When The Rooster Kills (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 2) Read online

  When The Rooster Kills

  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.

  When The Rooster Kills

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2016

  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

  The Moose River Mysteries

  THE MURDER PIT

  LAST RESORT

  ALIBI HIGH

  FOUL PLAY

  YOU'VE GOT BLACKMAIL

  ASSISTED MURDER

  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

  Novel for Young Adults

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Short Story Collections

  OUT OF TIME

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  ONE

  “I don’t hate it.”

  My daughter Laura was sitting across from me at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and gazing out the wall of windows that faced the back of the property. It was a beautiful June day, the humidity low after an evening round of thunderstorms the night before. Birds and crickets chirped in unison and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and clover wafted through the open windows.

  “Good,” I said, picking up a shortbread cookie from the plate of treats in front of us. “I don’t hate it, either.”

  She turned her attention to the room we were sitting in, scrutinizing the red-tiled floor and wooden cabinets. I hadn’t done much work in the kitchen, loving the rustic feel of it, and I was suddenly curious as to whether or not she liked it, too.

  “The colors in here are good,” she said. “Earthy. Warm.”

  I smiled in agreement. It was one of my favorite rooms in the house but, honestly, I was falling in love with every square inch of the home I’d moved into only a couple of months earlier.

  Yes, I’d bought it on a whim. Decided, after more than twenty years, to chuck my life in the city, sell the townhouse I’d called home for nearly two decades, and buy a property a hundred miles away, smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

  Well, Latney wasn’t exactly nowhere. But sitting forty-five miles to the west of Charlottesville, it could pass for nowhere, a tiny little speck on the map of Virginia, one of those pencil-point dots that might make people wonder if it really was still a town or if it had been abandoned long ago.

  Latney was very much a town. Small, yes, but with a cute little downtown area, complete with a local tavern and boutique and its very own bank, and neighborhoods that fanned out from the main drag, housing most of the town’s 2,000 residents. There were other properties, too, within the confines of the city limits; small hobby farms and larger dairy operations. Mine was one of those properties.

  “Of course, you haven’t gone through a winter here,” Laura commented. She sipped her coffee, then set the mug back down. It was one she’d given me when she was little, one of those pieces you paint at a pottery place and they fire and glaze it for you. It was pink, and covered with lopsided purple and red hearts.

  “Well, no,” I said, biting into the cookie. I’d made them a couple of days earlier, craving homemade shortbread, and they were still as buttery and crisp as they had been fresh out of the oven. “But it won’t be much different than Arlington. Actually, it will probably be even milder, considering I’m further south.”

  “Yeah, but this house is older.” She scanned the walls and windows, her blue eyes drinking in every detail. “Could be drafty. And the pipes could freeze.”

  “And a polar bear might come looking for dinner.”

  She frowned at me.

  I suppressed a smile. Leave it to my worrywart of a daughter to fret about those kinds of things. Sure, the house was old, and I’d already noticed the A/C didn’t quite manage to cool off the upstairs bedrooms as well as the main floor. And yes, a couple of the windows had leaked during the wicked rainstorm from the night before—I made a mental note to ask Gunnar how I should handle that—but I’d expected those things. The house was old and despite loving its charm, I wasn’t naive to the fact that a certain amount of work would be required to maintain the house or bring it back to an acceptable living condition. But so far, it was working for me.

  I let the smile come through this time. Because it really was working for me. Yes, the first week or so in my new home had been rocky, what with finding the bones and the subsequent fire. I’d gotten off to a rough start with Sheriff Lewis and Gunnar, and a few of the other townspeople, too. But once we’d figured out what was happening, that Davis Konrath had been the one responsible for the series of mishaps, life had slowly settled into a sense of normalcy. I’d found a rhythm to my days: unpacking a few boxes at a time, cleaning up rooms, doing minor cosmetic repairs; and I’d made headway with the property itself. I’d found a used ride-on mower and, after a few pep talks and a quick read-through of the owner’s manual, taught myself how to use it. Gunnar had set me up with a few chickens and I’d learned how to take care of them. I’d spread fertilizer on the front lawn and pulled weeds and even managed to clear out a square patch of earth in the backyard for a vegetable garden. Lettuce and radishes were already ready to harvest, and the other plants were growing well.

  Life was definitely good, and living in Latney was giving me exactly what I’d hoped for. A new place to call home.

  There was a knock on the kitchen door, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning.

  Gunnar Forsythe, my handsome handyman of a neighbor, stepped over the threshold with a grin. His short brown hair was damp with sweat, as was his forehead. He had a hat in his right hand, some sports team logo that I couldn’t identify.

  “Oh,” he said, his hazel eyes moving from me to Laura. “Didn’t realize you had company. I can come back another time.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, standing. I turned to Laura, who was watching Gunnar suspiciously, as if she expected him to try to lift something off the kitchen counter. “This is my daughter, Laura. Laura, this is Gunnar, my next door neighbor.”

  Gunnar offered a wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Lori,” she corrected. She nodded stiffly, her long ponytail barely bouncing.

  “Heard an awful lot about you,” Gunnar said. “You’re a teacher, right?”

  Laura nodded again.

  “She has one more week of school left,” I told him since, apart from saying her name, my daughter had apparently turned into a mute. “This is her first visit here.”

  “How do you like it?” Gunnar asked.

  Laura fina
lly spoke. “It’s…nice.”

  “It sure is,” Gunnar replied, a friendly, beaming smile sweeping across his tanned face. His eyes twinkled, looking more gold than green in the sunlight filtering into the kitchen. “And it’s even better now that your mama lives here.”

  Laura’s and my cheeks colored in unison.

  “You’re making me blush,” I told him.

  “And me,” Laura muttered under her breath.

  Gunnar chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard Laura, too, or if he was just reacting to my comment. “I just wanted to pop in and see how the chicks were doing.”

  Laura’s head whipped up and she frowned. “Chicks?” She turned to look at me, an accusatory expression on her face.

  I knew exactly where her mind was going, the product of years of being raised by a born-again feminist mother.

  “Real chicks,” I said quickly. “Baby chicks. That will turn into chickens. I bought some a couple of days ago.”

  Her expression cleared a little. “You have chicks?”

  I nodded. “Gunnar gave me a few hens when I first moved in and I had so much fun with them that I wanted to expand the flock. I have a dozen new ones out in a tub outside.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “A tub? They swim?”

  “No, not that kind of tub,” I explained. “It’s a dry tub, someplace to keep them warm and safe when they’re little. They have a few more weeks before they can be introduced to the rest of the ladies.”

  She still looked confused, and I realized that my city-raised daughter probably thought I was speaking in a foreign language.

  “I’ll peek in on them when I leave,” Gunnar said. “And I’ll check out the mower, too. See about that engine leak you were telling me about.”

  “You don’t have—”

  But he cut me off. “Nonsense. I’ve got tools, and I know how to use them.” He grinned, and I still marveled at the way it made his whole face light up. “Nice to meet you, Laur—Lori. See you later, Rainy. Save some of those cookies for me, will ya?”

  “Sure thing,” I called as he walked back outside, closing the door behind him.

  Laura stared at the closed kitchen door. The breeze he’d let in ruffled the red valances and they billowed like sails on a ship.

  “Who is he exactly?”

  I polished off my cookie, dusting the crumbs from my hands. “I told you. Gunnar, my neighbor.”

  She turned to look at me. Her eyebrows were drawn together, a frown etched on her face. “He feels very proprietary of you and this house. Marching in here unannounced, ordering you to save him some cookies…”

  I rolled my eyes. “He’s neighborly, not proprietary. That’s how things are done out here. We’re friends. We look out for each other. Period.”

  I could have told her that the way my burly, brawny neighbor looked at me often times left me weak-kneed. That I’d thought a lot about what it would be like to touch those sculpted biceps, to run my hands through his salt and pepper brown hair, to feel those lips…

  I swallowed, feeling the skin on my neck and cheeks begin to flush. I shouldn’t be having thoughts like that, thoughts that made my skin heat up. Maybe it was a hot flash—I should be having those soon, right?

  “Mother?” She looked at me expectantly.

  “What?”

  “I think he has the hots for you.”

  I managed another eye roll, even though my pulse quickened at the thought. “We are friends, sweetheart. Nothing more.”

  “He said he wants your...cookies.”

  Now it was my turn to frown.

  The front doorbell sounded, saving me from saying anything more. I leaped from my chair, grateful for the distraction. This was not a conversation I wanted to be having with my daughter.

  Sophia Rey stood on the front porch. She wore a pretty white sundress that accentuated both her curves and her tanned body. Her blonde hair had been recently styled, flowing in soft waves to her shoulders, and enormous dark sunglasses hid her eyes.

  “Sophia,” I said, opening the door and gesturing for her to step inside. “What a nice surprise.”

  She lifted the sunglasses and settled them on top of her head. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit,” she began, then stopped, her eyes drifting to the kitchen.

  Laura stood in the doorframe, her coffee cup cradled in her hands. The suspicious look on her face had lessened, but she still eyed the woman in my living room warily, as if she were a suspect she was sizing up.

  I made quick introductions. “Sophia’s husband owns the bank in town. She was the one who brought me the scones and bread when I first moved in,” I said, trying to prompt Laura’s memory.

  My daughter’s expression cleared a little as recognition dawned. She managed a smile. “Nice to meet you,” Laura said.

  It was already going better than her exchange with Gunnar.

  “Listen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I sort of have an emergency,” Sophia said, her southern drawl dropping to a whisper.

  “An emergency?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Vivian…well, let’s just say she needs some help.”

  I’d met Vivian Sumner a total of two times, both at St. Simon’s. We’d never exchanged more than a few polite words, so I wasn’t sure why Sophia was coming to me. She and Vivian were members of the Latney Ladies Society, a group of women that did…well, I didn’t know what they did, but they were a group and I wasn’t part of them.

  “Help?” I repeated.

  Sophia nodded again. “Yes.”

  I frowned, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m happy to talk to her, but I don’t know how much help I can be…”

  Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Trust me, Rainy. You’re the only person who can help her.”

  TWO

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  We were crowded around the kitchen table, this time with Sophia joining Laura and me. I’d poured her a cup of coffee and brought a clean plate over so that she could help herself to shortbread or the mini blueberry muffins I’d baked that morning. She selected a muffin, setting it on her plate.

  “Start at the beginning,” I suggested.

  I really wanted her to just cut to the chase and tell me why Vivian needed help—and from me specifically—but I figured there might be some backstory I would need. Especially if Sophia was telling the story. If nothing else, I had learned that she did love to talk.

  “Alright,” she said. “Vivian is her father’s only biological child. He remarried several years ago, to a woman with a young daughter. Leslie is her name; she’s nineteen now.”

  I nodded, urging her to continue. So far, I wasn’t seeing how I fit into the picture. Maybe it was because they knew I was divorced? But I had no stepchildren, and none on the horizon—at least that I knew of.

  “She left town about a year ago. And, well, she’s back. And her ex is back, too.”

  “Her ex?”

  Sophia peeled the wrapper from the blueberry muffin, then gently tore off a hunk. “Her ex-boyfriend.”

  “Okay.” I waited for her to elaborate but when she didn’t, I added, “I’m not sure how this relates to me…”

  Sophia shook her head. “No, no, it does. Vivian needs someone to poke around, to see what’s going on.”

  “Poke around?”

  She popped the piece of muffin in her mouth, chewing and swallowing it before she spoke again. “Yes. And, well, I figured with your background…”

  “My what?” My voice was sharp, and Laura looked in my direction, her eyes widening a little at my tone.

  “What exactly is my background?” I asked.

  My former job was not common knowledge. Sure, Sheriff Lewis had found out about it, but I’d kept mum about my past life in Arlington. I wasn’t ashamed of having worked for Mack Mercy or Capitol Cases, but it wasn’t like I walked around waving my résume in people’s faces. I had wanted to turn over a new leaf in Latney, start a new chapter in my life, and I was perfectly okay wit
h not discussing my past job with my new neighbors and the rest of the townsfolk. I wanted them to get to know the me I was now, not the me of the past.

  Sophia’s cheeks colored a bit. “You know…the investigating…”

  “How did you hear about that? Is Sheriff Lewis talking about me?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. She knew about our confrontations from before, knew that we’d had a couple of run-ins. “I…Walter may have mentioned it in passing.” She dropped her gaze to what remained of her muffin so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

  I sighed. Walter Rey, Sophia’s husband and the owner of the local bank. He had access to my information because I’d opened an account there and I’d dealt with their bank on the closing of the property and setting up my accounts there.

  “That’s confidential information.”

  “I know,” she admitted, meeting my gaze and looking contrite. “We were watching a TV show the other night and he let it slip. I didn’t think much about it until Vivian called me and told me that Leslie was back in town. And…I don’t know…I just thought you might be able to help.”

  I tried not to feel irritated. The way she was painting things, it really had been a slip of the tongue, something commented in an offhanded way. I thought about the cases I’d known about while working with Mack, the ones that slipped into everyday conversation with the kids or with friends. When you find commonalities or things that spark a memory, our first instinct is to share.

  “I’m not sure how I can help,” I told her truthfully. “I wasn’t an investigator.”

  Sophia’s face fell. “You weren’t?”

  Clearly, Walter hadn’t studied the information I’d shared too well. “No, I just managed the office. I did a little light investigating—running information through computers, that kind of thing—but mostly I was just office help.”

  Sophia thought for a moment. “Still,” she said, her eyes meeting mine again, “maybe you can offer some advice or direction. Or maybe bring in the guy you worked for, put Vivian in touch with him.”