Murder in Secret

Chapter 1

Cranberry sauce, two big cartons of eggs, no, we’ll need three cartons if we make deviled eggs. A 10 lb. bag of potatoes, napkins, maybe I can find some pretty ones with an autumn print. We’ll probably need two gallons of milk and Connor will want Rocky Road ice cream . . .

       “Does this look done to you?” I glanced up from my grocery list and saw Jack holding out a pan of cornbread, a pink oven mitt covering his hand. I couldn’t keep from smiling at the unsure look in his blue eyes. Detective Jack Turner, tall, dark, and handsome. He had worked homicide with the Plano, Texas Police Department, and headed up two murder investigations in Overly County in the last few months, but a pan of cornbread had him looking completely baffled.

       “It looks done to me,” I answered.

       “Why are you smiling like that?” he asked, suspiciously, “Did I do it wrong? I followed the directions on the box.” I bit back a laugh as I picked up a dishtowel from the counter. I used it to take the hot pan and place it on the stovetop. I turned, reached my arms around his waist, and stood on my toes to kiss him.

       “I love you,” I said.

       “I love you, too. Now tell me what’s wrong with the cornbread.”

       “There’s nothing wrong with the cornbread,” I said, laughing, “I just think it’s adorable that you can be a homicide detective and do a tour in the Marines but still get flustered by cooking.”

       “Okay, first, I’m not flustered, and second, I have never in my life been adorable. Take it back!” he said, trying to look stern. I smiled up at him, not saying a word. Quicker than I could move, he grabbed me by the waist and started to tickle.

       “Aaaahh! Stop it!”

       “You have to say it, say I’m not adorable!”

       “Okay, okay, you are not adorable! I don’t even like you! Now stop!” I managed to pull away, open the kitchen door, and run outside. Jack followed me onto the porch shaking his head and sat down in one of the two rocking chairs.

       “You’re completely crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

       “I’m not the one who’s stressed over cornbread,” I responded. He leaned back and took a long drink of his iced tea.

       “So, tell me again why I’m making four pans of cornbread that we’re not going to eat?”

       “We’re not going to eat them tonight. We’re using them to make dressing on Thursday. The cornbread needs to dry out some before we make the dressing. And remember, it was your idea to help cook Thanksgiving dinner, and, since we’re not having hamburgers or hotdogs, I thought cornbread was your best option,” I answered.

       “Are you disparaging my grilling skills?” he asked.

       “No, I’m not, but we aren’t grilling Thanksgiving dinner.” I looked down at the empty glass in his hand. “Do you want more iced tea?”

       “I better not, I need to go home. I hope I can get some sleep before I get called out,” he said, running his hands over his face. He stood up and reached for me, pulling me close, and kissing me sweet and slow. “You know, I could just stay here,” he whispered in my ear.

       “I guess you could. But my bed is full, you’ll need to sleep on the couch.” After a long sigh, he backed up.

       “That dog and cat are not sleeping with us after we’re married.”

       “That will be between you and them.” I ran my thumb over the shadows under his eyes. “You look tired. Go home and get some rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He walked back into the kitchen and came out settling his hat on his head. He stopped to kiss me goodbye.

       “I love you.”

       “I love you, too.”

       My name is Claire Shannon. I live in Allen Creek, Texas, and I’m madly in love with Detective Jack Turner. He works for the Overly County Sheriff’s office and has been called out in the middle of the night for the last week to track down whoever is running over mailboxes. Since some people have fancy mailboxes, the damages are adding up, but no matter what part of town the Police Department patrols, the culprits are somewhere else. The Police Department has been calling the Sheriff’s office for help.

       Jack and I met last May at the County Courthouse where I work, but our romance started when he and I found a body. Something like that tends to bring people close.  After a brush with death for both of us back in August, Jack asked me to marry him. I said yes, although I still have moments of terror about the whole thing. I haven’t had the best of luck with men, and I was in denial about my feelings for him for quite a while. But Jack wore me down. All my friends say he’s a keeper and I agree. So now it’s November and he’s trying to hide his nerves about meeting my brother, Connor, and his wife and daughter. They’re driving up from Rockport to visit for Thanksgiving. My brother wants to meet Jack to see if he’s good enough for me. And, since Mama and Daddy passed away several years ago, Jack thinks he needs Connor’s approval to marry me. I plan to introduce them, leave the room, and let them sort out the male posturing stuff themselves.

       I walked back into the kitchen and poured a fresh glass of iced tea, grabbed the sweater that was hanging on the back of the kitchen chair, and returned to the porch. I settled into one of the rocking chairs and took a deep breath of the autumn air. It was three days until Thanksgiving.

       Autumn is my favorite time of year. That first day that feels like fall, with the crispness, I’m not sure how to describe it, there’s just a difference in the air. I pulled my feet up under me in the chilled air and set my cold glass on the porch. It wouldn’t be long before it would be too cold to sit outside.

       I heard barking and looked across the yard at the large oak tree that had been my childhood domain. Indie danced around and barked at something in the tree. Indie is my Great Pyrenees mix. He’s a huge white ball of unconditional love. He was probably barking at Blue. Blue is Indie’s cat. They found each other several months ago and it was love at first sight. At the time Blue was a tiny thing. I came home and found them curled up together in the yard. Since then, Blue has doubled in size and developed an attitude.

       “Indie, what are you barking at?” He looked at me and smiled, at least an Indie version of a smile. “Is Blue in the tree?” I stood up and stretched before walking down the porch steps and across the yard. The oak tree had been my playhouse when I was a little girl. Many a mud pie had been created in the shade of those branches. Indie started whining as I got closer. Standing under the tree I looked up at the treehouse Connor had built for me when we were eight and eleven. Sitting serenely, looking out the door of the treehouse, was the white cat.
“Indie, he’s doing this to tease you. He’s just being a cat.” Indie barked insistently. I looked to the west at the sun that was easing toward the horizon. “I guess you’re right, it’s time to go inside.” I studied the branches. I could probably make it up there the way I did when I was eight, but since I was no longer eight, I decided to use the ladder. I walked over to my vegetable garden and picked up the ladder, stopping to look at what was left of the plants. Most of them were dying. I had dug up and cleaned out the beans, squash, and cucumbers, but I was still hanging on to the tomatoes, hoping for fresh ones for Thanksgiving Day.

            I drug the ladder over to the tree, leaned it up against the trunk, and made sure it was stable before starting the climb. With the blue eyes that got him his name, the cat watched me without moving a muscle. At the top, I turned and sat in the treehouse door, then picked up the cat and heard his rumbling purr.

“We both know you’re messing with Indie,” I told the cat. “You have been ever since you found out you could climb up here. And, we both know you could come down just as easily as you got up here, but it’s getting late, so, let’s go.” I backed down the ladder one-handed, holding the cat against me in my other hand. He squirmed on the way to the house, but I managed to reach the kitchen door without any new scratches. I plopped him on the kitchen floor where he started a bath to fix the fur I had ruffled on the trip inside. “You think you’re a big cat Blue, but coyotes eat big cats too.” I watched out the screen door as Indie started walking around the farm one last time before dark. Now that Blue was inside and safe, he had work to do. I  pulled my sweater closer when a gust of wind blew in through the screen. I locked the door and turned up the heater, then walked to the bathroom and started the water in the bathtub.

I love my bathroom. Several years ago I tore out two closets to make the space bigger and completely gutted the room. A clawfoot bathtub sits against the wall and a big comfy armchair in the corner. I replaced the old worn vanity with an antique cabinet and installed the sink into the top. Thick rugs cover the tile floor that matches the hardwood floors in the hall. I undressed and eased down into the hot water. Blue padded in, jumped into the chair, and circled several times before curling up on the clean T-shirt I had left there. I relaxed in the hot water listening to his purrs.

While I worked the shampoo into my hair, I mentally thought back to my grocery list. Ruth, Connor’s wife, owned a bakery in Rockport. She was bringing pies and would bake fresh bread for Thanksgiving Day. She’s a wonderful cook and her yeast rolls are amazing. I need to check the weather report to see how cold the nights were going to be. I wanted to leave the tomatoes on the vine for as long as possible without them freezing.

 I drained the tub, dried my hair, and put on the T-shirt and sweatpants that Blue had been napping on. Jack and I had eaten sandwiches while he baked cornbread, but I wanted something sweet. I put three frozen cookie dough balls on a pan in the oven while a mug of water heated in the microwave for hot chocolate, then I took Blue and his bowl of food to the utility room. Indie scratched on the door when I was taking the cookies out of the oven. He sprinted inside when I unlocked the door and ran down the hall looking for the cat. I relocked the door and took the plate of cookies and the hot chocolate to the living room and made a nest on the couch. That’s what my mother called it when I gathered pillows and blankets and books on the couch. I was dozing off when my phone dinged with a text message.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yes, I did, why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I have been, dreamed about you.” How do you answer that? I sent hearts.