Rachel Dahlrumple

by Shea McMaster

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Her husband's death is just the beginning of her marital woes. Rachel's humiliation over the discovery of her late husband's affairs turns to fear when one of his mistresses sends her a poisoned bouquet. But finding the source of the killer flowers is only one step on her path to solving the mystery her husband left behind. Deputy Dan Weston is with Rachel when the bouquet arrives, and he's at her side as she deals with so many of the secrets that come to light after her husband's death. Dan has carried a torch for Rachel since puberty and he's not going to let her dead husband's vindictive girlfriends come between them now. But that means finding out who is sending snakes and poisoned posies before one kills Rachel. 60,000 Words

Release date: November 7, 2011

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 250

Sample

 

Chapter 1

 

“I’m not coming home.”

My husband’s declaration dropped my stomach right down to my toes. Despite the oven-intense heat of the day, cold chills raced down my spine.

“Burt?”

“At least not tonight.”

My poor ticker, which had stalled, started beating again at double time.

Dizzy from the brief panic, I closed my eyes and tilted my head against the headrest. In my heart, I knew one of these days he wouldn’t add the last qualifier. I feared that day almost as much as I dreaded him coming home.

When my cellphone had started ringing a few moments earlier, I’d been engaged in backing my husband’s pickup into the ancient barn-like structure we called the garage. Somehow, half blinded from the sun reflecting off the pool, I’d gotten the truck into the bay without hitting anything, found my phone, and caught the call one ring before voice mail picked up.

“I tried the house. Where are you?”

So much for, Hello, sweetheart, I miss you and can hardly wait to be home. But after nearly twenty years of togetherness with Burton Earl Bruckmeister, I really didn’t expect anything else. The romance in my life pretty much lived only between the pages of the books I read. Leaving the windows down, I killed the engine and silence descended for the space of a breath.

“Just pulled in. Had to stop for the ice and drinks, remember? Fourth of July party tomorrow? At our house? Ring a bell? What do you mean you won’t be home tonight?”

“Of course I remember.” Ah, I’d managed to irritate him. His tone hit the exact edge that cut into me, not that I’d ever tell him how deep. Even on the phone, I’d learned to control my flinches, showing just enough for him to be satisfied I heard and obeyed.

As hot as it was outside, over ninety last I’d heard, I had a little irritation going as well. The AC in his truck refused to work and he’d taken my car, the one with the working AC, for his week-long business trip. I’d let it go because I needed the truck for our order of drinks for the party–a checklist item I’d taken care of, at the expense of adding to my irritation. The liquor store had been unusually busy, involving a forty-five minute wait for the clerk to load the supplies into the truck.

“You got everything?”

“All eight of the coolers are stuffed with ice, beer and soda, and in the truck. How long until you’re home?” Last time I’d tried to get the coolers out by myself, a hundred-quart ice chest had dropped me on my backside and landed on my ankle, putting me in a cast. That had happened six years before, and he never let me forget how stupid I’d been. “I can’t do this alone. You promised to be home no later than seven tonight.”

We’d been married seventeen years–had just celebrated our anniversary, also my thirty-ninth birthday, a few weeks prior. Nothing special. Dinner with my father and the neighbors followed by lukewarm, obligation sex. Some amethyst jewelry made by a local artist Burt patronized and a sack of iris bulbs to add to the flower beds because he couldn’t find anything more exotic. Seventeen years just didn’t trip the old romance meter, anymore, I’d thought. Then again, flowers were better than furniture, or his taste in lingerie. He got a painting I’d found at a local gallery.

“It can’t be helped, Rachel, so stop whining. You know how important these conferences are for networking. A couple of the guys from L.A. County asked me to fill out their golf party in the morning. One of their usual players can’t make it.”

“So? Why do you have to be their fourth?”

Burt heaved a sigh I could almost feel through the phone. “Rachel, they’ve had this time reserved for a year. You can’t just waltz in and out of this course. They’ve booked four, and one of their usual party went to jail last week, so they got caught short.”

“Jail!” What kind of people were these? “What did he go to jail for?”

“What does it matter? I didn’t call you for a third degree. This is business. You like the nice cushy lifestyle you live because I provide the bulk of our income, don’t you? Well, this is part of the game.” I couldn’t fight the flinch his angry bite produced. “Dammit, Rachel, we’ve been married long enough I shouldn’t have to explain myself. I’m not coming home. Deal with it.”

Not ready to let go protesting the inconvenience of his absence, I pushed a little more. “So if you back out now, can you make it home by eight?” I tried to remember exactly where he’d gone this week. With the advent of cellphones, location had become unimportant, especially if he drove to the seminars or conferences. We lived more or less between L.A. and San Francisco, so most of the large conference centers were within a three- to four-hour drive and rarely rated a plane ticket.

“You know I love you, but sometimes you try my patience.” He drew in a deep breath and put some control back in his voice. Although I thrilled to the first half of his sentence, the second half killed it. I also wondered who might be listening. Background noise provided no clue. One of those golf-playing bigwigs? “No, Rachel. I’m not backing out. I figure we’ll finish up around noon and then I’ll drive straight on from there. If I don’t stop for lunch, I might make it by two, more likely three.”

Three? The party started around four, or when people drifted back from the rodeo and the other Independence Day events in town. If I left the coolers in the truck, the ice would be completely melted by then. Outside may have been ninety, but the garage had to be closer to a hundred and twenty. Not for the first time, I considered putting air conditioning in the building. Of course, it was impractical as the garage was nothing more than the old carriage house at the back of the lot and had barely been updated with overhead doors and some basic earthquake reinforcing. Hay still littered the loft and gaps between the boards were big enough for birds to fly through.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t leave the coolers in the truck that long.”

“Call John. Or one of the others. I’ve helped their wives often enough, one of them should be more than happy to help you. Just don’t call Miguel. He flirts too much.”

Right. The very notion was laughable. Burt, who flirted with everything in skirts, worried about thirty-year-old Miguel flirting with me? Our resident EMT who lived at the far end of the street, Miguel was so in love with his wife and brand new daughter, he talked of nothing else. As for Burt, Marge Olsen told anyone who’d listen how he’d groped her ass the year before. And he continued to insist he’d been drunk enough he’d thought it was me in the dark. Considering it had been years since Burt had groped any body part of mine in public or private, and Marge’s bra and ass were several sizes larger than mine, I didn’t buy his line.

From where I sat I could see the entire length of our street. The flash of sun glinting off silver flake paint on a low muscle car caught my attention. Only one car like that ever prowled our street. It belonged to Deputy Dan Weston, younger brother of my next door neighbor, John Weston.

My eighth grade year, John and Dan had moved in next door with their parents after their dad was assigned to the Lemoore Naval Air Station to the north of our little town on the west side of California’s San Joaquin Valley. After growing up and several years of seeing the world courtesy of Uncle Sam, John took a transfer to Lemoore himself, bought the house from his parents, and had moved home with his young family only a few years past. Dan followed a couple years later, after a wound put him on the Navy’s retirement list. He’d spend the past twelve months meandering about the county in a deputy’s uniform without a hint of the career-ending injury.

I considered John and his wife, Cyndi, close friends, but Dan, well, he and I had never gotten along well. When he showed up, I stayed away. If we bumped into each other, we’d nod and move on as quickly as possible. Stuck in the same room, we looked the other way and found someone else to talk to. Things had always been awkward between us and showed no sign of improving.

Ask the Westons to help? Not without including the man slowly rolling up their driveway in the sleek, sixty-three Corvette. I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to drive the beast. All that muscle at my control…

“Rachel? Stop daydreaming and listen to me.”

“I’m here, I’m here. Was just looking around to see who’s home. John’s brother just drove up.” I ran one hand over my hair, smoothing back any strands that’d escaped from the chignon I wore for work. My skin was damp, but the dry air took care of the worst sweat, evaporating it almost as soon as it formed. Maybe I didn’t have visible sweat stains down my back or under my arms.

“For God’s sake don’t ask him. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

That did it. I laughed. More of a snort, the bane of my existence, but still a laugh. “He never looks at me, much less speaks to me. No one does, Burt. Getting jealous in your old age?” His forty-ninth birthday wasn’t far off. Just a few weeks.

“I care about my wife and make note of those hitting on her.”

Not that I’d seen signs of either situation, but what the hell, I decided to go for broke. “Then come home and you hit on me. You might be surprised at the response.” I gave it my best throaty purr.

“Stop clinging. It’s not like you to be needy. I’ll call when I’m on my way. Call the admiral. One of his boys should be around to help.” Another one of our neighbors on the street, the admiral had recently retired from command at the nearby base and had grandsons hanging about for the summer.

“Yes, Burt.” Too hot and too tired to fight, I sighed as any hope of support, understanding, or attention from him drained away. “Whatever you say, Burt.” It was as close as I ever came to truly voicing any discontent. He knew how unhappy I’d become, but what Burt said amounted to Burt’s law and, as the number one resident of Burtland, if I didn’t obey, well, let’s just say he knew how to make my life miserable.

“Stop pouting. If I were still in the Navy, you wouldn’t have me home most weeks out of the year.”

“If you were still in the Navy, we wouldn’t have volunteered to host the party this year.”

“Deal with it, Rachel. You’re more than capable. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

And with that, he disconnected. So much for, I love you, or, have sweet dreams of me tonight, or, even, goodbye.

Deflated, discouraged, and irritated by the usual mid-summer heat added onto a normal Friday night weariness, I dragged myself from the truck, hauling a pizza and a salad from the local joint, along with my purse, from the cab.

If I’d known I’d be eating alone for the fifth night that week, I would have skipped the food stop altogether and made a salad from the fresh items growing on the other side of the house. Though I’d inherited the garden, I’d modified the landscaping of our large lot so flower gardens lined the circular front drive, and a vegetable garden grew on the west side of the house. More flower beds dotted the back yard, brightening the large lawn wrapped around a long lap pool and spa. The garage, set back on the east side, bumped up against the lot-line shared with the Weston’s driveway.

Juggling my dinner and grumpy mood, I stepped from the garage and heard a throat clear from the other side of the low hedge that marked the division of properties. Unable to avoid him without being supremely bitchy-rude, I turned and smiled at my childhood nemesis. “Hi, Dan.”

“Rachel.” He nodded, and late day sunlight glinted off the golden streaks in his brown hair. Why did men get the beautiful hair? Even from a half dozen feet away I could see dark lashes shading what I knew were hazel eyes. Mostly green with bits of amber. Eyes that looked me over from head to toe, and I found myself wanting to hunch over, as if I could hide from the unaccustomed appraisal. I distracted myself by looking at his new mustache. The hairs themselves were short, but the growth pattern extended down each side of his mouth. Fu manchu? Briefly I wondered what that kind of mustache, well, any mustache really, would feel like. Burt had never grown one.

“Need help?” Once more he nodded, but in the direction of the pizza box and the bag hanging from my arm, and his gaze returned to my face. Was I relieved or disappointed? Oh God, had he seen me checking him out? Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d caught a man checking me out, maybe like I was attractive or something. It was enough to set off a nervous reaction.

“With this? No…” Oh hell. “But I do need help with the coolers. Think you and John can get them out of the truck and put them out under the trees?” At his raised brow, I rushed on. “Burt won’t make it home until tomorrow, I just got off the phone with him, and I can’t lift the coolers by myself, and if I leave them in the truck they’ll just melt four times as fast and nothing will be cold tomorrow, and I won’t have time to run out and get more ice or I’ll miss the parade, and there’s still so much I have to do tomorrow that I really can’t let it melt…” And I was babbling. I knew it and let my words fade away.

Dan had half-turned toward the house, where Cyndi most likely spied from the kitchen window. She could see not only into my house, but the back porch and a part of the yard as well. He waved and the shadow of a hand waved back.

That taken care of, he turned and strode through the break in the hedge. “Why don’t you put your dinner in the house, then come out and show us where you want them? Sure you want them out back and not up on the porch?”

“The porch would be fine, but then I’ll have to move them again, and I can’t move them by myself. I mean, I have in the past, but then…” I closed my eyes. I never spoke this much and certainly not this fast or with this much inane detail. Rachel the Cool, the Calm, the Organized. In control, Mistress of the Library, nothing ever shook me up. Well, except my husband ditching me the night before a major event. Man, that really sucked, as my younger patrons would say. Well, not the little ones, but the teens…and maybe a few of their younger siblings who’d picked up their language.

“I heard about your broken ankle when one of these fell on you.”

He had? Like a blinded owl, I blinked at him. “Uh, yes. A full one. I was trying to get it out of the back of the truck.”

“Well, we won’t risk it again. Since the porch is on the north side, let’s put the coolers there, and tomorrow I’ll help move them wherever you need them, all right?”

“What’s happening?” John asked as he approached. “When’s Burt getting home?”

“He’s not.” When John cocked a brow, exactly as his brother had done moments ago, I rushed back into babbling. “Tonight. He’s not coming home tonight, but he’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. He’s been held up by, um, business.”

“Ah,” John said, but turned an inscrutable look toward the garage. “Whatcha need, Rachel?”

Dan shoved his brother toward the open door. “The coolers need to move.”

I hurried to the house and managed to deactivate the alarm about the time they carried the first cooler up the porch steps. I dumped the pizza, salad and my purse on the kitchen island, then rushed back out to…I didn’t know, but the thought of helping had crossed my mind. It quickly became clear they didn’t need my help, especially since I was still dressed for work in a skirt and heels, albeit very low ones. In eight quick trips, they had the coolers tucked into the shadiest part of the porch, where hopefully they’d remain cold until tomorrow afternoon when the neighbors would arrive with more bags of ice. Since we were hosts, the drinks were on us, and Burt liked his beer icy on hot days.

Thankfully we didn’t have to worry too much about designated drivers because almost everyone walked, one nice part about a neighborhood party. However, we would have a few guests from town, such as my dad and pastor, who’d drive. All in all, we expected close to a hundred people. About half of those would be under twenty. And yes, our yard was big enough to accommodate them comfortably, if a bit on the cozy side.

When they finished, John invited me to join them for dinner. “You’ve been alone all week, I’m sure you’re ready for some company. We’d love to have you.”

Ignoring the sideways glance he sent toward his brother, I batted away John’s hand with a laugh when he tried to grab my elbow. “Thanks, but I still have a lot to do tonight. Really.” Backing away, I put distance between myself and the Weston brothers before I caved to temptation. “Thank you. I really appreciate the help, I do, but I can’t. Not tonight. Burt’s home next week, maybe we can do it then.”

John and Dan exchanged a look, one I wasn’t sure I wanted to interpret. “Sure. You and Cyndi work it out. We’ll see you at the parade, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Actually, without Burt, I’d already decided not to go. Who went to a parade by themselves? Where was the fun in that? Besides, without Burt I had half again as much work to do getting ready for the barbeque.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Kicking around our big, empty house, I spent a disgruntled evening hauling crates of party supplies, tables and folding chairs out of storage. Dining alone had involved shoving the pizza in the fridge, and picking at a quarter portion of the Greek salad. However, one more night without Burt snoring in my ear held a certain attraction.

For background noise I’d turned on the TV, and to my surprise the opening credits of On a Clear Day You Can See Forever popped onto the screen. Reliving a moment of my youth, I tried out Barbra-slash-Daisy-slash-Melinda’s most definitive line to see how it worked with my name.

“My name is Rachel. Rachel Winifred Dahlrumple Bruckmeister.”

Somehow it didn’t sound the same as when Barbra-slash-Melinda said it. Disgusted with the false hope that saying it aloud would make it somehow more magical, I went about my tasks.

The movie had become so deeply rooted in my past, practically from the moment of my birth, which took place on the evening the movie opened, Wednesday, June 17, 1970.

No, I’m not clairvoyant like the character Daisy Gamble. If only. Would have saved me a whole lot of trouble. No, it will take a little more explaining.

As the story goes, my parents went to see the film mainly as a distraction for my mom in the uncomfortable end stages of her pregnancy, but also to escape the summer heat, if only for a few hours. Why they chose this movie over another had to do with dishy Frenchman Yves Montand who played the male lead, a psychiatrist. Well, dishy in a 1970s European style. In the film he was still hot by any day’s standards in that older-man appealing way. At least I always thought so. Mom did too, which was why my father indulged his hugely pregnant wife.

In the movie, Barbra Streisand, regressed through hypnosis by Yves, announced, “My name is Melinda. Melinda Winifred Waine Tentrees.” Complete with upper crust British accent instead of the Brooklyn whine of her other character identity, Daisy Gamble. At this point, the character played by Yves sat up and took notice.

Somehow my name doesn’t carry quite the same impact.

In any case, my middle name, Winifred, came from that movie. My mother loved the film, and swore destiny played a hand as she went into labor at the theater. They dashed from cinema to hospital and five minutes before midnight, I made my debut.

Because of this, Mom wanted to name me after the characters in the film, but my father ruled out the entire name she put together. Eventually they settled on Rachel after his grandmother and Winifred as a compromise. Had I been consulted, I would have voted for Melinda.

I was raised listening to bits of the songs, in particular, “…who would not be stunned to see you prove, There’s more to us than surgeons can remove?” and hearing Mom prattle on about names and destinies. Sadly, I’d never lived up to anyone’s expectations or great hopes for my life, yet, each time I watched the movie, I searched for the divine inside me, the spark of life that brought a character like Daisy to life so brilliantly.

Alas, like every other time I’d seen the film, I didn’t find my spark of divine inspiration, but went about my chores and sang along with the songs as I’d been doing from the time VCRs were invented and the movie became available on tape. Because of Mom, I knew the movie inside out and backward. In fact, it had been some years since I’d seen it because it always reminded me of her and made me miss her even more.

By the time I finished for the night, I had precious little energy left and spent only a few moments on the dark porch, listening to the hot San Joaquin Valley night. Right alongside the crickets, the hum of air conditioning units filled the night air. I debated taking a swim, but even the thought took too much effort.

Entirely too ready for bed, I was upstairs and in the middle of my nightly regimen of allergy medications–those with hay fever have always found summer in the valley brutal–when I heard an odd noise from the front of the house.

Raccoons, coyotes, or even one of the neighbor’s dogs commonly wandered by to sniff around. Because of the coyote possibility, I decided to take a look. The last thing I needed was them getting into the coolers. I considered the possibility of kids from the street getting into the beer, but not seriously. The parents in our little neighborhood would make the punishment more excruciating than the hangover they might have the next day, and the kids knew it.

Besides, it never hurt to double check the security, a habit drilled into me by Burt from our days of living near San Jose, and one he’d not let slip one bit since moving to my tiny hometown. In our first years, he’d reminded me nightly, especially when he was away, until I had the habit deeply ingrained in my bones.

Not particularly happy to deal with strange noises on my own–that’s what husbands were for–I pulled a robe on over the t-shirt I slept in when Burt traveled. He preferred something a bit more revealing, or nothing at all, when he was home. I found it bemusing since he hadn’t turned to me in true love in months, possibly a few years. Not counting the lukewarm sex on our anniversaries. That hadn’t been lovemaking in the slightest.

I debated grabbing my smaller handgun, but the double barrel shotgun made a better choice. I kept the cartridges filled with rock salt, which would hurt enough but not cause serious injury. Thank you, James Bond. The shotgun had the advantage of being more visible and could be used as a club if a dose or two of salt didn’t deter the pest. I pulled it from under the bed and padded down the hardwood stairs on bare feet.

Being afraid wasn’t an option because I just couldn’t work up the emotion. Small town life bred it out of a person. I knew these people as well as I knew myself. I’d grown up in the house built by an ancestor less than a generation after the Civil War. Most of my neighbors had moved onto our street when the original homes were built in the late 1970s, after my parents subdivided the land. In the small, tight-knit community of twenty-one homes, we always looked out for each other because that’s what neighbors do. Still, caution was all to the good, thus the security system had been installed shortly after we’d moved into the house.

I peered out a sidelight, flipped on the porch light and detected no sudden movements or creepy sounds. Reasonably confident I’d find nothing more than the hot night, I deactivated the house alarm and opened the front door. Nothing unusual beyond the screened security door greeted me.

Well, except for a long white box sitting at the edge of the porch. An item so out of the ordinary, I didn’t know if I should be intrigued or alarmed.

First of all, Burt never sent cut flowers. His gifts tended toward jewelry I’d rarely wear, and live plants I knew he’d picked out from an anniversary gift guide. Not a bad trait in a husband, really. Better than his taste in lingerie.

Second of all, the florist never delivered after six o’clock in the evening, any day of the week. Certainly not at ten o’clock, when the sidewalks all around us were already rolled up for the night. And if she had, she would have rung the doorbell and not run off. As I said, small town.

Sometimes the younger kids who came into my library brought me a handful of daisies, or those “really pretty yellow flowers” also known as wild mustard. Because of my allergies, I’d let the mustard wilt and tell the kids the plant was too delicate for a vase and was best left in the fields. I liked the daisies and kept a vase especially for them. But kids only brought me flowers at work. Never at home.

Trapped by indecision, I heard a car start up next door, to the east. My left. Ah, right. Deputy Dan. I recognized the growl of the sports car. It occurred to me that the last month or two he’d been a regular weekend visitor, unless he had patrol duty, and then he’d still swing by. Things slow on the dating scene? Surprising. If I’d gone for dinner, I would have caught the news from someone about his dating habits. Not that his habits mattered to me, but it did seem odd, him not having a date on Friday night.

Seeing as how he was the law, and had to drive past my house, that tipped the scales. I leaned the shotgun against the wall and swung open the screen door.

Sure enough, Dan’s Corvette backed down the drive and into the circle where our street ended. My house stood like a grand old queen, dead center, at the back of the curve, a hundred years older than the other homes on the street. As I watched from the corner of my eye, in part because his headlights blinded me and in part because I didn’t want to openly acknowledge his presence–very mature, right?–he hesitated before shifting the car into first gear while I approached the box. A box designed to hold a dozen red roses.

If they were roses from my husband…well, he’d better be behind a bush ready to jump out and make up for being a selfish prick the last couple of years. One heartfelt apology, one meaningful session of making love, and I’d probably forgive him anything. After all, while our life might not be perfect, I couldn’t imagine life without him. All that time together had to stand for something.

Rumbling with a sexy, throaty purr only a high powered car could produce and mean it, the ’Vette crept forward, coming even with the path from the street as I crouched and realized just how short my sleeping outfit was, coupled with the fact I wore no panties. I could only pray darkness and the hem of my robe hid that detail. Despite my potential for exposure of the embarrassing kind, curiosity . . .