A Dead End (A Saints & Strangers Cozy Mystery Book 1) (19 page)

Thank you for reading
A Dead End
! I hope you enjoyed the first book in the Saints & Strangers series. If so, please help other readers find this book ~

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4. Don’t miss
   The Deep End
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   The Bitter End
   , the next books in the series.
   

Read on for an excerpt from
The Deep End
~

Kit Wilder struggled to pay attention to the man lecturing her. To be fair, he was a professor of ethics so lecturing was a major part of his job. To Kit, however, it seemed like he was giving her a stern talking to and she tended to tune out that particular frequency. As her head lolled to the side, she felt a heel slam down on the top of her foot.

“Ouch,” she yelled and quickly regretted it. Professor Philbrook’s eyes shifted to her.

“Miss Wilder, is there something you’d like to add to the discussion?” he asked.

“Sorry. Leg cramp,” she replied and scowled at her alleged friend Francie, the young woman attached to the offending heel.

Francie kept her gaze on the professor, but Kit detected the hint of a smile.

“Perhaps more potassium in your diet then,” Professor Philbrook said and resumed his lecture.

Kit did her best to listen attentively for the remainder of the class. It was difficult, though, when the topic was eye-wateringly dull and the professor’s voice reminded her of the sound of whales communicating underwater.

She glanced at the empty seat on the other side of Francie, the one where her friend Charlotte usually sat. Kit sighed inwardly; things could be worse. She could be like Charlotte, keeping her sick father company in his final days. John Tilton suffered from colon cancer and the doctor recently advised the family that the end was near. Charlotte had been missing classes in order to spend as many waking hours as possible with her dad. Kit understood the desire. When she was eighteen, her own father died of a heart attack on the golf course of the Westdale Country Club. It was sudden and there had been no opportunity for goodbyes. Five years later, she still missed him every single day.

Class drew to its merciful end and Kit immediately turned to chastise Francie. “I know your best friend isn’t here for you to torment, but I don’t appreciate being used as a substitute.”

Francie collected her belongings and tossed them into her Prada shoulder bag. “You need to pay attention in class. I promised Charlotte that we’d take excellent notes for her. That means you and me. We can’t allow her to fall behind.”

Kit softened. “Fine,” she grumbled and followed Francie out of the classroom and down the corridor of Hampshire Hall.

The truth was that Kit was still adjusting to student life after a five-year gap. She’d left the leafy, affluent town of Westdale, Pennsylvania at eighteen, spurred by her father’s death. She’d headed to Hollywood, much to her mother’s dismay — a feeling that Heloise Winthrop Wilder made abundantly clear when she revoked Kit’s trust fund in retaliation.

Luck had sided with Kit. Within weeks of her arrival in Los Angeles, she snagged a leading role on a new television show,
Fool’s Gold
, where she rose to fame as a young detective called Ellie Gold. Four years later she found herself blackballed in Hollywood with a reputation as a diva, a rebel rouser, and an all-around troublemaker. While it was true that she ranted on Twitter about the poor treatment of crew members, was photographed wearing Converse sneakers on the red carpet, and reported a line producer for several instances of sexual harassment, Kit didn’t think her actions warranted a permanent dismissal. She wouldn’t have done anything differently, though. As far as she was concerned, she’d stood up for people who didn’t have the clout to stand up for themselves and stayed true to herself. She couldn’t help it. The courage of her conviction was a personality trait she’d inherited from her father and she had no desire to change it.

Kit spent her fifth year trying to worm her way back in through smaller roles, but it wasn’t meant to be. She still hoped that she’d be welcome back in Hollywood at some point, but her chain-smoking agent, Beatrice Coleman, warned her to be patient. Wait for the memories to fade or for the producers responsible to fall out of favor. In the meantime, Kit was biding her time in her hometown of Westdale, home of more Mayflower Pilgrim descendants than you could shake a rainstick at. She’d reluctantly agreed to do what her mother had wanted five years ago — she’d enrolled in college. Westdale College was prestigious and private and it didn’t hurt that the college was within her mother’s sphere of influence. Heloise Winthrop Wilder was legendary in Westdale, a fact that Kit was reminded of every day now that she was back in the fold.

“We should call Charlotte and see how she’s doing,” Francie suggested, once they’d reached the outer doors. They stepped into the gray haze and Kit felt a raindrop dissolve on her cheek.

“Can we do it from inside Butter Beans?” Kit asked. “I’m not exactly the Tin Man, but I don’t want to get wet.”

Francie rolled her eyes, tossing her blond ponytail to one side. “You spent too long in L.A., Kit. We need to toughen you up again. Get you back to your Pilgrim roots.”

Kit blanched. “If by ‘toughen up,’ you mean ‘conceal, don’t feel,’ you should be aware that it’s the Winthrop family motto.” Kit gave her an earnest look. “I’m serious. It’s on the crest and everything. Anyway, I already have a mother trying unsuccessfully to shape and mold me. I don’t need another one.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Francie said, holding up her hands in a defensive gesture. Like Heloise, Cecelia Musgrove was a pillar of the community with an interest in maintaining certain, illusory standards.

The two young women dashed across Standish Street in an effort to reach the door of the coffee shop before the deluge began. As the door clicked closed behind them, the heavens opened and a torrent of rain swept down the street, banging angrily against the windows.

“A narrow escape,” Francie said.

Kit arched an eyebrow. “Is there any other kind?”

In the elegant study of a five-bedroom country estate, Rebecca and Charlotte Tilton waited. A pot of tea and half-eaten sandwiches covered a small, round table. Rebecca, the elder of the two sisters, sat patiently in their father’s leather chair while Charlotte, red-cheeked and wild-eyed, paced behind her.

“This is ridiculous,” Charlotte seethed. “We should be in there with him. She may act like a child, but we’re his daughters.”

Rebecca responded in her usual temperate manner. “And Jasmine is his wife. She has every right to be in there with him.”

Charlotte scoffed. “She’s been his wife for half a minute. It doesn’t count. We both know she doesn’t love him.”

“But he loves her,” Rebecca said, her voice soft. “And what does it matter now?”

The door swung open and Dr. Farrell entered the study, followed by Adele, the round-faced hospice nurse who’d been assisting Rebecca in caring for her father in his final weeks. The two sisters rushed over, their expressions hopeful. Wordlessly, the doctor shook his head. Rebecca sighed deeply while Charlotte promptly burst into tears.

“Thank you for everything, Dr. Farrell,” Rebecca said, shaking his hand. “I know Father appreciated all that you did for him.”

“Don’t thank me. Not many women would put such a promising medical career on hold to care for an ailing father.” He gently patted her arm. “John Tilton was a good man. I wish I could have done more.”

“Such a sweet man,” Adele added. “It was an honor to get to know him these last couple of weeks.”

“Thank you, Adele,” Rebecca said to the nurse. “You’ve been an incredible help to us all.”

“You girls take good care of yourselves,” Adele said. “Your father loved you very much, you know. He wouldn’t want you to mope for long. Chin up. That’s what he says, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Charlotte acknowledged, offering Adele a grateful smile as the nurse left the room.

Dr. Farrell gave each girl a sympathetic kiss on the cheek. “Someone from Landau’s is on their way to collect him. Be sure to send me details of the party.”

Rebecca nodded. Her father had insisted on a party at Oak Lodge, their family home, rather than a tearful funeral service. “He’s right to want us to celebrate his life. It was a good one.”

As Dr. Farrell slipped out the door, Rebecca placed a comforting arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Would you like to see him one more time before they take him away? Jasmine’s probably gone by now.”

“Already off to max out his credit cards, no doubt,” Charlotte muttered.

“Charlotte, try to keep a civil tongue,” Rebecca chastised her. “I’m sure Jasmine’s grieving in her own way.”

“You seem to confuse grieving with celebrating a windfall.”

Rebecca shot her a warning look before they stepped into the darkened room. Even though their father could no longer hear them, Rebecca wanted to remain respectful of his second wife.

After a last, quiet moment with their father, two men arrived from Landau’s to remove John Tilton from his home. It was bittersweet for Charlotte. Although she was relieved that he was no longer in pain, she hated to part from him.

Charlotte and Rebecca retired to the living room where they stared listlessly at the television screen. Charlotte didn’t recognize the show but she didn’t care. Her father was gone. Her mother was long gone. She and Rebecca were all alone now.

“We should call the Westdale Gazette,” Rebecca said. “Crispin said they’d already drafted a special obituary.” Crispin Winthrop was Kit’s cousin and the owner and editor of the Westdale Gazette.

Charlotte nodded mutely. The click clack of sharp heels drew her attention to the adjoining foyer.

Jasmine Tilton, a former professional cheerleader before her profitable marriage to John, stood in the entryway. “What time do we expect that creepy lawyer?”

“You can at least pretend to be upset,” Charlotte said, her gaze still fixed on the television screen.

Jasmine placed a hand on her hip. “Why be upset, honey? He lived a very full life and now he’s about to pass his very full bank account on to his deserving wife.”

Rebecca smiled politely. She highly doubted that her father would leave his entire fortune to his trophy wife. As susceptible as he was to a pretty face and an ample bosom, John Tilton was devoted to his daughters.

“Well,” Rebecca said, “it is nice to follow tradition and actually read the will before counting your diamonds.”

Jasmine examined her coral-colored nails. “No need to read it. I was there when he wrote it. Hell, I practically wrote it for him.”

“No doubt,” Charlotte said.

The doorbell rang and Jasmine’s sculpted eyebrows shot up. “And there’s your Daddy’s lawyer now.”