Cardiac Arrest: Mercy Mares Mystery, #11

By Ava Mallory

Mercy can't handle change.

 

For a traveling nurse, that's a bad problem to have. An even worse problem is waking up from a cat nap to find her homebound client, the country's #1 true crime podcaster, dead... and half the police force at the front door. As the only other person in the house, Mercy knows she's in a world of trouble.

 

With stacks of investigative notes for an upcoming podcast, she doesn't have access to, a growing list of suspects, a mysterious neighbor, who may or may not be a stalker, the police breathing down her neck, and her worried husband desperate for her to return home, Mercy has a lot on her proverbial plate, and none of it is particularly appetizing. As she searches for answers, the body count grows at an alarming rate and all roads lead to her.

 

Can she catch a killer and clear her name before the heinous crimes are pinned on her? Cardiac Arrest is the eleventh title in the Mercy Mares Mystery Series.

 

Each can be read as a standalone. This action-packed novella is approximately 30,000 words of cozy mystery fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Mallory
• Release date: Jul 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223426806

Ava Mallory

Ava Mallory is brilliant, worldly and multi-talented - in her dreams. In reality, she spends her days catering to the often nonsensical, utterly impossible, never-ending needs of four children between the ages of 24 and 10.  When she completes every task on their "Mom, can-you-do" list, she sneaks off into her home office - most often without sleep, but always with coffee & chocolate in hand - and writes until her brain and her body finally give way or one of the many streaming television programs she's addicted to returns with new episodes. Either way, words make it on the page and her fans will not stage a revolt.  Currently, Ava is hard at work on future Mercy Mares novels and developing two new Cozy Mystery series'. 

Book preview

Cardiac Arrest

Mercy Mares Mystery

Book 11

Ava Mallory

Copyright

Copyright @2019 Ava Mallory, All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: Ava Mallory

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Contents

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 21

Note from Ava Mallory

Chapter 1

Why didn’t they kill me, too?

Whiting P.D. arrived with sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing, and guns blazing.

Ma’am, put your hands up, turn around, and back up slowly toward the door. A handsome, dark-haired officer stood at the front door with a sea of uniformed men and women behind him, positioned like they were about to raid the house.

I turned my back to them but froze at the sight of my homebound client’s lifeless body wedged between her antique Eighteenth Century Victorian Rococo revival sofa and the matching carved settee in the center of the formal living room—less than three feet from where I’d taken a cat nap that turned into a three-hour slumber on the chaise lounge in front of the six-foot tall limestone fireplace.

Anastasia Taffy Emerson, my now dead client, was a celebrity, according to her attorney, Dana Gillespie, the person who’d hired me to care for her while she recuperated from hip replacement surgery.

Taffy produced and hosted a true-crime podcast—Nothing but the Truth Podcast—that had received national notoriety after she helped solve a fifty-year-old murder mystery four years ago.

Three hours ago, she was elbow deep in a secret cold case file for an upcoming series about a potential serial killer on the shores of Lake Michigan. That, I knew for sure because I’d wheeled her to her desk, peeked at the files, apologized for being nosy, checked her vitals, and tiptoed out of the small six-by-nine room in search of a place to put my feet up for a little while. I found the chaise lounge and made myself comfortable. It only took a few minutes before I started to nod off. I set the alarm on my watch. I’d planned to check-in with Taffy every twenty minutes. If she needed me before that, all she had to do was ring the bell or call my cellphone. A quick jog down the front hallway, through the kitchen, and into her office in the back of the house and I could help her with whatever she needed. Then this happened.

Ma’am? the officer urged. Put your hands where I can see them.

My hands trembled so violently, getting them over my head was near impossible. My teeth chattered. My knees wobbled. My bladder threatened to explode. I did what he said, anyway.

Good. Back up toward the sound of my voice.

My feet felt like lead; they wouldn’t budge.

Do it now! a female officer demanded.

I did as she said, because she sounded like she meant business. I couldn’t pull my gaze from Taffy as I backed up, though. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Don’t speak, the female officer said.

Call it reflex or sheer ignorance, but I had to say something in my defense. I’m the one who called you. I did nothing wrong. I had no reason to murder her. I’m a traveling nurse and she’s my—

Who said anything about murder? the female officer asked.

I turned my head in her direction.

The officers pulled guns out of their holsters and pointed them at me.

The female officer shook her head and a few strands of jet-black hair sprung from the ballerina bun at the nape of her neck. Sounds like a confession to me.

My throat went dry.

The nose of a gun on the back of my head immediately made me change my mind about speaking. Nothing I had to say would help.

Three other officers moved in around me. One pulled my arms behind my back and slapped handcuffs around my wrists. A male officer pulled me to him and asked the female officer to check my pockets for weapons.

You’ve got this all wrong, I started even though my brain screamed at me to shut my mouth.

The female officer, N. Hernandez, according to her name tag, gave me the stink eye. Calm down.

Not much got my goat, but the words calm down rattled my nerves every time I heard them. That’s a little hard to do when there’s a gun pointed at my head. I called you for help. Why are you treating me like a suspect?

Officer Hernandez glanced at the male officer who held a gun to the back of my head. He lowered his arm but kept the gun in his hand.

Let’s take a breath, he said. I twisted to see him. No one called you a suspect. He motioned for the other officers to stand down. Why don’t we leave the room to discuss this in private?

I knew this trick. He played the nice guy, the good cop, while the other one, Officer Hernandez, played it tough like the bad cop. Several years of dating and two years of marriage to a police chief taught me just enough about law enforcement tactics to be dangerous.

The officer pulled me out of the room and into the foyer. Tell me what happened. He barked orders at the others while he kept his hazel eyes focused on me. 

The officers jumped into action with deliberate, careful movements around Taffy’s body. Two knelt on either side of her. Another took notes. One small female officer, a blonde with sea-green eyes searched the room, presumably looking for clues.

The one with the notebook said, White female. Approximately forty to sixty years old. Wound on the right side of her head. Blood on the back of her head and neck.

Forty to sixty? That’s a wide range, don’t you think? I asked.

He knitted his brows. Ma’am. His tone told me everything I needed to know. He didn’t want any commentary from the peanut gallery.

Sorry, but you need to work on your guessing skills. You’re way off the mark, officer. She’s thirty-four.

He lifted a brow. She is?

I nodded.

Officer Hernandez nudged two of her fellow officers aside and knelt next to Taffy’s body. Keep working, Galvin, she said to the officer with the notebook. She leaned over Taffy’s body. Did she have a rough life? Her cheeks flushed when the officer with me clucked his tongue at her. If this is what thirty-four looks like, may I not live to see it.

I shook my head at her insensitivity.

The officer with me grumbled something under his breath.

That was a little harsh, don’t you think? I asked.

Hernandez pursed her lips and turned her attention back to Taffy. Okay, so we’ll have to confirm her age later.

I hadn’t known Taffy long but standing up for her felt like the right thing to do. Ms. Emmerson is... I mean, was a vibrant, bold woman, who was full of spunk. I didn’t know her long, but I knew her long enough to know she wouldn’t appreciate crude remarks about her appearance or her current condition.

Hernandez opened her mouth as if ready to respond, but the officer with me, shook his head.

I continued, Taffy has... had medical conditions. I’m here to care for her while she recovers from hip replacement surgery.

It was as if Hernandez couldn’t help herself. She blurted, Hip replacement? What thirty-four-year-old do you know who has had hip replacement surgery? That’s for elderly people.

Containing my emotions was a skill I hadn’t mastered in my forty-nine years of life and after her comment, I was glad I hadn’t. I’m sorry, but does your protocol call for insulting crime victims?

Hernandez smirked and asked, What other medical conditions did she have?

HIPAA, I said.

She arched a brow. Say that again.

Health Information Portability and Privacy Act. That means I can’t share her medical information with you unless you have a warrant.

She shrugged. Fine. She turned her attention back to Taffy. Looks like she took a blow to the head. Fall, maybe? She fixed her gaze on me.

I shook my head. That’s not possible. She was in a wheelchair. She knew not to get out by herself. I glanced at the wheelchair. It sat facing the wrong way in the middle of the room. How did I not hear any of this?

She pursed her lips and shrugged.

I can’t believe this happened. I was supposed to take care of her, I said as I fought tears.

"You took care