The Body in the Cornfield: A Rose Creek Mystery, #2

By Catherine Dilts

Lawyer Drew Brauner's dream job with the Rose Creek historical amphitheater has devolved into wrangling contentious cats—and those cats have claws. The leading man is a disaster waiting to happen, with more enemies than the musical Oklahoma! has dance steps.

 

IT expert Callie Garcia's dream life at the Double C Ranch takes a nightmarish turn when her husband's alcoholic cousin shows up with no memory of the previous night. Clint believes in supporting family no matter what, but Callie draws the line when the police become involved.

 

Mathematician Shanice Hailey thought she'd met the man of her dreams—until he left for an extended business trip. Now, she fears he's giving her the long-distance brushoff. When her match-making sisters pressure her to return to Chicago, Shanice wonders if it's time to leave Rose Creek behind.

 

A feral cat leads chemist Makenzie Selkirk to a litter of kittens—trapped by a body in Farmer Nibley's cornfield. Eager to help the cat, and to find the killer, Makenzie's amateur sleuthing endangers her budding relationship with Deputy Sage.

The Rose Creek Reads Book Club tackles a new mystery with too many suspects and not enough clues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Feb 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781645994992

Book preview

Chapter One

Drew Brauner’s original delight at being involved in a live-streamed production of Oklahoma! was fading fast. The historic Rose Creek Natural Amphitheater, nestled in the Oklahoma Ozark foothills, was a place of magic. Recently though, her job as assistant manager had devolved into wrangling contentious cats. Some of those cats had claws.

He’s too old for the role, theater manager Emmett Flagstone muttered. Gordon MacRae was thirty-four when he played Curly in the 1955 movie.

Mr. Danworthy looks every bit his age, Betty Flagstone said, shaking her head.

And then some.

Drew inhaled a startled breath as Danworthy wobbled toward the apron. He’s going to fall off the stage. Drew stood, feeling helpless from her seat halfway up the stone amphitheater.

Producer Mariel Hoffstetter dashed forward to grab Corey Danworthy as the actor listed toward the edge of the stage. The petite brunette grasped his arm, but the much bulkier actor pitched forward. Stagehands rushed to the rescue, saving them both from plummeting into the narrow orchestra pit.

Why don’t we call it a day? Mariel brushed her hands down her tailored jacket. Go sleep it off in your trailer, Corey.

I’m fine, he blustered. Just dehydrated. Where’s my water?

A stagehand screwed the top off the actor’s refillable bottle and held it under the spigot of a five-gallon water container. He paused, then sniffed Corey’s water bottle, wrinkling his nose.

Drew took his reaction as confirmation that Corey was drinking on stage. An offense that would result in instant termination, if the actor wasn’t the presumed cash cow whose name was selling millions of tickets to the live streaming event.

Best known for his roles in action-adventure movies of dubious quality but with huge box office returns, Corey had once possessed six-pack abs and chiseled features. Now at only fifty-six, he was paunchy and jowly.

Emmett shook his head. What was Mariel thinking?

Betty placed a hand on the sleeve of her husband’s loose-fitting white shirt. The couple were as short and round as hobbits. Both had laugh lines etched deep into their plump faces. Normally full of optimism and good cheer, they appeared to be feeling the same strain as Drew.

Mariel’s a good producer, Betty whispered. She understands the bottom line, and has the chops required to bring in a name big enough to guarantee success.

At the rate things are going, Emmett muttered, this production will make our little theater a laughingstock.

When Drew had landed in the small town of Rose Creek four months earlier with precious little planning, she quickly realized working in her great-uncle’s law firm would not support herself and her eight-year-old son. Hosting the musical had brought in enough money for Emmett to hire Drew parttime. The assistant manager position had been a godsend.

Or at least, it had seemed that way before the reality of babysitting prima donna actors, musicians, and demanding theater staff began to take its toll.

Teagan Hynes, the actress playing the flirtatious Ado Addie Carnes, herded Corey off stage. She had been slated to play the female lead role of Laurey Williams, until it was determined the fresh young beauty reflected too harsh a spotlight on Corey’s obvious physical decline. The rumor was, off stage she was determined to continue playing his leading lady.

As the crew gathered up props used in the rehearsal, Corey’s understudy approached the director.

Let me fill in so the rest of the cast can rehearse. With a lean, athletic build and a clean-cut look, forty-two-year-old Scott Hill seemed the better choice for the cowboy leading man in the musical. He was also a complete unknown.

We’ll never finish an entire scene if we keep calling it a day every time Mr. Danworthy shows up to work drunk, Director Delmar Effton complained.

I feel a migraine coming on. Mariel rubbed her right temple with her fingertips. Probably due to the storm moving in. I’m taking a break in my trailer. Do whatever you want.

Drew followed the producer’s glance to the blue sky. Dark clouds boiled up in the distance with the promise of another afternoon thunder-boomer. Drew had lived in Rose Creek long enough to know they had an hour or more before the storm would arrive.

Teagan commiserated with Mariel, suggesting various headache cures as the producer walked off stage. Delmar clapped his hands together, which probably didn’t help Mariel’s headache.

Come on, people. The director’s voice carried authority, despite his saggy physique and droopy facial features. Take your places.

Drew sat down on her stone seat in the audience with the Flagstones. Delmar whipped the cast and crew into action. Scott had a pleasant singing voice, and knew all the dance steps. When the leading lady sang, Drew realized that the rumors the local actress had gotten the role because she slept with Corey Danworthy were unfair. Annie Wells had genuine talent.

A California theater company had decided Oklahoma was the ideal location for a live streaming production of the musical Oklahoma! Once a scout had discovered the Amphitheater, things moved swiftly. They brought their troupe, their money, and their Hollywood connections.

Drew understood the attraction to the natural stone theater. Tree limbs draped gracefully over the walls, flowers bloomed in the cracks between the worn stones, and climbing roses scented the final days of May. She had her doubts about whether the special atmosphere of the amphitheater would translate onto theater, computer, television, and cell phone screens during the live streaming. Even if it did, Corey was sure to break the spell with his drunken antics.

A little over an hour later, the storm arrived. Fat raindrops plopped onto the stone seats, releasing an earthy scent. Drew followed the Flagstones in a dash to Emmett’s small office. Rain beat down on the Tudor-style roof.

That was almost the waste of a perfectly good day, Emmett grumbled.

Can’t he be replaced? Drew asked. Scott Hill has a great voice, and he knows the choreography better than Corey.

Corey is undeniably the main draw, Emmett said. A good deal of the tickets have already sold based on his name. Fire him, and the entire show is over. Emmett rubbed a hand across his eyes. The amphitheater is hanging by the proverbial financial thread. I so hoped this production would give us some stability.

Betty moved behind Emmett’s chair and kneaded his shoulders with her stubby fingers. You might as well go home, she told Drew. Get some rest.

Tomorrow’s another busy day, Emmet said with a tired sigh.

And it will be a better day. Drew smiled as she retrieved her tote bag and umbrella from a corner of the office. When she stepped outside, she unfurled the large black umbrella.

Despite her encouraging words to the Flagstones, Drew feared that the lead actor’s unprofessional behavior would close the show before it even began.

The rain came down in a burst that threatened to collapse her umbrella. Drew took shelter under the food tent between the office and the parking lot. A half dozen RV trailers squatted under leafy trees adjacent to the tent. They were assigned to personnel too important to stay in Rose Creek’s modest motels. A farmer had rented his pasture to the theater company despite his suspicion that California Hollywood types could only be up to no good.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her mid-calf peasant skirt. Working at the outdoor amphitheater instead of her Boston law firm had encouraged Drew to trade the designer suits for a more casual, and cooler, style.

I’m heading over, Drew told Super Mom Hannah Esselberry. Hannah had included Drew’s son Parker with her clan for horse camp today.

There’s no hurry, Hannah said. The kids are playing with Legos, and I was already planning on feeding Parker. It’s almost dinnertime.

You’re too kind. Drew might have made more of a protest, but the scents filling the food tent reminded her it had been a long time since she had lunch. I’ll be there soon.

Isn’t your book club tonight? Hannah asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Jill and the boys insist they won’t be able to survive when Parker goes to Boston with his father. They’ll be happy to play while you’re at your meeting.

Plans made, with little input required from Drew, she dropped her phone back into her skirt pocket. The rain showed no sign of slowing. As Drew waited for a window of opportunity to dash to her car, hungry actors entered the tent.

She was the mere assistant to the small-town theater manager. Drew couldn’t advance any careers destined for Broadway theaters or Hollywood sets. Most ignored her while others sent brief greetings her way.

While they grabbed plates and got in line for the sumptuous buffet, the rain slowed. Before Drew made a run for her car, a conversation caught her ear. She lingered, keeping her eyes focused on the scene outside the tent.

Corey would have done us all a favor if he’d fallen off the stage and broken his neck.

I’d gladly be the one to give him a push.

Callie Garcia tugged the handle of the steel utility cart. The tools inside rattled as she walked between the rows. Everything about growing grapes seemed backwards to her. The stony hillside hardly seemed ideal for growing crops, yet vineyards did not thrive in rich damp soil.

Storm’s coming, she told her husband.

Clint pulled a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans. He mopped sweat from his tanned forehead and glanced at the cloudy sky.

The rain will settle the vines into their new home. His words were flavored with a mild Spanish accent he inherited from Cuban parents who had settled in Texas before he was born. This is good timing.

Callie knelt beside a stubby grapevine. Wood fence posts strung with wire stretched across the hillside. Hard to believe these’ll amount to much. But I guess good things take time.

Three years, Clint said. We cannot expect a crop until then.

Callie stood and faced her husband. Her lean, nearly six-foot frame was still half a foot shorter than Clint. I heard back from that gal building the windmill on Red Cedar Meadows, Callie said. She invited us to see her project any time, but told me hers is a turbine using wind to generate energy, whereas a vineyard windmill uses energy to create wind.

Ah, I see. Clint stared across the ten acres comprising their budding vineyard. The breeze rumpled his dark hair. His already athletic build had muscled up from three years of working on their ranch. Perhaps we should look into solar panels. The windmills will be needed to keep the vineyard from freezing.

In late May, it was hard to think about frost damage. The lush green pastures of their expansive northeastern Oklahoma ranch were dotted with horses and cattle, enclosed by white wooden fences.

A noisy engine disrupted the peaceful moment. Callie glanced toward the annoying sound of an ATV grinding up the steep hillside between rows of freshly planted vines.

Of course, he wouldn’t walk from the ranch house. That requires effort.

Callie frowned. George Mendez had arrived at the ranch, broke and needy, two weeks ago. Freshly fired from yet another low-paying job, George was full of good intentions that never saw fulfillment. Clint’s cousin had inherited the family’s good looks and height, but not their common sense and strong work ethic. His love of alcoholic beverages had way more to do with his failures in life than the bad breaks he blamed his mess of an existence on.

Here comes trouble, she muttered.

Clint either chose to ignore her comment, or didn’t hear it above the ATV. George raced up to the couple, skidding to a stop and spraying freshly laid gravel. Expensive gravel, hauled up the hillside and spread out with the help of paid labor. George turned off the engine.

You need to slow down, Clint said. That is not a toy.

George’s boyish grin faded. I figured it was the quickest way up this hill. He had little of the accent that made Clint’s words sound lyrical. In fact, every word out of George’s mouth grated on Callie’s nerves.

A little exercise never hurt a person, Callie said.

Aw, you’re right. George patted his waistline as he perched on the ATV. You guys feed me too good. I’m really grateful you’re letting me stay here. He turned puppy dog eyes onto Callie, but quickly looked away to his gullible cousin. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have a place to sort things out.

Clint turned away to pick up a rake. Callie wondered if he was ever going to see through his cousin’s phony neediness. What George really needed was a swift boot to the backside. Clint held out the rake.

The gravel in this row needs to be leveled, Clint said.

George raised one eyebrow. I’d really like to help, but bad timing, cousin. I drove up here to ask if I can use the truck.

Maybe if you picked up a rake once in a while, Callie said, or a shovel, or a hammer, you’d start makin’ enough money to buy your own truck.

Clint frowned. She hadn’t convinced him yet that George was taking advantage of his good nature.

Sure, George said. I’m happy to help out. But I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.

Tomorrow you may borrow the truck, Clint said. Right now, the vineyard needs attention.

The thing is, those actors that are in town are gonna be hanging out at Virgil’s tonight. Hey, you never know. I might meet some hot Hollywood starlet.

Virgil’s Trail’s End Watering Hole was a dive. Callie and Clint had gone there once. That had been enough for a lifetime. But George had discovered the bar the day after moving in, and would go every night if Clint gave him more liberal use of the truck.

Callie jumped at the sudden boom of thunder. A raindrop plopped onto the ground between George and Clint. Then another. The storm was closing in fast. George recoiled, as though the rain was acid burning his bare arms.

Whoa, I’d better head out before this gets any worse. George started the ATV. You want a ride back to the house, Callie?

He barely waited for Callie to shake her head before he raced out of the vineyard.

You didn’t give him permission to take the truck, Callie said. But there he goes.

Clint pulled his cellphone from his jeans pocket. I’ll tell Mike to take the keys.

The old truck was used by all the hired hands for chores around the ranch. The keys hung on a hook outside ranch foreman Mike Kolczynski’s office. Callie could hear the phone ring through Clint’s speaker, then go to voice mail.

We can stop George. Callie grabbed the handle of the utility cart. If we hurry.

Rain pelted them as they jogged along the rows, then down the steep path leading to the pasture. When they reached the bottom of the slope, they ran toward the barn. Callie’s friend Shanice teased her that the barn was a horse mansion. Nothing but the best for the Garcia livestock. Even Callie’s treasured saddle horses of no particular distinction and even less pedigree enjoyed equine luxury.

Breathing hard, they hurried toward the gate. A battered blue late-model truck rumbled out of the parking lot, sending a spray of rainwater as it bounced through a puddle.

Too late. Callie bent over and breathed deeply. You could call the police and report it’s stolen. At the sharp look from Clint, she added, Just kidding.

Chapter Two

A month had passed since Dr. Sam Grady, renowned horse whisperer, had stolen Shanice Hailey’s heart, then flown to Japan and out of her life. She had received a few text messages claiming he was occupied with temperamental racehorses. Shanice suspected she’d been given a long-distance brushoff.

Only a month, she reminded herself. Shanice thought she felt something real with Sam. But if he didn’t call soon, she would have to admit to herself that she’d been wrong.

Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.

When her phone chimed, Shanice chided herself. Her foolish heart jumped at every text ping and phone call, imagining it might be Sam. This time, the false alarm was her sister.

Hi Charmaine, Shanice said. Or maybe it wasn’t a false alarm. Are Mom and Dad okay?

Never better, Charmaine said. They’re excited about a new branch of the family tree.

Breona told me. Shanice sat on the loveseat that fit nicely in her apartment, half of the upstairs of an old Victorian-style house. Rain pattered on the roof and watered her landlady’s backyard garden. I’m waiting to hear whether it’s a boy or girl before I shop for a present. So what’s going on?

Are you in some sort of a rush, baby sis? Charmaine asked. I thought nothing ever happened in that little town of yours. Well, other than murder.

Nothing that exciting, Shanice said. I’m going to a book club meeting. I have a few minutes to chat.

I hope you have time for your sister, Charmaine said. The phone seems like the only way we know what’s going on in your life. And about the baby gift, you can bring it in person.

Did Breona finally set a date for the baby shower? Shanice asked.

Her girlfriends had all kinds of trouble coordinating their schedules. I figured the invitation wouldn’t reach you in time to book a flight, seeing as how the Pony Express still delivers your mail in Oklahoma.

Don’t be silly, Shanice said. Rose Creek has all the modern amenities. So when’s the shower?

Wednesday. Charmaine spoke in a rush. Don’t try to flake out on me, because I already checked the college schedule, and there’s nothing going on until summer classes start.

Shanice wanted to counter with her need to prepare for the two classes she’d be teaching, but in reality she was ready. Four years of teaching math at the small branch of the University of Oklahoma had enabled her to settle into a comfortable routine. Too comfortable. Until recently, when she joined a book club that led to new friendships, and involvement in solving a murder mystery.

Well? Charmaine asked.

I can break away for a few days, Shanice said.

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you notice sooner. Be sure to book your flight right away. You won’t need a car or hotel. You’ll stay with me.

I won’t be in the way? Shanice asked.

John has his own place, Charmaine said with a stern tone. We’re engaged, not shacked up.

Shanice laughed. They chatted a minute longer, then Shanice rang off. Book club was meeting soon. She’d make flight reservations after that. Right now, she needed to make the short drive to Rose Creek Reads.

The thunderstorm had rolled through town quickly. Rainwater pooled in low spots on the cobblestone Main Street. Red, pink, and white rose petals scattered across sidewalks and lawns.

Over a hundred years ago, the brick building had housed a grain mill. Destined for demolition until it was rescued as an historical landmark, a bookstore occupied the mill for the past forty-five years. A waterwheel hugged the side of the building, spinning slowly as a tributary to Rose Creek splashed over the paddles.

Miss Emily Crockett, the bookstore’s owner, wore her white-streaked hair in a tight bun fastened to the top of her head. A housecoat draped over Emily’s pillowy physique. Her warm welcome was echoed by the shop cats. Mitch was a big-boned, short-haired, butterscotch tabby. Calico Agatha wore a ruff of white fur like an Elizabethan lady. They twined around Shanice’s legs, purring. Shanice gave them each a head scritch.

The other ladies are on the deck, Emily said. Here’s a dry cushion.

I hope I didn’t keep everyone waiting, Shanice said.

Not at all. Drew has yet to arrive.

Shanice opened the screen door. Rainwater pooled on the redwood planks. She shrugged into her light sweater. Shanice scooted under the large striped umbrella, avoiding the last drips of rain slipping off the leaves of willow trees overhanging the deck.

Callie perched in a cushioned wicker chair. The denim skirt was above the knee on her long legs, and went well with her cowgirl boots and peasant blouse. Makenzie Selkirk was keeping up with the make-over Shanice and Drew had given her. Gone were the baggy shorts sets that used to hide her curvy figure, replaced by a bright flower print dress.

Has everyone read the chapters? Shanice asked.

Book club decided on a romantic suspense novel, with a half dozen chapters assigned each week.

We’ve been pretty darn busy with the vineyard, Callie said, but I managed to get this week’s reading done.

Me, too, Makenzie said. I started reading on my lunch breaks.

We don’t have to set hard deadlines, Shanice said. This is our book club. Things happen.

Hopefully nothing as dramatic as the last ‘thing’, Callie said with a grin.

I agree, Makenzie said. Peace and quiet are way better. But we’d better wait to discuss the book until Drew gets here.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Shanice watched the waterwheel spin. Droplets of water glittered like jewels as a last ray of sunlight peeked under the retreating clouds. She needed to store up some calm before visiting her sisters in the big city. Then Callie broke the silence.

So I learned somethin’ today, she said. I talked to that gal who’s building the windmill. There’s a difference. Some use energy to spin, and others create their own energy by spinning.

Makenzie’s green eyes flashed with a surprising burst of anger. I can’t believe anyone’s allowing the university to build a wind turbine on their farm. Windmills kill bald eagles.

Are there bald eagles in Oklahoma? Shanice asked.

Wrong question. Makenzie embarked on a passionate rant about bald eagles, the dangers wind turbines posed, and her determination to prevent needless wildlife deaths.

But the woman from the university wouldn’t listen to me, Makenzie finished. Ms. Nakamura invited me to see it for myself. I’m going there before work tomorrow.

The project is not the wind turbine you typically see in those huge wind farms, Shanice said. I’ve seen the plans. It’s not what you’d expect.

I hope not, Makenzie said. Everyone jumps on the bandwagon for these new energy sources without looking at the entire picture. Sure, we need alternative energy, but do you know how many rare earth minerals and hazardous chemicals go into one of those wind turbines?

Shanice was afraid the chemist was launching into a tirade with far more detail than she was prepared to absorb. Thankfully, Callie interrupted.

Before you go off on me, Callie told Makenzie, the windmills Clint wants for the vineyard look like this. She opened photos on her cell phone. They’re designed to keep the vines dry. They use energy, they don’t generate it. We’re looking at solar panels to power them.

Planting a vineyard sounds like a lot of work, Shanice said, hoping to move the discussion away from windmills.

It’ll be worth it down the road, Callie said. We don’t expect grapes for wine making for three years or more. Clint hired outside help. I sure wish he’d make his freeloading cousin pitch in. That guy is worthless.

Callie took her turn going on a rant. Clint’s alcoholic cousin was staying at the ranch while he got his life back on track, but so far the only labor he engaged in was bending his elbow at the local dive bar.

We’ve been monopolizing the conversation, Makenzie said to Shanice. Are you doing anything fun over summer break?

I’m teaching two classes, Shanice said, so I’m not really taking a break. But I am flying to Chicago for my sister’s baby shower next week.

Mental note: make the flight reservations after the meeting. Her sisters would be slow to forgive Shanice if she didn’t show up for a family event of this importance.

Heard from Sam yet? Callie asked in her blunt cowgirl way.

Shanice tried to paste on a neutral expression, but she imagined the hurt showed through. Not since the text I told you about. Apparently the horses require his entire focus.

Not apologizing for him, Callie said, but those are some high dollar racehorses he’s treatin’.

I’m sure he’ll call soon. Twenty-five-year-old Makenzie had grown up shy and sheltered in Rose Creek. She was coming out of her shell, but Shanice was glad she still had an air of naivety. I watched an episode of Dr. Grady’s TV show. He really knows all about horses.

But not much about women, Shanice thought. Unless his lack of communication meant he had no interest in continuing what she had imagined was the beginning of a relationship.

The rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. But the complaints of the actors and crew didn’t end. Drew texted Hannah to let her know she’d miss dinner.

I’ll pick up Parker after book club, if that’s okay with you.

Sure thing, Hannah texted back. Take your time.

Drew was already late for her book club meeting, but the future of the Oklahoma! production was in danger if the theater troupe remained full of conflict. Especially if someone acted on their anger over the leading man’s unprofessional behavior. More than one person wanted Corey gone.

Which actor at the buffet would have been glad to give Corey a push, sending him to oblivion? Both voices had been male. Drew grabbed a tray and got in line.

Joining us tonight? Kathleen Fortmoore asked.

The actress playing the role of Aunt Eller looked younger than her sixty years, and needed makeup to appear older. She wore a cashmere cardigan over slacks and a silk blouse. With her aristocratic features washed clean of artificial wrinkles, Kathleen was lovely.

My son is having dinner with friends, Drew said. I finally get to sample what I’ve been smelling all week.

She was tempted to load her tray with one of everything. The buffet catered to the diverse dietary requirements from vegans to meat and potatoes advocates. Drew went for vegetarian dishes seasoned in an East Indian style. She scanned the room after reaching the end of the line.

There are two seats. Kathleen tilted her head toward a cloth-covered table.