First Degree Mudder

Book 4: Pacific Northwest Mystery

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Punny book titles

Synopsis

When a mud marathon champion bites the dust, Meg Reed has to go the distance to make sure a killer comes clean . . .
 
Back home in Portland, Oregon, Meg is ready to take her career as an outdoor writer for Extreme magazine to the next level. Lesser journalists sling mud—Meg plans to run through it. To train hard for Mud, Sweat & Beers, an extreme 5K mud run, she’s signed on with the Mind Over Mudder team, run by ten-time mud marathon champ—and former drill sergeant—Billy the Tank. But when Meg finds her tenacious trainer dead in the locker room, she has a sinking feeling someone may have been pushed too far. Digging through the hidden secrets at Mind Over Mudder is a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. Meg will have to tread carefully, though—or she may soon be running for her life . . .

PRAISE FOR SCENE OF THE CLIMB
 
“A splendid overview of the greater Portland and Columbia River Gorge region, perfect for travel buffs. Her protagonist shows promise with her determined attitude and moxie.” —Library Journal
 
“A fun, terrific adventure.”—Suspense Magazine

Release date: November 29, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

My feet squished inside my drenched kicks as I limped through the damp grass. I’d like to give Billy a swift kick in the shins, I thought, cranking the volume on my phone to high. Maybe Dean Martin’s “King of the Road” would give me a final boost. Doubtful. I didn’t feel like the king or queen of the road. Quite the opposite.

The rest of my Mind Over Mudder teammates were nowhere in sight. Thank God. I checked behind me twice, just to make sure. I probably could have taken the shortcut straight to the barracks, but I didn’t want to risk being seen. That might have been a mistake. The historic grounds gave off an eerie aura, especially the dilapidated army hospital Building 614, to my left. It was rumored to be haunted. I understood why. Built in 1904 during an influenza outbreak, the three-story brick building had served hundreds of infantry men over the decades.

I shuddered to imagine the torture some of them must have endured. Was that a moan? A prickly feeling ran down my spine.

“I think that’s a moan,” I said aloud as I glanced up at the broken top-story windows. Something ghoulish floated past.

Run, Meg!

I willed myself forward, ignoring the blisters on my heels or the chafing under my sports bra. It felt like I was breathing underwater. I didn’t care. I crested the hill and turned onto Evergreen Boulevard.

Relax, Meg. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. I had read one too many ghost stories when researching the history of Fort Vancouver and its surrounding grounds. The hospital had been abandoned for years, but people swore that things were amiss. Faucets were said to turn on in the middle of the night, bathroom doors banged shut for no reason, faces, like the one I’d just seen, appeared out of nowhere in the windows. The place was haunted. Definitely haunted.

You’re fine now, I told myself, slowing my pace.

I followed the flour on the sidewalk that marked the route of our predawn run. It took us past the fort’s parade grounds complete with an old-fashioned bandstand and Officer’s Row—a row of stately Victorian officers’ houses. That’s when I saw the creepy old lady again. I’d seen her watching us from her ground-floor apartment before. The twenty-two stately mansions that make up Officer’s Row were now used for a variety of purposes. The Grant House had become one of Vancouver’s premier restaurants and the Marshall House a favorite spot for weddings. The remaining properties had been converted into commercial and residential space.

Yesterday when I jogged past the creepy old lady’s apartment she peeled back one lace curtain and watched me and my teammates. It was unsettling to say the very least.

I stopped to tie my shoe under an ancient oak. Its leaves looked parched from summer’s endless sun. My throat commiserated with the tree. I could use an ice-cold glass of water right about now. Pushing myself to standing, all the hairs on my arms stood at attention as a creaking sound came from the creepy old lady’s front door. She appeared out of nowhere on the wraparound porch.

Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Where had she come from? I jumped back in surprise. Her glassy eyes bore into me. She wore a faded pink bathrobe and appeared to have been old enough to be one of the original members of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

“Hi.” I offered a tentative wave.

She didn’t move.

I tried again. “Good morning.”

Her eyes remained locked on me, but she gave no indication that she’d heard my greeting.

Was she a ghost?

I had no intention of waiting around to find out. I plowed ahead, crossing Evergreen Boulevard and practically hurdling the waist-high wooden fence that ran the length of the grassy parade grounds. My feet revolted as I stumbled down the hill. It felt like someone was sanding my heels with sandpaper.

Pick up the pace, Meg.

The only thing that kept me upright was the promise of a hot shower and the fact that a ghost might be in hot pursuit. I needed to get to the barracks and get out of these shoes. Mud and sweat oozed from every pore. Thankfully, I’d learned my lesson after the first day on the training course and ditched my cute pink tank top and capris for old raggedy sweats and a T-shirt. Everything ended up discolored from the mud. There was no point in trying to look cute while under Billy the Tank’s watchful eye and blaring bullhorn.

I cut through the grass, something Billy definitely frowned on. “Reed!” he bellowed in his bullhorn when he caught me sneaking around the back of the barracks last week. “When you take a shortcut you’re only cheating yourself.”

That was fine by me. I happily owned cheating on myself.

There was a single light on in the otherwise deserted collection of buildings down the hill. The reserve encompassed 366 acres of land. It included Fort Vancouver, Pearson Field, Pearson Air Museum, the barracks, army hospital, Red Cross building, Officer’s Row, an old chapel, stables, and non-commissioned officers’ houses. The grounds are considered the Pacific Northwest’s most important historical site. And this morning I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were whispers from the past surrounding me.

My target was the barracks building where the single light glowing golden yellow looked like a welcoming beacon. Billy and his business partner, Dylan, had leased the barracks to use as base camp for their three-week intensive training class Mind Over Mudder. They promised that by the end of the session (If you survived, which at the moment looked doubtful for me.), not only would you be in “fighting shape” to finish a mud run, but you’d also drop pounds and pant sizes. So far the scale hadn’t budged when I stepped on it, and I was so exhausted at the end of the day that I felt like dropping dead.

Using the wooden railing, I placed one hand over the other and slowly hauled my body up the ramp. The rotting wooden slats buckled. Please hold, I said a silent prayer to the Universe. The last thing I needed was to crash through the ramp.

Compared with the other buildings, the barracks were in great shape. Everything had sat empty since the army abandoned its post in Vancouver decades earlier. The National Park, along with a trust, had begun renovations on the massive site. The barracks were first on the list, and Mind Over Mudder the first and only tenant at the moment. A sharp splinter lodged itself in my palm. It protruded from my mud-chapped skin. I stopped and yanked it free. Ouch!

Yet another reason to love this training program, I sighed as I opened the front door and stumbled inside. Every muscle in my body quaked. Billy had promised us that muscle pain was a sign that our metabolism was revving up and we were replacing fat with muscles. “Embrace the quakes” was his motto. Easy for him to say. Billy, aka “the Tank,” was the fittest person I’d ever met. That was saying a lot given that I write for Northwest Extreme magazine and am constantly surrounded by hard-bodied adventure junkies.

Billy instructed us to call him Tank on the first day of training. He looked like a tank. His stout body bulged with muscle mass. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. Let’s just say that he was a bit intimidating when he sounded the whistle around his neck, wearing skintight army shorts and a sleeveless shirt specifically designed to show off his enormous muscles.

I scanned the dimly lit hallway to make sure Tank wasn’t there. By my estimate, the rest of my teammates should be on the course for another thirty minutes. That should give me ample time to shower, soak my aching soles, and hightail it out of here before anyone was the wiser. I clicked off my music, tugged my earbuds out, and clutched my phone in the hand without the splinter.

The barracks have an ominous vibe even when they’re packed with my teammates and coaches. Shuffling down the long, empty hallway made it feel even creepier. Like the army hospital, the barracks are said to be haunted. The top floor was used for gun testing. There are still bullet holes in the walls upstairs, and it was said that you could hear phantom gun shots.

A loud thud sounded below.

I jumped and let out a scream.

My heart pounded in my chest. Relax, Meg. Maybe one of my teammates had the same idea.

I continued on, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was behind me. The locker rooms were located in the basement. Not exactly where I wanted to be at the moment, but I hobbled down the hardwood stairs anyway.

When I was a few feet away from the locker room doors, they swung open, nearly smacking me in the face.

I jumped again.

Was it the ghost? How were the doors opening? One of the rumors that I’d heard about the haunted buildings was that doors were known to open and close at will.

I backed up.

At that moment someone barreled through the doors and knocked me off my feet.

“Hey!” I caught myself on the wall.

The guy leaped over me and raced down the hallway before I could get a look at his face. I had a pretty good guess who it was—Tim Baxter, one of my fellow teammates. I recognized his bulk and black hooded sweatshirt. What was he doing in the locker room, and why was he in such a hurry?

I pushed to standing. “Tim, where are you going?”

He paused at the front doors.

I noticed a package under his right arm. “Tim!” I called again. “What’s going on?”

He froze. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. My contacts were thick with sludge. I don’t see distances very well even when my contacts are perfectly clear. Dirt had formed a thick filmy layer, making my vision blurry. I blinked twice.

The door slammed shut. Tim, or whoever had run into me, was gone.

Weird.

I brushed myself off and continued into the locker room. Steam enveloped the front area where three massage tables sat empty. Long mirrors stretching the length of the room were completely fogged over. It smelled like stale sweat, moldy wood, and eucalyptus. Someone, probably Tim, must have left the steam room doors open.

Using my hands as a shield to avoid tripping over a bench, I made my way past the massage tables and into the shared steam, sauna, and whirlpool room. Doors on either side of the room led to the men’s and women’s changing rooms and showers. Originally the barracks housed only men, so when Mind Over Mudder renovated the basement locker room they’d had to get creative with the design. The actual changing areas and showers were private and on opposite sides of each other, but the steam room and hot tub were coed, which meant that bathing suits were always required.

My cheeks burned with heat. Muddy sweat dripped onto the floor. The wet air filled my lungs, making me cough.

I fumbled through the dense layer of steam. My hands landed on the cedar steam room door, which was indeed wide open. Someone had propped it open with one of the locker room benches. Really weird. I pushed the bench away. It made a sound like nails on a chalkboard on the tile floor.

My feet slid across the wet floor. I landed on my tailbone as the steam room door swung shut. Awesome. Two falls in a matter of a few minutes. That had to be a new record for me. At least my phone was safely secured to my arm. I just got a new phone after a little accident with my old phone. Smartphones aren’t cheap, especially for a girl on a tight budget. I couldn’t risk damaging this one, so I undid the Velcro strap around my arm and placed my phone and earbuds on a bench nearby.

Steam billowed from underneath the door. It reminded me of dry ice on Halloween. Whoever turned it on must have cranked the heat to full blast. I braced myself as I opened the door to shut it off.

I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, but I knew where the dials controlling the heat and steam were. The steam room and I had become besties over the past few days. Nothing soothed my training aches and pains like the moist, warm air.

I found the thermostat and switched it off. I know I shouldn’t have, but I climbed onto the cedar slatted bottom bench and drank in the steam. Billy would be furious if he caught me wearing my muddy clothes in the hot, humid room, but I couldn’t help it. I was freezing. Just five minutes, Meg, I told myself as my breathing steadied and I sank onto the warm bench. This is exactly what I needed, I could almost feel my muscles begin to relax.

Within minutes the steam began to evaporate and the air began to thin. I opened my eyes. My contacts were like glue. Blinking as hard as I could, I tried to loosen their grip. It didn’t work. They felt like sand. I might have to ditch them, I thought as I stood up.

The small cedar room came into soft focus. Someone else was in here with me. I blinked again. “Billy?”

Billy was lying on his back on the top bench with his eyes closed. Why hadn’t he said anything? He must be pissed that I snuck out early.

“Listen, Tank, I’m really sorry I took the shortcut. My feet are killing me this morning. I have, like, a thousand blisters.”

Billy didn’t respond.

“Tank, I’m a reporter, remember. I’m here for a story. It’s not like the rest of my teammates.” I stood. Spots danced in my vision.

Again Billy didn’t respond. I moved closer. Suddenly, I knew why he wasn’t responding. Billy wasn’t resting.

As I came closer, a horrific sense of dread came over my entire body. Billy was dead.

You would think that I would have learned my lesson by now. But no. Signing up for Mud, Sweat, and Beers was entirely my idea. I wanted to prove myself as a serious member of the Northwest Extreme team after returning to Portland from a whirlwind week in New York.

It might be hard to believe (it still was for me) that I turned down a job offer at ESPN. ESPN! What was I thinking? Did turning down their generous offer make me wise beyond my years or a total idiot? I wasn’t sure, but I was sure that I belonged in Portland.

New York had been exactly as I imagined it—busy and crowded with a constant pulse of people and energy. I loved it. I loved watching throngs of businessmen and women in sharp, smart suits and fancy shoes navigate sidewalks and honking taxis. No one honks in Portland. Cars always yield to pedestrians. Merging into the flow of foot traffic in the Big Apple was as challenging as trudging up deserted wooded backcountry trails in the Pacific Northwest. I almost got run over twice. Thanks to a bystander with quick reflexes I was spared being mowed down by a speeding Uber driver.

Fortunately, I’m a quick study and the social media team at ESPN gave me a quick course in how to blend in like a New Yorker. My first rule was to never look up. Apparently, no one in New York stares at the massive skyscrapers that tower over the city. I couldn’t help myself. Some of them seemed as high—if not higher—than Oregon’s majestic peaks. I found myself bumping into strangers as I walked with my head tilted up trying to catch a glimpse of the sky through the giant columns of steel and concrete. They were as impressive as the Cascade Mountains and equally intimidating.

My new friends also advised caution at crosswalks. I wasn’t in Portland any longer. That was for sure. After two near misses, I learned to stop and wait for the light to change before crossing intersections that hardly ever clear. In no time, I began to feel like a bona-fide New Yorker. And the fashion. Swoon. I could definitely get used to the big-city wardrobe.

Very few Portlanders wear suits. Not true in New York. I appreciated the city’s sophisticated style. I usually feel overdressed in my vintage A-line dresses at Northwest Extreme where most of my coworkers arrive in shorts and hiking gear. Many of them don’t even bother to shower. Fashion in Portland had been defined by an influx of hipsters who sported shaggy beards, knit caps, flannel shirts, and skinny jeans.

New York brought out the girl in me. I have a serious addiction to pink. I’ve tried to temper it with my outdoor apparel, but in New York I embraced my love of all things pink, wearing my favorite cashmere cardigan and flared skirt with strappy pink sandals to happy hour and sporting a pink polka dot 1950s number to lunch. I even chopped off my hair on a whim. One afternoon I passed by an upscale hair salon. Without a moment of pause, I walked in the doors and asked the stylist for a modern pixie cut.

The social team at ESPN was a blast. Unlike at Northwest Extreme where most of my colleagues were older than me by a decade or two, everyone at ESPN’s new satellite office was my age. Hanging with my fellow millennials made for an eventful week and required copious amounts of coffee in the morning to deal with the hangover from hitting the club scene every night. New York was alive no matter the hour. No wonder they call it “the city that never sleeps.” I didn’t sleep at all during my stay.

I’m pretty sure that was due in part to trying to make a major life decision. As flattered as I was by ESPN’s offer, and as enamored as I was with the city, I just couldn’t quite picture myself living in New York. Maybe I wasn’t as athletically inclined as the other writers at Northwest Extreme, but I’d come to really enjoy my job and the outdoors. There was something about the wide-open space on the West Coast that I couldn’t bear to leave. Portland was home, and everyone I loved was in Portland.

At the end of the week, I packed my suitcase and turned down ESPN’s offer. The entire cab ride and flight home I debated with myself. Had I made the wrong choice? What if I never got another opportunity like this?

But when the pilot announced we were starting our descent into Portland, I pulled up the shade and looked out the tiny window. We circled over evergreen trees as far as my eye could see. Mt. Hood stood like a mighty snow-capped pillar at the base of the deep blue waters of the Columbia River. The vast clean sky seemed to stretch to the ocean. I had what Gam calls a “knowing.” I had made the right decision. I was home.

I didn’t have much time to reflect on my decision. I was due at Northwest Extreme bright and early Monday morning for our monthly all-staff meeting. Greg, my editor and boss, hears our story pitches at the all-staff meeting. I’d been so consumed with my interview in New York that I hadn’t exactly done a ton of research into what I wanted to pitch.

My flight got in at seven on Sunday night. I had less than twelve hours to come up with a story idea. Having recently wrapped a feature on windsurfing in the Columbia River Gorge, I knew I wanted to write about something closer to home. Most of my assignments had been based outside of Portland. My time in New York had given me renewed appreciation for my funky city. I wanted to explore that. The question was how.

Portland boasts a variety of outdoor events throughout the year. Rain or shine Portlanders are usually game for any adventure. After unpacking and a quick glance at the junk mail that had piled up while I was gone, I got to work. I needed something unique to pitch to Greg. I leafed through the newspaper. Call me crazy, but I still get the paper delivered to my front door. There’s nothing like flipping through its thin pages or the feel of residual newsprint on your fingers.

Plus, reading the paper always made me feel closer to Pops. He’d been the lead investigative reporter for The O, Oregon’s oldest newspaper, until his untimely death right before I graduated from college. My fondest memories of him are him sitting at his desk at The O. His desk was always a mess. It used to drive Mother crazy. “Charlie,” she’d gripe. “You need to set a better example for your daughter.” Then she’d try to tidy up his piles of handwritten notes and clippings.

He would wave her off. “Darling, stop. There’s a method to my madness. Our little Maggie knows this, don’t you?” He would wink at me and suggest that we all walk for an ice cream. He was brilliant at distracting Mother. I wished I had his same talent.

The paper was much thinner these days. Pops would have been disappointed to see dwindling subscription numbers and the fact that the entertainme. . .