A Murderous Plot

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Copyright © Sue Minix 2024

Cover design by © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2024

Sue Minix asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008659851

Ebook Edition © August 2024 ISBN: 9780008659868

Version 2024-06-20

To Julie and Jeannine, without whom

this series might never have been possible.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Waking up in the morning was like trying to pull myself out of quicksand. Every time I gained an inch, my cocoon yanked me back two, enveloping me in its warmth and sense of security. A cozy cave where reality was forbidden and the outside world not only didn’t exist but never existed. Kind of like the fictional world I’d created in my mystery series, which never existed, but felt as real as the comforter that covered my head.

And I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day wrapped in my comfy sheath, except today was Saturday, and I had to get ready for my meeting with the Riddleton Runners at eight. Once a week, I met four of my friends at the park for a few laps around the mile-long track. Well, the real runners in the group managed a few laps. I’d yet to achieve two without doubling over with my hands on my knees, panting as if I’d just run five miles with Bigfoot chasing me.

I dragged the cover off, peeled open an eyelid, and searched for the clock on the nightstand, shielding my exposed eye from the sunlight streaming through the blinds with one hand. Nothing destroyed my cocoon-based fantasy faster than a blast of bright yellow light in the eyes. Seven o’clock already. Time to get up. A word flew from my lips that, luckily, nobody else could hear.

Wrestling my arm from under the blanket, I felt around the other side of the bed. No boyfriend. No dog. Eric must’ve already gotten up and taken my German shepherd, Savannah, with him. Although, I should’ve realized Savannah was gone because she didn’t throw her eighty-five pounds across my chest the instant I moved.

Perfect. I could snooze for a while longer. I snuggled into the pillow and drew the covers back over my head. My cocoon sucked me in like I was the caterpillar that built it. Too bad I’d never be a butterfly.

Jen! Eric’s tenor voice filtered through the blanket.

A groan slipped out, and I burrowed deeper as if, like an infant, he’d think I’d disappeared if he couldn’t see me.

Peekaboo.

Jen, I know you hear me.

Go away!

Come on. Get up. We need to leave soon.

Nope. Sleep weighed down my eyelids. No, I don’t. I have an hour.

An hour to actually be there. Eric chuckled. There’s coffee, and I made breakfast. You should eat before we go.

I’m not hungry. An audible stomach gurgle called out my fib. I’d bet he couldn’t hear it, though. And I’d probably lose as usual. Nothing I did got past him.

Liar.

Am not!

You’re always hungry.

No, I’m always eating. That’s not the same thing.

He snagged the blanket, but I swatted his hand away.

Okay. Have it your way. He whistled for the dog.

Uh-oh. I curled into the fetal position and protected my head with my arms. Savannah charged onto the bed, clawed the blanket off, and stuck her snout in my eye. I flailed my arms, blinking back the tears. She grabbed a corner of the comforter and leaped to the floor, dragging it into the living room like a goliath superhero’s cape. I really needed to remember to tuck that thing under the mattress when I made the bed. Except I rarely made the bed.

Eric posed on the edge of the mattress and grinned. Good morning, sweetheart.

I bit back the two-word expression my mother had washed my mouth out with soap for saying in the third grade. Instead, I stuffed my head under the pillow. Whether or not it’s a good morning is a matter of opinion.

Any morning I wake up with you is a good morning. He smacked my leg. Now, get up. Your breakfast is getting cold.

He really could be sweet when he wanted to be. Actually, he was always sweet. I was the one with disposition problems. Up and down, affable and grumpy. Poor guy never knew what he’d be facing from one minute to the next. And yet he stayed. I’d never figure that one out.

I came by my issues honestly, though. Between my stepfather, who blamed me for everything that’d ever gone wrong in his life, and my mother, who always made me feel like I was chasing butterflies through a minefield, I never stood a chance. If it weren’t for my best friend and her family, I wouldn’t have met a stable human being until I went to college. And college kids weren’t known for being stable.

No wonder I was so messed up. Eric deserved better, and I resolved to give it to him. Starting tomorrow. Maybe the day after.

Throwing the pillow at him, I extracted myself from the tangled sheet and sent him a faux glare. You know, you’re lucky I love you.

I know. He stood and sidestepped toward the door. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes, coffee in hand.

Eric O’Malley stood a head taller than I did, but we probably wore the same size jeans. Not that we’d ever swapped, but it might be fun to try it one day. For me, anyway. A rookie detective with the Riddleton Police Department, Eric’s buzz-cut hair was the color of an orange and a tomato that’d spent five minutes together in a blender. Add a swath of freckles across his pallid cheeks, and he resembled Opie Taylor in a grown-up suit. But he was a keeper, as my mother liked to remind me daily.

I slowly lowered my feet to the floor as if testing the surface of an ice-covered lake. I stood there for a minute, making sure it would hold my weight. Unfortunately, it did. I needed to eat a few more chocolate chip muffins. That might do it.

Out of excuses, I headed for the bathroom while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and bacon wafting down the hall tantalized my nose, and my stomach encouraged me to hurry. Eric had the right idea about me eating before our run. I required little fuel for the smidgeon of energy I used pacing around the track barely faster than a walk, but a rumbling stomach would be a distraction, and I had enough trouble focusing already.

When I flipped on the light, the mirror above the sink reflected the sleep-induced creases in my face and around my light-blue eyes, along with a severe case of bedhead. My short, black hair had evolved into a mass of spikes and cowlicks, creating a modern art masterpiece Picasso would envy.

After completing my ablutions, I stuck my head under the running faucet and drowned my hair, the only way sure to tame it, then ran a comb through the soggy mass and made my way to the kitchen, looking like the star of a 1960s Brylcreem commercial. A little dab’ll do ya, and the wet head lived happily ever after in my house. Especially first thing in the morning.

I chased the coffee-and-bacon lure to the kitchen and arrived with thirty seconds to spare. Eric smiled and handed me my Creativity Begins With Coffee mug, the contents already fixed with two sugars and cream, just the way I liked it. I breathed in the robust aroma and sipped, swirling the flavors around my tongue as if the store-brand brew had come out of a 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild bottle.

After a hug and a kiss for the chef, I claimed my seat, and Eric set a plate of eggs over medium, bacon, and toast in front of me. I smiled at him with a mouthful of chewy, salty meat when he took the chair beside me. Savannah poked my knee to remind me she was available for cleanup, and my heart filled with contentment. I could get used to this.

Eric swallowed the bite of toast he’d dipped in egg yolk and asked, Are you getting excited yet?

I lowered my eyebrows and cocked my head in confusion. Excited about what?

Your new release. It’s in two weeks, right?

The second book of my Davenport Twins Mystery series, Twin Terror, was about to come out and, to be honest, I felt more nervous than excited. The first book, Double Trouble, had been a smash hit. I couldn’t imagine the second would do nearly as well. I slid my remaining egg from one side of the plate to the other. Yup. Fifteen days, to be exact, but who’s counting?

Sounds like you are. He laid his fork down and took my hand. You don’t seem very enthusiastic about the book coming out. What’s wrong?

How much time you got? Just worried, I guess. Just because the first book sold a lot of copies doesn’t mean people actually liked what they read. If the second one doesn’t sell, the publishing team might change their minds about the rest of the series. And even if they don’t, people might not read the third because they didn’t like the second.

I think you’re worrying too much. You’re a great writer and they’re lucky to have you. Don’t forget that. He squeezed my hand. Have they come up with a name for number three yet?

I haven’t heard anything about it. I guess they were so far behind on book two they didn’t consider it a priority. Why, you have a suggestion?

Uh-uh. He poked a hole in his second egg to free the yolk from captivity. You’re the writer. I’m just a lowly rookie detective in a small-town police department.

I wiped my greasy fingers on the napkin in my lap. Lowly detective my foot. You’d be surprised at how much creativity you use to solve crimes. You just don’t see it that way.

He dunked another triangle of toast into yolk and met my gaze. Maybe. But I prefer to think I use logic and deduction. And lots of legwork.

If you insist. I still say it takes at least some creativity. After all, what’s deduction if not taking the facts and molding them into a conclusion?

Okay. You could be right. Especially with the tough cases. He set his plate down for Savannah to prewash. I’m going to get dressed.

By the time I’d wiped up the last of the yolk with the last of my toast, he’d returned wearing his Christmas colors: forest-green running shorts and a red Riddleton High Track tank top. One day, I’d have to take him shopping for more running clothes so we could celebrate a different holiday once in a while. Halloween was next week. Black and orange might be an excellent place to start, as long as the orange didn’t clash too much with his hair. We could always make both shorts and shirt orange and pass him off as a tall, skinny pumpkin.

I gave Savannah my plate, swallowed the last of my coffee, and headed for the bedroom to change into my Gamecocks sweats. If I thought about it, though, I was no better than he because I always wore the same thing, too. Perhaps we both needed to expand our wardrobes.

Eric and I strolled hand in hand down Park Street, enjoying the light, brisk breeze and mid-autumn sunshine falling from the azure sky. Savannah alternately trotted and pranced on my left, anticipating our run, which was the highlight of her week. As much as she loved being in my company most of the time, Saturday morning in the park offered the strenuous exercise a dog her size needed. She looked forward to the trip almost as much as I dreaded it.

Exercise for the sake of exercise had never been part of my routine, but, during my struggles with writer’s block, Eric had convinced me to try running with his group once a week. He swore it would help, and, though I hated to admit it, he turned out to be right. I could never be sure if the fresh air, the camaraderie, the influx of oxygen, or some combination of all three did the trick, but it worked. My words began to flow again, so here I was, way too early in the morning, ready to suffer for my art.

The 1940s-era A-frame houses lining the street slept along with their occupants. If anyone inside was awake, they hadn’t yet made it out into the world. Too bad for them. They were missing the beginning of a glorious day. The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on me, however, since Eric’d had to force me out of bed this morning.

In the name of community engagement, Riddleton’s town council hosted holiday decoration contests where residents and business owners competed for a plastic trophy and the right to puff out their chests like a tabby who’d brought home a mouse for lunch. Participation in the Halloween contest averaged second only to Christmas in the annual calendar of events, and this year was shaping up to be no exception.

While the homeowners snoozed or sipped their first coffee of the day, decomposing hands waved to us from makeshift graves, witches stirred their otherworldly concoctions in cardboard cauldrons, and ghosts of all shapes and sizes haunted our path. Eric and I took turns pointing out the attractions we found most entertaining. Savannah glanced over her shoulder and trotted as close to the curb as possible without slipping off into the street to ensure no supernatural being could reach her.

As we approached the wrought-iron gates of Riddleton Park, I spotted a small figure perched on the stone bench beside the entrance. It had to be Lacey Stanley, my bookstore business partner, and a mid-thirties, married mother of three. She wore her long brown hair in a convenient ponytail most of the time, and her runner’s body showed only a slight bump where, a few months ago, a seven-pound, ten-ounce baby had been.

The other two members of our group wouldn’t be here today, which left the three of us to fend for ourselves. No problem, however. Lacey had just built herself back up to light jogging, which matched my running speed, and Eric could run circles around us as if we were a mobile maypole. I also might convince him to take Savannah for a sprint around the track as a treat for them both. Pretty sure it wouldn’t take much persuasion for him to agree.

Savannah leaped and lunged, almost yanking my shoulder out of its socket, when she saw Aunt Lacey. I let her go since nobody else was around, despite the clearly posted rule stating all dogs must be leashed. Besides, she had a leash on. The sign didn’t say I had to be holding the other end.

Lacey braced herself in self-defense, putting her hand out in a stop gesture as the slightly overweight German shepherd barreled toward her. Savannah dropped to her haunches and wiggled her entire body as if I’d just inserted fresh batteries into the Energizer Bunny.

Good girl! Lacey said and leaned down in her black leggings and royal-blue tank top to scratch the dog’s chest.

Eric chuckled. I thought she was going to plow you under for a minute.

No way. Jen’s put a lot of work into training her. And me. She grinned in my direction. It’s amazing how effective something as simple as putting your hand out can be.

I nodded. No kidding. The rest of her training was a bit more challenging, though.

Lacey gestured toward the gate. We ready to stretch?

Not a chance. Stretching for me was as much fun as riding a mechanical bull with no handholds. My muscles and I played tug-of-war every time I tried it, and I firmly believed some people weren’t meant to be limber. Asking me to stretch was like expecting a power pole to bend with the wind. No way that would ever happen. Still, Lacey and Eric insisted on loosening up before running, so I went along to get along.

We worked through the routine, and I closed my ears to the screams from my extremities, focusing on the way the sunlight danced in the branches instead. Drops lingering after last night’s rain glittered like diamonds on the pine needles while the tree trunks remained hidden in shadow, surrounded by wisps of fog. A peaceful yet ethereal scene. Like the opening of a horror movie. Goose bumps popped up on my forearms.

As I bent to stretch my hamstrings and calves, a flicker of movement in the shadows caught my eye. Not really movement, though, more like a momentary hitch in the atmosphere. I stopped in mid-stretch, focused on the area by the nearest tree, but saw nothing. Only the occasional falling diamond interrupted the gloom surrounding it. Must’ve been my imagination.

I dropped back down to touch my toes. Or try to touch my toes, anyway. Once in a while, I succeeded, but today wasn’t one of those days. My shrieking hamstrings won the battle this time. As I mimicked Lacey’s upper arm stretch, Eric pointed toward the tree I’d been watching and said, Hey, who’s that?

Lacey and I turned in that direction. Emerging from the shadows, a man staggered zombie-like toward us, a dark stain soaked into the front of his light-colored shirt.

Chapter Two

The man’s pale skin, black pants, and white shirt jumped out at me when he approached. Not to mention the stain that looked suspiciously like blood. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d escaped from the county morgue or the haunted house attraction going on at the community center. A preview of his Halloween costume? My pulse quickened as dread crept into my chest. Nope, not a costume. A real-life victim who needed our help.

From his uneven gait and obvious disorientation, he might be injured. We all exchanged glances, then ran to intercept him, dead pine needles sliding under our feet. Whatever the reason for his behavior, we couldn’t leave him wandering around the park where anything might happen. Anything more than what already did, that is.

I slowed to a walk as features came into focus on his ashen face. Disheveled dark hair clung to his forehead above wide, darting, mud-brown eyes, seemingly unable to focus on anything. His trembling hands were smeared in what appeared to be the same brownish substance that coated the front of his shirt.

Lacey gasped and froze, hands covering her mouth, saucer-like eyes peering over them. Unlike me, she had little experience with situations like this. I wish I could say the same. Some people believed I sought out these circumstances. I’d happily live forever without ever finding another dead body or, in this case, an injured person, but somehow, they always found me.

I followed Eric, who slowly approached the man. Sir, are you all right? Eric asked, stopping in his path.

The man’s gaze swung in all directions. He drunkenly lurched toward us, hair matted with blood plastered to his scalp.

Eric took the man by the arm, halting his forward progression. Sir, what happened to you? Do you need help? What’s your name?

The man’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His eyes ceased their aimless searching and came to rest on Eric’s face, but no recognition glimmered in them. Nothing at all, in fact. As if he’d never seen another human before. I shuddered.

Eric looked back. Lacey, call 911. Tell them we need police and an ambulance. He turned back to the man. Sir, are you injured? What’s your name?

The man studied the toes of the dusty black oxfords poking out from under the hem of his expensive black slacks. When he looked up again, his face wore a mask of confusion. I . . . I don’t know.

I stepped to Eric’s side and touched the sleeve of the stranger’s white long-sleeve shirt, crisp under my fingertips, to draw his attention to me. Savannah sniffed his leg. What about ID? Do you have a wallet? A phone, maybe?

He reached a bloody hand toward his pants pocket. Eric reflexively grabbed his arm. Do you mind if I do that for you?

The man shook his head, winced, and raised his arms as if Eric was holding him at gunpoint.

Eric patted him down, looking for a way to identify the guy and, if I knew him, weapons. He found nothing. No wallet, no phone, and no weapons.

What do you think? I asked him when he met my gaze and shrugged.

The stranger cut off Eric’s attempt at a reply. My head hurts really bad. Is that why I can’t remember anything?

I don’t know, but I promise we’ll do everything we can to find the answers to all your questions. First, we need to get you to the hospital.

Eric guided the agitated man to the stone bench outside the park gate, but he refused to sit, choosing instead to pace furiously up and down the length of it, muttering to himself. His blood-covered, tailored white shirt clung to his torso as he alternated between crossing his arms and waving them. The unmatted part of his dark brown hair riffled in the slight breeze, but the front and back remained stuck fast by blood and sweat.

I watched him stride back and forth, head down, only occasionally offering me a glimpse of his face. His eyes were filled with uncertainty and fear. And anger. I kept my distance as he waved his arms around, yelling indecipherable words.

Eric stepped into his path and raised his hands palm out to calm him down. I understand you’re frustrated.

The man stomped forward and bumped his chest against Eric’s, pushing him back a step. What do you think you understand? You don’t understand anything. Leave me alone!

Just take it easy. We’ll get this all sorted out. I promise.

Oh boy. Eric had broken the cardinal rule of police work: make no promises. Although he only said it would get sorted. He didn’t promise a particular outcome. But would the man remember it that way? His volatility, bordering on dangerous, could be a result of the blow to his head. Still, I hoped Eric could keep him calm long enough for the doctors to help him regain his memory.

After disconnecting her call to emergency services, Lacey turned. The police and an ambulance are on their way. I hope they get here soon.

The understatement of the year. "Me