji.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Paula Sardone.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015910874

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-8018-3

                Softcover        978-1-5035-8017-6

                eBook             978-1-5035-8016-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/14/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

712658

CONTENTS

Deathtrap

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

I lovingly dedicate this book to my wonderful husband, Allen, and to my six children: Barbara, Sharon, Scott, Tamary, Heidi, and Robin.

P. S.

DEATHTRAP

1

Raining … hard.

Torrential.

Swish, swish. Squeak, squeak. Windshield wipers on high, swinging back and forth, back and forth. Not doing very good, still have trouble seeing all those rain-streaked red brake lights in front of me, grumbled bushy-haired private eye Darien Arnett to himself.

"Gotta turn off this clogged, rubber-necking highway before I skid off or worse.

"Look at that short woman with the long wavy hair on the sidewalk fighting with her umbrella and losing.

Ah, a side street.

He made a quick turn to it, barely missing the car in front of him, the rain and the whap, whap of the fast-moving wipers obstructing his view, and came to stop facing another highway. His office and driveway were directly opposite on the other side of the street.

He looked both ways, sped up, and hydroplaned across. He slowed down and skidded up his driveway, parking in his spot next to the door at the back of the building.

He stepped out of his car onto spongy, muddy ground, the muck oozing over his prized new shoes. Shit, he grumbled, scowling, and hurried to his office door, throwing it open with a bang.

Shivering from the damp feeling the storm had left, his thoughts turned briefly to the others left out in the windy, wet day. Poor suckers. They are probably filling the air with obscenities, he thought. Life had led him to this place. Here he had been top of his college class and a big sports hero, subsequently joining the New Tudor police force and quickly rising to the rank of captain to work for himself. Now he was a private investigator, yet he was feeling discouraged and all washed up—which was ridiculous for his business was thriving.

Darien pushed back strands of his bushy dark brown hair that had blown over his eyes, a common occurrence, and mumbled, Ahh, as he entered the welcome warmth of his office. He shook the rainwater off his coat, being careful not to shake water on furnishings, then hung it up over an ornate hook he had found in an antique store.

The mahogany coat rack his clients could use was attached to the wall directly in front of him and held no strange coats. He only saw his sister’s, which meant no clients were waiting for him. Someone had been there, though, and not too long ago either, judging by the wet trail of dark brown muddy footprints crossing the muted colors of the ornate Audubson area rug highlighting the reception room.

He could never be accused of lacking a sense of quality and style.

His twin sister, Danielle, who was also his receptionist and secretary, was startled and jumped with surprise when he brashly opened the door, almost knocking over the coffee cup sitting by the computer screen on her desk. Oh, oh, she yelled and dropped the paperback romance novel she had been reading on her decorative antique desk.You look like a drowned duck, she said with a laugh, pointing to his wet and sloppy appearance with water dripping down his face.

Lucky I didn’t float away between the car and the front step, he joked back while laughing, displaying the deep dimples in the cheeks of his attractive face and flicking rainwater from his fingers in her direction. Here, have some. How does it feel, Ms. I’m-Just-Fine-What’s-Wrong-with-You? By the way, who was here? he asked.

Actually, I prefer to be dry, not wet, thank you, Mr. Know-It-All, she answered sarcastically as she drew her hand across her face, wiping the water he tossed her way. You need a change of clothes, fella. Either that or you’ll need to get a new rug, she said, pointing at the mud and water as it pooled beneath his feet on the floor.

She casually brushed the dark hair away from her eyes, a common occurrence as it was with him, brushing it off the rim of the lenses of her oval-shaped black-framed glasses. Often recognized as his sister since the resemblance was so strong, she often defended herself against others when they asked, Is Darien a relative of yours? You look so much alike, or How come you’re so short when he’s so tall? or Are you a detective too? Do you carry a gun? Does he?

What either exists or occurs in this office is out-of-bounds and stays in this office. Besides, yes, he is my twin brother, and no, I don’t carry a gun. I have a bad temper, and if I did carry a gun, I would only shoot to kill. Any more questions? I’m starting to get a little antsy now, she would snap in reply.

Now it was his turn to hear from her big time. You’re a mess. You should see yourself. Your suit is all wrinkled from being stuffed under your wet raincoat. Your shirt, oh, your shirt has red blotches on it! It looks like they came from your tie! The red ran from it onto your shirt! Good thing no one’s here. I would hate to introduce you as the professional investigator that you supposedly are.

He looked down at himself and realized that, for once, she was right, and he tried to move quickly, slipping once or twice in his soggy shoes to his office where he kept a change of clothes. He took a quick hot shower in his new office bathroom. Washed and dried off, he pulled a warm navy blue crew-neck sweater over his head to go with his favorite casual khaki slacks.

Feeling more presentable, he went back into the reception area and plopped down on the seat of a red velvet armchair across Danielle’s desk reserved for clients. Bending over, he pulled on white tube socks and then slipped his feet into a pair of brown Docksiders, again noticing the muddy footprints on his floor.

I hate this weather. Why can’t it just be nice all the time, huh? he said, leaning down and wiping the floor with the towel he had brought with him. And again, who was here?

Danielle gave him a condescending look and said, Now, now, weather like this is what we get for living here in the first place, you know. Never fear, spring will be here soon, and then summer … Then you won’t get upset getting wet, considering you’ll be at the lake—referring to Lake Ontario—on your boat, meaning his beloved twenty-eight-foot Kelt sailboat.

Hearing this, Darien folded his hands behind his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift to his prized, award-winning sailboat aptly named Pride. Made in Canada, it had been delivered across Lake Ontario with all the bells and whistles a sailor could want from instrumentation to three sails—jib, main, and storm—to which he added a specially made and designed colorfully striped fair weather sail.

He daydreamed about the white upholstered main cabin, fondly remembering laughing with four of his friends as they prepared dinner in the galley while checking one of his many charts and locating various positions while at the navigation station, all in preparation for an overnight trip, with all five of them sleeping in the two salons. Unlike many other sailboats, Pride had a roomy aft head (bathroom), which happily allowed for more cabin space as well as an odor-free environment.

Hey, guys! Darien remembered he had yelled and, laughing, asked, Who’s picking up the tab? We have to eat … I’m not doing it, I’m the captain of this ship!

Darien, a voice echoed in his head.

What the, who’s here? he thought.

Darien, wake up!

He sat up with a jerk, opening his eyes and squinting at the light. Whoa, what? he mumbled aloud.

You were in la-la land, bro. Did my mention of your sailboat do all that to you?

Uh, guess so, he said sheepishly. But it was worth it, he added defensively. I was in a better place.

Earth to Darien, you are back home here in your comfy office with me in the crummy month of March, said Danielle, giggling. It’s not summertime here in the real world.

And so it was. Reality found its mark as he slowly sat straight up, realizing that it was the month of March and he was in the town of New Tudor, complete with rain, damp, and cold.

Temperatures and fluctuating weather conditions were a way of life in this area of Western New York State but were unusually forgotten, or at least put on the back burner, with the relatively near appearance of spring, complete with birds and flowers galore, rolling green hills, and a multitude of lakes to enjoy—a boater’s paradise.

It was an inviting place for anyone; the region included both Lake Ontario, with Canada on its north shore, and the inviting pleasures of the many Finger Lakes, in addition to beautiful parks, scenic areas, such as Niagara Falls and Letchworth State Park (the Grand Canyon of the East), and of course, the many vineyards and wineries.

"Yeah, yeah, I know all that, spring will come, tra la la la de da. Just let me enjoy my misery for a while, all right? I know that this weather will not last, but I hate it anyway. Any calls while I was gone? And