Wild Crime

Inc.

Her hair fell below her waist, ripped free of its ties and weighed down by the warm, lashing rain. The sky-blue dress, so carefully chosen for this night and tried on so many times in her bedroom, was ruined. One strap had torn from her shoulder and dangled down her back. Mud splattered the hem. Sweet Cantaloupe lipstick, a lovely coral that heightened the green in her eyes, was smeared like a bruise on one cheek.

She ran.

The high school gym behind her, decorated in crepe paper and curtains, vibrated with electric guitars and teen-aged hormones. Couples gyrated on the dance floor and then disappeared into dark corners. It was late and the Spring Dance was in full throttle. No one would miss her for hours.

In front of her, trees dripped in moss, barely visible in the darkness. She envisioned the moss brushing her shoulders, low branches snagging her hair. The possibility of snakes both at her feet and over her head, made her hesitate.

One scream, one gasp, and he would find her.

Praise for Julie Howard and…

CRIME TIMES TWO:

A fast-paced and quick read with murder, mayhem and some romance. Ms. Howard is a new-to-me author and I look forward to reading more of her books.

~Romancing-the-Book

~*~

CRIME AND PARADISE:

The cast of characters that populate Hay City are warm and inviting, but be careful. There’s danger in the Idaho air that might just keep you up turning pages. A great start to a series that will leave you wanting more.

~Greta Boris, Amazon best-selling author

~*~

This book grabs you from the start and you can’t let go until the end. Add Julie Howard to your must-read list.

~Sylissa Franklin, author, The Sierra Scott mysteries

Wild Crime

by

Julie Howard

Wild Crime Series, Book 3

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 actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Wild Crime

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Julie Howard

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Abigail Owen

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2863-8

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2864-5

Wild Crime Series, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is for those who try,

and then try again, again and again.

Prologue—The Beginning

Her hair fell below her waist, ripped free of its ties and weighed down by the warm, lashing rain. The sky-blue dress, so carefully chosen for this night and tried on so many times in her bedroom, was ruined. One strap had torn from her shoulder and dangled down her back. Mud splattered the hem. Sweet Cantaloupe lipstick, a lovely coral that heightened the green in her eyes, was smeared like a bruise on one cheek.

She ran.

The high school gym behind her, decorated in crepe paper and curtains, vibrated with electric guitars and teen-aged hormones. Couples gyrated on the dance floor and then disappeared into dark corners. It was late and the Spring Dance was in full throttle. No one would miss her for hours.

Before her, trees dripped moss, barely visible in the darkness. She envisioned the moss brushing her shoulders, low branches snagging her hair, the possibility of snakes both at her feet and above; this made her hesitate. It would take one scream, one gasp, and he would find her. To her right was the even more daunting, murky swamp filled with alligators and snapping turtles. Impassable. Unthinkable.

The only choice was to turn left into the open. Not far off were the sand dunes where hills would offer shelter. Panting heavily now, she glanced behind her, blinking rain from her eyelashes. A shadow shifted and her vision blurred. How many drinks had there been? Only two, maybe three; four if you counted the one she gulped in the parking lot before the dance, to get the party started. She drew in a deep breath, the thick air oppressive and smelling of rot.

She wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest, to give up this unending pursuit. Some animals did that, didn’t they? Finally admit defeat and submit to their fate.

She once wrote a paper on pursuit predation for a high school English class and became fascinated in how various beasts engage in attacks and counterattacks. Honeybees, for instance, conquer hornets, their primary foe, by swarming a lone hornet. Clustering around, the honeybees vibrate their abdomens to create heat, thereby cooking their enemy to death. Cheetahs win by speed, lions by ambush, ants by swarm.

Dragonflies, she discovered, are among the most strategic and successful hunters. Instead of heading directly toward a target, they predict where their prey would flee and adjust their flight pattern in advance. They almost never lose their prey. Her teacher gave her an ‘A’ for the paper, the only one she received that semester.

The shadow behind her grew larger until it took on the shape of a man, growing closer and closer. He’d angled to intercept her. The dunes were within reach; she was nearly there. The ocean’s steady roar hid the whimpers now surfacing with each of her breaths. She stumbled and fell. In a flash he was on her, gripping her loosened hair in a tight fist.

Little rabbit, he crooned in her ear, the hateful nickname he gave her when she was twelve.

She screamed but the sound was carried away by the wind.

Chapter One

High above the rooftops of downtown Fifteen Palms, Florida, the attorney's office faced the cityscape and offered a view of the cluster of seaside businesses catering to tourists. At the street far below, statuesque palm trees lined up in a row like sentries guarding the entrance. A stone fountain gurgled cool water amid the blinding white concrete. In the distance, the sea was still, a sheet of slate blue stretching to the horizon.

Meredith Lowe turned from the floor-to-ceiling windows. She’d arrived early, nervous for what was to come. Today, she would learn the identity of her father. Perhaps her grandmother would have left a clue why she banished her daughter—Meredith’s mother, Laura—twenty-five years earlier, leaving her to die without making any attempt at reconciliation. Perhaps, her grandmother’s death might lift the veil on a few of their family mysteries.

Arriving a half hour early didn’t mean Meredith would discover the identity of her father any sooner. The lawyer said eleven a.m. and the clock now read ten fifty-eight. The door from the waiting room to his inner sanctum remained shut. Apparently, this was a man who stuck to a schedule.

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, and she regretted the sundress she’d chosen for the day. A sundress at Christmas was a luxury, especially since it was snowing back home in Idaho. But this was Florida, where a hot December sun warmed the beach sands and reflected the heat off the sidewalks, making it feel warmer than eighty degrees. Pure heaven. Regardless, a day of revelations wasn’t the time to go sleeveless. Damp splotches already formed under her arms, and she needed to wipe her palms against her sides more than once. Her ash-brown hair, pulled into a low messy chignon that morning, was already falling apart. The receptionist at the waiting room desk frowned at her in disapproval. Whether it was for sweaty palms, her choice of dress, or just her in general, she didn’t know.

There was a low click behind her.

Mrs. Lowe. The lawyer materialized in the doorway. Tall and stoop-shouldered, his suit jacket hung loose on skeletal shoulders. A few wiry hairs weaved an odd circuit over the top of his head, seeking to cover its bony surface.

Mr. Holt? There was no doubt it was him, the firm’s senior partner. Who else would be behind the door emblazoned with: Therald F. Holt, Senior Partner?

Please come in. His thin lips barely twitched. We’ll get started. A nearby clock chimed the hour. Meredith felt relief that he didn’t offer to shake her hand in greeting.

She wiped her palms one more time, glanced at the still-frowning receptionist, and followed him into his office. Her grandmother, Leila Brittan, had been here, in this grand office, treading upon the same deep plush carpet. The old woman who sat by and let her only child die without a word of comfort or a goodbye, who wanted nothing to do with her only grandchild—Meredith—had sat in this same leather chair the color of dark umber. Even when Meredith’s former husband, Brian, sent Leila a note, informing her of their wedding and also later when she’d become a great-grandmother, there had been no reply.

Meredith swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat as she glanced around the room. On one wall was a series of black-and-white photos of palm trees, and on another were three framed diplomas vouching for the capabilities of Therald Holt. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf took over a third wall, filled with thick leather-bound tomes ostensibly chock full of laws, regulations, and statutes. The final wall consisted of large floor-to-ceiling windows tinted dark against the relentless Florida sun.

The lawyer settled himself at a massive mahogany desk in a tall wooden chair twice the size of hers. His seat didn’t appear comfortable, but nothing about this man emanated softness. He offered no condolences for her grandmother’s recent death and apparently didn’t believe in small talk. He cleared his throat and spoke as the clock finished its eleventh chime.

As you are already aware, my client—your late grandmother—tasked me with contacting you regarding two items in her will. He peered at her, eyebrows raised, and once she nodded in acknowledgment of this fact, he continued. First, there is a sealed box she assured me is of little value. Secondarily, there is a letter you may not take with you or copy or take notes from. I am to read the letter out loud and then destroy it in your presence. Do you understand and agree to these terms?

She fidgeted in her seat. She’d traveled more than fourteen hundred miles from her home in Hay City, Idaho to Fifteen Palms, Florida to hear the contents of this letter. Long-held secrets revealed, for there would be no other reason for this meeting. The information was the key, not the printed words. If the lawyer wanted to make confetti out of the letter afterward, what did she care?

Yes, please read it.

The lawyer sniffed and didn’t budge. There were no papers before him on the desk. It was a blank surface, smooth and glossy, with no family pictures or knick-knacks from grandchildren, or anything at all that indicated a life outside the office. The self-important man was all business, and he clearly had more to say before a letter would appear.

As for the sealed box, you’ll want to open it here in the safety and privacy of these walls, and I’d be happy to advise you what to do with the contents. Of course, if you choose, you may also take it and open it elsewhere. From his tone, it was clear he believed the best option was the first one. Therald Holt’s gaze burned into her. Still, he didn’t stir.

Yes…I don’t know…I’d like to hear the letter. She wished he’d get on with the business. There was a gentle whoosh as the air conditioning clicked on and goosebumps popped up on her arms.

You are aware my client left you nothing of value. His lips pursed together. If he were a judge, she was getting the maximum sentence. She spelled that out specifically. She said this to me directly, sitting before me, right where you are now. If you have a notion of contesting the will, be assured—

Meredith broke in. I haven’t considered contesting anything. I don’t want any of her money. I just want to hear the letter. Now. Her breath came fast. In case it would help, she added, Please.

A small smile crept to his lips as he opened a drawer near one knee and brandished an envelope. This is it, she thought. This is what I’ve waited twenty-five years to discover.

Without any other preamble, Therald Holt opened the envelope and withdrew a single page. Chilled and hot at the same time, she wiped her palms once more against her sundress as he began to read in a monotone:

"Dear Mrs. Lowe,"

Mrs. Lowe. Her throat tightened in irritation. The woman couldn’t even call her granddaughter, not even in death.

Now that I am gone, I’d like to correct any falsehoods your mother may have told you about your father. It’s unfortunate she carried so much anger in her heart, anger that separated a mother from daughter for a lifetime. A person reaps what they sow. It should be clear to you that while I have reaped good fortune, your mother only effected misery onto her life.

Fury rose in Meredith’s chest. How dare this woman lecture her from the grave. Her mother was the most honest person she knew. Laura struggled with alcoholism, that was a fact, but illness and some type of decades-old quarrel wasn’t a reason for a permanent estrangement and these final cruel words. Fists clenched, it took everything she had to stay seated and to not storm from the office. The lawyer paused, appearing almost to enjoy her discomfort, and then went on.

It must be terrible to have a dishonest parent, but we don’t get to choose our relations. Let me set the record straight about who your father is. There is no doubt on this matter. His name is David Givens and last I knew, he lived in California, although there was no reason for me to keep track of these things.

David Givens. David Givens. David Givens.

Meredith chanted the name in her mind, her fingers itching to write the two words down, terrified she’d forget. After all this time, here was her father’s name. He was in California, where she’d lived nearly all her life until recently. She could have passed him on the street, ridden next to him on a train, waited impatiently behind him in a grocery checkout line. The name echoed over and over in her mind, and she had to force herself to focus as the lawyer continued to read.

Your mother was my only child. A child’s wicked impulses are daggers in a mother’s heart, but I found solace in doing good works for others. I encourage you to do the same, although I suspect you have followed in her path. Turn from her vindictive lies and believe the truth I’ve written here.

It was a moment before Meredith realized the lawyer had stopped speaking. Her grandmother’s last words to her were both a revelation and an insult.

What does she mean about my mother lying? The words burst out. She never said much at all about my father. She refused to name him. What did he do?

The lawyer sat back in his chair, staring at the letter. Indecision worked at his lips, his jaw twitching. It’s hard to believe that Laura never said anything.

Her mother’s name prompted tears to spring in Meredith’s eyes. Since her death, no one spoke of her. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said,All my mother said was he did something…terrible.

The lawyer’s humorless chuckle startled her. I knew the Givens family, and did some work for them once. Saw the boy around town. He was a good-looking young man, fair-haired, clean-cut. I doubt he got into much trouble. Things happen, you know. Teenagers.

Was? she asked, trembling inside. "You said ‘was.’ Is he. . .my father…dead?"

The quarter hour chimed once. An echoing chime came from the direction of the reception room, the two clocks ever so slightly out of sync.

I wouldn’t know. His voice was tight, the brief joviality gone. I said ‘was’ because the Givens family moved away years ago.

But…how do I find him, my father?

The hard chair creaked as Holt shifted. I deal in estates and trusts. Not investigations. If I were you, I’d let it go. He cleared his throat and ran his tongue over dry lips. As I mentioned, your grandmother also left a box for you.

Meredith watched bewildered as he opened another desk drawer and set a small, plain cardboard box on his desk. The container was about two-thirds the size of a shoebox and wrapped round with yellowed, cracked packing tape. The unassuming package didn’t appear to promise riches inside. He slid it across the smooth surface toward her. Now that she was in this room, after three days of hard driving with two kids in the back seat and weeks of wondering what the lawyer would reveal, the moment passed too swiftly. She stared at the box, her mind still on her father.

David Givens, she repeated silently.

He slid a pair of scissors forward to lay next to the box. You can open it here. The statement emerged from this unfriendly lawyer as an order. His voice was stern. Any indecision she might have had disappeared. She would open it away from his cold, judging gaze.

Meredith stood and grasped the box, feeling the contents shift slightly. The package was light. Whatever was inside didn't weigh much. If that's all, I’ll just open this later.

The lawyer’s gaze lingered on the box; he appeared to be making up his mind about something. He retrieved the scissors and, studying them, his Adam’s apple leaped. She took a step back with a frown. Silly, she thought, there’s no threat here.

With a huff of annoyance, he replaced the scissors in their drawer and then rose. One last thing.

Taking up the one-page letter, he strode to a machine at the side of his office. He flipped a switch at the side of the machine and then fed the letter through a slot. There was a whir and then a light buzzing sound as the letter was sliced into thin strips.

David Givens, Meredith repeated in her mind. There was an ache in her chest, knowing his identity had been shredded, with no other testament to his patrimony than the words stored in her memory. She clutched the box to her chest, wondering if more clues about her father were inside. The lawyer scowled at her, his eyes darting to the box as if he had the same idea.

I suppose that’s all, she said.

He laid a piece of paper on his desk along with a pen. Sign here for receipt of property.

Her hand shook as she signed. As she entered the elevator, the clock chimed the half hour. David Givens, I’m coming for you.

****

Double doors whisked open automatically as she approached the building’s exit. The full force of Florida’s late December heat hit her. Perspiration sprang from her forehead, the back of her neck, under her arms, behind her knees, between her toes—all at the same time. Eighty degrees and ninety-five percent humidity with the sun fully overhead. The fountain spouted a series of cool streams, and she stopped before it to adjust to the sudden change in temperature.

Back home in Hay City, Idaho, the temperature was twenty degrees at high noon and getting colder by the day. People there told her the depth of winter wouldn’t arrive for another month and that below-zero days weren’t unusual. As a relative newcomer, she didn’t ask about the nights. Already, icicles were dripping inside her house, from the kitchen ceiling where a leak had developed, and along the interior edges of all the windows. It was a good thing she and her children were living thirty yards away in a trailer, the one they’d been living in ever since the ceiling in her daughter’s bedroom collapsed a month earlier. There was nothing she could do about her deteriorating house until spring. Each day, she stared across the yard, wondering what new horrors had developed overnight.

Mom! Five-year-old Jamie ran up, mouth agape and ringed with purple. She stuck out her tongue to show off its matching color. The sheriff bought us snow cones.

She lifted her gaze. Tall, solid, dependable Curtis Barnaby approached with nineteen-month-old Atticus perched on his shoulders. Blue drips stained the front of Curtis’ white polo shirt and the top of his head, signs of the remnants of Atticus’ berry snow cone. The knot so tightly coiled in her stomach loosened at the sight of his steadfast easy-going presence. Thank God he’s here.

Curtis, Hay City’s sheriff, was more than a steadying influence on