Cold Turkey

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Cold Turkey

ISBN #1-4199-0775-1

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cold Turkey Copyright© 2006 Janice Bennett

Edited by Helen Woodall.

Cover art by Elphaba.

Electronic book Publication: November 2006

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Chapter One

Rain pounded down, hammering cones and needles from the pine trees, beating the full force of its fury right on top of me. Or rather, right on top of Freya, my ‘65 Mustang convertible—top currently up and not leaking, thank heavens. That, in itself, was a minor miracle. The odds of the top’s latch staying properly in position, thereby keeping me and the vintage upholstery dry, decreased proportionately to the drench potential of the weather. My luck at the moment was too good to last.

We lurched through a new pothole, and I muttered a word my Aunt Gerda would never consider ladylike. Right now, though, I couldn’t afford a front-end alignment. For that matter, right now I could barely afford to fill up Freya’s tank. But I didn’t want to think about my financial woes. I only wanted to arrive at my aunt’s house, sink into a hot bath reeking of lavender or violets, snuggle into my old fuzzy robe, and forget my problems in her eccentric and delightful company.

I avoided a fallen branch, crested the hill, and my headlights glittered off the familiar wrought iron gate. Open. Welcoming. I could really use welcoming.

I eased my foot off the gas as Freya bumped off the blacktop and onto the rutted gravel of the drive. That proved enough. The latches sprang, and the convertible top popped up about two inches, just enough to let in the driving rain. I groped for the canvas, and only succeeded in knocking it back about a foot. Damn and damn again. Either the top’s mechanism stuck tight, or it slid down at the slightest touch. I’d have to stop using so much WD-40 on the blasted thing.

With unerring accuracy, we found a new pothole. Vilhelm’s cage rattled on the seat beside me, but nary a cheep emerged from beneath the cover. Not that my poor parakeet didn’t mind, he always maintained a disgruntled but dignified silence during our car trips. One of these days, I’d have to find a way to rig lights for this stretch. The driveway twisted for a hundred yards, and the pines and sequoias grew so close together that even on the brightest of nights—which this certainly wasn’t—they blocked any glimmer from moon or stars.

We rounded the last bend, and the dark shape of the house emerged in front of me, perched high amid the wind-tossed trees as it cantilevered out from the hillside. Silent. No lights. And way too early for Aunt Gerda to have gone to bed. A finger of disquiet tugged at the edges of my mind.

I slapped it away. The rain, the long drive, and my rotten mood were combining to create the “dark and stormy night” syndrome, and anyone pushing forty was too old to succumb to that nonsense. I studied the familiar shape of the deck, the gabled roof, the paler outlines of the windows. Nothing sinister or threatening. Just home. And that probably meant a power outage. Again.

Comforted by this reflection, I proceeded to test the hypothesis. A quick fumbling with the fold-down sunshade produced the automatic opener I kept clipped there. I clicked it toward the garage, and the double doors emitted their customary rumble before beginning their upward journey. All right, so Aunt Gerda still had electricity.

The ceiling light flickered to life, illuminating the empty interior. No Hans Gustaf—Aunt Gerda’s bright blue Pathfinder. She had gone out. That explained the lack of light, the house stood empty.

Great. Just great. I eased Freya through another, deeper, pothole. Some homecoming, with no one to greet me. And I had no one to blame but myself. Aunt Gerda didn’t expect me until tomorrow, Thanksgiving Eve. That should teach me to lose my temper, quit my accounting job in San Francisco, and flounce home down the too many miles of California coastline to lick my emotional wounds. My aunt could be anywhere in the tiny town, from visiting her nearest neighbor—a mere quarter mile down the road—to working late in her store, Upper River Gulch’s sole video/antique/used book emporium, an establishment which made up exactly one ninth of Upper River Gulch’s business district.

I pulled into the space on my side of the garage. I’d been living away from here for over fifteen years, but the old wood-burned sign still hung above my parking place. “Annike and Freya” it read, encircled by painted flowers. The hominess of it brought a lump of emotion to my throat. I switched off the engine, then leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. I hated driving in the rain. Not to mention the lingering guilt I suffered from having informed my boss, for whom I’d slaved these last six years, precisely what kind of a jerk he was. I’m afraid I even made some reference to his turkey, its dressing, and what he could do with them.

I turned my head on the rest to regard my passenger and lifted up a corner of the cage cover. “We’ve arrived,” I informed the parakeet.

Vilhelm glared back at me, not deigning to dignify my comment with an answer. I hadn’t expected one. After the ordeal of a drive, it always took Vilhelm a good half-hour to unruffle his bright green feathers and return to his normal verbose self. I should enjoy the quiet while I could.

I unfolded myself—all six foot one of me—from the car, dragged my duffel bag from the backseat, then went around the other side to retrieve the cage. With one burden in each hand, I exited the garage. This triggered the security monitor, which blinked on to spotlight the twenty drenched redwood steps that led up the outside of the garage to the deck and front door above. Rain pelted down my neck until I reached the semi-shelter of the roofed porch.

Clumsy, a huge black neutered tomcat, sat on the braided hemp welcome mat, his tail curled around his feet. From all directions, other cats descended on me, stropping against my ankles, meowing their protests at being outside on this miserable wet evening. Through this tangle of fur and purr, sharp teeth attached themselves lovingly to my ankle.

“Yes, I’ve missed you, too, Furface.” I didn’t need to look down to know who had just welcomed me. Furface always made his presence felt in a very tangible way. “Why didn’t she leave you all inside?” I set down my duffel and sorted through my keys for the correct one. “No, you don’t,” I added as two of the cats—calico Birgit and gray and white Dagmar—reared up on their haunches to sniff the cage. I swung Vilhelm to safety, inserted the key in the door, and let us all within.

At least Aunt Gerda had left one light on. It shone from the back of the house, from the large bedroom she had converted into a study. I flicked the switch that turned on the living room corner lamps, and the comfortable room with its oak floor, hand-woven rugs, blue-gray upholstery and brick fireplace sprang to life. Home.

Still with the cage held at shoulder level, I wended my way through the clutter of my aunt’s loom, spinning wheel, and far too many baskets spilling over with colorful, hand-dyed wool, and made it to the hall. The first door on the right stood ajar. This had been my room since my parents died when I was only seven. I set Vilhelm on top of the bureau, dropped my duffel on the floor and my fingers found the wall switch with the ease of long experience.

Light filled the cozy room, and I cast an assessing eye over the furnishings. Just the way I’d left everything from my last visit. Well, almost. Olaf, an abnormally rotund lavender point Siamese, blinked at me from the comfort of the queen-sized bed’s flowered pillow shams, and the curve of an orange tail—Mischief’s—protruded from beneath the matching dust ruffle. Pausing in front of my dresser mirror, I tried to smooth rain-darkened strands of shoulder-length permed blonde hair out my eyes, but gave it up as hopeless. I turned to my bed, scooped up one cat in each arm, went into the hall, and pulled the door closed with the toe of my running shoe. Vilhelm might find cats almost as fascinating as they found him, but he needed peace to recover from his journey.

And speaking of cats, four of the seven currently in residence at Aunt Gerda’s had gathered at the far end of the long hall where they stared fixedly through the open door that led into the study. Not so much as an ear or tail twitched. I froze, while fingers of uneasiness played a cadenza up my spine.

For a long moment I hugged the two cats I carried, then set them on the loomed runner that extended the length of the hall. The Siamese Olaf hunkered his considerable bulk down low and crept up on the others, while the orange Mischief beat a hasty retreat toward the living room.

Probably a half-eaten gopher. Or worse, something they hadn’t quite finished off yet. I hated that the most, I can’t stand to see anything suffer. I shivered, and knew I was overreacting. “What have you guys dragged home this time?” I demanded. My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the empty house.

None of the cats turned to look at me, which did nothing to steady my nerves. I really didn’t want to go near that room. Which was utter nonsense. If it were something I could help, I would. And if it were something messy and long gone, I’d just leave it for Aunt Gerda. They were her furry little monsters, after all. On that thought, I strode down the hall, nudged my way between two of the beasties, and peered into the study.

Book shelves lined the walls, filled to overflowing with paperbacks, hardbacks, and oversized volumes, everything from poetry through science fiction and mysteries to scholarly tomes of history and philosophy. A
Sunset
magazine lay open on the low table between the two overstuffed chairs. Nothing more vile than cat hairs lay on the rya throw rug that covered the polished light oak floor. Heartened by this, I took a step into the room and looked around the door, to where my aunt’s gigantic redwood desk stood in front of the French windows that let out onto the back deck.

A man sat at the desk. Or rather, he slumped over it, one arm flung across the inevitable clutter on the surface, the other dangling at his side. The lamp on one corner didn’t show his face, which was turned away from the door, but it did an excellent job of illuminating the intricately carved handle that protruded from just below his collarbone on his left side. A dark stain spread from it, across his white shirt and gray suit coat, down his arm, to where it pooled in a burgundy mass across my aunt’s financial records.

I pried my fingers from the doorjamb and took a faltering step toward the desk. I wasn’t really seeing what I thought I saw. I couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t possible. It had to be an elaborate practical joke, and one in the worst imaginable taste. Knowing some of my aunt’s more eccentric friends, that just might be the case.

Still, it looked awfully real. And the cats were upset.

I closed my eyes and drew a steadying breath, which only brought the unmistakable odors of blood and bodily fluids.

Okay, no joke. I had to pull myself together. If there were any chance this man might still be alive, I had to do something, help him—I forced one foot in front of the other until I stood beside him. My gaze focused on the knife—except it wasn’t one, it was a letter opener. Aunt Gerda’s letter opener. I knew the delicately depicted cat that decorated its head.

I swallowed the bile that churned upward from my stomach. The letter opener had drawn one hell of a lot of blood. Part of my mind registered that the IRS would never be able to make heads or tails of my aunt’s business receipts, after this.

And speaking of blood—it no longer seeped from the wound. With a shaky finger I touched the man’s shoulder. It felt sticky, as if the blood had begun to dry.

He was long past any help I could give him, no question about that.

My mind kicked back into gear. He hadn’t fallen on the letter opener, and I didn’t see how he could have stabbed himself, not at that angle. Which left murder. But how long ago? Minutes? Seconds? For all I knew, my entrance to the house might have interrupted the act in progress. The murderer might still be here, lurking somewhere… I fought back a rising panic, forcing myself to think clearly. If some homicidal maniac intended to attack me, he could have done it easily by now. More likely, he would have slipped out by the French windows while I was talking to the cats.

The authorities. I had to call the sheriff. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach over the body for the phone. Instead, I sidled around to the other side of the desk. This gave me the added disadvantage of a clear view of the man’s face, with the open, staring eyes that no longer saw anything. His gray-flecked brown hair, I noted through a daze, remained impeccably styled. Clifford Brody, C.P.A., wouldn’t even be caught dead other than perfectly groomed.

Movement near the hardwood floor made me yelp. One of the cats, the calico Birgit, emboldened by my presence, slunk into the room. I shooed her out, then succumbed to a craven impulse and followed, closing the door firmly behind me. I’d call from another phone. Preferably one at the other end of the house.

I made it down the hall, through the living room, past the dining room door, and into the country kitchen redolent of herbs. Only a few steps from the royal blue wall phone my knees collapsed, dumping me onto one of the brightly painted wooden chairs set around the ancient pine table. I could use a stiff drink. Aunt Gerda would recommend strong tea, with something for nerves, like oat straw, in it. Call first, I ordered myself. Then I’d search out my aunt’s chocolate stash.

I hauled myself to the phone and punched in from memory the number for the Merit County sheriff’s office, then clutched the receiver, trying to order my mind. I couldn’t stammer out the incoherent gibberish that currently filled my head. Not if I wanted anyone to understand me. Dagmar, the gray and white tabby, wound herself around my ankles, and as the phone rang, I scooped the cat into my arm and cradled her there for comfort. Mine, not hers. She squirmed at the tightness of my hold, and I settled her more contentedly against my shoulder.