Asking For Trouble

Her aunts’ emphatic insistence that Beth avoid the cellar came flooding back and she started to get a really bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. It might have been the four scones slathered with strawberry jam that she’d eaten that morning, but she didn’t think so. She clasped her churning stomach, feeling as if she was going to throw up or faint—she couldn’t decide which—and inhaled deeply.

Why had her aunts advised her to avoid the cellar?

It was pitch-black. The flashlight, waving up and down because her hand shook so badly, didn’t shed much light or meaning as to what exactly she was looking at. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t want to believe what she was looking at. She grasped it tightly with both hands to steady it, and herself.

What were those bones doing in her cellar? And who had put them there?

Her aunts were the only ones who ever ventured into the bowels of the Two Sisters Ordinary on a regular basis. They were fond of canning applesauce, putting up jams and jellies, and they stored the canned goods in the cellar, where the temperature was cooler.

“Iris is trying to raise the dead.”

“Lyle McMurtry.” Beth whispered the name, then shook her head. The possibility was just too ridiculous to consider.

Or was it?

CHAPTER TWO

BETH CONTINUED to gape at the bones, and what she was thinking was…well, unthinkable.

Iris and Ivy had been acting stranger than usual of late, if that was possible. The old ladies had a reputation for eccentric behavior, and for being a bit off their rockers. She couldn’t deny that they were both somewhat addled.

Shivers of foreboding tripped down her spine as she tried to decide what to do about the bones. After a few moments, Beth came to a decision: They had to be reburied. If anyone else found them, it would reflect very badly on her aunts.

But what if they’re guilty?

What if Iris had done away with Lyle McMurtry and then had enlisted the aid of her sister to bury the poor guy in the cellar, as everyone suspected? As hideous as that thought was, it had to be considered.

If she reburied the bones, she’d be an accessory after the fact. Hiding evidence was a crime, not to mention immoral. But what other choice did she have? The old ladies were already suspects. Sheriff Murdock had made no secret that he thought they were responsible for McMurtry’s disappearance. And she was responsible for them. They’d always been there for her; she couldn’t abandon them now.

Picking up the camp shovel, she set to her task, vowing to get to the bottom of the mystery, and knowing that until she did, the bones would have to remain hidden. It might not be the wisest decision, but it was the best one she could come up with at the moment.

Beth knew she should go to the sheriff and report her find. But how could she? The whole scenario sounded crazy. And a reinvestigation into a fifty-year-old matter could jeopardize the lives of her aunts. Innocent people were convicted every day of crimes they didn’t commit.

As nutty as the old women were, she loved them dearly and had to protect them, which is why she couldn’t go to Iris and Ivy with her suspicions. It would hurt them tremendously.

But what if they’re guilty?

She couldn’t think about that now.

The officer from the bank was due to arrive at any moment. Once Mr. Pickens completed his inspection of the inn she would sit down and think long and hard about what she was going to do. But she wouldn’t mention them to anyone. If Mr. Pickens found out about the bones, she could kiss her loan goodbye.

The wind whipped a spindly pine branch against the narrow dirt-covered window and Beth nearly jumped out of her skin. But no wonder she was nervous. She had a pile of buried bones in her cellar and a couple of loony aunts who were looking pretty guilty of a fifty-year-old crime.

Feeling chilled to the bone—poor choice of words—Beth proceeded with her task. A few moments later, a glimmer beneath the worktable caught her attention. Dropping the shovel, she moved toward it, kicking the dirt with the toe of her shoe until the object was revealed.

The gold locket was tarnished and appeared very old. She picked it up and, using her thumbnail as a wedge, attempted to pry it open. The lid finally popped to disclose two small black-and-white photographs. One was unmistakably her aunt Iris, looking young, radiant and happier than she’d ever seen her. The other was of a handsome, smiling man Beth assumed was Lyle McMurtry.

She stared at the locket in disbelief, shaking her head at the full import of what she’d just discovered—another piece of incriminating evidence.

Was this proof positive that her aunts were somehow involved? The locket was obviously her aunt Iris’s, and now here it was at the scene of the crime, if a crime had actually been committed.

Not only was she hideously lacking Lara Croft’s chutzpah, she apparently had little of Nancy Drew’s flair for mystery, either.

Dropping the piece of antique jewelry into the front pocket of her jeans, she got down on her hands and knees and began clawing the earth in the same fashion the dog had minutes before. She was filled with apprehension and dread, worrying and wondering what other items she would find that might shed light on what had occurred in this basement so long ago.

At first, her search came up empty and she breathed a sigh of relief. But then, just as she was about to give up, she spotted something white. Yanking hard to free it, she discovered a piece of old linenlike material. There appeared to be splotches of dark brown covering it. Blood? She swallowed hard. Paint? She prayed fervently, unwilling to take the chance it wasn’t connected.

Beth gathered up the remaining pieces of material, which looked to be part of a man’s shirt, and placed them in the ground with the bones. She had just dropped the last shovel of dirt onto the makeshift grave when the doorbell chimed.

If she didn’t get this mess sorted out quickly, Mr. Pickens could become the next victim. After all, Aunt Ivy had seemed rather irritated with him.

Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting.

Surely there had to be a simple explanation for everything that had happened. She was too young to be an accessory to murder. And with her coloring, she would look awful wearing one of those hideous orange prison jumpsuits.

“I DON’T SEE WHY I had to leave school before Thanksgiving break. It’s only a week away, and Missy Stuart’s invited me to her slumber party. Now I’ll miss out. And everyone’s going to be there.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Brad Donovan studied the sullen face of his twelve-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter while still managing to keep his eyes fixed on the traffic ahead. Congestion on Interstate 95 was always a nightmare at this time of morning.

He’d wanted to leave late last night, but had been faced with one medical emergency after another. First, Bobby Bartley had fractured his clavicle playing baseball, then he’d had to perform an emergency tracheotomy on a fifteen-month-old infant, who’d swallowed a piece of Lego toy that had lodged in his windpipe. So now he was doomed to sit in traffic and listen to Stacy whine for the next several hours.

“I’ve already explained, Stace, about Grandpa’s disappearance. It’s not like him not to call or let us know where he is.”

“He sent you a postcard.”

The postcard from the Two Sisters Ordinary was the only clue he had to his father’s last known whereabouts. When he didn’t receive a call back from the innkeeper after leaving several messages, he’d decided to drive to Mediocrity and see for himself if the inn’s proprietor could shed light on his father’s disappearance.

It wasn’t like his dad to cut off all contact with his family. Robert Donovan was organized, punctual and thoughtful. The old man had lived with him and Stacy since Brad’s mom passed away eight years ago. And though he seemed to have adjusted to life as a widower, to giving up his independence somewhat, Brad sensed that all was not well. His father had been morose lately. Brad had done his best to compensate, to offer companionship and support, but it hadn’t been enough.

Six weeks ago, his dad had packed up his ancient Chevy Impala and announced quite unexpectedly that he intended to visit the Pennsylvania countryside, along with a few Civil War battlefields. Brad had offered to go with him, to make a family vacation out of the trip, but his father had been adamant in his refusal—almost rude, come to think of it. It was obvious the old man wanted to be alone. But why?

“Gramps probably just found some other stupid battlefield to see,” Stacy pointed out, before opening her purse and taking out a tube of bright red lipstick. She applied it meticulously, blotting the excess, while viewing herself in the vanity mirror, her head tilting from side to side.

Stacy was growing up too fast. Since her mother’s death four years ago to ovarian cancer, the young girl had turned from a downy chick into a fledgling swan, and Brad was often at a loss trying to figure out how to handle the difficulties of puberty and adolescence. The first bra and menstrual period had been traumatic enough, but now it was makeup, loud music and boys. Eight years of medical school and a pediatric residency hadn’t prepared him for being the father of a pre-teen girl.

He and Stacy hadn’t been communicating very well lately, and he wasn’t quite sure how to remedy that. If he objected to the clothing she wore or the TV programs she watched, she called him old-fashioned. If he suggested that she spend more time on her homework, Stacy accused him of being overly critical—“in her face,” as she put it.

It was extremely frustrating for a man who had chosen as his vocation the care and nurturing of children not to be able to figure out what was ailing his own daughter.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Dad?”

The question came out of nowhere, as they often did, and Brad downshifted the BMW into third gear before answering, ignoring the honking horn of the minivan behind him. “You’re beautiful, Stace, just like your mom. I’ve told you that many times.”

“Then how come Billy Carson said I was flat-chested and needed breast implants and that my front teeth were spaced too far apart?”

Billy Carson of the spiked green hair had little room to talk, but that had never stopped the loud-mouthed delinquent from giving his opinion. He was one of Brad’s patients, but that didn’t mean he had to like the kid, especially now that he knew he’d been staring at his daughter’s chest. Little pervert!

“I doubt very much if Billy even knows what breast implants are. And you’re not flat-chested, just slower to develop than some girls your age.” He could tell she wasn’t happy or convinced by his explanation, so he added, “In case you haven’t noticed, all the top fashion models are pretty sparse on top. It’s the look these days.”