Dead Ahead: Ellery King Adventures, #1

By Kamaryn Kelsey

Ellery King isn't looking for a new job but when she's fast-talked into a position as a traveling companion to Bess Stewart, who writes for a senior citizen travel magazine, she decides to give it a try. After all, Bess is a fun woman and the pay is great.

 

However, Ellie doesn't even make it out the door before things begin falling apart. Smooth-talking Tim, Bess's handsome nephew, admits he can't pay the double rate he promised. But Bess is excited and Ellie doesn't have the heart to turn her down so she agrees to one trip. After all, it's not like the camping she did as a kid where she shared a tent with her sisters and slept on the ground. She and Bess will have a brand-new travel trailer already set and ready for their arrival. 

 

But a stormy night results in the murder of a fellow camper and Ellie soon realizes she's also a target. And maybe if Tim would quit pestering her, she could find out who that is before it's too late and she's left dead ahead.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kamaryn Kelsey
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201649326

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

My fists tightened and one fingernail cut into my palm as I clamped my teeth together, hoping I wouldn't break one—or accidentally bite off my tongue. That was a very real possibility since I trembled with anger every 30 seconds.

I tried to ignore the mistake sitting by my side but that proved impossible when his hand, which had started the evening on my knee, hiked up every few minutes. I gave up trying to swivel my bar stool so that I was out of his reach. Like a reptile with sticky pads, that hand didn't lose contact for more than a few seconds. Well, except one brief moment when I twirled my stool so fast that I nearly fell off. It failed to deter him and his hand returned, only much higher than before I took my spin.

We had met not long ago at a bus stop and enjoyed a few friendly conversations over the next couple of weeks. I thought he was cute and funny, so we agreed to meet for drinks at the bar beneath my apartment. It went well until we sat down. That's when I discovered that he assumed I was desperate for male companionship.

After his first drink, Chad went from cute to what was I thinking? Watching him fondle the glass and proceed with a disgusting display involving his tongue and the alcohol, I expected he might take a breath to linger over the experience.

I was wrong about him again.

His second drink disappeared with a slurp, while I had barely started on my first. Then Chad Something-or-other finally reached for not-on-the-first-date territory so I grabbed his fingers and bent them back, causing him to squeal like a little girl.

I guess he didn't realize my fingers had so much strength. I keep them nimble by working as a freelance commercial artist. I like my job because it lets me avoid a few truly annoying things—people and direct contact with people. I take an occasional PI job because it helps combat boredom and let's me choose the time, place, and work so I can take it or leave it. I mean the people, not the job.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I hate anyone. Mostly because it's just easier to dislike them. Hate requires too much energy to sustain, so if I'm going to hate anything, it has to be worth my effort. Like jogging. I can expend the energy to hate it because it takes far less work than doing it.

Anyway, when he set his fate with his hands, I decided Chad and jogging had a lot in common. I gave him a tight smile and narrowed my brown eyes to cracks. Whoa, there, cowboy. You're moving a little fast, aren't you?

To give credit where credit is due, the man was stupid. He sent me a dirty look and replied, I guess you're one of those prudes who expects a ring on your finger before you let a guy have any fun.

Didn't I warn you he was stupid? I dropped his bent fingers in contempt and sipped my drink. Junior, I'm one of those prudes who prefers knowing a thing or two about a guy. Like knowing he has more to offer than helping himself to fun. A last name would be nice, but all I know is that you're an idiot with less appeal than a sandwich of spoiled sardines and slimy onions on moldy bread.

Chad hopped off his bar stool and called me a name before turning to leave. Usually, I don't mind. I've heard them all including witch, fat, ugly, mean, and variations of those. But he used a slang word referring to part of a woman’s anatomy and the blood rushed to my head. I hate that word. I allowed for the extra effort of hating it because it was a two-for-one deal with Chad included.

I slammed my drink down on the bar and said to his back, You're just afraid you'll get your bony butt kicked by a woman.

The packed Friday evening bar and snickers from nearby customers guaranteed Chad wouldn't leave with that challenge unanswered. He stomped back and stood over my bar stool. I guess he imagined himself intimidating.

With a snort, he spat, I doubt it.

From the corner of my eye I saw cellphones aimed in our direction. I hoped no one ruined my fun by calling the police. What I really wanted was for everyone in the place to post their videos to the internet, so this self-serving pig could wallow in the shame pool of his own making. I gave them a few seconds to start recording while Chad's ego looked like the Hindenburg—right before it went down in flames. 

Then I did the polite thing and smiled before cupping my hands and slamming them over his ears. He dropped to his knees, shrieking like a woman. I jumped off my stool and flexed my fingers, before pointing them like I was doing a shadow puppet show. One tiny well-placed jab in his sternum would allow me to sleep peacefully for a week, having done the world a favor. I wouldn't stab him hard enough to cause serious injury, but enough to make him think twice about his attitude toward women—and give him a little well-deserved pain.

He got to his feet, looking stunned. I savored the moment, wondering if he could hit soprano notes. But I delayed just a little too long. As I drew my hand back, someone grabbed it from behind and I turned to glare. Meh, it was just the new bartender.

Let go, I demanded, trying to free my arm. He held on long enough to allow my stupid date time to escape the bar. When I saw that, I got mad. I suppose you're one of those pacifists who objects to a woman defending herself, considering it useless violence. I tried jerking my arm free but only succeeded in causing my dark unruly hair to flop over my face. I crossed my eyes and blew it out of the way.

He laughed and I took a heartbeat to appreciate the moment. Blue eyes, an attractive smile, and a catchy laugh. I guess in another situation I'd have enjoyed more than the brief look but I was on an adrenaline rush and needed the fix. Plus, I was working the whole angry attitude, fostered by that waste of space and air, also known as my former date.

No, I object to open murder in the bar. It's not good for business and having the cops show up discourages the party atmosphere. He released my arm and I frowned with displeasure.

How about a good old-fashioned ass kicking? I asked. Because I wasn't finished.

Well, he was. Although I have doubts about his ability to grasp that, which is why I intervened. He returned to his side of the bar while I sat, slightly surprised at his perception of Chad's intellect, or lack thereof.

Charlie, the usual bartender, minds his own business, which I prefer. I think he likes watching the jackasses who think they own the world get humiliated by an average woman. But not this bartender. As I paused for that to run through my head he set another drink in front of me and my brows rose at the fruity concoction.

For killing your evening, he explained.

I let out a bark of laughter. He killed the evening. You only ruined my entertainment.

He shrugged and took the drink back. I gave him an outraged look and held out my hand. Gimme. You also interrupted my anger train, so keep them coming. I assume these are on the house?

He placed the drink in my outstretched hand but didn't let go. You assume wrong. I'm not to blame for your poor choice in men, so I will offer you one drink on the house.

What can I say? He had a point so I nodded and said, Thanks.

He released the glass and went to wait on other customers, while I sipped it and mentally berated myself for the evening's mistake. Not the butt kicking part, but the whole having drinks with Chad part. Usually I'd excuse it with the live and learn line, but I'm pretty sure I'm too old for that to be valid. The fact that I even agreed to meet him left me with questions I'd rather not answer. Like, what was wrong with me? Was it possible Chad was right and I'd become a desperate woman?

Before I had an epiphany, I heard someone yell, Hey, Stewie! Another round.

My head swiveled from the customer to the bartender. I helplessly spewed my drink and wondered what kind of man goes by the name Stewie. Apparently the new bartender, who didn't seem to mind that