Last Straw (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 7) Read online

  Last Straw

  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.

  Last Straw

  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

  LAST STRAW

  Novel for Young Adults

  PLAYING THE GAME

  Short Story Collections

  OUT OF TIME

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  ONE

  I was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. Okay, maybe not that excited, but it was close. And for good reason.

  One, the cold I’d been fighting for the last week had finally decided enough was enough, and released me from its stronghold. It felt like I had spent the better part of December at death’s door—or at least walking up the sidewalk. But finally, my cough had dissipated, my sinuses had cleared, and I no longer felt like patient zero of some new, deadly virus.

  But there was something else that had put a spring in my step that Monday morning as I moved from room to room, straightening couch cushions and picking up the used tissues that littered every horizontal surface in the living room. What had me grinning from ear to ear was the phone call I’d gotten the night before, when my son, Luke, had called to tell me the good news: he’d managed to change his flight to Virginia so instead of coming in on the 23rd, he’d be here on the 20th.

  Which was today.

  Six whole days. Luke was going to be visiting for six whole days.

  I filled an entire plastic grocery bag with used tissues and carried it to the kitchen trash, humming along to the music piping out of the speakers. I’d put on some holiday music and Bing Crosby crooned about chestnuts roasting over an open fire. In my own house, the aroma of cinnamon scented the air as the quick bread I’d mixed together baked in the oven. I knew Luke would be hungry after his red-eye from California.

  This would be the first time Luke had visited Virginia since I’d moved to Latney. He hadn’t been to my house, and had never seen the new town I now called home. I’d sent him photos, of course, and he’d looked at the pictures from the real estate listing when I was first considering buying the property, but this would be the first time he’d walk across the threshold and into my hundred-year-old farmhouse. The first time he’d see the barn and the outbuildings, and the acres of land that now belonged to me. The first time he’d see all of the furniture and trinkets from our old home in Arlington, the home he’d grown up in, settled into their new locations in my new house.

  The timer on the oven went off and I grabbed an oven mitt and pulled out the loaf pan. The crumb topping was perfectly browned, and the aroma was even more mouthwatering than before. I’d have to exercise some serious self-control to not dive into it before Luke arrived.

  The doorbell rang and I dropped the oven mitt and hurried from the kitchen back to the living room. I was expecting one last package, a gift I’d ordered for Laura, who would also be spending Christmas with me, and I was hoping this was the UPS man with my final delivery.

  I flung the door open, an expectant smile on my face. But there was no one dressed in brown to greet me or to hand off a package. Instead, Jill Forsythe stood on my doorstep, bundled in a puffy black coat and matching wool hat.

  “Jill. What a surprise.”

  It was. I had no idea she was back in town. The last time I’d seen Gunnar’s daughter was at the Thanksgiving dinner when I’d been attacked by airborne pillow rolls. She’d been drunk as a skunk, and I was fairly certain that the events of that night were most likely as lost to her as the hangover she’d probably woken up with the next morning.

  “I’m home for Christmas.”

  I nodded. “Of course.” I held the door open and motioned for her to come inside. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”

  This was an understatement. I hadn’t really known what to expect as far as winter went in Latney, and the beginning of December had been fairly mild: some cooler temperatures, definitely, but nothing intolerable. But the cold had finally arrived, both in terms of the virus that had hijacked my body and the sharp drop in temperatures. Most days hovered around the freezing mark, and the evenings dipped well below. The hum of the furnace was a constant now in the house, and the air crackled with static. Chapstick had become my new best friend.

  She stepped into the house. “Sorry to bother you,” she said.

  She looked around the house, her eyes lingering on the Christmas decorations. The tree was positioned right in front of the window, and I’d already turned on the lights, even though it was morning. The tiny white lights winked from the evergreen branches, and the red ribbons festooned throughout provided a cheery burst of color. My collection of creches from around the world was hard to miss, as was the snowman fence decoration I’d bought from Sophia’s in my attempt to solve the mystery of St. Simon’s missing auction donations. I’d told myself that I was going to give it to Laura—and had told Mabel this, too, when I’d stored it in her garage—but I’d decided it looked rather cute next to the fireplace. And since it had cost nearly a hundred dollars, and was not returnable, I’d decided to keep it.

  “No bother at all,” I said to Jill. I was glad she’d chosen today to stop by, and not last week, when I’d looked like a walking advertisement for facial tissue and cold medicines. “Would you like some coffee?” Her nose twitched and I knew she could smell the bread I’d just pulled from the oven. I reluctantly added, “Or some cinnamon bread?”

  She hesitated before shaking her head. “No, I was just wondering if I could borrow a couple of eggs.”

  “Eggs?”

  She bobbed her head. “I’m baking and I ran out. And my car is on the fritz. Dad ran into Winslow to see about getting a new battery for it.”

  Car troubles were the worst, but I couldn’t help but wonder why on earth she needed eggs. Gunnar kept more chickens than I did, and even though my girls’ laying had slowed significantly with the cold weather, I still managed to collect a few each day. With Gunnar’s chicken numbers hovering close to two dozen—at least, that’s what I remembered him hav
ing—it seemed highly unlikely that he wouldn’t still be pulling in a couple dozen a week.

  “Sure,” I said, blinking. “I’ll go grab some.”

  I left her standing in the living room. A minute later, I returned and she was right where I left her, jacket still zipped and hat still pulled down tight over her ears.

  I held out the bowl containing four eggs, all of them a milky tan color. She didn’t take the bowl but grabbed two of the eggs and stuffed one each in her jacket pockets.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  There was a moment of awkward silence, so I asked, “What are you baking?”

  “Cookies. Snickerdoodles.” She looked at me with those hazel eyes that were a mirror of her dad’s. “They’re my mom’s favorite.”

  “I like them, too,” I said, smiling. “Are you bringing some to her for the holidays?”

  Jill’s parents had divorced when she was in high school, and the last I’d heard, her mother lived near Charlottesville. Gunnar hadn’t talked about her much, and I hadn’t asked many questions.

  Jill gave me a funny look. “No.”

  “No?” I echoed.

  “I don’t have to bring her any,” she told me. “Because she’s here in town. At my dad’s house.”

  TWO

  “At your dad’s house?”

  I sounded like an echo chamber with the way I was repeating her words.

  Jill nodded.

  Well, this was a new development.

  “How nice for you,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “I assume she’s here for Christmas?”

  I wondered if this was a standard arrangement for them. After all, it was my first Christmas in Latney. Maybe Gunnar and his ex had a tradition of celebrating the holidays as a family. Maybe they had decided to do this for Jill, or maybe it was just for convenience, celebrating together instead of forcing their daughter to choose who to spend the day with. Charlie and I had never had that problem. For one, we divorced after both of our kids had moved out of the house. And secondly, Christmas was always his busy time of year with work, so his days off were few and far between, just like when we were married. The traditions our family had developed over the years had always been centered around what I did with the kids, and this had carried through even after the divorce and even after Luke and Laura had ventured out on their own.

  “For now…” Jill said, answering my question.

  I wanted to ask more questions, especially with her rather cryptic response. For now? What did that mean? Was there the potential that she might stay longer? Why?

  “Oh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Jill smiled. “You never know. Life is full of surprises.”

  I tried not to look as confused as I felt. Was she implying what I thought? Were Gunnar and his ex-wife getting back together? A weird feeling rose up inside of me, and it took me a second to identify it.

  Jealousy.

  Just as quickly, I tamped it down. I had no reason to be jealous of whatever might be happening between Gunnar and his ex. He and I were over. I was with Declan now.

  I swallowed.

  Wasn’t I?

  Actually, I hadn’t been with Declan since that fateful night at his house. December wasn’t exactly a relaxing time for the pastor of the only church in town, and I’d been sidelined with the cold to end all colds. He’d offered, numerous times, to come see me, but I’d ordered him to keep his distance. The last thing I needed was to taint him further by sharing mucousy, feverish germs with him.

  But regardless of what was or wasn’t happening with Declan, there was definitely nothing going on between Gunnar and me. He and I had kept our distance from each other, by accident or design. I had no rights to him, and I shouldn’t have cared one way or another what was happening in his house or between him and his ex-wife.

  Except I kind of did.

  “Surprises,” I murmured. Jill was right about one thing: life certainly was full of them.

  We were still standing by the front door, Jill’s hands shoved into her coat pockets, presumably cupping the egg tucked in each one, and the bowl of extra eggs cradled in my hands, when I spotted a car pull into the driveway. The vehicle itself was unfamiliar but the person climbing out of the passenger seat was not.

  “Luke,” I said out loud, excitement bubbling in my voice.

  Jill glanced behind her, taking in the still closed front door.

  “My son,” I explained. “He’s visiting from California.”

  A look of confusion swept across her face. “He’s here? Right now?” She whipped her head from side to side, craning her neck to see behind the Christmas tree, as if she thought he might be hiding there.

  Footsteps sounded on the front porch, and then a few loud thumps. There was a quick rap on the door and Jill skittered out of the way.

  I set the bowl of eggs down and flung it open. Luke had me wrapped in a bear hug before I could even get any words out.

  It had been a year since I’d seen him, but in that moment, it was as if no time at all had passed. He was Luke, my son, my second-born, fun-loving, goofy son.

  I held him at arm’s length. He looked the same: same sandy blond hair, worn a little long, same blue eyes, same barely visible blond stubble on his chin. He still towered over me, and his clothes still hung loosely on his lanky frame, more a product of baggy clothes than lack of eating.

  “I can’t believe you’re finally here!” I was still wearing that same enormous smile. I could feel it stretching across my cheeks, crinkling my eyes.

  He grinned. “Believe it!”

  Jill cleared her throat. She’d shifted away from the door, probably to avoid being tackled when Luke and I had embraced, and was now standing awkwardly to the side of us.

  “This is Jill,” I said to Luke. “My neighbor’s daughter.”

  Luke held out his hand and Jill went to shake it. With an egg in hers. Blushing, she thrust it back in her pocket.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  They shook hands.

  “She stopped by for a couple of eggs. They’re from my chickens.” I said this proudly. Not only was I living in a place where neighbors freely asked for and shared what they had, but I’d also given her something I’d literally grown on my farm.

  Except eggs don’t “grow” and my farm was a farm in name only.

  But still.

  “Really?” Luke raised his eyebrows, looking suitably impressed. “That’s awesome.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.” Jill’s words were for me but her eyes were trained on Luke, locked in like lasers.

  I couldn’t blame her. He was a handsome kid, in a Kurt Cobain sort of way. A little less grungy and desperate looking, but the edge was still there, the scruffiness and rawness that the Nirvana lead singer had channeled showing up in my own son’s appearance and, to a lesser degree, his music. Luke had spent hours upon hours listening to their CDs and watching YouTube videos of their concerts. I knew Nirvana music as well as any 80s band I’d grown up listening to.

  Luke turned his grin to her, his blue eyes lit with amusement. “Well, now you know.”

  Jill blushed furiously. “I…uh…should get back home. With the eggs. To make…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Snickerdoodles?” I supplied.

  She nodded. “Yeah. That.” She glanced back up at Luke, and it was impossible not to see the interest lurking in her eyes. “It was, um, nice to meet you.”

  “Same,” he said, his friendly grin still firmly in place. “Maybe I’ll see you around this week.”

  “Most definitely,” Jill murmured.

  She moved with sloth-like speed, to the door and then out on the front porch, stopping to turn back to look at him every few feet.

  “Nice neighbor,” Luke said.

  I didn’t think of Jill as my neighbor—she didn’t live there—but I didn’t correct him. I was too busy staring at the pile of luggage on the porch.

  “What’s all this?”

  Luke st
epped forward and peered out the open front door. “My stuff.”

  “You need all of this for six days?”

  Luke had always been one to travel light. I couldn’t count the number of family vacations we’d taken over the years where Laura had insisted on bringing a suitcase and filling it as though we were traveling to a remote outpost in Antarctica. Luke, on the other hand, usually sufficed with just a backpack. I’d often have to remind him to pack the essentials. Like underwear.

  Luke glanced at the bags on the porch. “It’s Christmas,” he said, a little defensively.

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You brought presents? You’ve already shopped?” Luke had always been a last-minute shopper.

  He hesitated for a minute, then nodded. “And I had to bring my guitar,” he said, motioning toward the tall, black case propped against the wall.

  “Had to?” I repeated, feeling the smile tug at my lips. Whereas bags of gifts in his possession five days before Christmas was a surprise, the fact that he’d brought his guitar was not. He’d picked up his first one when he was thirteen, a cheap thrift store find that had set him back twenty of his hard-earned allowance dollars. He basically hadn’t put it down since.

  I stepped outside, and an instant shiver ran down my spine. The sky was gray, the wind cold, and the sweater I was wearing suddenly felt like it was full of holes created specifically as a direct channel for the icy air to hit my skin.

  I leaned down to grab a bag but Luke stopped me. “I’ll get them.”

  “There are multiple bags,” I pointed out. “And I have you in the guest house. I don’t want you to have to make more than one trip.”

  “The guest house?”

  I nodded and pointed behind us, toward where the tiny house was located. “Laura and Connor stayed in the extra bedroom here in the house at Thanksgiving, and I figured they’ll probably want to again,” I said. “I figured you’d probably want the guest house, anyway. You can stay up late and sleep in and no one will be the wiser.”

  Luke smiled. “And play music loud and have wild parties?”