Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Collection: The Complete Series

By Lorelei Bell

All three books in Lorelei Bell's 'Lainey Quilholt Mysteries' series, now in one volume!

Party to a Murder: Lainey, a 17-year-old small-town girl, is unexpectedly drawn into a murder investigation after the brutal killing of Arline Rochell. Suspicious of the widespread hatred towards the victim, Lainey uncovers a potential motive of blackmail. As she tries to make sense of the situation, she becomes entangled in a second murder cover-up, leading her to suspect her friend Wendy. With the help of Sheriff Weeks, Lainey digs deeper into the case, searching for the culprit before it's too late.

An Invitation To Kill: Lainey's excitement for college is short-lived when a former student, expelled for cheating, begins targeting her. Soon after, Lainey's creative writing teacher is found dead, and his wife is shot. Despite being ruled a murder-suicide, Lainey discovers clues that suggest otherwise and teams up with a local policeman to investigate. As she delves deeper, she uncovers more motives and suspects, including the college president. With the help of a new friend and suspicions of an FBI agent, Lainey sets out to solve the case and prove her theory.

The Serial Killer Beside Me: Lainey Quilholt is caught up in a serial killer investigation after two deaths rock her small town near the Mississippi. As tensions rise and her best friend is abducted, Lainey vows to bring the killer to justice, even if it means putting her own life at risk. In the third installment of the 'Lainey Quilholt Mysteries', the young sleuth faces her most dangerous foe yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023

Book preview

Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Collection

LAINEY QUILHOLT MYSTERIES COLLECTION

THE COMPLETE SERIES

LORELEI BELL

CONTENTS

Party to a Murder

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

An Invitation To Kill

Acknowledgments

Journal entry by Lainey Quilholt

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

The Serial Killer Beside Me

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Serial Killers in the U.S

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Lorelei Bell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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 the author's permission.

PARTY TO A MURDER

LAINEY QUILHOLT MYSTERIES BOOK 1

PROLOGUE

I can't do this! Margo said, her voice shaking, on the verge of tears. Her auburn hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and some strands had come loose around her face, which had become flushed from lying in the sun on the beach.

C'mon, Margo! Arline said, grasping her friend's upper arms and shaking her slightly, avoiding a large bruise on her left arm where her boyfriend, Dave Corbin, had hit her the other day. This is it! It's now or never. Besides, a tiger can't change his stripes. The first chance he gets, the next time he gets angry, or you say something he doesn't like, he'll haul off and hit you again, just like always. Corbin was an abuser, but secretive about it. Only once he had slapped Margo in front of Arline, so she knew about the abuse way before this. You can't hide a black eye and lie about it saying 'I ran into the door'. It only works once, if at all. Arline had told Margo a gazillion times about telling Corbin to take a hike. For the past two weeks Arline had groomed Margo, coaching her in exactly what she should say, how to react to his reaction, assuring her she would be close by, just in case he began beating her. They'd planned it for weeks after graduation. Arline knew that the best time for her to tell him goodbye was the very last day they would be at the rustic cabin in Wisconsin Dells, which belonged to Arline's boyfriend's parents. It had its own pier, and a small boat they could use. They'd all had a good time the four days they'd been here. Corbin seemed to have been in a better mood, and hadn't argued with any of them, unlike during past outings.

AJ Beaumont III was Arline's fiancé, they were going to be married in July. Margo was her bridesmaid. She couldn't have her covered in bruises while wearing the beautiful turquoise dress she'd picked out for her to wear.

Earlier, she had arranged for AJ to take Corbin out on the boat, do some fishing, or whatever, until late afternoon. They were already packed and ready to leave as it was a four hour drive back home. Arline had put Margo's suitcase in the trunk of her car, instead of Corbin's truck—thinking ahead, trying to avoid any more ugly scenes afterward. Since Arline had driven herself and AJ up in her own car, Corbin had driven up in his truck with Margo. It had worked out so far, he didn't know, or suspect what was coming. But Margo was becoming unhinged moments before she would tell him it was over between them. The sound of the outboard motor of the blue bass boat puttered closer. The two guys would be here in less than a minute. Arline would tug AJ away toward the cabin, but then drop back and linger in the trees, between the boat dock and the cabin to keep an eye out for trouble.

You can do this, Margo, she said, tucking in a wavy strand of honey-blond hair, which had escaped from her own ponytail. She glanced out onto the lake. They were nearly here. You do it just like we practiced. Okay?

Margo nodded, but her eyes were down cast.

I'll be nearby. I swear, I won't let him get away with his shit any more, Arline said.

The guys pulled the boat up to the dock, AJ cut the engine, and they looked excited.

We caught three big ones! Corbin pulled up their catch out of the water. Three fine-looking northerns hung from the stringer.

What are you going to do with them? Arline asked as she and Margo padded across the sandy beach barefooted toward the dock.

I'll clean 'em, and cook 'em, AJ said. We'll have a snack to eat on the way home.

Arline rolled her eyes as Corbin handed him the fish.

C'mon. Arline pulled AJ away from the dock. She'd told him in advance what was going to happen. He wanted no part of it. As far as he was concerned, it was Margo's problem, not theirs. It had been a sore spot with Arline how he reacted to the couple's rocky relationship.

Arm in arm Arline and AJ walked up the pathway, toward the cabin. Halfway there, she looked back at Margo speaking to Corbin on the dock. Their voices were already loud. She paused at tree line.

I'll be up in a bit, Arline told AJ, and moved into the pine trees, sneaking stealthy back as close as she could get in order to hear and watch the break-up. Cell phone in her pocket, just in case she needed to call AJ—or the police, for that matter. In her other hand she held her camera. It was one of those disposable ones. She had wanted to try it out to see if she'd like to buy a few dozen for her guests at their reception party. Without telling her, Arline wanted to capture this moment just for Margo, to let her relive that moment over and over again, while telling her how proud she was of her for getting up the courage to tell this abusive guy to get lost.

Holding up the camera she looked through the lens—it pushed everything far away, so she couldn't really see small details through the camera lens. But now their conversation had become even louder. Corbin looked agitated. Angry. His arms flying up while he yelled at Margo. His voice booming. Then he grabbed Margo by the arms. She screamed. Arline's heart thudded with dread. He was going to hit her. The slap was hard, and Margo fell right into the water. Arline's breaths came fast as she snapped a picture, and forwarded it and snapped a few more until it wouldn't forward any more.

Corbin bent over, looking down at Margo, not doing a damned thing to help her out, the bastard. It all had happened so fast, but Arline had snapped two, maybe three pictures, as fast as she could, capturing as much as she could as it happened. Evidence for police, she thought.

Feeling a flash of guilt quickly displaced by a surge of anger, Arline bolted through the trees toward the dock, dropping her camera in the soft needle-strewn earth.

You asshole! Arline yelled fifteen feet away.

Corbin straightened and yelled back at her. Fuck you!

Arline rushed up, her feet pounding along the boards of the deck, as she yelled obscenities back at him, getting in his face. She wasn't afraid of this asshole. If he hit her, AJ would deck him but good. She had her cell phone out ready to press 911.

But when she looked into the water, Margo was nowhere to be seen. Tossing her cell phone on shore, she dove in. She found Margo in ten feet of water not moving. She was unconscious. Having always been a strong swimmer, Arline managed to pull her friend out of the water onto the shore and performed CPR, but couldn't revive her. She screamed at Corbin to call 911—cursing at him for not having done something to help her out of the water himself. By this time, AJ rushed up and he began helping her with CPR, alternating when one became tired of breathing for Margo.

The paramedics arrived within ten minutes of the call, but they couldn't revive Margo. She was dead. They'd said she had drowned. The sheriff's police had arrived shortly after, and Arline told them exactly what had happened, telling him that Margo wouldn't have even been in the water had Corbin not hit her so hard. He denied it, of course. The matter was his word against hers. In the excitement, she'd forgotten about the camera and her evidence.

Arline's eyes filled with tears as they put Margo into the ambulance. The police took Corbin in for questioning, mainly because Arline had pointed to one of the bruises on Margo's arm, and the paramedics did find some discoloration on her face as well. AJ was consoling, but they had to get home. The sheriff assured them Margo's parents would be called. She told the sheriff, over and over, she saw Corbin hit Margo. She'd testify to it!

They were returning to the cabin when she stumbled onto the white camera in the pine needles. She wasn't sure if the pictures would turn out, or if what she'd taken were good enough for a court of law. She was so angry over what had happened, she wanted Corbin to pay dearly. A plan was hatching.

On the way home, she'd begun to think about it. Everything was clearer the closer they got to Iowa and crossed the Mississippi, and what she could do to get even with the son of a bitch. She wasn't ready to share the pictures with the police. Not yet. They were much more valuable to her and what she would gain, than to give them to the police.

CHAPTER 1

The bell on the door rang, making me look up automatically from my work near the bottom bookshelves.

Hi. Good morning, a man said pleasantly. The man's deep voice threw me into a panic and made me pop up from where I was crouched shelving the new Tami Hoag paperbacks. Going up on my tippy-toes, I flung a gold-brown length of hair away from my face in order to see over the shelf. It was one of those voices that tended to pull your attention, if you were of the female persuasion. And since it wasn't who I dreaded to see, my heart calmed down.

Curious, I peeked around the corner of the shelving unit to spot my Aunt Jessica standing behind the counter near the door.

Good morning, Aunt Jessica trilled, turning to him, her silver onyx cross earrings glimmering in the overheads.

I was wondering if you have some literature by Mark Twain? His tall frame was decked out in a long, black canvas coat, a black Stetson with conchos around its brim hid most of his face. Long wavy brown hair with blondish highlights grew past his shoulders. He was a few inches over six foot.

My excitement about tonight's planned activities had been interrupted by the man's entrance into my aunt's bookstore, Books 'n Such, which was situated on Front Street in Montclair, Iowa. From the store front we could see the Mississippi River, as it was only two blocks away, and down an incline. There was a slight breeze today, and the river looked somewhat choppy, with the color beige, coffee and the sun glimmering in silver bands across its expanse. Through the large front window I spied, The Miss Twila, a river boat owned by Uncle Ed. It was docked as it had been for weeks, now.

Oh, my, do we! my aunt said enthusiastically to the man's question.

Poe jumped onto the counter, coming to a halt and, ears going flat to his head, hissed and growled at him, then he jumped back down and disappeared, growling as he went.

Wow, the man said, startled by the large long-hair black cat's reaction to him. He had one green and one blue eye (it's a bit spooky to look into those eyes for very long), which was why my aunt had given him the name Edgar Allan Poe. He had been a mangy alley cat when she'd found and fed him about a year ago. Now Poe was our mascot for the store, and came home with us every night.

Oh, don't mind him, my aunt said apologetically with a little chuckle. He tends to not like men very much. Sort of a jealousy thing, I guess.

I wondered why she had lied. Poe was a sweet cat. People could pet him, scratch his chin. Sometimes he wandered around the store looking for attention from patrons. He wasn't afraid of anyone. Animals have a good sense of people. If a dog growls at someone, you know that person may have some hidden agenda, a mean streak, or there's something bad about them that the dog picks up. A cat couldn't be any different, my young mind concluded, and this had sent up a little red flag for me. So, I kept my eye on the man via our big fish-eye mirrors around the store. While I watched him secretly from behind the stacks, I imagined he might be here staking the place out, and he was going to rob my aunt at gunpoint as soon as he thought she was alone. I admit my writer's mind clicked on a hundred different scenarios within those first moments of his entrance. So I stayed out of sight for the moment, pulled out my cell phone and went to my contacts, and, with a jittery finger, pulled up the number for Weeks, our local sheriff, just in case. I had a simple cell phone—it wasn't modern by any means, but it worked fine. I'd had it since I was fifteen. I hoped for a new one before going off to college—dropping hints whenever I could, of course.

The man chuckled and shook his head. Had a girlfriend once whose cat didn't like me, did the same thing, he said. Guess I'm just not a cat person.

Come. I'll show you what we have. She waggled her hand for him to follow, and drew him to where all the books Mark Twain ever wrote, history or other works about the man, was displayed in its own separate narrow bookcase to one side of the magazine racks near the front of the store. Having a store along the Mississippi, it was natural people stopped in to ask for works of Mark Twain. We were also blessed (some would say cursed, depending upon your view of the man), with a Mark Twain impersonator, Ed Lamont. He was related to my aunt—her uncle, but we both called him Uncle Ed. He also happened to own a river boat The Miss Twila, currently being worked on.

Following my aunt, the man stepped noisily across the wooden floor. The thunk-ching, thunk-ching, thunk-ching when he walked brought my gaze down to his booted feet. Whoa, wait. He was wearing spurs? Not the kind with the wheel, but the kind with a blunt end. Probably drives a Harley, my thoughts came. Bet he has tats all over his body.

Today Aunt Jessica wore her long brown hair, which came well past her hips, in a single braid down her back. Usually she leaned toward long skirts, or jeans. Today she was in a pair of faded jeans, which fit her slim form like a glove. Her brown shirt was patterned with Native American images like the Thunderbird and spirals, and other such drawings common in the southwest. I once intimated to her that my mother had called her a hippy. My aunt had chuckled and said, I'm not so much a hippy as an independent thinker.

My aunt's voice carried over the soothing, New Age music as she spoke about some of the books the man might be interested in. He turned around, offering a clean-shaven and somewhat handsome face. He had a bit of a swagger when he walked. It struck me that I'd seen him before. But where? Well, I did have a raging inventive mind, and sometimes I'd have the odd precognitive dream, now and then. Maybe I'd seen him in one of those dreams? Maybe I could use him for a character in a story, someday? my thoughts raged. I worked on writing stories, and from time to time I had a good story idea, like now. I already had him holding us hostage and our local sheriff comes to save us. My thoughts rambled on these, and other things as I slowly, and quietly tucked the rest of the books into the shelf.

After telling the man as much as she could, my aunt went back to her coffee mug at the counter, working on her orders to give him room to browse. I, meanwhile, worked my way through the bookstore straightening and dusting shelves. We also have gifts for every age in our store. It had an eclectic look, a little of this and that, including some jewelry a few crafters made to sell on consignment.

After about ten minutes of browsing, the man chose some books and brought them up to the counter to make his purchase. Our bookstore isn't very large, and I watched from a far corner as he pulled out his wallet, which was chained to his belt. I'd already pegged him as owning a Harley. I noted he used a credit card. While my aunt rang him up, he turned slightly. It was too late to hide from his view, so I averted my gaze, moving and arranging the cute animal puppets on a display. I dropped a skunk puppet and had to dip and pick it up off the floor. Then I dropped my cell phone. Dang it! It was still open, and waiting for me to hit SEND. I picked these things up, stealing glances at the man, while my heart thumped in my chest and closed my cell phone and shoved it into my back pocket again.

When he turned to leave relief rushed through me, and a wave of adrenaline that had filled me now left me slightly drained. I noticed my hands were shaking. I'd let my imagination get the best of me and now I felt a little silly. I still had no clear front view of his face. I wanted to see it in order to describe it. But I'd remember the way he'd dressed and his boots and spurs. Why was that so significant? I didn't know. I reasoned it was just that you didn't see men wearing spurs these days. Or a lot of leather—a black leather cowboy hat in July?

The door opened and at the same time the stranger was going out, Sheriff John Weeks, strode in. The two men side-stepped to avoid crashing into one another at the doorway. Two men with broad shoulders wouldn't be able to pass through at the same time, and I watched them go through that odd dance men do to avoid touching each other. The stranger kept his face down, but Weeks stared at him. They both said Excuse me. The man was out the door, striding down the street, shoving on sunglasses, carrying his purchases, and crossed the street. I never had a full view of his face. I mentally shrugged.

Weeks came in, but kept looking out the door. He looked puzzled. Or was he intrigued, like me.

Morning, John. What's up? Aunt Jessica asked amicably, paging through her ordering catalogue with a quick glance and smile his way. They had been dating for five years—three years before I'd moved in after my parents died in a flood. I wasn't sure if my living at my aunt's house had put a damper on their romance, but I must admit it made me feel a little guilty at times. This was one of those times. My aunt was a widow, and my godmother. Having had no children of her own, she may have not minded my moving in, as I began my junior year in high school. The up side, we became closer now than before my parents had died. I couldn't help but love her like a mother, and I know she loved me.

Hi. Who was that? Weeks asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder as he stepped over to the counter. The silver eagle head ring prominent on his left hand, on the ring finger. There was a matching ladies ring on my aunt's ring finger. They had bought these for each other as a promissory to marriage.

I don't know, Aunt Jessica said, unconcerned. Why?

He looks familiar. Weeks kept looking out the door, as though he could still see the stranger. A slight chill ran down my back when he said this. Him too?

Really? Someone on one of your most wanted posters? Aunt Jessica joked.

I really couldn't say. But for a moment there, I—

Aunt Jessica looked up, stopping in her casual perusal of whatever catalogue she was looking through and shook her head, the black onyx and silver glistening. Serious?

Maybe. He shrugged.

Funny how Poe didn't much care for him, she remarked.

Really? How do you mean?

He hissed and growled at him. Then he ran off. I haven't seen him since.

Wow. Weeks chuckled. That's pretty much how he reacted to me at first.

He's still not sure about you, my aunt teased.

Ha-ha, Weeks said, his hoarse voice going slightly more gravely. He pay credit or cash?

Poe? she was still in a joking mood. Weeks made a hoarse sigh at her response.

No. That man.

Is it a crime to do either? my aunt said. She, apparently, found his cop curiosity a bit much. But I was on his side in this.

Quit being cute, he said, slightly perturbed at her banter. Which was odd, as they did a lot of cute bantering most of the time. It gets a bit sickening at times, but it was good that they had one another.

Oh, thank you for the complement. I wasn't fishing for one, by the way, she said. See?

Hands at his waist—which for a cop with all that crap on their belt makes this one stance a challenge—Weeks made a wheezing sigh. It sounded like he'd had a bad morning. No problem, he said. Nice earrings, too. He'd bought them and the matching necklace for her at a shop in Iowa City a few weeks ago. I'm just wondering because if he paid credit, you'd have his name, wouldn't you?

Aunt Jessica's frame sagged as she finally looked up at him. Seriously? You want to look at his receipt?

If you don't mind, Weeks said, sounding put out. It'll bother me, wondering who he is, all day if you don't. And I'd rather not spend hours looking at mug shots, okay?

Aunt Jessica moved to the cash register and opened it. It was really an unusual reaction by Poe. I've never seen him do that with anyone. Not even to you. She handed him the slip of paper the man had to sign. Do you recognize his name?

Hal Lassiter. Huh. Maybe. I'll go look it up in the files. There might be wants on him, or a prior. You never know. At the very least, he may have over-due speeding tickets. If so, I've got him dead-bang.

My aunt snickered again. Wow. You'll do anything to write out a ticket.

Ignoring my aunt's comment, he took a sip from his coffee. The cup was from Miranda's Café au lait. He had quit eating long johns, as part of his trying to lose the fifteen pounds he'd gained over the winter. He liked his coffee strong and black. Weeks was more burley than what I would call paunchy, and he did workout at a local gym, sometimes he jogged, and my aunt jogged with him, but she preferred her gentle yoga to his sweaty running. He often blamed his weight gain on my aunt's good cooking—more good natured bantering, of course, because my aunt cooked the best meals. Weeks keeps his chocolate brown hair, with a little silver sprinkled in, trim to within a millimeter of his collar. He also sported the usual cop mustache. He'd been town sheriff for ten years. He was always talking about taking time off and taking my aunt fishing, someday, but they both seemed too busy to do it. I kept hinting to my aunt, if she wanted to she had Mondays and Tuesdays off. It seemed when she was off, he wasn't, or something came up. Being sheriff he was always on call. But he had several deputies to mind the town and rest of the county while he was gone. Nothing really exciting happened here. Not usually, and not since I'd moved here. Only the usual things, like accidents, bar brawls, or the hooligans who often raced through town on Harleys. That sort of thing. Once a man fell into the river off a fishing boat, but that took the river patrol, which was state-run, yet he was there to meet the boat along with the paramedics.

The tap on the window behind me twirled me about. There he was. The bane of my existence. Handsome. Tall. Cleft chin. Athletic. Blond and eighteen. The combination would throw most girl's hormones into a state of emergency, but not me. Anthony James Beaumont the Third—AJ to his friends. His groupies called him Beau. I was not one.

I stared at him through the window of the bookstore wanting to curse aloud, but did it in my head. He brought both broad hands up and pressed them against the glass, leaving large finger and palm prints, and then made a face at me. Like that was supposed to impress me. Oh be still my beating heart! I gave him a squint of disapproval, especially since we'd just had the windows cleaned the other day. I rolled my eyes. His smile broadened, revealing the dimples some women go for, and pointed to the door. I turned my back on him. I knew he'd walk in and pester me for a date, despite my trying to ignore and discourage him repeatedly. For some reason AJ Beaumont III had begun asking me out three weeks ago when he saw me at Miranda's down the way. I'd rebuffed him then, and every time since. But he kept asking me out. I don't know. Maybe he thought I was playing hard-to-get like some girls do. I don't play games. I simply wasn't interested in AJ. To me he was A Pain In The Neck. His family had been one of the founding families of this town—back when the steam engine was the only power. They've remained here for three generations. Maybe four, but who's counting? AJ's family lives in a very large red brick mansion on the tallest snob hill overlooking the river. They owned one bank, plus his father was a big lawyer. The annoying thing is he doesn't buy anything when he comes in here. I suppose that only proved he didn't read.

I wasn't sure why he was attracted to me. Because I wasn't blonde, which I know his last girlfriend was. I don't usually wear make-up, but I've been told I'm pretty. I simply don't like to put gunk on my face and look like something between a hooker and a super-model. Once in a while I might put on mascara, just so that my eyes don't look lost, but that's it.

AJ stepped in, his big feet clomping over the wooden floor making a bee-line for me. Both my aunt and Weeks looked up. My aunt's gaze darted my way with a certain glimmer in them.

My face flushed, the heat rose from my neck to my face. This wasn't happening. I ignored AJ while straightening things on a shelf that didn't really need straightening.

Hi, Lainey, AJ said, leaning up against a pole in the middle of the store.

Hi, I said, my voice flat, not looking at him. I stepped away, pulled out a couple of books on a shelf, which were in the wrong place, and walked away to put them where they belonged. AJ followed me. He was playing with a small ball. I hazard a glance his way and saw it was a Hacky Sack ball. He'd throw it up and catch it, repeatedly. With his jerking motions, a necklace he wore jiggled a little bit. Made of gold, the light shimmered on the small diamond in the 'o' part of the year we graduated high school—2017. Some of us bought necklaces instead of rings. Others, who had money, like AJ, bought both. Everyone usually ordered their birthstone for the gemstone. Mine was the peridot. I bought the ring, whereas some of my friends went with the necklace. For one reason, it wasn't quite as expensive as the ring. My aunt helped pay for mine, saying it was something I would keep for life.

I bet you thought you wouldn't see me today, AJ said.

No such luck, I said, deadpan. He chuckled.

I'd like to ask if you'd like to go out with me tonight.

Sorry. I've got plans. Which I did, this time. Really.

Oh, too bad. Thought I'd take you to The Huddle. Some dude is going to be playing there tonight.

Brett Rutherford. His name popped out of my mouth before I could take it back. A nervous smile spread across my face at AJ's sudden look of surprise. I turned away, and went around the shelf to the other side. He followed me, but wasn't playing catch with the ball any more.

Do you know him, or something? a note of jealousy in his voice. I felt he had no business feeling jealous. We weren't dating. I wasn't about to go out with him so he had no right to ask me anything like this.

Maybe I do. I actually knew Brett from when I went to school in De Witt, before I moved here. He had been dating someone else at the time, but I'd always had a crush on him. I hadn't seen him in two years, after I moved here.

So… AJ leaned against the shelf where I was aimlessly trying to rearrange some books that didn't need rearranging. You know this dude?

I went to school with him, back in De Witt, I said.

Ohhh, he said, head leaning back as he eyed me. So, you haven't seen him or, like, talked to him since?

No. Was it getting hot in here, or was it me? I moved away from AJ.

So, why won't you go with me? he pressed.

I stopped and turned to him. I'm going with a couple of my friends. There I said it. My hands were shaking as I moved a book from one spot to another.

I see. So you'd rather go out with your stupid little friends than go out with me? he sounded both insulted and insulting.

That's right, I said, setting my jaw.

AJ's blue eyes were burning. Fine. I'll ask someone else. AJ turned away and was out the door in two seconds. Good riddance.

I watched him dart out of the shop, and walk toward his red truck, and open the driver's door. A car approached from behind and the driver honked their horn. He turned to the white convertible. Angry at first, he spun to give them grief, but stopped. Hand raised, he greeted them and stepped over to the passenger's side. Two women in the convertible smiled and began talking to him. I recognized at least one with the short-cropped hair dyed an extraordinary blue, red and purple. Nose rings looked like snot, and tats up and down her arms looked more like she needed to go home and wash the dirt off. Not that I'm against tattoos, mind, but I like them small and discrete, such as on the ankle, small of the back, or perhaps the left boob.

The name didn't come to me right away, but I thought her name was Bridget-something. The girl beside her had snaky dreads, and it was hard to say what color hair she was born with, as it graduated down starting with electric blue, pure white and black at the ends. Her eye make-up done in such a way it would have sent me screaming in the other direction had I met her in a dark alley, thinking I'd walked onto the set of a horror movie about evil clowns and dolls.

They laughed at something one of them said. Then, AJ looked back at the window—right at me as though to rub it in he had plenty of choices. Unfazed, I turned away, making it clear this didn't bother me—which it didn't, by the way.

The car with Bridget-something at the wheel, and friend riding shotgun, chirped her tires, and I had to glance back out there. I took in the fact Bridget's car had dealership plates. Hmm.

To the sound of AJ's truck starting up, I ambled over to where my aunt and Weeks were leaning on the counter looking at me. Nervous energy made me pull myself up to sit on the counter. No one was in the store, so my aunt didn't object.

Did you straighten the books? she asked.

Yep.

Did AJ ask you out? Weeks asked.

Yep.

And?

I said no. I jumped off the counter. This third degree was the usual thing I had to endure. If I were home, I'd go up to my room. But, unfortunately, I was at work. And held at their mercy.

Moving around to the back of the counter, I straightened bags, and other things, waiting for the two to get bored with my monosyllabic answers. Weeks took of sip of his coffee, and ran his thumb and forefinger over his mustache.

So. Trouble in paradise? Weeks asked, a smile creasing the deep crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Oh, ha-ha.

Not in my paradise, I muttered, and stooped down behind the counter to move the bags around in the shelf. I pulled out more colored tissue for wrapping the smaller things we sold, and straightened it all unnecessarily.

Weeks sipped his coffee looking at me. Then why won't you go out with him?

He… spits.

There was a pause as I stepped away to re-arrange the magazines further away. I had a long list of why I wouldn't go out with AJ. I mean I'd actually wrote it all down. Among the reasons to not go out with him were far more grievous than spitting—well, he did spit and I abhorred that in guys—but I didn't say any of those other things. Like he's full of himself, he swears too much, he has a bunch of groupies who hang on his every word, he's self-centered and thinks he's God's gift to women. But I didn't say any of that. Nope. I went with 'he spits'.

Wow, Weeks said. AJ's a good looking guy. Rich. I hear he's got a scholarship. Going to UCLA, from what I'm hearing. He looked at my aunt and said, He's got one hell of an arm. It wouldn't surprise me if he gets drafted into the NFL after college.

Don't waste your breath, my aunt said low to Weeks, stemming off his lists of reasons I should be dating AJ Beaumont. She has her own agenda.

The little bell over the door jingled, announcing someone had stepped in. Literally, I was saved by the bell.

Morning Irene, Aunt Jessica said pleasantly. It was Irene Hampa, the Herb Lady, as we called her. Her hair was that dark iron gray and wiry, coming to her shoulders. When it was humid, like today, it stuck out every which-way. Today she wore a floppy yellow hat in an attempt to tame her mane to some degree. Her thin frame was concealed in a denim dress that came to her calves. She wore slip-on canvas shoes for her summer attire. These had a flower pattern on them. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties, but I couldn't tell ages past forty if my life depended upon it.

As if out of nowhere, Poe jumped on the counter and meowed, looked expectantly to Irene and she dutifully ran her hand over his silky black back which arched to her touch.

Good morning, Mr. Poe. Sheriff. She nodded to him and he nodded back with a quick Mornin'.

Jessica, I was just walking down to my shop to open it up. Thought I'd stop and check to see if you got my order in, yet. Irene said.

No. I don't think so, but let me check quickly for you. My aunt bent and looked for the orders we got under the counter. She straightened. Nope nothing yet. But UPS hasn't come in today. Try later on.

That's alright. Oh, Lainey, dear. Here, Irene called, stepping across the floor. I turned away from what I was doing and found her holding out a couple sheets of paper to me. These are all the poisonous herbs, and other plants that, if taken internally, could make you sick or cause death.

Oh, thank you. I took the list, and excitedly looked through it. She'd scribbled names of plants in both the English and the Latin down the page in her distinctive cursive.

Belladona—atropine—is especially deadly, Irene said with a wink, shaking a finger at the list in my hand. Think I saw a show where it was used in some preserves and got a lot of people sick. The murderer took just enough to draw the suspicion off herself.

List of poisons? My aunt's eyes went large while watching the exchange. Who you going to poison, Lainey? She said it in a joking way with a sputtering chuckle at the end.

AJ? Weeks made a jab, a smirk on his lips.

Embarrassed, I darted a look at them. It's for my—uh—book, I mumbled. She still didn't get that I was a writer, and that I needed to research anything and everything for how to kill people—how the murderer would kill someone, of course—in the book. I still wanted to talk to Weeks about weapons, but hadn't gotten up the nerve, yet. He was so busy, anyway, I almost never got a chance to pick his brain, unless he came over for dinner. I was hoping he'd be coming for Sunday night dinner, like he always did.

Oh, don't worry. It's just a list for her murder book, Irene said, batting the air dismissively. She called it my murder book. Cute. It was only a thin notebook with scene and character notations, and lists of every way a person could kill someone. The poison list had been on my bucket list. Now I could check that off. I only needed handguns and shotguns. I knew there were a lot of different guns out there, but I wanted the most basic ones to keep it simple. Did people really care if you used a .38, or a .45? Only a cop would. I had a lot to learn, but I figured Weeks would be a wealth of information, once I got up the courage to ask him.

Irene turned, smiling at me. I had a hard time not focusing on her twisted front teeth. They were long, and one tried to cross the other. It was hard not to stare, but I did my best to avert my gaze and try to look into her gray-blue eyes.

Thank you, I said.

No problem. I wrote it all out last night. I don't mind helping out a budding author. She chuckled as she turned back to exit the shop. Then she stopped. Oh, and don't forget about fungi.

I've got Athletes Foot, Weeks put in, chuckling at our exchange. Does that count? My aunt punched him in the arm and he winced playfully, putting a protective hand over it.

Irene threw him a humorless look. That can be cured, you know. I've told you about it.

Uh-huh. Weeks said. I don't want my feet to smell worse than they already do. Thank you.

Ignoring Weeks, Irene said to me, Anyway, you can Google most, if not all of those, including the poisonous mushrooms.

Thank you, I will, I said again as she turned to go. I looked over the names of herbs. Wow. So many. I couldn't wait to Google them and see how poisonous they really were, and what they looked like.

I'll call you, later, Jessica. Thanks. Hand raised, a smile creating parentheses in her cheeks, Herb Lady floated out the door.

So, why won't you go out with him? Weeks was standing near me, and his question startled me. He was trying to needle me. I could tell by that smile on his face. He too good looking? Too into sports? Too rich?

All of the above, I said, and caught the look my aunt's face. He's not my type. Jeeze! Throwing my hands up, I stomped to the back room and pulled out the vacuum cleaner, hoping the noise would keep me from having further conversation on this subject. The lint in a few aisles looked like one of our stuffed toys had busted open. But mostly I needed to get away from the chuckles that spouted from Weeks. He could be a pain in the butt sometimes.

With the vacuum going, my mind had a moment to drift to more pleasant things. Naturally it went to Brett Rutherford. We'd gone to high school together, back when I had lived in De Witt, before my parents had died. We'd had only one class together. A creative writing class. He wrote fantasy, while I dabbled—at the time—with romance, but I switched to writing murder mysteries because I realized I didn't have to put sex scenes in them (it was too embarrassing writing, and then reading the chapters in class). Besides, I was a virgin, what did I know about sex? I didn't like writing about something I'd had little experience with. Well, that was my excuse, anyway. What did I know about murder? Nothing. But I was trying to learn all I could about writing it.

Back to Brett… I hadn't seen Brett in five years. I wondered what he looked like now. I wondered if he'd even remember me. I wondered if he was still going out with Rebeca Dawson. So many questions. I hoped I would at least get to see him, if not speak with him, tonight.

CHAPTER 2

The Riverside Bar & Grill was the place where nearly everyone—at least the blue-collar people—went to lunch. It was a good meal at a good price. There was a bar, but there was also a separate dining room for the family.

For the most part, a lot of regulars came here, as well as sight seers, and people who came through on their way to another destination. Those who were more affluent stopped in at the Blue Hampton Inn & Suites. There was also The Pelican, which served lunch and dinner, just up the hill, looking down on the river. The riverboat, The Miss Twila, sat idle as I walked up the street. I didn't see Uncle Ed anywhere. Actually, he was my great uncle, but I called him uncle, especially since he'd told me to never call him great uncle. Uncle Ed did his Mark Twain impersonation on The Miss Twila, which sat docked nearby. It was a grand riverboat, all white with turquoise trim. I was told it was 126 feet long and 30 feet wide with twin diesel Cummins engines. Not sure if that's impressive, but the men seem to think so.

I was about to duck into The Riverside when I paused and had just the slightest little twinge of excitement in my belly. The Coffee Huddle was at the end of town, about five blocks away, in one of the oldest sections. It sat next to the building which housed the Old Mill Bank (not one owned by the Beaumonts). Except for a needle and yarn shop, there were hardly any other stores in that section of town.

Today, my palate was into a decedent pub burger, and they made the best here at The Riverside. I usually sat in a booth, but they were all taken, so I took a table on the far side, next to a window so I could look out. From my spot I could both look into the dining room with a good portion of the bar visible past the doorway, and out at the street. Up the hill was the Montclair Library on one side, and on the other stood a three-story white-washed building made of those large cement bricks. A cobbled lane from back in the halcyon days (used now only when someone's rambunctious child wants to explore and climb), rose at a steep incline between the two buildings. Montclair Boutiques took up the first two floors, the third floor held apartments. Two windows stood open without benefit of a screen, and light blue curtains fluttered in the breeze out the window. The street below was narrow, only two lanes, with parallel parking on both sides. Traffic was anywhere from sporadic to constant along the River Road, also known as Front Street.

Noise pulled my gaze to outside the window where I sat. A man pulled up on a Harley. Two more noisy Harleys pulled up and joined him. I recognized one of the men. It was the man in black from this morning. Finally I saw his face. I decided he was somewhat handsome, I made him out to be at least thirty, if not a little older. Rugged, tall and lean—if I were to write it into a book.

He was the tallest one of the three, and wore only black, but at the moment, the hat was missing. The other two had beards. He didn't look quite as rough as the other two, almost like he didn't really fit in. I wondered, now that I could see his face plainly, if this man was wanted, or something and hoped that Sheriff Weeks wouldn't forget to look for the man in his mug book, or whatever he looked in. Probably in his computer. Boy, I had a lot to learn about police business.

The three men walked in, threw their legs over the bar stools and leaned on the bar. They were in the midst of a rowdy conversation, laughing at something one had said. At last something worthwhile to jot down at some point in my day. I found myself wishing I'd brought my notebook in order to make notes. My powers of observation had been heightened after taking my first creative writing class in my senior year. Our first assignment was to go to some public place—a park, restaurant, or library—and watch people and choose one subject and write down everything you notice about them, and what they were doing. This was tricky, because you didn't want to look like you were stalking them. And naturally, if you kept staring at that person, they tended to look back at you. Then, out of embarrassment, you had to quit your observations, or maybe strike up a conversation. But I was shy, and so I never did that. I simply moved on to someone who wasn't aware of me. This writing exercise was key in learning how to write how people moved, or walked, and what they did, how they talked, and so forth.

Of course, I didn't want these rough, Harley-riding men to know I watched them. Fortunately, they all sat at the bar, backs to me, and a whole room away. I could watch them all I wanted, unless one of them turned around. They all ordered beers.

The heavy-set waitress sauntered up to my table, blocking my view of the bar. Her name was Bea, she had red hair—probably died, since she had to be pushing forty—piled up on top of her head with lots of hairspray and pins to hold it. I gave her my order. Alright, sweetie, that'll be comin' right up, she said in a little drawl. Bea turned and chugged back toward the door to the kitchen. Over the music from the juke box she yelled out my order for a pub burger and fries. The smell of grease was heavy on the air vents today, and it made me hungrier the longer I sat. Thankfully, Bea brought me my drink and I sipped on that until my burger and fries came. I could get a refill anytime I wanted.

Meanwhile, I watched the three men, wondering why they were here, in our small town. At least I'd never seen any of them before this. I pulled out a paper napkin from the holder and began to jot things down—couldn't help it—as I observed. All three wore those chains that attached to their wallets—as if someone would be stupid enough to try and pick their pocket. One had so many tattoos up and down his arms, he looked like he was bruised badly in some sort of motorcycle accident. I noticed the tall one raised his beer with his left hand. He drank it down and ordered another. Wow, thirsty guy. He probably shouldn't be allowed to drive after however many beers he would have. Especially on a motorcycle.

After making copious notes on three sheets of napkins (I couldn't help myself, and had to jot a few things down on whatever was available), I leaned my chin in my hand, elbow on the table, and looked outside. I day dreamed of seeing Brett again. I hoped I wasn't going to be disappointed when I saw him after two years. I was certain by now he was engaged to Rebbecca Dawson. A guy as good looking as Brett couldn't stay single long. Unless the both of them wanted to get college out of the way first.

I let go a sigh. Who was I kidding? The guys I wanted to date were either already dating someone or, not interested in me. (And AJ doesn't count, because I wasn't into him.) Maybe I was too plain-Jane? Was it my glasses? But Geek was in, wasn't it? No matter, I would wear my contacts tonight.

Laughter from the bar turned my attention back to the three men. My gaze drifted to the obese waitress who stood three booths down, filling coffee cups for an older couple. She leaned over to them and said something, and all three of them looked back to the men at the bar. A little bar room gossip perhaps? I wondered. She leaned toward the couple again, spoke to them low enough no one else could hear her over the music. The couple nodded in unison, their expressions grim. They were talking about the bikers, I knew by their glances.

I pondered what they might have been talking about, and then my lunch came on Bea's arm along with a few other lunches. I lifted the gross pickle slice off my burger, poured catchup all over it (no mustard), and put it back together. I ate ravenously, knowing I would have to get back to the bookstore so my aunt could take her lunch. Sometimes she ate a sandwich while she was there in the shop, but today, she had plans to go out with Sheriff Weeks, which I encouraged wholeheartedly. While I ate, I looked out the window, admiring the expensive clothes in the boutique across the street. A moment later, Arline Rochelle stepped out of the boutique. Hollywood thin, she could wear anything. Two bags swung from her arms. She looked happy as the proverbial cat that ate the canary. It wasn't the first time I wondered where she got her money. As far as I knew she wasn't working anywhere. And her family wasn't well-to-do. I followed Arline with my eyes until she sashayed out of view. Two minutes later, she drove past in a red convertible. Again, I had to wonder if she wasn't doing something illegal. There had been a rumor her grandmother had died and left her some money. Maybe that's where the money had come from, and she was having a good old time spending it.

I finished my lunch, paid my bill at the table, leaving a tip, and made my way quickly to the front door. At the same time, the three men got up. The two bearded dudes were ahead of the tall one in black. I slowed my pace, letting the men file out ahead of me. Not the best idea to be behind them, because, for one thing, their hygiene was much to be desired. Except for Mr. Black, there was definitely aftershave and warm deodorant wafting from him. My eyes focused on his long hair. Golden highlights throughout his brown locks, and I found myself oddly attracted to him. Was it a rule, or something that innocent women liked dangerous guys? I wasn't sure. I had to question my attraction to this older man. I decided it was more my writer's curiosity than anything else.

I was four steps to freedom when Mr. Black seemed to sense my presence behind him, turned and stopped. Smiling, he held the door, and gestured for me to go ahead. Blue eyes glittered down at me as I ducked through the door. I made a sharp left and scooted up the sidewalk. I tried not to walk obviously fast, but I was breathless when I got to the end of the block, and waited for traffic to clear before I jogged across the street. Not once did I look back, but I did hear the Harleys start up.

Darting inside the bookstore, Sheriff Weeks' voice filled my ears. That guy has a rap sheet as long as my arm—maybe longer!

I stopped inside the door, and both darted looks at me.

Who's got a rap sheet? I said.

Weeks turned to me, thumb arched over one shoulder, he said, That guy this morning? His name is Hal Lassiter. He was doing time for a robbery, and ADW—assault with a deadly weapon—and served fifteen, now he's out. Weeks shook his head and hissed like a flat tire. No wonder I didn't recognize him. I wasn't sheriff when this happened, I was working down in Saint Louis. But it was in the papers down there.

Really? A chill raced up my back. Those startling blue eyes of the man who held the door for me moments ago, came back to me. Now I had a name to go with the face. Hal Lassiter. Ex con. I had to rethink my being attracted to him.

Yes. He's a dangerous guy. Steer clear of him. Weeks' warning sent a shiver through me again.

Moving slowly passed them, I deposited my purse under the counter on a shelf. On second thought, I pulled it out and held it in my arms, wondering where to hide it. Somehow placing it in the normal place seemed too careless. Anybody could come in, go around the counter and grab it. My legs were shaking. I could use something sweet. Maybe I should have gotten a pop out of the machine outside. I might still. I debated what to do, and found I couldn't move.

Lainey, what's wrong? Aunt Jessica said, looking at me with concern. I darted my gaze between both my aunt and Weeks.

I—uh—I saw him, I said, finding my throat was suddenly dry. Why was I so unnerved? The guy merely opened the door for me. Smiled at me, too. Maybe it was the tight smile, or the large, bright blue eyes, my strange attraction to him, and now knowing that he'd been involved in a robbery.

You saw who? My aunt asked.

That guy, I said.

What guy? Weeks said.

The one you were just talking about! My words came out more forcefully than I'd intended. Lassiter, wasn't it?

Where?

At the bar and grill. He was with two other guys.

Oh, this is great. He's hooked up with his pals, no doubt.

The sound of Harleys exploded down the quiet street. All three of us looked out the window to watch the three men on their Hogs zoom by, making a grand and exceedingly loud exit.

That was them? Weeks asked, head nodding in the general direction. He never wore a tie on his brown sheriff's shirt, unlike the rest of his men and women of the force.

I nodded. The thought of all of them drinking beer and then driving a motorcycle gave me pause. Glad I wasn't on the road right now.

Weeks moved his hand to his collar mike, and spoke to someone. Williams, three Harleys just headed south out of town, check their plates. I wanna know if any of them have any outstandings. Got it?

Right, Sheriff, came the response.

They were drinking, I put in, and felt ill as though I were tattling on a big bully.

Weeks spoke into his mike again. Check for DUI, too, just to be safe.

Will do.

Call for backup, if you need it. I'm on a J-four, but I'm available if you need me. I knew a J-4 was cop-speak for meal break.

Weeks lowered his large hand bringing it down on the counter. Anyway, Jess, you ready to go to lunch?

More than ever. I'm starved! She shouldered her purse and looked back at me. You'll be alright, Lainey, dear?

Sure. I'll be fine. Maybe if I lock the door and hide in the back. Still feeling on edge, I shoved my purse behind a large stuffed bunny that needed his ear repaired, under the counter. I felt that if anyone would be trying to steal it, they would have to get past the large bunny, and Poe. Maybe if Poe growled, hissed and swatted his paw at them, they would think twice about looking there. He wasn't de-clawed.

You'll protect me, right, Poe? I scratched Poe's chin as my aunt and the sheriff went out the door.

I'm going to call his parole officer and make sure he knows where this guy is… Weeks' last comment echoed as the door closed.

There were two people in the store browsing. I could handle customers. I couldn't handle robbers, and ex-cons. But my afternoon went by smoothly. My aunt would have a nice lunch with her honey. I was sometimes very glad that my aunt dated a cop. You automatically think of protection being close at hand. After