Blue Ridge Repose: Blue Ridge Mysteries, #1

By Joe Palkovic

Not all is calm in these quiet hills...

 

 

Kelly Dunne returns to her Appalachian hometown seeking solace. Instead, she finds turmoil when her high school sweetheart turns up dead. The more she learns, the more her own family history appears to play a role in the killing.

 

Troy Hicks, the self-assured detective working the case, sees Kelly as a name from the past. Now, as his feelings change, he must decide whether to shut her out or admit he can't solve this murder alone.

 

Together, with the help of a bumbling rookie cop, they must stop the next crime before more lives are lost.

 

 

 

 

PRAISE FOR BLUE RIDGE REPOSE:

 

"Great action, great characters, great mystery, great tale."

 

"A crime fiction that keeps you riveted..."

 

"Wow! I literally couldn't put it down..."

 

"A wonderful story... The ending was something I rarely see and I applaud it."

 

 

 

 

A Blue Ridge Mystery, Book # 1

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Palkovic
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986128306

Joe Palkovic

Joe Palkovic writes realistic crime fiction and mystery novels with thriller elements. He is a professional in the criminal justice field for over a decade, and draws from personal experience to bring life to the characters, places, and crimes created for his fiction. He resides in central Maryland with his wife, four children, and gimpy dog. For more information, visit his website at joepalkovic.com. If you enjoyed this book, please text me any time, day or night, to let me know what you thought: 240-315-4476. Also, I will consider it a personal favor if you take a minute to leave a review wherever you bought it. Reviews are essential for helping get this book in front of more readers so they can enjoy it too. To read more of my work, visit my website at joepalkovic.com, and make sure to subscribe for email updates on new books and special offers.

Book preview

For the damaged and broken, who feel alone in the world.

Blue Ridge Repose

Chapter 1

Felipe felt himself sweating underneath his overcoat as he stepped into Wendy’s Towne Diner on a warm January morning. Crowded and stuffy air, hot coffee, and the motormouth of his long-time friend waited to lull his body into the sort of comatose complacency he dreaded as a small-town police officer. The cute blond waitress greeted him by name, but Felipe couldn’t recall hers. He strained to smile, pushing aside self-critical thoughts for his lack of attention to detail. Sherry, her name tag said. He promised himself not to forget it again. He wished he could work it into their brief conversation as he stood in the threshold, scanning the place. That fresh coffee smell made his shoulders relax.

Patrick raised a hand at him from the window seat of a booth across the room, sipping from a white ceramic mug raised over a menu laminated in stiff plastic. Felipe covered the distance in a few rapid strides and removed his coat before sliding into the booth with some effort. He felt the eyes on them: two pudgy dopes in uniform getting ready to stuff their faces.

Why don’t you get a table next time? he asked, half annoyed with his friend. I don’t fit well in these things with my gear on.

You would have trouble fitting in here naked, dude, Patrick smiled. He grabbed the flab of his own belly, below the vest he wore. Besides, check me out. Not like I’m a fitness model. Patrick’s Corsair Security outfit had all the same features of Felipe’s patrol uniform, minus the color and a portable radio Felipe kept on his outer vest carrier. Sherry wandered over, pad in hand. Her curls partially obscured her face, so Felipe couldn’t tell if she was stifling a laugh at his expense.

Coffee to start?

Yes, please. Thank you, Sherry. He sat back, momentarily satisfied with himself as she sauntered away. Patrick caught him sneaking a peak at her and shot him a knowing grin. What?

Nothing, Pat said. But I’m sure she’s dating some lumberjack or something.

Whatever, Pat. You carrying a heavy load today?

Pat nodded as he lowered the mug from his lips. Yeah, about half a million bucks. Headed north to Accident. I’m supposed to meet Jerry at ten. Should only take a couple hours to get the big run done today.

Felipe shook his head, half jealous. Patrick often made off with a full day’s pay for a half day’s work, while Felipe ran from call to call taking down information for mundane reports. Being the only cop on duty in Oakland, Maryland on a weekday got so busy with the routine, at times he forgot to stay alert for the real criminals. Patrick’s line of work, running armored cars back and forth throughout the region, felt  like it might be downright exciting by comparison.

He slouched in the seat as Sherry returned with his hot coffee and a pile of single serve half and half cups. He smiled and thanked her, reaching to receive the creamers as they spilled onto the table. His hand made incidental contact with hers, and he wondered if she noticed. The moment passed before he could meet her eyes, and she was off to another table making small talk with a couple of old men in trucker hats. Of course she was.

He estimated Sherry’s age to be around thirty, which made her slightly older than him. Patrick already had himself an older girlfriend. Not that it was exactly what Felipe wanted. Pat’s life had its own list of challenges.

You hear about that bank robbery in Cumberland yesterday? Pat asked. Two guys came in and stuck the place up. Nothing in the paper about how much money they took. But they got away with it. For the moment, at least.

Felipe nodded, fiddling with his coffee. "They’ll get caught, dude. They always do. They never get more than, like, a thousand bucks these days, and when they realize it they try to rob another one. That’s usually how they end up in jail. The real money is accessible in transit." He emphasized the last bit for Patrick’s benefit. Pat shrugged him off and patted the firearm holstered on his waist. He carried a larger caliber pistol than Oakland PD.

Harder target, bro. Pat smiled with confidence.

I’ve seen you shoot, Pat.

The radio on Felipe’s shoulder crackled to life for the first time this shift. A welfare check for Mike Eubank, found passed out in public again. Third time already this month. The dispatcher, with understandable consternation, related the location as West Liberty Street at the Youghiogheny River crossing. Felipe sighed at the thought of not getting to eat. His stomach rumbled already, although he’d felt no hunger the minute before he entered the diner. His mind ached from lack of use. His entire body felt a crappy, boring day coming on.

He reached for his pocket to drop some money for the coffee and spilled his keys onto the table with a jarring clank as he stood. The old men at the nearby booth stared, and Felipe felt his chubby cheeks flush. He wished people would mind their own business. He reached instinctively for the butt of his gun to assure himself it was there. Patrick moved to push his money away, but they both knew who had the better salary, and less responsibility at home. Felipe dropped an extra twenty dollars on the table to take care of his friend’s meal. Maybe Sherry would notice his generosity.

He keyed up his mic with his right hand to tell the dispatcher he was en route to the call, pushing through the door as he struggled to get his left arm into the coat sleeve. It was roughly a mile directly northwest to the Youghiogheny crossing from the Towne Restaurant on North Third Street, but Oakland’s side streets twisted and turned along the route, complicating his struggles with the seatbelt and second coat sleeve. He couldn’t wait to give Mike Eubank an extra hard and rousing sternum rub to pay that drunk back for ruining breakfast.

Felipe cut the lights and siren off as soon as he made the left from Willow Lane onto Liberty Street, driving around the final bend and approaching the river crossing in silence. An old green Toyota Tacoma blocked the lane just before the bridge. The white-bearded farmer who owned the truck stood by its tailgate, waving Felipe down.

I was just on my way into town, the codger said. And there he was, down there at the river. I figure it looks like Mikey Eubank, the poor soul. Can I go now that you’re here?

Yes sir, yes sir, Felipe said, patting the man on the shoulder. He walked up the lane onto the bridge to look down at Eubank. The air was still damp from last night’s rain, and the slope would be slippery. He hoped to avoid the trip down to the bank if he could wake Mike up with just the sound of his voice. No need to get wet and muddy on that sloppy wet ground.

By the time Felipe caught his first glimpse of the corpse, the farmer had already continued on his way and was too far off to note the license plate number. Eubank’s puffy crimson coat was face down in the water. Felipe put a hand to his forehead, wondering if he’d just made a monumental mistake by failing to hang on to his only witness. He shed the uncomfortable patrol coat and ran around the end of the bridge to slide down the bank to the body. There was no question: the face was fully submerged and the skin was cold to the touch. Mike Eubank was dead as hell.

Chapter 2

Kelly Dunne’s green Outback wound its way back to town on the misty woodland roads to West Liberty Street. A gray morning. Every winter morning felt gray in her hometown, or at least every memorable one. She let her auburn hair down on the ride to cool off from her morning run. The air was warm despite the season, and perspiration dampened her scalp. Driving ten or so miles made for an uncomfortable cool down, but she preferred the views at Herrington Manor to the diminutive downtown of Oakland. The historic buildings there didn’t interest a woman who’d seen them each a few thousand times, and there weren’t many of them anyway.

Once she crossed over Fingerboard Road and around the bend toward the river, she saw an Oakland Police cruiser facing the opposite direction along the shoulder. She slowed down instinctively, but saw it was unoccupied as she closed the distance. She peered around for the officer as she passed, but he must have been out of his car and down along the riverbank, and she continued on her way home to check on Mom, wiping the sweat from her brow.

She considered cooking. Mom hadn’t eaten a hot breakfast in... well at least since Kelly came home. The Shaws were good people, but they also had lives, and Kelly couldn’t rightly expect them to do much more than they already did, especially now that she was around. She resolved to make Mom an omelet, and hopped out of the car almost before it stopped moving in the driveway of her childhood home. Maybe real food would do her some good, too. She wiped at the corners of her eyes to make sure she hadn’t been crying, and headed for the side door.

The house was aged, but not decrepit, maintained about as well as the rest of the neighborhood. It stood two stories with a musty cellar, housing three bedrooms and two bathrooms, and included a living room and den on the first floor. Cream colored siding encased the exterior, with faded gray shingles on the roof, showing a decade’s worth of weather wear. It felt like a bland home for country bumpkins, but warm nonetheless. Kelly half expected to see her brothers’ football cleats on the patio, caked with mud.

She fumbled with the keys at the side door, intentionally jingling them a little extra just to give Mom a chance to put herself together.

Hi Mom, she said as the door creaked open and the storm door swung shut with a clang behind her. She caught sight of her mother through the galley kitchen, seated in the living room. Mom sat, still and peaceful, in her green cloth chair. For a split second Kelly thought she should check for vital signs. Then Alice sprang awake with the energy of a woman with a guilty conscience. She brushed aside her tangled gray hair and smiled warmly at her only daughter, looking around for something to clean.

Hey, dear. How was your run? The spry mental acuity caught Kelly off guard.

Uh, good, thanks, she said. Don’t get up. She put her things down on the steps and asked if her mother had eaten. Of course not. Checking the fridge, Kelly realized omelets were out of the question. It turned out it wasn’t just the Shaws who couldn’t care for Alice. She held the refrigerator door ajar for a moment, breathing through her pursed lips.

Finally, she surrendered and walked out to the living room to look Alice in the eyes. They were sad eyes, although Kelly couldn’t imagine she carried every bad memory behind them. Still, their pale blue color felt inviting, even forgiving. Kelly felt her chest soften when she saw them. Alice smiled softly.

Old photos of the Dunne children rested on the mantle behind her. Five heads of shiny red hair. A fifth grade school photo of Kelly stood among them. Kelly paused to consider the faces of her brothers. Four of them, all older than her, and all hazed in school for that bright red hair. They defended themselves like a proud Irish family, and by the time Kelly reached South Garrett High, the Dunnes had a reputation as a scrappy bunch. Kelly recalled hearing the stories about them brawling, pictured the cuts and bruises they often showed up with back home.

She offered Mom some toast in lieu of an omelet, and turned away from the photos of herself as a teen.

Sure, honey, Alice said. Will you save some for your father, please? He always forgets to eat before going to work.

Kelly cursed under her breath. She wondered how many times she had to tell Mom that Dad didn’t live here anymore. Probably more and more as time progressed. She walked in the kitchen and slammed her eyelids shut, holding them closed tight to fight back the tears. How much did Mom forget today? How much did she remember? And how to get her up to speed? She sniffed and went about making the toast on cinnamon raisin bread. It smelled sweet and calmed her nerves as it warmed up. She reached for the coffee maker.

Dad hasn’t lived here for three years, Mom. He’s at the Nursing Home, remember?

Don’t be ridiculous. We could never pay for that.

Kelly shook her head, choosing not to respond. Daniel Dunne, when he was lucid, would never stand for seeing his wife in a home. In truth, Mom held similar views about her husband. It was only through much convincing that she ever agreed to give power of attorney to Mr. Shaw. Kelly wondered if she might have to go through the whole process of convincing Mom again and again as her condition progressed.

She served Mom the toast, cut diagonally the way she liked it. She offered coffee as well, but Alice asked instead for her rosary beads. Kelly had to walk to the mantle to get them. She swallowed a dry bite of her own toast and stepped behind the green cloth chair.

The old pictures caught her eye again. Her senior prom photo in particular. Her green eyes looked younger then, but her body was mostly the same: short, toned, slender framed and wide in the hips. Her dress was dark blue, a favorite of hers looking back. That color felt fitting. Her parents said she was stunning. Her boyfriend, too. She’d heard his life went downhill after she left town: drinking, drugs, homelessness. She wondered if he ever left Garrett County, or she might run into him one day before she left again. 

She snatched the white marble rosary off the hook by the fireplace, and stopped herself halfway through turning to walk it back to her mom. The prom picture nearly jumped off the shelf at her. Her face beamed in it, with genuine joy. She remembered so much laughter in those days. Was it her own personality that changed, or just the company? The couple in the photo looked like they were about to laugh right as the photographer snapped the shot. Something gave her the urge to hold that photo, and she picked up the black wooden frame.

Kelly carried the ornate rosary with a silver crucifix to her mother and sat down in the rocker next to her. She slipped the cardboard back off the frame and slid the photo out to hold in her hands. There was her father’s handwriting on the back in perfect cursive with blue ink: Kelly Dunne and Michael Eubank, South High Prom, 2010.

Chapter 3

Felipe groaned at the dead man in front of his feet, long black hair floating in the water like a raft. Red winter coat, the back puffed out, no doubt full of water as well. Blue jeans. One Nike shoe. He wished he could go back in time just a few minutes and get at least a name and phone number from the white haired farmer. Just enough that he wouldn’t have to feel embarrassed when the Sheriff’s Office guys showed up to take over. It being a death investigation, he had summoned them to handle the case. Oakland PD lacked the manpower for this kind of thing, thank God.

In the meantime, he supposed he ought to get a look around and see what’s what. Maybe he could divert attention from his mistakes by giving the detective a detailed description of the scene. The location of Mike’s other Nike, for starters. Felipe stood in the shallow water, up to the ankles of his boots, and gazed downstream. No sign of another shoe that way. Just bramble bushes and dead leaves covering the ground beneath a dense tree line. The river water flowed calmly here, like a creek, the soft ripples over the rocks creating the only sounds around.

The body was partially submerged, but most of its weight was hung up on the grassy bank. It wasn’t going anywhere; the current was little more than a trickle at this spot. Felipe clenched his jaw, trying to slow his brain down and remember his crime scene training. A proper death investigation required information about the deceased, and he definitely had that to spare. Mike Eubank was the town drunk, and a known drug user to boot. Found face-down in a river was probably about the best end for him Felipe could expect. Still, the scene should be preserved as much as possible until suspicion could be ruled out by someone... well, someone qualified to do just that.

He backed away from the body and traced his own muddy steps back up the incline to the roadway. He was a trained crime scene technician — the only one in the Oakland Police Department. Even still, the town was small enough he rarely used the skill. He popped the trunk of his cruiser and opened the gray CSI processing box. He felt the nerves in his fingertips jumping and paused to calm them, worried he may drop the expensive high def camera. He stroked his hairless chin and breathed deeply before unzipping the Nikon carrying case and throwing the camera strap over the back of his neck. We’ll just start with pictures, he thought. 

He stepped off the shoulder of the road next to his patrol car and took a moment to observe. The ground was soft from yesterday's rain, and the breeze carried moisture from the trees of the surrounding woodlands. The Youghiogheny was at the very edge of Oakland’s town limits; if Mike Eubank had died on the west bank, he would have just been the county’s problem from minute one. But he died on the east bank. Why had this hobo wandered so far from downtown? Felipe was used to finding him passed out on street corners or park benches, not at the outskirts of town.

He snapped a photo from the top of the incline near the bridge, capturing the widest angle he could. From there, he zoomed in for some shots of the body, then took snapshots in each direction of the road from where he stood. His fellow Oakland cops liked to tease him about overdoing it on scene photos, but Felipe preferred to create as complete a picture as he could, especially for an important case. Although he never had any of those. Potentially important case, then.

The sounds of a vehicle approaching from town perked him up, and he paused his process to greet the inbound help. The Garrett County Sheriff’s Office was headquartered just down the street from the six-person Oakland PD office. It was therefore no shock when Sheriff Joe Stokely’s marked Expedition pulled in behind Felipe’s cruiser. Trailing the sheriff by a few seconds only, an unmarked black Ford Crown Victoria (complete with a spotlight on the driver’s side) rolled in. Late 1990s model. Felipe wondered how it still ran. Dark tint on the windows obscured his view of the driver.

Sheriff Stokely hopped out and hiked up his gun belt in one motion. He wore no outer vest carrier, only the uniform shirt and pants with a half empty duty belt, black Beretta on his hip, and a golden badge so shiny that Felipe almost had to turn away to avert his eyes from the glint. The Sheriff breathed deeply and stood at the roadside to wait for his partner, now emerging from the Crown Vic. Together, they moved with swagger toward the incline where Felipe stood.

Stokely was not a very tall man, only about six feet, but he towered over Felipe both in size and authority. His companion from the ancient Crown Vic was an even taller man, with close cut hair and a beard and mustache, all black and only slightly darker than his skin complexion. Detective Troy Hicks, with whom Felipe was already acquainted, wore a navy blue button down, open at the collar, with sleeves unbuttoned at the cuffs. Despite his age, just thirty-seven, he carried himself with absolute confidence. Felipe felt his heart slow to a normal rate.

Hey there, officer, Stokely said. We hear there’s a DOA.

Felipe fumbled with the camera and stuck out his right hand to shake. Felipe Vega, Sheriff. Nice to meet you. The sheriff grasped his hand with a palm that