Neighing with Fire: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series)
Read Neighing with Fire: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series) Online
Authors: Kathryn O'Sullivan
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For the Corolla, Carova Beach, and Duck fire departments and first responders everywhere
I am always grateful to those who support me as I write, but this was especially true while working on this book. Thanks to my wonderful husband, for nursing me through a month of illness during the writing of this book, serving as my voice, quite literally, when I lost mine, and for reading the early drafts; to my father, for his detailed and insightful feedback that made the book infinitely better; to my mother, for her undying enthusiasm not only for my work but my writing career; to my Aunt Rosie, for inspiring a character in this book just by being herself; and to the rest of my family and friends, for their continued affection and encouragement.
My deepest gratitude to the incredible folks at St. Martin’s Press: editor Toni Kirkpatrick, for her vision and kindness; her assistant, Jennifer Letwack, for her dedication and astute notes; publicist Shailyn Tavella, for persistently setting up signings and events; copy editor Edwin Chapman, for his attention to the details; and executive art director David Rotstein, for the lovely jacket that captures the setting so well.
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Eleanor Wood, for her sage advice and continued belief in me and my work. I’m truly lucky to have her in my corner.
Sincere thanks to all at the Corolla Wild Horse Fund, who are dedicated to protecting the beautiful wild horses and fighting development on the land the horses call home, and to Jim Kelton of Ashville, North Carolina, for adopting Creed, one of the horses featured in this book.
Fond thanks to the independent bookstore owners, especially at Bethany Beach Books, Duck’s Cottage, Island Bookstore, Mystery Loves Company, One More Page Books, and Sundial Books, for hosting events, carrying my work, and being delightful people.
A warm hug to the hardworking librarians, passionate book club members, and devoted bloggers, for your love of writers and reading.
Thanks to my writer friends and the fierce women of Sisters in Crime, especially the Chesapeake Chapter, for making me laugh and inspiring me with your stories to be a better writer.
Thanks to reader Shirley Landes, for suggesting Gold-N-Gifts jewelry store. I was delighted to include a scene at the store in the book.
Finally, to the readers who have taken time out of their busy lives to read my books and write me or post your thoughts … thank you, thank you for allowing me to share my inner world with you.
Sometimes death
comes quietly, and sometimes it thunders in on the wave of a tropical storm. Tropical Storm Ana to be exact. After having wreaked havoc as a hurricane in Florida, Ana had been downgraded to a tropical storm and was now hitting the idyllic beach of the Outer Banks village of Corolla with sheets of driving rain and a storm surge that clawed at the dunes.
Sandbags had been stacked at the Monteray Plaza shop doors to stave off the inevitable rush of water. Popular summer hangouts such as Ned’s Ice Cream, Corolla Adventure Golf and Bumper Cars, and the movie theater were closed. Vacation homes had been shuttered and poolside lawn chairs and tables tied down. Spray-painted messages on plywood that covered store and house windows ranged from the entreating “Be kind to my cabana, Ana” to the forceful “Go away!” and the downright defiant: “Bring it on!”
A piece of opaque plastic sheeting ripped loose from the roof of a home under construction, made a line drive across the dunes, and then blew high into the air above the crashing waves flooding over beach access points and the two-lane roads that wound through Corolla’s oceanfront neighborhoods. The wind propelled the plastic higher, temporarily giving it the same aerial view as that of the Currituck Beach Lighthouse, and then the rain drove the piece down again. The plastic zigzagged up the beach, over where Route 12 transitioned from a paved to a sand road, past the fence that kept Corolla’s wild Spanish mustangs within their sanctuary, and into the four-wheel-drive-accessible community of Carova where the horses lived with the piping plover shorebird and sea turtles.
The wind suddenly shifted and the plastic took a sharp turn inland, dipping toward the Outer Banks’ second largest living dune, before swirling skyward and heading north. The sheet thrashed over the undeveloped refuge and the occasional house that popped up on the refuge’s outskirts and dotted the Carova landscape. Many of the wild horses had found their way along sand roads like Seahorse, Cornflower, and Sandfiddler and sought shelter under the beach homes. Mares and stallions squinted as the wind whipped their manes across their noses; foals huddled against their mothers for protection. Horses not lucky enough to find a safe haven under a house had moved away from the shore and into the maritime woods, deep shrub thickets, or marshlands.
The construction plastic temporarily touched down on the beach, skipped along the shoreline over ancient cedar and oak stumps, buried sea turtle eggs, and the fragile piping plover nests before being snatched from the air by a long nail on a wooden walkway that led from a beach home to the ocean. The sheet flapped violently, fighting to break free, as waves rushed forward to claim the dunes beneath the walkway and drag them into the sea. Little by little, Ana stripped sand from the walkway’s foundation, revealing more of the second, original walkway beneath it, and, with every receding wave, unearthed a long buried crime.
Fire Chief Colleen McCabe
pulled her hair from her face, squared her shoulders, and peered down at construction mogul Denny Custis. He sat at a makeshift table made of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood in the middle of the driveway of an oceanfront house under construction. He squinted at a blueprint through a magnifying glass and held up a finger to silence her. She sighed and waited. Her visit with the man had not been going well. She could kick herself for letting Myrtle talk her into it. She was tired from having been up monitoring the storm with the Corolla Fire and Rescue team and the all-nighter was taking its toll. The sounds of hammering, sawing, and drilling weren’t helping.
Denny looked up from the blueprint with the magnifying glass still to his face and for a moment gave the impression of a cartoon character with one enormous fish eye. He set the piece down next to a pair of thick eyeglasses, resumed his lunch, and gazed at her. Denny was not only one of the most powerful men on the Outer Banks, but at six foot three inches tall and two hundred and seventy pounds, one of the largest. He was equal parts gruffness and charm and had a reputation for pushing the zoning limits of what could be categorized as a residence. In Colleen’s opinion, his houses were more like hotels. He was also Antonio “Pinky” Salvatore’s chief rival in the Corolla and Carova real estate development business.
“If that feeble excuse for a developer thinks he can kill the project,” Denny said between bites of macaroni salad, “he’s got another think coming.” As if for emphasis, he slammed his meaty fist down on a fly that had been buzzing around his paper plate, scraped the dead insect from the side of his palm, and resumed his meal of pulled pork, salad, and sweet tea.
A gust of wind carried a clear sheet of plastic over the dunes. Colleen watched it blow up past the crew working on the third floor of the house and noted the unusually gray June sky above them.
“You sure it’s okay for your guys to be up there so soon after the storm?” she asked, raising her voice above the whooshing of the post-storm wind and construction noise.
“You ever heard of a deadline?” he said. “Or would you rather Salvatore be the only one with new homes this summer?”
“This has nothing to do with Mr. Salvatore.”
“Yeah?” he said with a raised brow. He gave her a critical once-over. “Ain’t that who sent you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Nobody
sent
me, Mr. Custis. This is part of my job.”
“If you say so.”
Frankly, she
was
on a spying mission. But it wasn’t for Pinky. Myrtle Crepe, Colleen’s former third-grade teacher and the obstinate leader of the Lighthouse Wild Horse Preservation Society, had asked her to check on Denny and his activity in Carova after receiving complaints that Denny’s crew had been breaking the law by feeding and taunting the wild horses.
The residents of Carova shared the four-wheel-drive-accessible beach with Corolla’s horses and other wildlife. While the majority respected their equine, feathered, and furry neighbors, some found them a nuisance. It was the Lighthouse Wild Horse Preservation Society’s job to maintain and protect the herd. But every time Myrtle or her fellow officers had driven to the sanctuary to investigate, Denny and his men were well clear of the Spanish mustangs. Myrtle suspected that one of Denny’s cronies who lived in the Carova community had been tipping Denny off, and she had repeatedly requested that Colleen pay Denny a visit to see what she could find out.
Since Colleen’s and Denny’s paths didn’t typically cross, and the northernmost beach of Carova had its own fire department, she had had to come up with a legitimate reason to call on him. A recent string of arsons of abandoned properties on the mainland had been the perfect excuse.
“As I said before,” she shouted over the miter saws. “I want to”—The sawing suddenly ceased.—“to make sure you have someone looking out for the abandoned houses you’re planning to demolish.”
Denny snorted. “You amuse me, Miss McCabe.”
“It’s
Chief
McCabe,” she said, annoyed. “And why is that?”
“You actually think someone would try and burn up a place owned by Denny Custis.” He shook his head, wiped his mouth, and snickered.
“There have been three arsons this month. What makes you think your properties won’t be targeted?” She winced as hammering began anew on a second floor. “You sure it’s okay for your men to be up there?”
“As sure as I am that time is money.”
Denny removed a piece of pulled pork from his plate and whistled to Sparky, Colleen’s Border collie and constant companion, who was sniffing the nearby dunes. In a flash, Sparky was at the man’s side. Denny dangled the meat before the canine. The dog eagerly leapt toward the treat only to have Denny yank it away at the last minute and howl with laughter.
