Bale Out

  Bale Out

  By Jeff Shelby

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Bale Out

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2017

  Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers and Design

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Books by Jeff Shelby

  The Joe Tyler Novels

  THREAD OF HOPE

  THREAD OF SUSPICION

  THREAD OF BETRAYAL

  THREAD OF INNOCENCE

  THREAD OF FEAR

  THREAD OF REVENGE

  THREAD OF DANGER

  The Noah Braddock Novels

  KILLER SWELL

  WICKED BREAK

  LIQUID SMOKE

  DRIFT AWAY

  LOCKED IN

  IMPACT ZONE

  The Moose River Mysteries

  THE MURDER PIT

  LAST RESORT

  ALIBI HIGH

  FOUL PLAY

  YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL

  ASSISTED MURDER

  DEATH AT THE DINER

  The Deuce Winters Novels (Under the pseudonym Jeffrey Allen)

  STAY AT HOME DEAD

  POPPED OFF

  FATHERS KNOWS DEATH

  The Rainy Day Mysteries

  BOUGHT THE FARM

  WHEN THE ROOSTER KILLS

  CRACK OF DEATH

  PLANTING EVIDENCE

  ONE BAD EGG

  BALE OUT

  Novel for Young Adults

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Short Story Collections

  OUT OF TIME

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  ONE

  I was dreaming of a white Christmas. A magical, wintry, white December.

  What I was getting instead was a rainy, windy, loud winter storm complete with thunder, lightning, and hail.

  It was the first day of December, which, in my mind at least, meant winter. And it was my first December in my new house and in my new town. I wanted to see the rooftop of my farmhouse covered in snow, see the evergreens and the bare-branched trees that dotted my property blanketed in white.

  Instead, hail was currently pinging my roof and lightning was streaking the sky, lighting up my darkened living room.

  I’d just finished putting up the last of the Christmas decorations: the wreaths and the evergreen garlands, the knick knacks I’d collected, and the decorations Luke and Laura had made when they were younger that I had dutifully held on to.

  I winced as a crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes and I instantly glanced at my collection of crèches sitting on the mantle over the fireplace, making sure they weren’t about to tumble to the floor. They were my most treasured holiday decorations, even though I wasn’t particularly religious.

  Another bolt of lightning streaked the sky, followed by a loud boom that elicited another wince from me. Hail pounded the roof and the windows even louder, and I shifted my attention to the driveway, trying to see just how heavy the hail was, and if it might be something I needed to worry about. I’d expected winter storms to be softer, somehow, a gentle blanketing of snow, a quiet whisper of precipitation. This was like a freight train running through my yard, and not unlike the powerful thunderstorms that had torn through during the summer months.

  Except it was December.

  I finished the glass of wine I’d been nursing most of the evening and walked the wineglass into the kitchen. I’d replaced most of the kitchen décor with holiday-themed items: red and green plaid kitchen towels, a Santa-shaped cookie jar, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Christmas trees. I’d hung some holiday-themed artwork, too: snowmen and reindeer and whimsical angels. Soft holiday music piped through the wireless speaker on the counter, and I realized that I’d forgotten to turn it off when I’d finished up the dinner dishes.

  “Time for bed,” I murmured to myself. I hit the power button on the speaker and the music died. “I’ll decorate the tree in the morning.”

  Another clap of thunder reverberated through the house. “Wow, that was loud,” I said, to no one in particular.

  Actually, I did say it to someone specific.

  Me.

  I’d recently noticed something about myself after living in Latney for a few months.

  I’d started talking to myself.

  It was a fairly new habit, one I’d picked up only after moving from my home in Arlington to the hobby farm I now called home. I chalked it up to simply being alone more. In Arlington, it felt like I was constantly surrounded by people: neighbors; Mack, the owner of Capitol Cases and my boss for the last two decades; and friends who always seemed to be around.

  Latney was different. I had friends—finally—but I still spent an awful lot of time alone. I didn’t mind; in fact, I was beginning to realize that I rather liked it, but one thing I hadn’t ever imagined was being one of those people who talked to themselves.

  I had become that person.

  I turned off the lights and headed upstairs to get ready for bed, fully prepared to talk to myself along the way.

  And I did.

  Because the minute my foot hit the top stair, I stopped, looked down at my sock-covered foot—my foot that was now soaked—and said, “What the heck is on the floor?”

  It didn’t take long to figure it out.

  Water was on my floor.

  My eyes traveled from the floor to the wall to the ceiling.

  There was water running down the wall, tiny rivulets that puddled together when they reached the floor. And just above, there was a thick wet patch on the ceiling, making the paint look more gray than white.

  “Oh my goodness.” It seemed like a horribly inadequate thing to say, especially with water pouring into my house, but I was at a loss for words.

  And I was also at a loss for what to do.

  My first reaction was to call Gunnar. If anyone would know what to do, it was Gunnar Forsythe, my handsome, handy next-door neighbor.

  But calling him might prove to be a little awkward.

  Because Gunnar and I weren’t really speaking.

  After the awkwardness of Thanksgiving dinner and his reaction to learning that Declan Murphy, the local pastor and my good friend, was going to be joining me for the holiday, things had gotten weird. And even though Gunnar—and a whole slew of other people—had ended up at dinner, it had done nothing to assuage the jealousy and irritation he’d felt over the invitation I’d extended to Declan.

  Thanksgiving had been over a week ago, and I hadn’t talked to him since.

  I stared at the wall and the river of water running down it and on to my floor.

  I sighed.

  The last thing I wanted to do was pick up the phone and call Gunnar.

  I spun around and hurried back down the stairs and into the kitchen. My phone was right where I’d left it, on the counter by the coffeemaker. I wondered what kind of emergency repair services might be open at this time of night. And then I wondered if there even were any of those types of companies nearby. I was basically in the middle of nowhere, not in the heart of the DC Metro area.

  I hesitated for only a minute before opening up my Contacts and finding Gunnar’s name.

  Because desperate times called for desperate measures.

  As much as I didn’t want to call Gunnar and ask for help, I also did not want my house to end up underwater. With the rain and hail still pounding relentlessly outside, that was looking like a very real possibility.

  “Hello, Gunnar?” I cleared my throat. “This is Rainy. I…I need some help.”

  TWO

  Gunnar was at the top of my stairs less than ten minutes later, surveying the damage.

  “If I were to wager a guess, I’d say the wind knocked some shingles off the roof.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” I asked.

  He motioned to the puddle of water on the floor. “You tell me.”

  The rain and hail had finally stopped, or at least slowed, and the thunder was now a distant rumble.

  I’d gathered some towels after I’d called him, and now that he’d seen what I was dealing with, I got down on my knees to use them to help soak up the water. “Any idea what I should do about it?”

  Gunnar nodded. Despite the late hour—it was almost ten o’clock—he was still wearing jeans and a flannel, as if he’d expected to be called out of his house on an errand and had opted not to change into anything more comfortable. A baseball cap had kept his hair dry, but his shoulders were damp, and his jeans were dotted with raindrops. “You’ll need to replace the shingles if that’s what it is,” he told me. “Any idea if Len left some in any of the outbuildings?”

  Len Konrath was the man I’d bought the farm from. “Why would he leave shingles?”

  Gunnar shrugged. “You buy them by the box so a lot of times you end up with extras. Most people save them for situations like this, to replace damaged or missing ones.”

  I did not know this. But I didn’t know much about home ownership, despite having owned my home in Arlington. The house in Latney felt different, though. It was old, it was huge, and it belonged to just me. Charlie, my ex, and I had lived in the house in Arlington. There had barely been a yard, and m
ost of the exterior maintenance had been done via contractors and our HOA fees. If we’d ever had a box of roofing shingles tucked somewhere in our garage, I’d had no knowledge of it.

  “I guess I can look for them,” I said, answering Gunnar’s question.

  He nodded. “If you have some, I can get up there and get them replaced no problem. And if you don’t, we might be able to find the ones that blew off—if that’s what happened—somewhere in the yard.”

  I had a sneaking suspicion the wind would have carried them into West Virginia, the storm had been so strong. But I kept my fingers crossed that we would find a way to repair it so I wouldn’t have to worry about more puddles in the house.

  Gunnar glanced out the window. “Looks like the rain has pretty much stopped.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and swiped it to turn on the flashlight feature. “I’ll go take a look right now and see what I can figure out.”

  He went down the stairs two at a time and a few seconds later I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Within a minute, the door reopened and he was thumping back up the stairs.

  “That was fast,” I said as I wiped the towel back over the damp spot, trying to dry the wood as best I could. “Was the damage that bad, that you could see it so quickly?”

  I looked up into Gunnar’s smiling face. He held a roof shingle in his hand. “No idea,” he said. “But I found this in the yard so I’m pretty sure we know what we’re dealing with.”

  I wondered how many more I’d find littering the grass and further out on the property. The shingles looked light, and who knew how far they might have blown with those fierce winds peeling them off my roof and sailing them into the air?

  My thoughts shifted, and I started to wonder how much it was going to cost to repair. The inheritance I’d received, along with the sale of my old home, had given me a nice enough nest egg, but I still tried to be careful with my money.

  Gunnar must have noticed the look on my face because his own expression softened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Reattaching shingles is a piece of cake. I’ll get up there tomorrow morning and check out what all needs to be done.”

  “And this?” I asked, motioning to the wet spot on the ceiling.

  Gunnar glanced at it, thinking. He reached out and ran his fingers along the wall. “We might need to replace the drywall,” he finally said. He added, “But I can do that for you, too. Let’s get a fan angled at it and see what we can do about drying it out. Although honestly, it’s probably better to just replace it.”

  “Why?”

  He scratched at his chin. “Wet drywall holds moisture, so the potential for mold to grow is pretty high. And if it’s super wet and heavy, it could also be a safety hazard.”

  “How so?”

  “It could fall down on your head.”

  “Oh.” That did not sound pleasant. “So you think replacing it is the best thing to do?”

  Gunnar nodded. “That’s what I would do. Just to be safe.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “I guess I’ll start looking for a contractor tomorrow.”

  Gunnar stared at me. “Why do you need to call a contractor? I already said I could do it.”

  I got back to my feet, leaving the wet towel on the floor. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do that.”

  “I don’t.”

  I tugged at my shirt. It had bunched up while I was mopping the floor. “Well, I’ll pay you,” I told him. “Whatever the going rate is.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” I insisted.

  “Rainy.” Gunnar’s voice was firm. His hazel eyes locked on mine, an unreadable expression on his face. “You don’t have to pay me. I don’t want you to pay me.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “No buts. Friends help each other. Period.”

  Friends.

  Is that what we were? We’d been more—a lot more—until Thanksgiving. But I wasn’t sure what we were anymore. And I didn’t know if Gunnar did, either.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I finally asked.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know.” I toed the floor with my foot, feeling the wet fabric of my sock snag on the rough wooden floorboards. “Things have been…different.”

  “They have,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends. And when someone needs help, friends help out.”

  “Are you still upset about Thanksgiving?” I asked. “About Declan being here?”

  He shook his head. “Look, what’s happened has happened. Life is too short to live in the past or to have regrets, remember?”

  It was a conversation we’d had often.

  I didn’t have regrets over inviting Declan to Thanksgiving. But I had to admit that I felt a little regret over what it had done to my relationship with Gunnar.

  Not that I felt it was my fault, of course. I’d done nothing wrong in inviting a friend to dinner. Gunnar had been the one to overreact, to assume something was there that wasn’t. He’d been the one to hammer home, over and over again in his passive aggressive way, just how upset he’d been over the invitation. And he’d been the one to try to pretend it had never happened, which had upset me even more.

  But I was the one who had reacted to all of that, who had decided to respond the way I did. And I was the one who would have to live with the consequences of that, even if it meant that my relationship with Gunnar was effectively over. He was right: life was too short to live in the past or to have regrets. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to move to that point.

  The phone in my pocket vibrated, surprising me, and then it began to chime. I pulled it out, surprised to see Sophia’s name on the screen, especially at this hour. A small feeling of dread settled in my stomach. Phone calls at night were never a good sign. Come to think of it, phone calls from any resident of Latney were usually call for concern.

  “Sophia?” I said as soon as I answered. “Is everything okay?”

  “No.” Her voice was high, worried.

  The seed of dread blossomed into a dark, ugly flower. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the church, Rainy,” she said breathlessly.

  “The church??” I repeated. “St. Simon’s? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s on fire!”

  THREE

  Gunnar was gone within seconds, off to help with the fire.

  I was hot on his heels, stopping only to grab my purse and keys before heading out to my own car. The night air was cold, the wind biting, and my tennis shoes were soaked by the time I wrenched open the driver’s side door.

  I didn’t observe the speed limit on my way into town. All I could think about was St. Simon’s. Sophia had said it was on fire but I didn’t know how bad the damage was. Had the entire structure already burned to the ground? Would I arrive and find a smoking heap of ash and rubble?

  And, as the unofficial town gossip, I was guessing that Sophia had assumed it was her duty to get on the phone and let people know what was happening.

  I wasn’t a member of St. Simon’s—I wasn’t even a churchgoer—but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about the church and its parishioners. I knew nearly everyone who attended services there, and I’d managed to go a couple of times during the months I’d lived in Latney. But more importantly, Declan Murphy, the pastor, was a good friend of mine.

  I drove through town, past the darkened windows of Sophia’s boutique and the ice cream shop and the hardware store, past the muted lighting of the Bank of Latney, and then turned down the road that led to the church. The sky was dark, moonless due to the clouds, and I couldn’t make out any smoke or flames.

  I breathed a small sigh of relief as I drew closer and saw the church still standing. At first, I wondered if maybe Sophia had been mistaken about the church being damaged, but the brigade of fire trucks from local towns that filled the parking lot attested to the fact that she wasn’t wrong about it. I peered through the windshield, trying to assess the damage, and that was when I noticed the steeple. Or rather, I noticed where the steeple used to be. Instead, there was a smoking mass of charred wood.

  I got out of my car and made my way toward the throngs of people gathered in the parking lot.