Death Knell In The Alps (A Samantha Jamison Mystery) (19 page)

Chapter 3

Expecting The Unexpected

As the wind whipped past me, I looked up at the clouds and felt the predicted cold front threatening. Armed with caffeine, I pulled my jacket collar close while I hurriedly walked down Main and turned at the next corner. The side street was tree-lined with a few leaves still clinging to the branches. Several aging cottages, now used as shops, fronted the uneven sidewalk. Stopping at the second one, I unlocked the door, quietly flipping the sign to read “Open,” and then cautiously entered my own antique shop in this small town from Stephen’s past: Highlands, North Carolina. It was my cover for being there to find out what happened to Stephen.

I glanced around, looking for any kind of disturbance. I was always uneasy at first, expecting the unexpected. Stephen’s death had changed me in so many ways. I took nothing for granted anymore, certainly not my life.

I ventured further in and called out, “Sneakers? Are you around here somewhere?” Occasionally, I left him overnight in the shop for a change of scenery.

His choice.

A black cat with white paws silently tiptoed from behind the curtained front window, stretching. He sat and stared.

I made eye contact. “There you are! Any uninvited visitors last night?”

He replied with a contented meow as I reached down to scratch him behind his ear. He licked my hand in greeting, and then, dismissing me, sauntered back toward his cozy hideaway. I hated to admit it, but I sort of envied his “I could care less”
attitude.

“Well, I’ll take that as a no. Just try and stay out of trouble. One of us has to.”

I continued my surveillance. Months had slipped by, but to me, time was meaningless. It stopped the day Stephen was killed. Murder and deceit were now my second skin. Had I also acquired a taste for distrust? Yes. Would my true objective be recognized? Hopefully, it wouldn’t. Still, it was days before I felt sure no one in town knew my real intentions. People offered words of sympathy, assuming the widow needed to get away to the mountains after the death of her husband and that my new shop was therapy to deal with my grief.

Good. That’s what I wanted them to think.

After Stephen’s death, I swore I would never return to this place. That is, until I learned his death was not accidental. That changed everything, even the air I breathed. I came looking for answers and wasn’t leaving until I got them. Period. I had to stay focused on whose agenda had turned deadly and why if I was to solve this thing.

When I first got there, I tried to create a life in Highlands that appeared ordinary and predictable, but it wasn’t that simple. There were several hurdles. One was the ever-challenging Martha, who constantly complained and verbally ran over everyone in her path, including me. She drove me crazy, but after a while, she settled into a routine of working Thursday through Sunday. She was a force to be dealt with, brandishing a laser-sharp mind that missed nothing, and I mean
nothing
.

She came to me by way of a recommendation from Jack, a local developer and my builder. Jack warned me ahead of time about his cousin’s eccentric ways. It’s amazing what you overlook when you’re desperate, and believe me, I was. Besides, she had business experience and was willing to work part-time. The final deal clincher was that Martha knew most everyone in town.

At the spry age of seventy, Martha was tireless, offering advice whether you asked for it or not. She just loved chewing on the latest town gossip. No, nothing went by Martha unnoticed, and I was willing to catch anything thrown my way, playing all sides.

I jumped at the opportunity to hire her, and so far, was pleased with my decision. She was pushy, but I could live with that. What was off-limits I avoided, talking my way out of probing conversations. I evaded issues that were no one’s business, perfecting the art of observation and deception, while silently acknowledging my former mentor, Stephen.

My intuitive antenna, sensing an imminent disturbance, shot up. Martha energetically burst through the door, weighed down with a heavy bag. She flung it on the counter in front of me. Startled, I jumped back. Much like her personality, her silvery hair was airborne in all directions.

“Hells bells! I just stopped by to drop off an antique quilt from the flea market. I thought I might forget it on Thursday. Boy, when will this tourist traffic let up? I just about got myself run over. Thank the Lord I am agile. I can’t stay. I have to pick up medicine at the pharmacy. My arthritis is kicking up. The weather is changing and I feel it in my bones. Even at my age, anything kicking up, I’m grateful for. I might have an ice cream at their soda fountain though. I heard there’s a cute new soda jerk behind the counter serving up all that ice cream. Got to check him out. You know, you’re never too old to look, I always say! Well, I’ve got to go. See you on Thursday, Samantha.”

She paused, turning back to me. “By the way, you keep your mouth open like that and you’re sure to catch some flies.” She abruptly spun around and left, slamming the door behind her, as dust motes flew wildly about in the air.

Yes, that was Martha,
I thought, then promptly closed my mouth, realizing I never got the opportunity to utter one single word. That woman was intense, but I wouldn’t change a thing about her. She was the best gossip, spilling a wealth of information that I was so desperate for. Yeah, she was a keeper.

Luckily, no one suspected Stephen died from anything other than failed brakes. The detective said the investigation was ongoing and saw no need to tip his hand while the perpetrator was still out there. He methodically interviewed Stephen’s acquaintances in the town, and then inexplicably left.
Why?
Was there a person of interest? If so, who was it? Here I was, surrounded by people I didn’t trust, people who might not trust me, and possibly, a potential killer. Hopefully, I’d manage to stay one step ahead of any threat that might be out there.

I soon found out that in small towns, news travelled quickly, gossip even faster. You didn’t need a phone. Someone was always watching and listening. That could be a good thing and a bad thing, depending on who you were. Even though Stephen had a history here, I would always be considered somewhat of an outsider and didn’t need any suspicious behavior added to the mix. I had to remain vigilant without drawing attention to what I was trying to do: find out the truth.

I did inform my agent about my relocation. Of course, my past book sales helped play in my favor. I wasn’t a top name, but I did okay. Fortunately, no one in town knew I was an author because I wrote under a penname name. Stephen, for some reason, insisted on that from the start. I never really gave it much thought, but now that he was dead, maybe I would.

To him, my writing was more of a hobby than a job. So I humored him, going along with the anonymity so I could write. Maybe in a way, he was right. It didn’t seem like work to me. Initially I was lucky, got published, and as they say, the rest was history. No blockbusters, but I did pretty well, my book sales gradually increasing every year with each new novel.

I turned to the mirror to tie my long blonde hair back from my face and tried to concentrate on my best features, my hazel eyes and long lashes, and not my stress-related weight loss. I quickly smoothed on lip gloss. Then I heard the bell on the front door, swung around, and smiled as Jack Thompson entered.

A year and a half earlier, he had sold Stephen and me the property where he built our log home. Jack’s coarse features softened as he greeted me in his usual friendly manner. He pulled his knit hat off and smoothed down his wiry gray hair.

“Well, look what the wind just blew in!” I greeted him.

“Hey there, good
lookin
’,” he shot back, smiling.

At first, I kept my distance with people, but Jack was the exception. His stature, like his personality, could be intimidating to some, but not to me. He became a self-appointed protector of mine since Stephen died. Besides, I figured I could use an ally. On his insistence, he personally helped me finish the house, and his influence helped ease my transition into small town life. Also, it was a well-known fact about town that he had a substantial network of friends in high and low places, and I had no qualms about using that to my advantage either.

“Speaking of the wind,” Jack said, “Martha just flew by me on the sidewalk, like she was on some kind of mission.”

“Drug store, ice cream, and new soda jerk, and not necessarily in that order. Need I say more?”

He laughed. “Oh! Well, that explains it! She’s a bundle all right, uncontrollable and totally unpredictable.”

I chuckled. “I’m never quite sure what to expect from Martha. And I want to personally thank you for recommending her. I’m still recovering, though.”

“Isn’t that what friends are for?” he said still laughing. He made his way over to one of my glass display counters. “Listen, Sam. I want to surprise the love of my life with a present for her birthday. Help me pick out something extra special.”

“Sure. By the way, how is Barbara?”

“She’s still trying to refine my rough edges, complaining I’m a bad-tempered old coot. Barbara always boasts that she considers me a formidable challenge and might even accept my marriage proposal one of these days. I like a woman with spirit, and usually try to expect the unexpected, but with Barbara, everything’s a surprise. Maybe I need that at my advanced age.”

“Then consider yourself a lucky guy. Now, let’s see what we can find…”

And so I proceeded to fill my days with just such everyday tasks.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 4

The House That Jack Built

That fall slipped by, more or less uneventfully. I ran the shop, stayed focused, took notes, and resumed my writing. By the end of November, between the locals and weekenders, the town seemed quieter. A seasonal area, it overflowed with tourists during the summer and fall, but then slowly prepared to hibernate as the locals looked forward to reclaiming their town. The air got cooler, the pace a little slower, and the echo of traffic and people became somewhat muted.

Shops extended along Main, spilling onto a few side streets here and there, one on which my shop was located. Some were plain brick, nestled close, abutting one another. Others had brightly painted clapboard siding. Awnings revealed paned windows and bowed fronts, filled with gifts, antiques, books and toys. In the summer, tourists meandered along stone paths and courtyards bordered with flowered gardens, while they leisurely enjoyed an ice cream. You could sit on benches or under the canopied shade of the old oak trees, or stroll among the various shops.

Over the years, long-time summer residents bequeathed gifts such as land and money, which I heard were greatly appreciated by the town. A few buildings and inns were renovated or built occasionally, but the small town remained exactly that, a small town. This time of year many of the businesses closed up for the winter, but several remained open. I noticed a few people in, what I liked to refer to as,
the diner
when passing by on my way home, probably locals. I still checked anyway, out of habit. You never knew who might be spotted talking together.

After leaving town, the road clung to the mountain, snaking around bends and curves, intermittently allowing views of the valley below. Within minutes I turned in at my drive and slowly began the steep descent. Now on my own and without Stephen, I kept feeling as though a piece of me had been erased, but in some mysterious way he was still there beside me, watching and waiting. For what? And like usual, I turned half expecting him to be in the seat next to mine staring at me, but of course he wasn’t. I turned and looked back behind my car.

A cold mist of uneasiness settled over me. Would I always be looking over my shoulder? It was surreal, but this was a challenge I had to face.
Alone
. I slowed down, then stopped midway mentally replaying that first day I arrived. Was it only several months ago I had negotiated that first tentative trip down this long, narrow driveway?…

(My past)

…I was feeling energized, but edgy, as wild brush scraped the sides of my car. It was early spring, and I was feeling almost hopeful. I was certainly not prepared for what appeared below as I approached. Trucks and workers were everywhere, caught up in what seemed like a
maze of confusion. I slowly came to a stop, suddenly unsure of the intimidating task before me. My eyes darted left and right, taking in the whole area, and I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.

Because of my lack of communication, it didn’t appear as though I was expected anytime soon. Bewildered glances were thrown my way as I looked for Mike Cummins, the foreman. After a few minutes, I spotted him coming out of the house, and his sour expression spoke volumes. I stepped out of my car, anxious and unsure.

As he approached, I asked, “Not ready yet, is it?”

Mike was upset. “You know, I tried calling you, Samantha, but your home phone was disconnected. I tried your cell too.”

“I’m sorry. I had to get away and didn’t think. On the trip up here, I had a terrible signal on my cell…” I stopped. I was getting tired of making excuses for my life. “Tell me what’s up.”

“The electricity is out, and of course, that affects the electric baseboard heat. Also, the well out back is acting up. We’re finishing off some carpentry work and touching up the last of the outdoor paint on the back porch, but this electrical problem may take another twenty-four hours.” He looked sorry for me. “Trust me, Sam. This is no picnic here. My advice? Go and stay down in Franklin.”

I expected him to say that, so I squared my shoulders. I needed to be convincing not ambiguous. “Mike, it’s going down to thirty-three tonight. Most hotels and inns in town are already closed for the season, and the rest will be booked at this late hour. I’m too tired to drive down to Franklin. I need to stay here.”

“I figured something like this might happen when I couldn’t reach you,” said Mike. “So, I threw a kerosene heater in the back of my truck for your bedroom on the second floor and also brought my old gasoline generator to set outside to run some lights. It won’t be exactly what you’re used to, but it might work. I sure wish you’d reconsider Franklin.”

A hot bath in a warm hotel was very tempting. I gave it some thought and was on the verge of caving in, when I realized that if having my independence meant roughing it alone, then that was the way it would be. I glanced back at my car, my belongings, and who I used to be. Oh, and how could I forget all that emotional baggage I had brought? No, I had to stay. I had to make this work. I had to prove a point, if only to myself. I turned back to Mike.

“I’ll manage here just fine, and hopefully you can straighten everything out tomorrow.”

Then I looked up at the house, taking it all in. It was just as Stephen and I had planned: a beautiful log home, jutting out at the corners, connected and resembling a perfectly fitted puzzle, ironically in direct contrast to my life, which had fallen apart into many unrecognizable pieces.

Looking off to the left, I caught sight of the magnificent view of the mountains across the way, and had difficulty speaking. I cleared my throat to mask the sudden ache and loss that surfaced so unexpectedly.

“Samantha,” Mike said, gesturing. “About all this. Who would have thought so many problems would pop up at the last minute? You shouldn’t have to deal with any more stress. I’m sorry.” He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what else to say.

I turned back to him, surprised. Stephen’s death was not only redefining my life, but my previous impression of Mike, who used to seem as tough as nails. I forced a smile. “That’s okay, Mike. Just don’t forget me in the morning, okay?”

His look of relief said it all. “You bet. I can be here by about…”

The roar of an engine interrupted him as we both looked up. A large furniture van slowly eased on in behind my car.

Uh-oh. This wasn’t working out the way I had expected.

“What the hell?” Mike demanded.

“I forgot. It’s my furniture. I meant to tell you it would be getting here today. With all this turmoil in my life, my mind has been in a fog.”

To my relief, he smiled. “I’ll take care of it. Trust me, physical problems I can handle.”

After some maneuvering, the furniture was unloaded and placed in all the rooms, while various wires were hooked up to the generator. The frenzy of activity eventually wound down and the driveway slowly emptied of the crew and their trucks, including Mike’s, which was the last to disappear over the crest of the drive and out of sight.

I stayed out by the front door for a while after they’d gone. Where was my life headed from this point? What was I going to accomplish? I was constantly second-guessing myself. Was I overreaching in thinking my outrageous idea might actually work? Probably, but I felt I had to do something. Sitting back and doing nothing was just not an option.

Even though neither the questions nor the answers were clear-cut in my mind yet, I still had to face living in a town I was not all that familiar with. I slowly pivoted in place, staring out at the woods, and then up at my house. The isolation of the location wasn’t ideal either, but I knew I had no choice but to remain and find out the truth.

A step at a time, I thought, and I just might get through this.

Once indoors, I clicked the deadbolt in place, firmly locking out the rest of the world, along with all my uncertainties for the night. And as usual, I would simply have to wait and see what would happen next in my iffy future. For now, I had some boxes and unpacking to attend to.