Weekend Guest

Jack Erickson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jack Erickson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Discover other titles by Jack Erickson at Smashwords

Rex Royale

A Streak Across the Sky

 Mornings Without Zoe

Blood and Money in the Hunt Country

Perfect Crime

 Teammates

Missing Persons

The Stalker

Weekend Guest

Jack Erickson is the author of mysteries and novels of romantic suspense.  He  is a former U.S. Senate speechwriter, editor, and RedBrick Press publisher.  He is the author of several books on the craft brewing industry including the award winning STAR SPANGLED BEER: A GUIDE TO AMERICA’S NEW MICROBREWERIES AND BREWPUBS.
He lives in northern California with his wife.

http://www.jackerickson.com

Weekend Guest

Jack Erickson

The moment I unlocked my apartment door, I knew something was wrong; my orange tabby cat, Shazam, was asleep on the sofa, her plump, furry belly rising and falling like a bellows as she dozed, dreaming of prancing through Elysian Fields filled with catnip.
Shazam is never asleep when I get home from work. She meows behind the door when I turn the key, and she purrs as she snakes between my legs when I walk to the kitchen to feed her.
A second surprise awaited me in the kitchen. Shazam’s bowl had fresh flakes of cat food around the edge. An empty can of cat food sat in the sink next to a can opener. Who had fed her?
Alarmed, I bolted back into the living room. I looked around frantically. Was a thief in my apartment? Had he taken any valuables? I made a quick scan of the living room. My laptop, artwork, silver, and rare books were untouched. I clenched my fists in fear and listened for strange sounds.
My antique clock ticked on the mantle. A whoosh of air blew out of the floor heating vent and startled me, but otherwise my place was as still as a winter evening.
I tiptoed across the living room and looked down the hall leading to the bedrooms, bathroom, and study. Silent as a graveyard.
I crept down the hall, my heart thumping, and pushed open the bathroom door. A rumpled, damp towel lay on the floor. Whoever had broken into my apartment had taken a shower! Could he still be in the apartment, hiding in a closet or under the bed? I dashed back into the living room and reached for my cell phone to call 911.
A key rustled in my door. He’s back! How do I get out of here? As I fumbled to punch 911, the door opened and the intruder entered, his back to me. I held my breath and for an instant considered slamming the door on him.
Then I froze. The person was diminutive. Long hair tucked under a baseball hat. Navy shirt. Black slacks. Stylish pumps.
The intruder’s face was hidden behind two grocery sacks. A whiff of Chanel 5 tickled my nostrils.
“911!” a harsh female voice answered on my cell phone. “Is this a life threatening emergency?” I was too terrified to speak.
Shazam jumped down from the sofa, ran toward the intruder, and glided between the black pant legs, purring like a finely tuned Mercedes.
“Shazam, sweetie, let Mama in before Ryan gets home.” My heart almost exploded when I recognized a familiar voice.
The female dispatcher barked in my ear: “Is this an emergency?”
“Uh, ’scuse me,” I mumbled apologetically. “I punched the wrong button. No, there’s no emergency. I’m fine, really. I’m very sorry.”
My intruder was Sheila, who had walked out of my life six month ago and left Shazam as a farewell present. She had left without so much as a goodbye, just a scrawled note:
Ryan, I have to go away and start a new life. You’re a wonderful man. Have a great life. Love, Sheila
Our six-month affair had ended with that cryptic note sitting next to my apartment key.
“Sh-sh—Sheila?” I said, my voice trembling. “What are you doing here?”
Sheila looked at me between the grocery bags, her face bright as morning sun. “Ryan! You’re home! We’ve been waiting for you.”
“H-h-h-how did you get into my apartment?” I stammered.
“You gave me a key, silly man. Don’t you remember?”
“B-b-b-but it was on the table when you left—”
“Oh, that!” she explained, grinning like a child caught in the cookie jar. “I made a copy before I moved to Crescent City.”
“W-w-w-what are you doing here?”
She glided towards me, stealthy as a cat, and adjusted the sacks so she could stand on her toes and kiss my cheek. “You know me, Ryan. I love surprises. I’m in town for a meeting next week and decided to make it a long weekend. My hotel room wasn’t ready, so I thought I’d surprise you, have dinner, a few laughs, and talk about the old days.”
She was as sexy as I remembered. Fashionably dressed, glowing skin, and a smile that radiated warmth and light. We’d met a year ago when I had been coming out of a depression after my wife had died. Sheila had rescued me, taught me how to laugh and love again. Then had she smashed my heart into a million shards when she’d walked out without a warning.
“I—I—I wish you’d called,” I stammered, my hands sweating. I couldn’t hide my excitement that Sheila was back. Did she want to start over? Begin where we’d left off?
I couldn’t stop stuttering. “I—I m-m-might have been out of t-t-t-town. Or . . . or . . . or busy.”
She lifted her cap, her hair falling to her shoulders, and winked in that seductive way that made me shiver. “I’m hoping I’m a lucky girl. Do you have a date?” Sheila was always cocky, certain that she could get her way.
Me have a date? Maybe four since Sheila had left. “N-n-n-no . . . I d-d-don’t.”
“Good! Then it’s settled. Come into the kitchen. Be a dear and open some wine. Let’s catch up. I’m dying to talk to you.”
So why didn’t you call? You could have been dead, as far as I knew. Not a whisper for six months after you ended our affair, which you had claimed was the happiest time in your life.
Sheila hurried into the kitchen, emptied the grocery sacks, opened the fridge to put in wrapped packages, and reached into the cabinet for pots and pans. I was so stunned that I just stared as if she’d emerged from a genie’s bottle.
Shazam followed her into the kitchen and lay down in front of the sink, where Sheila began slicing mushrooms, leeks, and tomatoes to make her marinara sauce. She didn’t stop talking while I poured wine and listened to her, amazed at how she could sweep into my life without a word of explanation. She had reappeared as suddenly and unexpectedly as she had disappeared.
“It’s been a fun, crazy time since I moved to Crescent City,” she said, clinking our wineglasses. “I have a fabulous apartment that looks over the marina. When I stand on my toes, I can see the bay. I love the city. It’s so exciting. I rollerblade on weekends, exercise every day, and play in a softball league. My friends are wonderful. We do all sorts of exciting things. I even went skydiving! Have you ever skydived?”
“Y-y-you know I d-d-don’t like heights.”
“It’s so thrilling to close your eyes and jump out of a plane, with the earth rushing up to you. I joined a skydiving team. We jump out of the plane, hold hands in a circle, and somersault falling a hundred miles an hour. Then we break apart and pull cords to open our chutes. We land in a field, gather our chutes, and celebrate with champagne.”
Sheila chopped onions and garlic and flipped them into the sizzling pan where she’d doused olive oil. Delicious aromas filled the kitchen.
I watched the veins on Sheila’s neck pulsate as she spilled out her story. Her eyes were alive as her graceful body glided across the kitchen like a ballet dancer on stage. I used to stare at her, fascinated by how sexy she was, even when she was merely walking across the room to turn on a light or pick up a book.
I sipped wine, nibbled on cheese and crackers, and calmed down. “But Crescent City is a retirement town, with golf courses, senior centers, and hospitals?” I asked, relieved that my stutter was gone. “Why did you move there?”
“You know me. I’ve always loved the water. When I turned thirty, I was determined to live by the beach and do the things I’d always wanted to do. I’ve taken scuba lessons, and I went diving in the Caribbean last winter. I’m getting my certification so I can teach diving.”
All through dinner, she told me about the things she had been doing, never once explaining why she had walked out on me, left her job, and moved five hundred miles away. Not a call, letter, or e-mail in six months. It was as if she had fallen off the planet, leaving me lonelier than I’d ever been.
After dinner, she called the hotel while I put the dishes in the sink. “My room won’t be ready until nine? I can’t believe it.”
As she came back into the kitchen, she said, “Ryan, I have a little problem.”
“If you want, you can stay here in the guest bedroom.”
“Really? You’re such a dear. I’d love to,” she said, putting her arms around my waist and squeezing. “Can we go out on the deck for a nightcap?”
After cognac and much laughing, Sheila stretched and yawned. “All this talking has made me sleepy. Can we call it a night and get up in the morning and have fun like the old days?”
I wanted her to stay, if only for a few hours, so I could hear her laugh, see her eyes twinkle, and listen to her sultry voice telling funny stories as she jumped from one topic to the next, rather like recalling a dream sequence.
Sheila slept in the guest room while I tossed and turned all night. She was singing in the shower when I woke up the next morning, groggy and restless, knowing she had slept a room away.
After showering, I found Sheila out on the patio wearing my old robe. Her hair was wet, and her bare legs were propped against the railing. She was petting Shazam who purred in her lap.
“Good morning!” she said, jumping up and kissing me on the cheek. “Let’s go out for breakfast. Do they still make those fabulous blueberry muffins at Beans and Crumbs?”
“Yes, I go there every Saturday.”
“Great! I’ll be dressed in a flash.”
She came out wearing shorts, a sexy blue blouse, and sunglasses, with her hair tied in a colored scarf. She could have passed for a teenager; she was so bubbly and carefree.
Beans and Crumbs had been our favorite weekend spot. Old ’60s-era posters—the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship, the Mamas and the Papas—were on the walls next to local artists’ paintings. It was a casual place, with fusion jazz on the sound system, intoxicating aromas of ground coffee and baked goods, and fresh-cut flowers on the tables. On weekends, the place was packed with new moms nursing infants, young couples holding hands across tables, and lonely guys tucked in corners surfing the Web.
Sheila took a bite of a fresh blueberry muffin and rolled her eyes in delight. “Ooh, I’ve missed these so much! I’d move back if I could get these every morning.”
“Tell me about your conference next week.”
Crumbs sprinkled on her blouse as she nibbled around the thick crust. “Oh, it’s just one of those canned investment presentations for retirees,” she said. “I’ve done a ton of them. I register them, chat them up, give them handouts, and meet with them after the boss goes through PowerPoint slides.”
“You like your job?”
She shrugged. “Oh, yeah. It’s a job.”
“You said last night it was the best job you’ve had.”
She squinted and look away. “You know me. I’m always looking for something better . . . pays more or gives me loads of free time.”
“What would that be?”
She nibbled another bite. Crumbs fell on her lap; she picked them up and popped them in her mouth. She sipped coffee and looked down the line of people waiting for their coffee. I was about to repeat my question when she answered.
“Maybe a guide for Outward Bound. Or I could teach kayaking. I love being outdoors and helping people who spend their lives in cubicles.”
“But you said—”
“Hey, how about a matinee?” she said, finishing her muffin and pushing back her chair. I’d only had a couple bites of my muffin and had barely sipped my coffee. “I walked past the art theater yesterday. There’s a new Italian movie playing. Want to go?”
The theater was playing foreign films, mostly catering to the college crowd. The movie was a takeoff on a Truffaut theme: a child who got on the wrong train on his way to visit his grandparents. Sheila gobbled buttered popcorn, laughed too loud, gripped my arm at touching scenes, and cried when the boy was united with his grandparents after a harrowing experience in a creepy town where a circus had bizarre sideshows, scary clowns, and weird acrobats. Too dark for me. Sheila loved it.
When we left the theater, her cell phone rang and she excused herself to take the call. She circled the park, sitting on a bench, gripping the phone as if it was a lifeline. She was upset, shaking her head, possibly having an argument. She finished the call, stuffed the phone in her purse, and looked around for me.
“Everything OK?” I asked, walking up to the bench.
She sighed and looked away. “A . . . friend is having . . . a bad time. He’s calling me . . . thinks I can help . . . but I can’t. It’s a long story. Forget it.”
“What’s the problem?”
She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it later. Want to go for a walk?”
“Let’s go to the park. There’s a kite festival. I was going to go before—”
“Can I ask a favor, Ryan?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“I have to make a couple more calls. Can I meet you at the park in an hour?”
She didn’t make it to the park. Kids of all ages were flying Chinese dragons, box kites, and kites shaped like planes, ships, flags, and animals, all very colorful. When Sheila didn’t show up, I walked back to my apartment, resigned to the fact that she was toying with me. Something was going on that she didn’t want me to know about. I worked on my taxes, did laundry, and read until she came back, her face ashen, like she’d been told her best friend had cancer.
“Let’s go out to dinner,” she said, smiling, but only with her lips, not her eyes. “Let me take a quick shower and change into something dressy.”
She showered and reappeared in a sleek black dress with a strand of pearls around her neck. Her long hair was combed out. She looked gorgeous, yet tired. Preoccupied.
We ate at a Thai restaurant, mostly in silence. She kept looking around the room, as if she expected someone to come in whom she didn’t want to see. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and she nervously fingered her pearls. She sipped wine, then water, then more wine, gripping the stems like she was waiting for a dental appointment, not having a quiet dinner with an old boyfriend.
“What’s wrong, Sheila?”
“My stomach’s upset. Must have been that blueberry muffin. Or the buttered popcorn at the movie.”
“Do you want an antacid?”
Her eyes flickered around the room nervously. Then she looked down, her mouth quivering. She cleared her throat and said, “Ryan, can I ask another favor?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Can . . . I stay one more night? That’s all, I promise. I hate being alone in strange hotels on weekends. It’s much nicer spending time with you. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Stay if you’d like.”
She reached over to touch my hand. “Thanks,” she said, her voice low and soft. “It means a lot. You’re a great friend.”
That night, I heard her in the guest room with the door closed, making cell calls, her voice strained.
I tried to sleep but woke up at 1:00 a.m., turned on my bed light, and reached for a Philip Roth novel. I read the same three pages over and over, my mind picturing her asleep in the guest bedroom a few feet away.
When I reached up to turn out the light, her door opened. My heart leaped. A whisper of bare feet on hardwood. Sheila was at my doorway in a negligee, a strand of hair falling over one eye. “Hi . . . mind if I come in?” Her voice quivered.
She glided toward my bed, lifted her fingers to the straps of her negligee, and let it fall on the floor like a tissue. It was like watching a Sotheby’s auctioneer lift the curtain on a Flemish masterpiece. Sheila was naked, bathed in soft light, her pale skin luminous.
She slid under the covers, her cool hand moving up to my face. She put her lips on mine. After a long, deep kiss, she whispered, “I couldn’t sleep . . . knowing you were in bed alone.”
Our passion was as lush as before, but her mind was not on lovemaking. She was far away, in a place I couldn’t reach. A dark cave. A deserted island. A room where no one was allowed.
She was in the shower when I woke up. I put on a robe and pattered into the kitchen to make coffee, my mind replaying last night’s passion, the totally unexpected nature of it, the haunting beauty of seeing her naked before she slipped between the sheets. I could still smell her perfume on my skin.
But clouding the erotic thrill were too many unanswered questions: her unexplained flight six months ago, the long period of no contact, her showing up unexpectedly, her confused stories, her tension. She held so many mysteries. I didn’t know how to unravel them. I’d resisted confronting her with tough questions.
Sheila was as fragile as a baby chick blown out of the nest by a March wind. She had always been a puzzle, a mystery lover, and a spectral figure, someone I’d been privileged to love but knew it could never last.
Deep in my bones I knew I had only a few more hours or days with Sheila. She’d blown in like a spring storm and would exit just as suddenly. How and why didn’t matter. It was like gambling with the devil. You know who wins the last hand.
It was 10:30 on Sunday morning. She never slept late on weekends. She’d get up early and plan a busy day for us: hiking, playing tennis, going out to lunch.
When she came out, she was dressed but looked tired and lost.
“Good morning,” I said. “Want some coffee?”
She sat down, dark circles under her eyes and no makeup. She spooned sugar into her cup and stirred. And stirred. And stirred.
“What’s wrong, Sheila? Your stomach bothering you?”
She forced a weak smile and shook her head.
“How did you sleep?” I asked.
A pained look came over her face. “Ryan, can I ask another favor?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Can I borrow some money?”
I was stunned. “Well . . . sure. How much do you need?”
She turned her face away, like a child getting a scolding. “Five hundred dollars.”
“Are you in trouble?”
She shook her head, combing her hair back from her face with one hand.
“No, but . . . I need to leave right away.”
“Don’t you have meetings tomorrow morning?”
She shook her head. “Canceled. I’m not going back to Crescent City. I need to get away for a few days.”
“Tell me what’s wrong, Sheila.”
Tears came to her eyes. She wiped her cheek when a tear trickled down. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
Shazam was in her lap, licking her hand, nestling against her stomach. She passed Shazam off to an empty chair. Shazam squirmed and tried to move back to her lap, but she held her off.
“I have to leave, Ryan. Thank you for letting me stay. You’ve been wonderful. I don’t know how to repay you.”
She was locked up in a place dark and far away. I wanted to beg her to stay and tell me what was going on, unravel her web of secrets. But Sheila was not part of my life anymore. She was a phantom. Ghosts were haunting her, ghosts that she’d never reveal to me.
“Can I drive you to the airport?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s better if I take a cab. But thanks anyway.”
 
She went to the guest room and packed. I dressed and waited in the living room. When she emerged, her eyes were red from crying. She wouldn’t look at me, but came over and put her arms around me. “Thank you, Ryan. You’ve been wonderful. You’re special.”
A kiss at the door. A hug. She reached down to pat Shazam, and then she was gone. I didn’t walk her down to the street.
I picked up the Sunday paper and went back inside, a black cloud hanging over my apartment.
All afternoon I read and reread the lead story on the front page of the Chronicle. My heart ached with every sentence. I was angry, hurt, sad, lonesome, and distraught. But I was better off than Sheila. And I had no idea where she was or where she was going.

INDICTMENTS HANDED DOWN IN MORTGAGE FRAUD
Arrests expected soon for Olympus Capital principals
Federal regulators have shuttered the offices of Crescent City–based Olympus Capital, a regional brokerage firm charged with selling high-risk mortgage-backed securities to retirees while promising them they were as safe as money market funds or savings accounts, the U.S. Attorney’s office announced Friday.
In an indictment filed in federal court Friday, federal prosecutors said retirees may have lost more than $100 million in the high-risk securities. Some investors lost all their savings in these securities, according to the filing.
FBI spokesman George Polk said Friday that his agency is searching for several aides of Mark Phillips, president of Olympus Capital, on suspicion of fraud.
The last paragraph:
Among the suspects being sought are Sheila Cummins and Arnold Pfetzer, personal assistants of Phillips who allegedly sold the bogus investments to retirees, Polk said.

An hour after I’d read the front page story, my cell phone began ringing. I didn’t answer. I was so stunned by the news that I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
I left my phone in my apartment and went for a long walk all afternoon. I ate dinner at a quiet Italian restaurant and took another walk until it got dark. I got home around 9:00 p.m.
My cell phone was vibrating on the table when I walked in. I picked it up; fifteen calls were waiting, most from Crescent City’s area code.
I put my phone back on the table and went to bed. Monday mornings are hectic and I needed to get a good night’s sleep. 

T H E  E N D


I hope you enjoyed WEEKEND GUEST and would like to read other short mysteries, TEAMMATES, MISSING PERSONS, PERFECT CRIME, THE STALKER, my suspense novels, A STREAK ACROSS THE SKY and MORNINGS WITHOUT ZOE, and my latest full-length mystery, REX ROYALE.  They all end with a plot twist.
All titles are available on your ereader. 
I encourage you to write reviews.  Your comments are a value to me and other readers.

Here are previews of MISSING PERSONS and REX ROYALE

MISSING PERSONS is a story about a retired professor who digs up old love letters buried in the garden of his retirement home. He learns that former residents of the old house were a World War II war hero and his younger wife. Fifty years ago, the wife and her former college lover mysteriously disappeared. The professor uses his academic research skills to investigate the disappearances and makes a startling discovery. But he struggles with his conscience about revealing the truth.

Missing Persons

 Jack Erickson

My spade sliced into the damp dirt like a knife through a peach. I scooped dirt out of the hole to plant fruit trees in my backyard. Instructions stapled to the wrapped root-ball said the trees had to be planted eighteen inches below the surface in a two-foot-wide hole.
I widened the hole, piling dirt in a mound next to my bare-limbed fruit trees. I was a foot deep when my spade clanked on a solid object. I pulled out the spade and sliced down six inches to the side. Clank again. I tried six inches on the other side and my spade slid deeper into the dirt. When I pulled the dirt out, I uncovered the edge of the inch-deep metal object my spade had stuck.
I scraped dirt away from the top to expose the surface. It was about eight inches long and six inches wide. I jabbed my spade underneath and popped it out of its earthy hold.
I lifted the metal box out of the hole and sat down on the pile of dirt. The box had a pale green patina, two metal hinges on the back, and a clasp in the front. The lid was frozen shut. I reached into my toolbox for my pruning shears and ran the tip under the lid. I forced the clasp open and lifted the top.
Inside was a bundle of letters tied with a string. Beneath the letters were three black-and-white photos. The top letter was addressed to Harriet Summers at 873 Windsor Lane. That was my address—the home I had bought last fall after moving from the Midwest. I flicked through the letters, admiring the colorful canceled stamps of fifty years ago. All the letters were addressed to Harriet Summers except one. The exception was the earliest letter addressed to Harriet Gaithers at 1019 Waverly, a tree-lined street down the hill that ran through the historic district of town: classic old Victorian homes from the 19th century that had been included in the National Register of Historic Districts.
I carried the box to the gazebo and sat down on a bench, feeling the soothing warmth of the spring sun on my face. The air was fragrant with apple and cherry blossoms. Spring flowers were in bloom: orange, purple, and yellow lantana; scarlet and orange African violets; rosebushes in red, pink, white, and peppermint; and clusters of tulips. Robins flitted from tree to tree, hopping across my lawn, chirping cheerful notes of spring. One landed on the dirt I had dug and stabbed its beak into my dirt mound. It pulled out a juicy worm and tipped back its head to swallow it before flying to a nest in a tall oak tree. A hungry chick was about to have a meal.
I set the metal box on my lap and picked up the first picture. It showed a happy gathering of college students dressed in identical sweaters and gray slacks. They stood in a semicircle around a St. Bernard dog that had a banner with a white letter “H” draped over its back. The students’ arms were raised in a college cheer.
The second picture was of a handsome young man, his blond hair parted off center in the fashion popular in the 1930s. He was holding the St. Bernard’s leash in the first picture. In the third picture, he was standing by a seaside cliff with his arm draped around the shoulders of a pretty young woman who was in the first picture. Her right arm was wrapped around his thin waist, her left hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. She was dressed stylishly in a 1940s way, a strand of pearls around her neck, hair in a permanent wave swept to the side, tight skirt below her knees. In the background was a rustic inn with a sign: Manleigh Inn.
I untied the string and opened the letter with the earliest postmark. In the upper-left corner was the sender’s name and address: Arthur Parker, 65 Folsom Avenue, New Dublin, California. In the right corner was a canceled, faded red three-cent stamp of the 50th anniversary of statehood for North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, and Washington. Inside was a one-page letter:

June 18, 1939
Dear Harriet,
My sadness is profound. We have said our last good-byes; I leave in the morning, and you will not be with me. The last three years with you have been the happiest of my life. But I support your decision that we must move on with our lives. I have three years of law school at Yale ahead of me, and you will begin a teaching position in September that you have desired since you were a little girl. You will be a wonderful teacher. Your students will love your wit, energy, and wisdom.
I know we will write even though we cannot see each other for years. I won’t be able to return, since my scholarship requires I work summers at the New Haven legal aid office.
Your love has been the most important part of my life. I will never forget you, Harriet. I wish you well and will always remember the special times we spent together at Hampton. I hope you will wait for me, even though I know you desire marriage and a family. My heart is sad because we will have to live apart for so long.
Love always and forever,
Arthur
#  #  #  #  #

REX ROYALE is a murder mystery that takes place in a northern California resort community.  Shasta County Sheriff divers recover two decomposed bodies from Lake Britton, near Mt. Shasta. The first body is that of Rex Royale, a charismatic Las Vegas casino mogul who is building a controversial Indian casino on Lake Britton. The second body is that of an itinerant woman with no apparent connection to Royale.   
A San Francisco Chronicle reporter, Tyler Bonnard, who discovered Royale’s body, links up with freelance writer Hannah Bergren to report on the crimes. Hannah is a young widow raising preteen daughters. She wrote high-profile business stories about Royale and had an affair with him that ended days before he disappeared. Hannah kept their affair secret and fears that, if it is exposed, it will damage her reputation in the community and severely impact her daughters’ social standing with friends at their middle school.  
As Tyler and Hannah investigate the double murder, they uncover mysterious arsons, other missing women, and infiltrate a shady clan of rogue backwoodsmen living in a remote hunting lodge. In a violent climax, Hannah and Tyler discover that the crimes are connected to a decades-old murder covered up by one of Burney’s most respected citizens.

Rex Royale

Chapter One

I was standing on the boat dock at my lake cabin, admiring the view of the morning sun shining on Mt. Shasta, when I was startled by a staccato burst that sounded like a firing squad. I looked back and saw a flock of noisy ravens explode from ponderosa pines after being spooked by a red-tailed hawk.
The cawing ravens rose above the treetops, circled, and flew toward the solitary hawk. The hawk had gray and white feathers on its chest, pinkish tail feathers spread in a fan, and yellow legs ending in sharp talons. It was probably an immature male hunting for chicks abandoned in nests or rodents scurrying across the forest floor.
I’d seen ravens and hawks duel in the skies above Lake Britton before, and I’d always been fascinated by the aerial drama. Ravens are menacing-looking with shiny black feathers like armor plates, bullet-shaped bodies, nose-cone heads, and sharp, obsidian beaks. Their powerful wings allow them to fly aggressively against foes. Other birds don’t mess with ravens; they’re the gritty street fighters of the skies.
Red-tailed hawks have battering-ram bodies and broad wingspans designed for soaring long distances. They don’t so much fly as soar, and they can’t make defensive midair maneuvers—a disadvantage against the faster, more aggressive ravens.
I stood enthralled on the dock as the cawing ravens, sunlight shining on their iridescent feathers, reached the hawk’s altitude and began diving at its wings and fanned tail. The first raven assault came from above and the second from below, as if they were vectored in by a ground control station.
The birds’ shrieking and cawing had disturbed the early morning serenity of Lake Britton. Two fishermen in a bass boat lowered their fishing rods and craned their necks to look up at the swirling birds.
A flock of seagulls bobbing on the lake rose in a chorus of shrieks and flew down the lake, keeping low to escape the aerial combat above them.
The hawk took defensive moves, dipping toward the lake, veering left and right to elude the mob. Two ravens flanked the hawk while a third dove from above and collided with it, sending both birds tumbling in the sky. It was like watching a World War II dogfight of nimble Spitfires attacking a slower Messerschmitt.
After several swoops, dips, and feigns, the hawk knew it was no match for the ravens. It found a thermal, rose, and turned west, pursued by the noisy ravens until they flew into a low cloud covering a pine-topped hill.
“Communing with Mother Nature this morning, Tyler?”
I was startled by the voice of my friend Sanjay, who had stepped onto the dock while I was absorbed in the aerial warfare.
“Hey, you scared me. Did you see that?” I said, pointing across the lake toward the birds. “A flock of ravens chased a young hawk away. I’ll bet he doesn’t fly this way again until he’s learned better hunting skills.”
“Those damned birds are noisy. I heard them up at the cabin,” Sanjay said, lowering the cooler into our fishing boat. “Wake the dead with all the cawing. It sounded like a war.”
I picked up our fishing gear, tackle box, and net from the dock and set them in the bottom of the bass boat we’d put in the water the previous afternoon. “Amazing to see how aggressive ravens are,” I said. “They spotted the hawk coming across the lake, and the whole flock took after him. I counted a dozen ravens; he didn’t have a chance against those numbers.”
“You sure love your birds. Pretty soon you’ll be cawing like one of them.”
“Ravens are smart,” I said, checking the throttle and choke to fire up my 40-horsepower motor. “They communicate with gestures, use tools to get food, and alert hunters to wild game. They get a meal if hunters bag the animal.”
Sanjay laughed. “I always thought you should have become a game warden instead of a reporter,” he said. “I don’t know anybody who knows more about birds and fish than you do.”
“I almost grew up on this lake. Dad and I fixed up our cabin when I was a teenager so we could fish in the summer and hunt deer in the fall.”
“A real nature boy. You were lucky.”
“Sure was, and I want my son to have the same experiences. Who wouldn’t want to spend the summer here?” I said, motioning at the pine forests along the shoreline. “I wait for this weekend all winter . . . the scent of pine resin in the morning air, a mist over the lake, and Mt. Shasta just a few miles away. It’s like heaven here.”
“We’re not in heaven yet,” Sanjay said, untying the mooring line and tossing it into the boat. “We’ll be in heaven when we’re grilling bass filets and a mound of potatoes tonight and washing them down with cold beers. Let’s get this tub going and catch some fish.”
I laughed. “You’re a piece of work, Sanjay. I come here to be close to nature, and you’re more interested in your stomach.”
“What can I say? I’m a simple guy. I come here because we keep our cooler stocked with brews and have a whole week without alarm clocks or jobs to go to. Which is another definition of heaven.”
Sanjay cracked wise like he was from Brooklyn, even though he was raised in Mumbai, which he once confessed was like growing up in a colony of fire ants.
I knew from past experience that Sanjay would be just as enthralled after a week of fishing at the cabin. By the time our teenage sons arrived on Friday for Memorial weekend, he’d be musing about buying a cabin, planting a garden, and hunting and fishing for his food.
Sanjay was a software engineer who’d made it big in Silicon Valley. He was using the freedom it brought him to indulge in American leisure pastimes he hadn’t had growing up in India. We took our boys to Giants game, coached their soccer team, took them fishing in the summer, and went skiing with them at Tahoe in the winter.
Sanjay and I had driven north from San Francisco on Friday afternoon to get the cabin ready for summer: turn on the electricity, take bedding and towels from the closets, get the boat and motor out of the shed, and clean our fishing gear. After doing our chores, we had watched the sun set over the lake, drunk beers, and eaten burgers cooked on the grill before turning in early to get on the lake just after sunrise.
Sanjay pushed us away from the dock and stepped into the boat. I paddled out of the cove in front of our cabin and fired up the motor.
The 40-horsepower motor coughed after six months in winter storage and then settled into a steady rumbling. When I reached the main channel of the lake, I made a few turns, stopped, and put the boat into reverse. I killed the motor, waited a minute, and then pulled the lanyard. It fired up with no problem.
“Humming like a top,” Sanjay said. “We did good last fall, draining the motor, putting the boat on blocks, and throwing the tarp over it to keep the critters away.”
“Take care of your boat, and it will take care of you. Don’t want to be on the lake and have it conk out.”
“Spoken like an Eagle Scout. Now let’s see where the fish are hiding.”
“Let’s make a quick run to the marina first. It’s always fun to check it out,” I said, steering us a half mile south toward the marina, where fishing boats, sailboats, and party barges were moored. A few fishing boats were out on the lake, probably Burney locals who, like Sanjay and me, were getting some early fishing before the crowds arrived Memorial weekend.
After a spin by the Pacific Gas and Electric dam, which had flooded Pit River and created Lake Britton in the 1930s, I headed back north, past our cove and under the two-lane Highway 89 bridge and the rickety, abandoned railroad trestle where the movie Stand By Me had been filmed.
Past the trestle, we cruised down the eastern shore with the sun rising over the pines, the morning air still cool and damp. We cast near fallen trees where bass were leaping to snack on black bugs skimming the surface.
We caught a few bass and then pulled onto a sandy beach for an early lunch of curry chicken wraps and hummus, which Sanjay’s wife had prepared. We sipped cold beers and waded into shallows of the cold lake while the sun warmed our backs.
“Nice little beach,” Sanjay said. “Let’s bring the boys here next weekend. The water’s chilly, but they’ll want to swim.”
“They can swing off that rope and jump into the lake,” I said, pointing to a rope dangling from a black oak limb leaning over the bank. “I did that every summer when I was their age.”
After lunch, we cruised to the southern end of the lake, fishing along the western shoreline. In the early afternoon, I eased us into one of my favorite places to fish, a remote cove partially hidden by ponderosa pines arching along the bank.
I maneuvered through the narrow passage that opened into a shady cove a little larger than a basketball court. I cut the motor and reached for my rod while Sanjay made his first cast.
I was just about to cast when Sanjay gasped. “Whoa, look at that, Tyler.”
I looked toward the middle of the cove where Sanjay’s line had dropped near a partially submerged log. His juicy night crawler was dangling between what looked eerily like a thumb and first finger of a withered hand, curled like a basketball player’s after a jump shot.
“Wha—what are you snagged on?”
“I’m not sure . . . it looks like . . . a skeleton?”
I squinted for a better look. The pine’s trunk was sprawled across the cove, top branches submerged. It’s root ball lay on the bank; gnarled roots were laced with mud and leaves. Protruding out of the water was a slimy green and black knob that looked like a decomposed hand.
A shadow passed overhead. A red-tailed hawk was circling, eyeing a bass carcass rotting on the muddy bank near box turtles sunning on exposed rocks. Bullfrogs croaked in the reeds, looking for love.
“Let’s get closer,” I said, laying my fishing rod on the bottom the boat. “Could it be a branch?”
Sanjay grunted. “Nah . . . that ‘branch’ has fingernails. Long, like claws. Think a hunter fell in and drowned?”
“Nah, one or two get lost every season, but they wander out, or search teams find them. Maybe a lost hiker. The Pacific Crest Trail’s a couple miles away. There’s an old fire road near that ridge. The Forest Service posts signs warning about the cliff.”
“I wouldn’t hike on that ridge,” Sanjay said. “Lose your footing and you’d fall in before you knew what happened. Too dangerous.”
“If it was a lone hiker, search teams would have had a hard time finding him. This place is remote. It doesn’t get much sunlight except around noon.”
“Yeah, it’s like a primeval forest. It’s spooky, all dark and misty.”
“I want to get closer and see if it’s a hand.” I picked up a paddle and stroked toward the snag.
A largemouth bass exploded out of the water and snatched Sanjay’s night crawler, flipped in midair, gray-green scales glistening, spiny dorsal fin outstretched, and splashed below.
“Wow!” Sanjay yipped, his carbon fishing rod bowing with a hooked bass. “Look! It ripped something off the thumb!”
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A shred of what appeared to be discolored flesh drooping from the bone had plopped into the water.
“Gross! That looks like flesh!” Sanjay’s taut line raked dried pine needles off the branches, churning the murky water. His line crossed over the strip of flesh and snagged it.
The flesh was stuck on his line like a slice of pork on a barbecue grill.
“You snagged flesh off the thumb—”
“How the hell!” he muttered, staring at the greenish schmutz twitching on his line.
“Don’t let your fish get away!”
The bass dove into the submerged branches.
“He’s going deep to cut your line!”
“Come on, boy. Hang in there. I’m not going to lose you!” Sanjay said, his voice trembling. He rose, gripping his bowed rod. “Easy . . . easy . . . out of that snag . . .”
“Take your time,” I said, my eyes darting from his line to the skeleton and back to Sanjay struggling with the bass, each trying to outsmart the other. When bass take a hook, they dive, twisting and turning to snag on a branch and break the line.
“Come out of there . . .” Sanjay coaxed.
“Steady . . . steady . . . work him. Get him out of the branches!”
Sanjay tugged his line away from the snag. It cleared the branches, slicing left and right across the surface, the flesh still dangling.
“Bring him closer. I’ll get the net. Give him a tug if he breaks the surface.”
Ten feet free of the snag, the bass rose to the surface. “Getting him . . . getting him . . .” Sanjay said, inching his line closer to our boat. “He’s tiring. Going to bring him in.”
“Take your time. We’ve got all afternoon.”
A motion on the muddy bank caught my eye. A black snake slithered into the water, coiling and twisting, its olive-shaped head skimming across the cove like a serpent in an Egyptian tomb carving.
“Easy, easy . . . this way,” Sanjay said, his voice breaking. “He’s tiring. Get ready.” The surface bulged, exposing the green scaly back of the bass, its spiny dorsal fin flared. “He’s rising!”
Ten feet from the boat, the bass exploded to the surface, thrashing in midair, open mouth revealing the wormed hook in its cheek. It flipped, exposing a white belly and slashing tail, and splashed back into the water.
“Wow! He’s huge!” I yelled.
The bass burst out of the water again, flipping to extract the hook, bluish green scales shimmering. Sanjay held fast. The bass was tiring, inches from the surface, plump body rolling in a slow dance. The duel was almost over.
I reached for the net as Sanjay reeled him closer. The green scaly head broke the surface, mouth open to spit out the hook.
I scooped the net into the water. “Got him!” I lifted the net into the boat, the bass splashing us with cool lake water.
Sanjay held his line over the net, the rod quivering. The slimy flesh wiggled on his line and dropped onto my ankle.
“Ah!” I screamed. “It’s on my foot!”
It was cold and slimy, like a leech. I kicked off my sandal, but the piece of flesh was still stuck to my skin. I kicked again and it flopped off, sticking to the bottom of the boat.
“It touched my foot! Yuck!”
I flipped the net so the bass couldn’t jump back in the lake. The fish thrashed against the aluminum like a jackhammer, glassy eyes bulging, scales glowing like jewels, open mouth revealing blood-red gills lining the throat.
“Get rid of that—thing!” Sanjay said. “It’s gross.”
I couldn’t toss it overboard. I certainly didn’t want to touch it again. It freaked me out, but I wasn’t going to toss it away. I’d been a reporter long enough to know you don’t throw out incidental material at a possible crime scene.
“Have it your way. You’re strange,” Sanjay said, reaching into the net and grabbing the bass’s lower jaw to stop the thrashing. He lifted the fish, its gaping mouth lined with sharp teeth. He pulled out the hook with pliers and placed the bass back in the net.
“A beauty!” he said. We high-fived like schoolboys after a home run.
Simultaneously we turned to look at the decomposed hand while the bass flopped against the boat.
“I’m going to piss in my pants if I caught a fish off a corpse. Let’s get out of here; this place gives me the creeps.”
“Wait. Let’s get closer,” I said, reaching for the paddle. I heard splashing across the cove. The snake was coiled in the shallows, head raised, the front legs and head of a frog twitching in its mouth. The snake swayed to ease the frog down into its belly.
“Oh, man, look at that,” I said, pointing at the reptile. “You’re not the only one who just caught lunch.”
The snake’s mouth widened, and the spasming frog slid down the snake’s engorged neck.
“I hate snakes. Let’s get out of here,” said Sanjay.
I reached into the tackle box for my digital camera, zoomed in, and pressed the button. A flash lit up the shadowy cove.
“Why the hell you taking a picture?” Sanjay yelled. “You’re like a Boy Scout. Are you working for a junior detective badge?”
I snapped again and lit up the cove once more. A brown wasp buzzed around my head, which was damp with sweat.
“Bugs all over here,” Sanjay yelled, swatting the black flies swarming around his head. “Let’s get out of here; too many snakes and bugs.”
“There’s something on the wrist,” I said.
Sanjay squinted at the snag. “A watchband?”
“Looks like a Rolex.” I said. “See the markings around the edges?”
Sanjay grimaced. “Who cares? This place is weird. Bugs, snakes, rotting fish, and a damn body. And that—THING—stuck on the boat!”
“Let’s go to the marina and call the police,” I said. “If that’s a body down there, we’ve got to report it.” I pulled the lanyard to start the motor. It exploded with a gaseous burst, shattering the stillness. I shifted into reverse and steered backwards toward the main channel.
Sanjay said. “This place is spooky. We’re supposed to be fishing, not finding bodies. Cover that THING! It’s gross!”
When I cleared the bend, the afternoon sun was shining on Shasta’s snowy glaciers to the north. The blue sky was painted with wisps of cirrus clouds floating over the Cascades. I breathed deeply, sucking in the clean mountain air, aromatic of ponderosa and yellow pines.
“How do you think the body got there?” I asked. “An accident or . . .”
Sanjay put on his sunglasses and looked back at the cove as we roared toward the marina. “Hell if I know,” he shouted over the motor, holding his hat. “Maybe someone thumped him and dropped him in the lake.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same.”
“Keep this tub moving, damn it,” Sanjay said. “Somebody might be watching us.”

# # # # #   

Discover other titles by Jack Erickson at Smashwords

Rex Royale

A Streak Across the Sky

 Mornings Without Zoe

Blood and Money in the Hunt Country

Perfect Crime

 Teammates

Missing Persons

The Stalker

Weekend Guest

Jack Erickson is the author of mysteries and novels of romantic suspense.  He  is a former U.S. Senate speechwriter, editor, and RedBrick Press publisher.  He is the author of several books on the craft brewing industry including the award winning STAR SPANGLED BEER: A GUIDE TO AMERICA’S NEW MICROBREWERIES AND BREWPUBS.
He lives in northern California with his wife.

http://www.jackerickson.com