At Wits' End: A Doyle Cozy Mystery

by Kirsten Weiss

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Crime & Mystery; humor; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

A cozy mystery that's out of this world...

Men in Black. Conspiracy-crazed old ladies. Can a clueless innkeeper catch a killer ... and stick to her carefully crafted schedule?

When control-freak Susan Witsend inherits her grandmother's UFO-themed B&B, she's ready to put her organizational skills to the test. She knows she can make the B&B work, even if there is a faux-UFO in the roof. After all, what's not to love about a Victorian nestled in the high Sierra foothills?

None of her carefully crafted policies and procedures, however, can prepare her for a corpse in room seven – the body of her small-town sheriff's ex-husband. Good thing Susan has her own plans to solve the crime.

But is there a government conspiracy afoot? Or is the murder a simple case of small-town vengeance?

Susan must keep all her wits about her. Because the killer isn't finished, and if she isn't careful, her fate may be written in the stars...

Beam up this hilarious cozy mystery today!

Breakfast recipes in the back of the book.

Release date: December 13, 2017

Publisher: misterio press

Print pages: 237

Sample

 

CHAPTER ONE

 All I had to do was pick up the phone and make the call.

Weak, blue sunlight slanted through the foyer’s stained-glass window and knifed across the reception desk. It pointed accusingly at the old-fashioned desk phone, its rotary dial stretching in a rictus grin. Outside, late afternoon thunder rumbled, echoing off the mountains and rattling the Victorian B&B.

My finger hesitated over the dial, my shoulders tightening.

The dry thunder had been near constant for the last hour. The slowly rotating ceiling fan made no difference in the oppressive heat. I just wished it would rain, that something would break loose.

Wisps of my blond hair stuck to my neck, and I plucked at the collar of my neat white blouse.

Was it any surprise I was flustered, aggravated and perturbed? Flustered because my cousin Dixie had failed to show for work again. Aggravated I could never fire her, because… family! Perturbed by the man upstairs in room seven.

But maybe room seven was a misunderstanding? Maybe I hadn't been clear enough that the room bill was due yesterday? Or the day before. Or the day before that.

Bailey, my grandmother's beagle, whuffed from his dog bed. His tail whipped back and forth, tickling my ankle.

“I know, I know,” I muttered and bent to scratch his head.

Bailey’s tongue lolled, his eyes closing, and in spite of myself, I smiled.

Okay. I’d just call the room and tell Tanner McCourt he needed to pay today or vacate the premises.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I studied my day planner and the command I’d circled in green highlighter: Get Payment!!! If it was in my planner, I had to do it. Even if I didn’t want to.

I blew out a slow breath. And I’d thought the week had started out so well. The mantra at the top of this week’s page was: I am in control. It also happens to be my personal mantra (second only to: Never argue with a fool. Onlookers may not be able to tell the difference).

I added an extra exclamation point to my note and sighed.

Tanner McCourt had checked into my grandmother's — now my — UFO-themed B&B two weeks ago for a one-week stay. He hadn't paid up front, because I never ask anyone to. And he hadn't paid when his week was up, asking to stay a few more days to clear up some business.

If this was one of those fancy hotels, I might be able to change the key card when he left his room upstairs. But he never left the room, not even to eat. He ordered takeout, the delivery boys somehow knowing to slink up the back stairs, so I'd be less inclined to notice.

My hand hovered over the phone. The ceiling fan hummed overhead.

A trickle of sweat dripped down my spine.

This was the limit. If Tanner didn't march downstairs with cash, check, or credit card in hand, I'd call the police.

I'd really do it this time.

The screen door banged open. My best friend, Arsen Holiday, trooped into the B&B’s foyer, and warmth spread through my chest.

He was tanned, tough, and sinewy, and dressed in hiking pants with lots of pockets. A long-sleeved tee stretched heroically across his broad chest. “Afternoon, Sue. We made it back alive.” He brushed back the wavy brown hair clinging damply to his head.

He held the screen door open. A middle-aged woman and her twenty-something son — both guests of Wits' End — staggered inside.

Unlike Arsen, who looked energized by their tramp through the mountains, my two guests drooped. Well, Professor Green drooped. Her son's brunette head had been in a slump since we'd met, two days ago, his gaze locked on his phone. But he looked fairly fit — lanky, even if his jaw seemed soft, his skin too smooth from a life indoors.

The thunder grumbled again, and I flinched.

“UFO weather.” Arsen laid his outdoor-roughened hands on the ancient wooden desk.

“There's no such—” I shook my head. And there’s no such thing as earthquake weather either, but there was little point arguing. “Find any bear tracks?” 

Beneath her sheen of sweat, Professor Green's face lit. “We did! From a mother bear and two cubs.” She reached behind her and flapped the back of her blue, microfiber hiking shirt to cool herself. The shirts were supposed to wick the sweat away, but this one had obviously failed. The summer Sierras could do that.

“It might be a good thing tracks were all you found,” I said. Mama bears were notoriously defensive when cubs were nearby.

She chuckled, removing her khaki hat and ruffling her short, graying hair. “Indeed. And I need a shower.” She looked up the green-carpeted stairs, grimaced, and began her ascent. Pausing on the third step, she turned. “Ethan?”

Without taking his eyes from his phone, her son grunted and followed her upstairs.

Above us, two doors slammed.

Arsen jerked his thumb toward the stairs. “It was all I could do to keep that guy from wandering off a cliff,” he said in a low, rumbly voice. “He whined all the way up the mountain and all the way down.”

I grinned. “You should be an expert at hiker management by now.” Small-town Doyle was a UFO hot spot, and Wit's End was a UFO-themed B&B, thanks to my enterprising grandmother. Arsen made a business for himself as a guide, taking them on UFO-spotting night hikes. I wasn't sure how lucrative being a pathfinder was, but at least it was something, and Arsen came from money.

He wiped away the drops of moisture clinging to his forehead, and his handsome face creased with annoyance. “That kid's not going to make it to thirty if he doesn't start paying attention to the real world.”

“Thanks for getting them back before the storm hits.”

Arsen shrugged. “It’s not going to.” He brightened. “Hey, did you hear the news? Xavier Ultra is coming to Doyle.”

“Who?” My gaze flicked to my day planner, open on the desk.

“He’s that TV survivalist – the Amazon, the Sahara, those reality shows. Remember? Last year they dropped him in Ethiopia’s Danakil Depression for a week without any food or water. He had to survive drinking his own—”

I shot him a look.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the guy’s amazing. He’s signing books in Doyle next Tuesday.”

“You’re excited about a reality TV star?” Arsen was the real deal when it came to mountain survival. Why would he care about some faked TV show?

“Why wouldn’t I be psyched? Xavier Ultra is so tough, he can strangle you with a cordless phone. He’s so tough, he can kill your imaginary friends. Death once had a near-Xavier-Ultra experience.”

“I think you mean Chuck Norris.”

“Who’s he? Listen, I gotta go,” he said. “Some tourists want me to take them paddle boarding.”

I raised a brow but refrained from comment. Arsen and I had been friends since childhood, and for that I loved him. But his family money and good looks had made his life too easy. At seventeen, he'd run off to join the circus. I’d received postcards from him every now and again — from a Caribbean resort where he’d worked as a dive instructor, an island in the Pacific where he’d taught surfing. He'd gone where his whims and the wind had taken him. All he’d gained from the experience were fun memories and an impressive collection of airplane barf bags. But I guess people living in UFO-themed B&Bs shouldn’t throw stones.

I had a good idea of what today’s “tourists” looked like. Young. Sexy. Female. Not that I was jealous or anything. Arsen and I had always been and would always be friends.

His smile broadened, as if he’d read my mind, and he sauntered out the door. The screen banged behind him.

Bailey woofed gently, reminding me of my duties.

I bent and scratched behind his floppy brown and white ears. “I know. I'll do it.” Because what did I have to be afraid of? Either Tanner McCourt would pay me, or he wouldn't. And if he didn't, I'd do what Gran did on those rare occasions she'd had a deadbeat guest — call the cops and have him removed.

My stomach twisted into a knot. I was in control.

More importantly, I couldn’t fail Gran, who’d left me this B&B. I couldn’t fail my cousin Dixie, who worked here and loved Wits’ End like I did. I couldn’t fail, period.

Swallowing, I dialed room seven.

He picked up halfway through the first ring.

I hesitated, waiting for him to speak.

He didn’t.

Had we been cut off? The house line was old and didn't always work right.

Faint breathing drifted over the line, and my scalp prickled.

“Mr. McCourt, this is Susan Witsend. Your bill is a week past due.”

Silence.

“Like I said,” I rushed on, “it's a week past due, and I have guests coming tomorrow who'll need your room.” This was a lie. The guests wouldn't be arriving until Friday, and it was only Tuesday, but he didn't need to know that. I cleared my throat. “So, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” I squeaked. “Today. This afternoon.”

A click. A dial tone.

Outraged, I stared at the receiver. The jerk had hung up on me!

“That does it,” I told the beagle and dialed the sheriff's Department. Tanner McCourt might think I'm a pushover, but he was about to learn B&B owners had the law on their side.

“Doyle Sheriff's Department,” a brisk, feminine voice said. “How can I help you?”

I explained the situation.

She sighed. “All right. We'll send someone over.”

“Thanks.” We said our goodbyes and hung up.

Fueled by righteous adrenaline, I drummed my fingers on the scarred wooden desk. It would serve Tanner McCourt right if two deputies dragged him from the room. Though more likely they'd escort rather than drag. It wasn't as if he was a violent criminal, just a deadbeat. “And that's bad enough,” I told Bailey.

He yawned, looking away.

“You don't think I was too hard on him by calling the cops, do you?”

Bailey had definite opinions about uniforms. Except for the postman, who, for some reason, he adored. But California hotel law was clear. I had every right to call in the police at this stage in the game. And Tanner had hung up on me!

Booted feet clunked on the front porch steps. A screen door bammed shut. The interior screen door swung open, and a female sheriff's deputy strode into the foyer. She looked about my height — five-six — though she was probably fifteen years older – I guessed mid-forties. Her blue eyes crackled with annoyance.

Bailey growled and lumbered to his feet.

“Wow.” I bent and grasped the dog’s collar. “You got here fast.”

She frowned, her tanned brow creasing beneath her broad-brimmed hat. Whipping it off, she ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

So, that was service in a small town.

Bailey snorted.

Except the deputy didn't know what room Tanner was in. “Wait!”

Rolling my chair back, I stood and hurried after her. I didn't want her banging on the wrong door. Professor Green was probably still taking her shower, and her son was so plugged in he wouldn't hear her knocking.

At the top of the stairway, I paused. The long, narrow corridor was empty. At the opposite end of the hall, the door to the rear, exterior stairs hung open. My brow creased. It was letting all the heat in, thank-you-very-much.

I walked past sepia-tinted photos of old-time Doyle. Grinning, gap-toothed miners. Women in long gowns walking down a dusty Main Street, figures ever-so-slightly blurred. It was like walking past a parade of ghosts.

The door to room seven also stood open.

Weird. I'd swear I hadn't told the dispatcher what room Tanner was inside.

I hesitated on the hallway’s thin, green carpet. What was the etiquette once the police were involved? I'd never had to throw someone out before, but I hadn't owned the B&B long.

My heart squeezed, and I pushed thoughts of my grandmother aside. This was business, and I couldn't get emotional, not with the police here.

I cocked my head, listening.

And heard nothing.

And that was weird too. Shouldn't she be ordering him out or listening to his excuses or something?

I stepped through the open door.

Gun drawn, the deputy stood over Tanner McCourt.

The room tilt-a-whirled. A chill rippled the skin between my shoulders, as if I’d been touched by a gray shadow. Any sense of control slithered from my limp fingers.

Tanner sprawled flat on his stomach on my grandmother's rag rug at the foot of the brass bed. Eyes open. Blank. Dead.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

I gasped. “I didn't want you to kill him!” My face warmed, and I clapped my hands to my mouth. Of course, she hadn't killed him. I hadn't heard a shot. No blood stained the colorful rag rug or the hardwood floor. The room was a mess, the end table and desk drawers open, papers scattered.

All my grandmother's framed UFO photos lay upside down on the unmade bed, its quilt puddled on the floor on the side by the window. Faded squares, where the photos had once hung, marked the antique floral wallpaper.

The deputy’s expression hardened. She slid the gun into the holster on her complicated-looking belt. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, ready for business. “I didn't shoot him. Calm down.”

Moving on. “Sorry,” I stammered. “I know you didn't. I'm just… Is he dead?” His upper half lay across the blue-and-green rag rug. His face was turned away from the open window. The blue-checked curtains breathed gently. Tanner breathed not at all, but I’d found denial an excellent coping mechanism. Please tell me he isn't dead.

“He's dead.”

“But he was just…” I trailed off. We'd been on the phone moments before the deputy had arrived.

Unless we hadn't been.

“This doesn't make sense,” I said. “I called his room to ask him to pay his bill not five minutes ago. He picked up.”

Her blue-eyed gaze sharpened. “You spoke to him?”

“I told him he had to pay today, and then he just hung up. He didn't say a word.” The puzzle pieces clicked into place. Someone had picked up the phone. Someone who wasn't Tanner?

His killer.

A killer in my B&B. I gripped the brass footboard for balance. The realization shouldn't have taken so long to strike. But in my defense, small-town Doyle wasn't exactly a high-crime area. The town's greatest villains were a teenage hacky sack gang, and they weren't violent. Just super irritating.

“You're Harriet's granddaughter,” she said. It was more statement than question, and I nodded. “All right. Go downstairs. I'll call this in, and we'll talk more later. Don’t say anything to anyone. Got it?”

I nodded, backing from the room.

A determined expression on his doggy face, Bailey huffed down the green-carpeted hall.

I scooped up the beagle before he could reach the deputy or the open door to the exterior stairs. Had a killer come and left through that upstairs door?

Stomach burning with worry, I lugged the dog downstairs. Was Tanner’s death my fault for leaving the door unlocked?

Two thirty-something deputies strolled into the foyer. The men wore white shirts with badges pinned to their broad chests and gear belts low on their hips.

The smooth-faced blond smiled. “You got a guest who won't leave?” he asked, his voice surprisingly deep.

“You haven't…” I whipped around, confused, and looked up the stairs. If they were here to eject McCourt, why had the other cop showed up out of the blue? The gears in my brain disengaged, whirring uselessly. “Room seven. There's another officer with him now, and he's dead. Murdered, I think. And his name is Tanner, Tanner McCourt.” Bailey wriggled in my arms and strained toward the deputies. I squeezed the beagle to my chest.

They stared at me, looked at each other.

The taller man, dark-haired and handsome, shook himself. “Tanner McCourt's dead?”

“Yes. That's what the other police officer said.” Tanner could have just slipped and fell and hit his head on the brass bed on the way down. I gnawed my bottom lip. But then who had picked up the phone? Or maybe he’d slipped, fallen, and died in those few minutes between my phone call and the deputy’s arrival? Was I jumping to conclusions there’d been foul play at work?

“Stay here,” the dark-haired man commanded.

The two deputies pounded up the stairs.

Bailey wriggled in my arms, and I set him on the Persian-ish rug. He trotted to the screen door, whined, and looked over his shoulder at me.

I plucked my thick day planner off the desk and opened the door for Bailey to the sunroom-slash-porch. He trotted past the white wicker furniture and sat, panting, beside the second screen door to the front yard.

I opened that as well, and he picked his way down the three steps. The beagle was fine going up stairs, but he wasn’t a fan of down. He bounded around the corner of the old Victorian. Bailey never left the yard without me, so I wasn't worried about him running off.

Puffy thunderheads rimmed blood orange clotted the sky. Two sheriff’s department SUVs sat in the gravel driveway.

Planner clutched to my chest, I sat on the porch steps and breathed deeply.

Tanner McCourt. Dead. I stared sightlessly at the picket fence encircling the lawn. Its borders overflowed with my Gran’s rose bushes. Gran. What would she do in this situation?

She’d stay calm and figure it out. All right, so would I. Logically. Step-by-step. My insides jittered. I was in con—Oh, who was I kidding? I was not in control. There was nothing about a dead body in my upstairs bedroom that was under control!

I got a grip on myself. If it hadn't been Tanner who'd answered the phone, why on earth had the killer picked up? If I'd just killed someone, I'd hardly take a message for them. So, I’d been wrong, it couldn’t have been murder, and it wasn’t my fault the upstairs door was open.

What if he’d tripped over the rug and hit his head? Guilt twisted my gut at the thought.

I rose and walked around the side of the two-story Victorian. Sun glinted off the UFO embedded in the peaked, shingled roof. I shielded my eyes against the glare.

I almost preferred the idea of murder to accident. How many other people had Tanner McCourt owed money to? He'd been proficient at putting off my requests for payment. That sort of dodgy skill didn't blossom overnight, and it left a trail of enemies.

A curtain fluttered through Tanner's open window above the porch's sloped overhang.

Someone could have climbed out the window. Then they might have slithered down one of the posts to the garden. Arsen and I had done it plenty of times when we were kids, before my grandmother had caught us.

But the rear door would have been an easier means of access. The odds of running into another guest during the day were low.

I straightened. It had to be murder. Why else had someone searched Tanner’s room? And it had definitely been searched. Sure, he could have made the mess days ago, and I’d never have been the wiser. But he wouldn’t have been able to sleep with the framed photos on the bed. And why remove them from the wall in the first place?

Shifting my weight, I shook my head. Maybe I didn’t need to know. The police would figure this out, and Tanner McCourt would no longer be my problem.

“What's going on?” A male voice said in my ear.

“Gagh!” I rocketed into the air.

Arsen cocked his head and stared at Tanner’s open window. “So, you finally called the cops on that guest?” Still watching the window, he jerked his chin toward the two sheriff's SUVs in the driveway.

“No. I mean yes.” I worked to steady my breathing. “There's been a murder.” That sounded overly dramatic, and I cleared my throat. “At least, I think it was murder. His room looked like it had been searched.” My fingers whitened on the planner.

His bronzed brow creased. “His?” Arsen turned his head and looked down at me. “Slow down. Start from the beginning.”

“I called the police because of my deadbeat guest. He’s the one who died. They discovered the body.”

He whistled. The sunlight caught his eyes, and something seemed to light behind them. “Who was he?”

“Some guy named Tanner McCourt. I think he used to live in Doyle and then moved away and came back—”

“Tanner Mc— Sheriff McCourt's husband?”

I gaped. “Who? You know him? Knew him, I mean?”

He shook his head. “I know you haven't been back long—”

“I came to Doyle every summer to be with Gran.” Except for the last three. I'd had a job with my parents’ accounting firm then.

“Didn't you hear about it? It was a huge scandal. The sheriff's husband got arrested a few years back for welfare fraud. He was running a scam from his job with the county.”

“Arrested?” I squeaked. I'd been hosting an ex-con? I grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the open window and to the front of the Victorian. “Please tell me he was released and hadn't escaped.”

“He was released.”

“I knew they had the same last names, but I’ve never met the sheriff, and lots of people have the same last names. You’re sure it’s the same person?”

“How many Tanner McCourts can there be?”

“And the sheriff – the Doyle sheriff – kept her job in spite of being married to a crook?” I asked, disbelieving. People must have wondered if she’d been in on the scam. I know I did.

“Sheriff McCourt had a tough reelection campaign, but she won. I think they're going through a divorce. Maybe it's already happened.”

Two more sheriff's cars rolled to a halt in front of my B&B. Officers exited, doors slamming. Uniformed men strode purposefully into the Victorian. I clutched the top of my head. This was terrible. A murder. Here. In my house.

Thunder rumbled, and a chill wind whipped down from the mountains. The pines in the yard next door whispered, its branches tossing.

My heart sank. And now Tanner would never pay me. I know it was a horrible thing to think under the circumstances. But I was barely squeaking out a living from the B&B.

“You are a fount of useful gossip,” I said, depressed.

He shrugged. “I like to know the score when I land somewhere.”

“What are you doing back here anyway?”

“I saw the police cars heading in your direction, and thought I’d check up on you, just in case.”

The female deputy walked down the front steps, her boots thunking on the wood. She glanced at us. Her face hardened, and she strode to the waiting SUV.

“Wowza,” he said. “That's her.”

“Her? Who? You mean that's Sheriff McCourt?”

He nodded.

“But she's the one who discovered the body.” How awful for her. I folded my other arm across the planner and clutched my elbow. The sheriff had less reason to like her husband than I did. That gave her a motive. Should she be investigating?

Inside the SUV, she adjusted her seatbelt.

“When I found her standing over him,” I whispered, “I’d thought she’d killed him.” Had my first instinct been right?

The SUV started up and backed from my driveway. It drove to the cul-de-sac’s inlet and turned, vanishing behind a stand of pines.

“She's taking herself off the case,” he said. “That's why she's leaving.”

The blond sheriff’s deputy walked onto the porch. He pushed open the screen door and leaned out, motioned to us. “Hey, Arsen. What are you doing here?”

“I just dropped off some hikers,” he said. “Susan’s a friend.”

I glanced between the two of them. Of course, they knew each other. Arsen knew everyone.

“Then stick around,” the deputy said. “I'll have questions for you too. Why don't you wait over there?” He pointed to a grouping of Adirondack chairs on the lawn.

“Susan Witsend?” the deputy asked, clicking a button on the radio clipped to his collar. “I need to ask you some questions. This will be recorded.”

My mouth went dry. Recorded? But it wasn't like I was a suspect. He wasn’t mirandizing me. Being recorded was no big deal. Who wouldn't want to use modern technology to record an interview? It beat having to write everything down and potentially miss a critical word. “Sure.”

Arsen lounged in the wooden chair facing us, his ankles crossed, his expression inscrutable.

The deputy, whose badge said DENTON, ran me through my call with Tanner.

He nodded. “When did he check in?”

I flipped open my planner and doublechecked, though I already knew the answer. “Two weeks ago, on a Monday.” Mondays were terrible days for tourism and usually my day off, which I enjoyed. But when Tanner had arrived on my doorstep, I couldn't turn away weekday business. Not when I needed it so badly.

“What were his habits?”

“His habits?” I parroted.

“Did he have visitors? Was he loud?”

“He was quiet, and he never left the room.” Which was why I hadn't been able to clean it - something I hadn't minded until now. “And he did have visitors.” I flipped through the planner, searching. “Restaurant delivery guys mostly, but there was a man, a big guy. He didn't give me his name, but he looked like a bear.”

“A bear?”

My face heated. “Dark and hairy. He had rough hands with grease under the nails, like a mechanic.”

“How tall was he? My height? Taller? Shorter?”

“About your height, maybe a little shorter.”

“How tall do you think I am?”

“Five-eleven?”

He smiled. “Exactly. Okay, when was this visit?”

“Two days ago, in the afternoon, sometime after my shopping.” I pointed to the spot on the page.

“Did this man say anything to you?”

“He asked where McCourt's room was. I made him call up to Tanner rather than giving him the number myself.”

Bailey trotted to us and whuffed, exposing rows of unthreatening teeth.

Denton bent to scratch behind his ears. “Did he give you any trouble?”

Offended, the dog shook his head. In his mind, he was ferocious, a predator, defender against squirrels and uniformed men.

“No,” I said, “Tanner was always polite.” Especially when he was putting me off.

I glanced over my shoulder and tensed. My cousin Dixie ambled down the court, her slim figure casting a long shadow. Her head was bent to her cellphone. And of course, she didn’t see the police cars. How could she? An obscuring, thundercloud of chaos followed wherever she went.

I turned to face the deputy and made shooing motions behind my back. Dixie’d had some youthful run-ins with the law. My cousin was on the straight and narrow now, but she got stiff and defensive and guilty-looking around police. I didn’t think it was a good idea she and Officer Denton meet.

The deputy made a note. “Anyone else?”

Arsen coughed, drawing Denton’s attention.

Dixie looked up. Her eyes widened, and she dove like a leopard seal behind a rose bush.

My shoulder muscles released. I could always count on Dixie’s sixth sense to avoid a hassle.

“Anyone else?” Denton prompted again.

“There was a woman, who came to see Tanner,” I said. “I recognized her. She works at the coffee shop, Ground.”

He looked up sharply. “Not the owner?”

“No, one of the baristas. She's older, mid-forties, and blond. Her name's French sounding. Charis?”

His face cleared. “Cherie?”

“That's the one. She came by last week — I'm sorry, I can't remember what day. It was in the late afternoon, and she didn't stay long.”

“Okay, why don’t you run me through your day?”

I handed him the planner. “It’s all here. Prepare breakfast at six. Clean up breakfast at ten. Clean rooms at eleven…”

When I finished, he let me go and went to speak to Arsen. My friend rose from the Adirondack chair and stretched, unconcerned.

Casually, Bailey and I walked around the corner to the side yard. I picked up speed when the deputy was out of sight.

Dixie, sleek in denim shorts and a tank top, balanced warily on the gazebo steps. “What's going on?” Her shoulder-length, near-black hair was tipped with violet. “Why’s Wits’ End crawling with cops?” She scratched the side of her nose, carefully avoiding her piercing.

“One of the guests was, um, killed. I think.”

“You think?” She folded her arms. “Who was it?”

I blew out a noisy breath. “That guy who wouldn't leave.”

“Tanner?” She wrinkled her pert nose. “Figures. He was creepy.” She paused, considering. “Do I still have to come to work tomorrow?”

My face tightened. Ah yes, the truly important question. “Yes, you do. And where were you today?” Dixie usually helped out from eleven to three, cleaning and manning the desk so I could take a break. It was now nearly six o’clock, the sun slanting across the nearby mountains. Thunder cracked, and I twitched.

“It’s Tuesday. I thought you might have bundt cake.”

“I don't, and you were supposed to help clean today. Where were you?”

“Around. Gotta go.” Lithely, she hopped the low fence and vanished into old Mr. Fitzgerald’s yard. If he caught her trespassing, she was in for it. Part of me wished he would catch her.

Put out, I wandered to the front yard. Dixie stopping by to bogart a bundt cake was par for the course. So was looking for a reason not to come to work tomorrow. But I couldn’t worry about Dixie. I was too rattled by my guest’s death. I didn’t have any policies or procedures that covered a murder in a guest room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the deputy slap Arsen on the shoulder.

Bailey growled a warning, and I grabbed his collar before he could rush to Arsen’s defense.

Oblivious, Denton returned inside the B&B.

Arsen strolled to me. “What did you tell him?” he asked.

Releasing the dog, I relayed our conversation.

Arsen rubbed his chin.

“What?” I asked.

“If the sheriff's involved, things could get sticky.”

“But Sheriff McCourt’s not involved. She's taken herself off the case. You said so yourself.”

“But there's a lot of loyalty in the department.”

“How do you know so much about the department?” I asked.

Bailey whuffed.

He grinned. “It's a small town. Guys talk.”

“I'm sure the police will figure it out.” I tried to inject confidence into my voice. “Like you said, it's a small town. They probably already know who did it.”

“Maybe, but I don’t like that it happened in your place. You need better security.”

“It’s a B&B, not a fortress.”

“You’re right though, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure this out. Not in a town this size.” His eyes gleamed. “I've always wanted to be a private investigator.”

So had I until age seven, when my parents had made it clear being a girl detective wasn't practical. “There's no reason to play amateur detective,” I said sharply, worried about where this was headed. “The police have all sorts of resources you don't.”

“But no one wants to open up to the cops. For example, I bet there are all sorts of things you didn't tell them.”

“No, there weren't.” I crossed my arms over my chest. Prickles of heat swept my neck. The thing was, flirtation had been one of Tanner’s techniques for putting me off. It had been super embarrassing and not at all relevant to the police investigation. I wasn’t about to tell the cops Tanner had hit on me.

Arsen jabbed a finger at me. “There was something. I can always tell when you're lying.”

“I don't lie.”

“But you're holding something back. What is it?”

“Nothing. I told the police everything I know about Tanner, and I told you everything I told them.”

“You are holding out,” he said. “What are you afraid of telling me?”

“Only of you sticking your nose into police business. Leave it alone, Arsen Holiday, or I'll tell your aunts that you broke their Ming vase playing football in the house and blamed the cat.”

He paled. “You wouldn't.”

“In a red-hot minute.”

“That was ages ago.”

“It was last week.”

“Water under the bridge.” He gripped my shoulder. “Don't worry. I'll take care of this.”

“There's nothing to take care of.”

His bronzed face turned serious. “I've spent my share of time in villages—”

“Villages? You lived in resorts.”

“And one thing is constant.”

“Oh?”

“When things go wrong, they blame the outsider.”

“You mean — one of my guests? Like the Greens?”

In the waning light, his eyes darkened to cobalt. “I mean like you.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

The storm broke, rain pounding the Victorian’s peaked roof, thunder breaking my sleep. But the real storm was in my own house. Someone had been killed in my B&B. A murderer had been right upstairs.

The shadow clutched at me. Breath speeding, I rolled over, as if I could ever escape it, and twisted the covers tighter.

When I finally did sleep, I dreamt a tidal wave was bearing down on me. I’d wake up, roll over, fall asleep, and return to the same dream, different setting.

Stupid thunder storm.

At five AM, I gave up on sleep and surfed the Internet for information on Tanner. He hadn’t been the only one arrested for his welfare fraud. He’d fingered two other county employees — Davin Markarian and Cherie Cavalier. That might explain why Cherie had come to the boarding house last week. Had Tanner's male visitor been Davin?

The sky outside my sitting room window lightened, clouds parting.

Bleary-eyed, I stumbled to the kitchen. I prided myself on my breakfasts. So in spite of my exhaustion, I baked coffee cake and a mushroom, egg and potato casserole. Shredded swiss cheese over the finished casserole. Lit tea lights beneath the chafing dishes.

Savory and sweet scents filled the octagonal breakfast room. Morning sunlight streamed past the drawn curtains and made angular shapes across my grandmother's blue toile wallpaper and the hardwood floor.

I floated a white cloth over the oval-shaped dining table, flicking the base of the hanging brass lamp. When I had the cash, I’d replace the lamp with something more Victorian, less old west. If I ever had the cash.

A stellar jay leapt onto the windowsill. It cocked its head, as if sniffing the coffeecake. It was shaped like a duck and something I usually made on weekends, but I wanted comfort. I couldn’t stop replaying the moment I’d seen Tanner McCourt’s body.

“I don't much like the idea of staying in a hotel where someone was murdered right down the hall.”

I started.

Professor Green stood in the entry to the breakfast room. She jammed her hands on the hips of her hiking trousers.

Her son, eyes glued to his phone, edged past her.

“I don't much like it either.” I smoothed the front of my loose, khaki slacks. “A death in the house, I mean,” I added hastily, adjusting a chair at the oval table. “But I don't think it was a random killing or a robbery. If it matters, he was targeted.” Tanner had let the killer inside his room, which meant he’d known him. Or her.

“It doesn't,” she said tartly, the fine lines around her brown eyes deepening.

“Did you hear or see anything?”

“The police interrogated us quite thoroughly.” She studied the sideboard, laden with plates and glasses and chafing dishes. “We’d prefer not to go through that again.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

Her son wandered to the sideboard and snitched three pieces of bacon from the warming tray. He folded the bacon in half and crammed it all into his mouth. Since it was thick-cut bacon, it was quite a feat. He loaded his plate.

“But why do the police think he was targeted?” the professor asked in a lowered voice.

“I don’t know what the police think.” I stared at the hardwood floor. I could come up with at least one motive for killing Tanner. He’d owed me money. Maybe he owed others. But why would the killer have removed my UFO pictures from the walls?

Ethan pulled out an antique chair and sat. “About time something interesting happened,” he mumbled through a mouthful of coffee cake. He chased it with a gulp of orange juice. Freckles had sprouted on his pale nose and cheeks – a souvenir of yesterday’s hike. His brown hair stuck up modishly at the front.

“It is not interesting,” she said.

“If it upsets you to stay,” I said, crossing my fingers, “I'd be happy to call the Historic Doyle Hotel. They may have rooms available.” I didn't want to lose a night's income, especially now that Tanner's debt to me was out of reach. Two week's room and board, up in smoke.

Gran's first mortgage had been long repaid. But she'd taken out a second to repair the roof and upgrade the plumbing and install the UFO. The monthly payment was due next week, and my bank account was woefully low.

Professor Green sighed. “No. We're leaving tomorrow for the watch tower anyway. There’s no use switching hotels.”

“Do I have to go into the mountains?” her son whined. “There's no connectivity.”

“There’s no electricity either,” she said, “but you're coming, and that's that.”

“How am I going to get wi-fi?” he asked.

“You won't,” she said, “and that's the point. It's time for you to unplug.”

His brow lowered threateningly. “I don't want to unplug.”

“That's not—” She puffed out her cheeks. “We'll discuss this later.”

“Whatever. But I don’t see why I can’t stay here. I’m not a little kid.” He folded another piece of bacon and crammed it into his mouth.

Arsen, in brown hiking pants and a matching tee with an outdoor company’s logo on the front, breezed into the breakfast room. Grabbing a plate, he thunked into a wooden chair. “Hey Professor. Ethan. Suzy-Q.”

I frowned. I hated that nickname. “Hey. Are you taking the Greens out this morning?”

Slicing into the coffee cake, he glanced up at them. Crumbs scattered across the white table cloth. “Didn't have any plans to, but if you two need something—”

“No,” the Professor said. “We've decided to spend the day at the lake and get some R&R in before we head up into the mountains.”

“What brings you here at this hour?” I asked Arsen.

He reached across the table and stabbed three slices of bacon with his fork. “Where else would I be? You make the best breakfast in Doyle.”

Like I’d fall for that. “Moocher.”

He grinned and bit into the coffee cake.

I rolled my eyes and marched upstairs. The police had told me I could clean room seven, which seemed kind of fast since Tanner had only died last night. They'd taken the rag rug and bedding as evidence, and a strangely eager young CSI type had vacuumed the room for stray bits of evidence.

From the small upstairs closet, I grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies, a mop and a broom. I fumbled the keys from my pocket, unlocked room seven, and pushed open the door. But in the doorway, I paused, uncertain.

With the rug and Tanner’s possessions gone, the only unusual part of the cleanup would be returning the grainy UFO photos to the walls. So why was I hesitating in the doorway and holding my bucket in a death grip?

I swallowed. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts. The room had to be cleaned, and Dixie wasn’t here yet.

Edging inside, I wedged the door open with a rubber stopper. I scraped open the window and returned the photographs to the walls. I snapped on yellow rubber gloves and wiped the windows and mirror over the bureau, then moved into the small bathroom.

The new faucets looked like old-timey water pumps. Gran had also installed a bowl sink and a soaking tub with jets and a heater. The bath wasn't in bad shape, considering I hadn't cleaned the room for two weeks. I should have known something was wrong when Tanner had refused to let me inside.

This being a crime scene, I scrubbed like a madwoman, using bleach everywhere. Then I mopped the floors, using Gran’s vinegar mixture in the cleaning water. Tanner might not be haunting the room, but I definitely felt some bad juju.

I wrung out the mop and set it aside. The curtains fluttered at the window. Yanking off my yellow gloves, I rubbed my forearm across my damp brow and inhaled the smell of clean. No one would guess a man had been murdered here. I bit the inside of my lip. But they’d hear about it. Would anyone want to stay in this room again?

I was tucking fresh sheets beneath the mattress when the bell over the front door jingled. That was weird. It was a Wednesday, and I wasn't expecting new guests.

I hurried down the stairs.

A tall woman with dark skin and silky black hair cropped at her jawline stood in the hallway and looked up at me. She carried a leather attaché case rather than a suitcase, so maybe she was here to see the Greens or…

My stomach plunged. Or she was here about Tanner McCourt. “Hi,” I said. “Can I help you?”

She reached inside her black blazer and drew a slim, black leather case from the inside pocket. Impassive, she flipped it open, displaying a badge. “I'm Agent Manaj, FBI. I'm here to see the owner.”

I stumbled on the last step and grabbed the wooden railing for balance. “FBI?”

“Are you Susan Witsend?”

I nodded.

“I'd like to see the crime scene.”

“Sure… I just finished cleaning it. The deputies told me I could,” I said, quick and defensive.

“I'd still like to see it, if you don't mind.” But her tone said it didn’t matter if I minded or not.

I rubbed my palms on the thighs of my white jeans. “Okay. The room’s upstairs.” I turned and walked up the steps.

Behind me, the agent's footsteps were silent, but her presence pressed against me. The spot between my shoulders heated.

I stood aside at the open door to room seven. “This is it.”

She walked inside and drew the attaché case from beneath her arm. Opening it, she pulled out an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photo of the room. “The photos that were removed,” she said, voice flat. “Did you return them to the same places they'd hung before?”

“Yes.” From the doorway, I motioned to the wall over the desk and opposite the bed. The quilt spilled over the desk chair. “I went by the fade lines in the wallpaper. The photos are all different sizes.”

She set her attaché on the wooden desk and peered at each framed UFO photo in turn, taking her time.

“Do you think the photos have something to do with his murder?” I didn’t see how they could, but I had a fake UFO in my roof and a crime scene on my second floor. And Doyle did have a history of, well, odd events.

Her expression didn’t change. “I can't discuss an ongoing investigation.” She turned to study the partially-made brass bed.

“The Sheriff’s Department took the bedding. Those linens are fresh.”

Downstairs, the bell over the door jingled. Bailey barked outside.

“I'd better check that.” I shuffled from the room and trotted down the stairs.

A curly-haired, middle-aged blonde in jeans and an NRA t-shirt stood beside the desk in my foyer and scowled. Bailey snuffled at her boots.

I started and nearly missed a step for the second time that morning. “Sheriff McCourt!” I hadn't recognized her out of uniform. “Is something wrong? Are you here to see Agent Manaj?”

She cursed beneath her breath. “She's here already?”

The FBI agent appeared at the top of the stairs. “I'm afraid so,” she said dryly. “Sheriff, my condolences on your loss.”

“Thanks,” the sheriff mumbled.

Like a villain in an old western, Agent Manaj stared down at us. All that was missing was a black hat to match her suit. “Were you here to see me?” One of the agent's dark brows arched. “Because I'm sure you weren't here to take a second look at the crime scene, since you're on leave.”

Bailey looked a question between the two women. No doubt he was trying to suss out who was more likely to have treats in her pocket.

A pulse beat in the sheriff's jaw. “Right. I figured you'd want to interview me. When do you want to do this?”

Agent Manaj glanced at her watch (which was also black). “I'm in the middle of something at the moment. What about later this afternoon? Say, two o'clock at your station?”

“Perfect,” the sheriff ground out.

“Oh, and Ms. Witsend, since I'll be staying in Doyle awhile, I'll need a room. Is seven vacant?”

“The murder r—?” My gaze flicked to the sheriff, and I cleared my throat. “Um, yes.” The rest of the rooms were booked from Friday through Sunday by UFO hunters, but seven would be free.

“Excellent.” She walked down the stairs. “I'll get my things from the car and sign in.” She strode across the foyer and out the front door.

I hurried to the reception desk.

The sheriff gripped my arm, halting me. “We need to talk,” she said in a low voice.

“We do?” I squeaked.

“About Tanner.”

“But… Aren't you off the case?”

“Meet me in the backyard,” she hissed as Agent Manaj pushed open the screen door. She nodded to the FBI agent and brushed past. The screen door clattered shut behind her.

“Problem?” Manaj asked, setting her black suitcase on the faux-Persian carpet.

“No.” I hustled behind the desk and pulled the guest book from the drawer.

“You don’t use your computer for reservations?” Manaj asked.

“Only for printing invoices. My grandmother was old fashioned.”

“Ah, yes. You inherited this place, didn't you?”

“How did you…?” Of course, she was the FBI. She'd have checked. “Yes. Six months ago.”

“Has it been difficult?” she asked. “Switching from accountant to B&B manager?”

My insides quivered. She really had done her homework. In control, I am in control… “I worked here every summer growing up, so I know how Wits’ End runs.” My ribs squeezed, and I blew out my breath. The only difficulty – the sledgehammer-through-the-heart difficulty – had been losing Gran. I penciled her name into the ledger. “Have you got a credit card and ID?”

She pulled a man's wallet from the back pocket of her slim, black slacks and handed me a credit card.

I signed her in, swiped her card.

“How did Tanner McCourt pay?” she asked.

“Cash, up-front for three days.”

“But he was here over two weeks.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling stupid. “He asked to extend his stay, and since I happened to have a room vacant, I let him.” What an idiot I'd been. “I asked for his credit card at check-in, but he'd told me he'd misplaced it and would bring it down to me as soon as he could. He never did. Sign here… and here.” I slid the room contract across the desk, and she signed.

“I’d like to take a look at that guest book,” she said.

“Sure.” I pushed it towards her. I probably should have asked for a warrant or something, but I wanted this investigation over and the killer caught and life back to normal. Fast. Besides, having an FBI agent in the room might exorcise Tanner’s ghost. Metaphorically speaking. It seemed weirdly right that a federal agent was in room seven after a criminal had died there. Like a balancing of scales.

She tucked the book under her arm. “I'll return this in an hour.” Grabbing her black suitcase off the floor, she marched up the stairs.

I waited until I heard her door shut. “Come on, Bailey. Let's go outside.”

Tail wagging, the beagle followed me into the front yard. I found a faded, octopus squeaky toy beneath a rose bush and chucked it into the side yard. The furry octopus landed beneath the spirit house my grandmother had brought back from Thailand. The morning's incense had already burned down — a tradition of my grandmother's I still followed.

Bailey chased after the toy, and we made our way to the backyard.

The sheriff sat in the white-painted gazebo. White Lady Banks’ climbing roses twined up its sides, their scent thick in the morning heat.

I walked up the two gazebo steps and sat on the bench across from her. “You wanted to talk to me?” I asked.

“I want you to tell me everything that woman does.”

I stared. “You want me to spy?” What? No, no way. “I can’t spy on an FBI agent.”

“Call it whatever you want,” she said.

“But—”

“Listen up, Witsend, you and I are in this together, and you're going to do what I tell you.”

I bridled. “What do you mean we're in this together?” And also, you’re not the boss of me.

“A man died in your boarding house—”

“B&B.”

“And there were only three people in it at the time — you and your two guests. Of the three, you've got the best motive.”

“The police think I did it?” I bleated. “That's ridiculous!”

“And then there's your jailbird cousin.”

I plucked a dried leaf from the roses twining up the gazebo and crushed it between my fingers. Yes, Dix had a record, but it had all been stupid juvie stuff. Nothing violent. “Dixie wasn't even here when your husb— the victim was killed.”

“How do you know when he was killed?”

I slowed my breathing. Nothing good ever came from hyperventilating. “I don't, exactly. Sometime on Tuesday. Do you?”

“Not. On. The case. But your cousin knows where the room keys are kept, doesn’t she? She could have found Tanner’s and killed him.”

My heartbeat sped. “Why? She doesn't even know him. She's got no motive.”

“You think the FBI isn't going to be looking hard at an ex-con in the house?”

“But—”

“But nothing. You two are suspects.” She stretched her arms along the railing. “Smile. They probably won't arrest you as an accessory.”

“I'm smiling on the inside.” I scowled. “And what about you? You're the wife, and everyone knows that ninety-percent of the time, the spouse is the killer.”

“Yeah, but I’m not, and I don't think you are either.”

“Well, it's obvious I didn't,” I said, mollified. “I called the police to ask for help bouncing Tanner out.”

“Which would be nice cover if you'd just killed him.”

“But you said—”

She waved off my objection. “Don’t worry. I don't think you're clever or cold enough to pull that off.”

What? I was clever. And cold. “Is that a compliment?”

“No.”

Bailey trotted to me, the furry octopus in his mouth.

I wrestled the slimy thing away from him and chucked it into the garden.

“So, if we didn't kill him,” she said, “that leaves someone sneaking in through the upstairs door or—”

“The Greens? But they seem so ordinary. And why would you bring your son along to a murder? Unless Ethan did it, but I can't imagine him getting up the energy to kill someone. I’m sure he's killed thousands of characters in computer games, but in real life? No way.”

“That's what you think.”

“What do you mean? Do you know something about him?”

“No, I'm off the case. I'm just saying, human nature can surprise you.”

“What surprises me is an FBI agent showing up for a local homicide.” I glanced at the Victorian. “Don't they only get involved in federal cases?”

She rose and stretched. “Yeah. Well, Manaj and this town have history. Personally, I think she's off the rails, which is another reason why you need to watch her.”

“What kind of history?”

“She was the lead agent on that big missing person's case last year.”

My mouth parted. “You mean The Disappeared?” Rumors connecting Doyle to UFOs had circulated for years. There were two reasons for this. First saucer-shaped lenticular clouds often appeared over the mountains. Second, hikers occasionally went missing in the nearby forest. Both phenomena had rational, scientific explanations. Lenticular clouds aren’t exactly unique. Hikers go missing in the California woods with sickening frequency.

But then an entire pub full of people disappeared. When the missing reappeared months later alongside a handful of vanished hikers, UFO speculation hit the stratosphere. We'd even started capitalizing the incident: The Disappeared. I had to ask Manaj what happened. Her perspective would be a fantastic addition to my UFO lectures.

The sheriff winced. “Don't call it that. They all came back.”

“But none of them remembered what happened. And they were gone for months. Is the FBI still investigating?”

“Manaj is. Everyone else knows mass hysteria drove those missing people into the woods, and they got lost.”

“Yes, but the entire building—”

“Don't tell me you believe this garbage?” She motioned to the B&B's intersecting gabled roofs. The edge of the flying saucer glinted behind a brick chimney.

“I'm agnostic on the subject,” I lied. Because there's more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in most people's philosophy, etc., etc. Why couldn’t UFOs be real? But under the circumstances, it didn’t seem in my best interest to admit that.

She shot me a skeptical look.

“Okay,” I said. “What's our plan?”

“Just watch her.”

“But when should I call you to report in?”

“Don't call me. I'll call you.”

“This doesn't seem like much of a plan,” I said.

“Fine. You want a plan? Next time you clean her room, make note of what you can observe. Keep a log of her comings and goings.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“None of your business.” She stomped down the gazebo steps.

Bailey shook his head, collar jingling, the legs of the octopus wriggling in his jaws.

“I don’t think this is a very equal partnership,” I shouted at her departing back. To Bailey, I said, “But it is sort of a vote of confidence. If the sheriff really thought I was guilty, she wouldn't ask me to do this, would she?” I jammed my fists into the pockets of my khaki slacks.

The dog whined, skeptical.

I shuddered. “Yeah. She was kind of bossy. I really hate being told what to do.” But it didn’t look like I had a lot of choice, and the sheriff wasn’t my controlling parents. “This is different,” I said in a low voice. “I don’t have to do this. I’m choosing to.”

A figure shifted on the exterior stairs, and I glanced up.

The FBI agent quietly shut the rear door.