Death In Horse Country: Gerald Bunting, #3

By Adam D. Rice

Gerald Bunting is taking a vacation in the rolling hills of Kentucky.

 

A heavy snow traps the eccentric detective and his fellow guests at a rural bed and breakfast. Soon, a body is discovered. The killer has to be one of them.

 

But who?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pitmix Press
• Release date: Nov 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201263331

Book preview

Death In Horse Country

Gerald Bunting Mystery #3

Adam D. Rice

Copyright © 2021 Adam D. Rice

All rights reserved.

Any similarities to persons, living or dead, are a coincidence.

Dedication

To the forgotten mystery authors who spun this genre out of whole cloth.

You created something awesome.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Chapter One

Mrs. Oliver winced as she dabbed cream on the burn. Pulling on an oven mitt, she returned to the stove. Bacon crackled softly on the range. She stirred it gently, scanning the frosty pasture beyond the house.

Her husband, Gus, opened the back door, stomping his feet. They up yet?

Give ‘em time. It’s Saturday. Some people sleep in on—

Food’s ready, isn’t it?

She turned the bacon with a fork. Yes. Just about.

Gus rang the dinner bell.

Shh! Mrs. Oliver hissed. I hate that thing. How many’ve we got today, anyway?

Full up, he muttered. I wish you’d stop leaving me alone with ‘em.

I was helping Patty. Ennette pulled the skillet off the stove and slid the bacon into a serving dish. Grab that orange juice, would yah? Gus picked up the jug. In the pitcher. And shake it first.

I already drank out of it.

***

The dining room had begun to fill soon after breakfast smells drifted up to the second floor.

A young couple whispered in the corner.

So, what do you think? Ms. Royal asked.

I don’t know. I think we’re rushing into things. Mr. Rupert cut around a peach pit. I liked our first plan. A month isn’t that long. You can wait another month, can’t you? To settle things.

Two women occupied a table by the window, nibbling at fresh biscuits. Did you hear that racket last night? Mrs. Smith whispered to her friend. I was in the bath when I heard it—plain as day. Couldn’t fall asleep for hours. Just lay awake, listening.

I know! Mrs. Ernest reached for the honey. It’s disgraceful, a hotel doing that to paying guests. Fix the pipes in the off-season. Put up a sign, and close the place down for renovation. I should be able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. I paid good money to stay in my room.

We both did. They nodded.

I think I’ll have a word with whoever does up the rooms.

"You should. I might say something too. Gus briefly stepped into the room to fill his plate with another helping of bacon. But be careful, Emily. I don’t like the look of him. I paid in cash yesterday—didn’t need him seeing where I bank."

Mrs. Ernest dropped her voice. "He’s strange, isn’t he? Always frowning."

Across the room, at the long oak table, another guest took a sip of juice. He spat it back into his glass. Concentrations, Gerald Bunting muttered. Here in the side states, it is always to be concentration! He tugged at his overcoat.

A couple appeared on the back staircase, descending from the bedrooms. Mrs. Mink held tight to her husband’s hand as they navigated the final steps. Come on, Wilbur. We’re getting close now. Two more.

Two? he barked. More like twenty! Who built this house? Bunch of idiots! He dropped onto the next step.

One more just like that. Easy, dear. Not so fast.

I’ll go as fast as I like. Mr. Mink sniffed loudly.

We’re almost to the table. They shuffled into the room. Do you remember from dinner? The man put out his hand, groping for the table. That’s right.

Mr. Mink slid his hand down the table until it brushed against Gerald’s sleeve. Something’s there, Marian. Something soft. He leaned against an empty chair, blowing his nose in a handkerchief.

Mrs. Mink approached the detective. I don’t believe we’ve met.

Bunting pushed back his chair and stood. Greetings, yes, they are orderlies.

Why’s he talkin’ like that? Wilbur asked.

"Gerald Bunting, this great detective you are seeing now-times, he is British, the English Cornwall man."

I’m afraid you’re sitting in my husband’s seat, Marian said quietly. Would you—

Surety. Gerald picked up his plate, retiring to the far end of the table.

With his wife’s help, Mr. Mink eased into Bunting’s former seat. It’s warm, he muttered.

Ah, the detective cried, this will be my fabric coats—yes. I am fearing there is no help to be having.

Wish he’d shut up.

Wilbur, not here, Mrs. Mink said. He’s right over there.

Bunting scanned the morning paper until Mrs. Oliver leaned into the room to check the sideboard. He dusted crumbs off his notebook and jotted a comment: Homey. Shawl. Pleasant foods.

She stacked the dirty dishes and looked around, tucking her bangs into place.

Indigested, Gerald muttered, adding a note. She is feeling this, also.

Mrs. Mink picked up an apple. I called Danny last night.

So what? her husband replied. Never has anything important to say. Always failing. Ever since he started school, he’s been failing.

... I think it would be nice if we paid him and the kids a—

Breakfast, Marian. Wilbur pounded on the table. Now! He sneezed into his elbow. And get me some cough syrup.

"Say