Roadside Homicide: A Modern Country Cozy Mystery in a Small Town Read online

  Her eyes traveled his body. His t-shirt was grungy and so thin it was almost transparent. She released his hand, grabbed his shirt and yanked, like she was starting a stubborn lawn mower. The t-shirt ripped apart as easily as shredding tissue paper. She transferred the newly made rag to his wound and pressed. “Please, please don’t let him die. ”

  Something struck her ribs hard enough to pitch her forward. His legs, spread out next to her where she sat in the road, were jerking and flailing. He was having a seizure. “No no no.” She lay her free hand on his cheek, cradling his face. Her eyes burned, but she blinked hard and focused on him to keep from falling apart. “Help is coming. Please, just hold on.”

  Her ears pricked up. Was that? Finally! A siren’s wail streamed over the horizon and pierced the hot summer air. “Can you hear it? They’re coming.” She wiped her cheek with her shoulder, a smile tightening her face. She closed her eyes and inhaled the country air, with its soft scent of manure, turned soil, and freshly cut grass. Help was here. Her muscles turned to jelly, and she nearly sagged into the ground.

  Then his legs stilled and his hand slipped from hers.

  Just as the sirens peaked, and their tires ground to a stop, she opened her eyes. Zombie man was staring at the sky, his mouth slack, his eyes half-shut. Robin slumped and hung her head. “Damn.”

  ✽✽✽

  Sitting on the front step of a rusted double-wide trailer, Robin kept her eyes on her hands as two paramedics lifted the dead man’s body bag onto a gurney. Then they slid the stretcher into the ambulance and drove away. No sirens required.

  Sad and dejected, she was cemented to the weathered wooden step where she sat. She was perfectly happy to stay put for some time, thank you very much.

  It was a perfect June day. Except for the poor dead man. The sun was bright, but the humidity was just a hair shy of unbearable. Green grass carpeted every yard and slope, which were bordered by clumps of dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace. Only the occasional wisp of a cloud floated by. Crickets and beetles provided a background buzz while the cows across the road stared, statue-like, at the men and women in uniforms milling around the dead man’s front yard.

  Like most homes in River Sutton, zombie man’s double-wide had seen better days. Flattened beer cans and big, rusty metal pieces that Robin couldn’t identify to save her life dotted the yard. But what stuck out to Robin was a shiny Ford F-450, without a scratch, smudge, dent or dimple to be seen. Maybe the truck didn’t belong to zombie man. Or maybe he just wasn’t house-proud and spent all of his money on his vehicles instead.

  Her watch vibrated. Another text from her mother came on screen, all caps this time. WHERE ARE YOU? Robin rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. Time to get this show on the road.

  She waved to a lanky cop who was standing in the rutted driveway, hands on his hips, squinting through his black-framed glasses at the spot where the road disappeared around the bend. He spotted her, then lumbered over, lifting his campaign hat and ruffling his hair before resting it on his head again. “Can I help you?”

  She read his nametag. “Officer Warsinsky?” She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, I was wondering how much longer before I can give my statement and get going? My family is expecting me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, miss, we’re waiting on the sheriff. He’ll be the lead in this investigation and he wants to talk to you himself.”

  “Is there any way I can talk to him later?” She pointed to her watch. “My mother keeps texting me and I’m sure you know what it’s like when you keep your mother waiting.”

  Warsinsky nodded solemnly. “I do. But he’ll be here any minute.” A low roar, coming from around the bend, caught their attention. “Here he is now, as a matter of fact.” He pulled up the waist of his pants and tucked his shirt in a little tighter. “Wait here and I’ll send him over to you.”

  She watched him lumber away, picking up his pace as he reached the edge of the yard. She stood up, feeling the patches of dried blood on her knees stretch and crack as a burgundy Dodge Ram bumped into the driveway, stopping just behind the Ford. The sun was overhead, glinting off the truck’s wax job. With the sun in her eyes, the sheriff was only a shadow. As he got closer, his body blocked the glare, and she could see him clearly. Her eyes flew wide. The sheriff was ex-high school quarterback Chris Payne.

  His blonde hair was a little longer, and he had that sexy look that men grow into as they near thirty, shedding all the soft boyishness. His pace was easy and graceful, confident.

  Robin ran her hand through her long, chestnut hair, but her fingers tangled in the sections that were matted with dust. She smoothed her blouse around her waist and wiped as much grime off her linen shorts as she could, but then she spotted all the blood on her hands, arms and legs. “Well, that’s as good as it gets.”

  About a foot away from Robin, Chris came to a dead halt. His eyes popped and his mouth fell open. “Robin Pearce? Is that you?”

  She blinked and forced the gears of her brain to move. “Hi!” Wow, that was a little too loud. It was as if she were two people. The person acting like an idiot, and the person watching her act like an idiot. One of them needed to get a grip. She cleared her throat and tried again, “Hey, Chris, how are you?”

  His mouth broke into a dazzling smile. “Good. Wow, it’s great to see you. Your mom told me you were coming home for the wedding, but I wasn’t sure when you were getting in.” He’d been wondering when she was coming home? Robin felt something flutter in her stomach. “How’ve you been?” He shook his head. “Sorry. Stupid question.” He waved his hand, indicating the remaining cop cars and forensics folks filing in and out of the trailer.

  “Right.” She slid her hands into her pockets. “Yeah, um, other than this—” she mirrored his gesture, “I’ve been great.” A fat, hard lump suddenly lodged itself in her throat. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t—” She swallowed and tried again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him, whoever he was.”

  “Hey.” Chris’s hand rested on her shoulder, warm and heavy. She peeked up at him, all six-feet, two-inches of him. “You did everything you could. Heck, you did more than most people would have done. It’s not your fault he died.”

  Her breath came a little easier. “Thanks. I just— I feel like I failed. I don’t like that feeling.”

  He grinned. “I remember. Professor Robin, right?” His eyes brightened.

  She dropped her head back. Professor Robin. She had completely forgotten about her stupid high school nickname. Just because she was top of their class, earned straight As, made valedictorian — Okay. She got it. “That was a long time ago. No one calls me that anymore.”

  An officer swung a metal detector along the edge of the double-wide. They stepped aside to let her pass. Then Chris brought out a notebook and pen. Time for an official statement.

  Chris surveyed the scene. “I have a lot of questions, and I figure you want to get home, but I’d rather sit somewhere more comfortable.” He scanned the patchy yard. “I think Roy has a picnic table out back where we can sit.”

  It was her turn for a jaw-dropping surprise. “Roy? Do you mean Roy Cooter? That’s who the dead man is? I mean, was?”

  “Yep, that was Roy Cooter you tried to save.” He gestured for her to lead the way around the side of the trailer.

  She made her way to a rickety picnic table in the backyard. Avoiding a rusty nail jutting out of the wood, she sat in the middle of the bench, praying the whole table wouldn’t topple her way before Chris sat on the other side.

  Chris folded his long legs under the picnic table and sat on the opposite bench. He flipped open his notebook and scribbled a heading with his left hand. She’d forgotten he was a lefty. He stopped writing and held his pencil at the ready. “Tell me, in your own words, what happened when you saw Roy.”

  Her chest expanded as she took a deep breath. She folded her hands on the table, fingers locked together. “I was coming up the road, taking the shortcut
from Route 2 to Route 8.” Her eyes snapped to his. “But I was going slow. I wasn’t speeding.”

  He nodded, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. “I’m sure you weren’t. I know you like to follow rules.”

  “That’s right.” She pulled her spine up a little straighter. Her eyes fell on the trees that lined the back of Roy’s yard, but she was picturing Roy. “A man — Roy — came stumbling out of his yard, toward my car. I could tell he was hurt. He was bleeding. I stopped my car, called 911 on my watch—” His eyebrows flew into his hairline. He studied Robin’s watch a moment, then nodded. “Then I got my first aid kit and went to help him.”

  Chris jotted down a few notes. “What did you notice about him? What sense did you have about what was wrong with him?”

  Robin chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, I couldn’t see the wound at first, so I didn’t know what was wrong. Then I put my hand behind his head.” She showed him with her hand how she had touched the back of Roy’s head.

  “And you found the wound.” Thank goodness he understood and she didn’t have to explain much about the wound. Chris probably had a lot of experience talking to squeamish witnesses. “Then what? Did you see anyone? Did you hear anything?”

  “No.” She let out a deep breath. “I kept hoping to see someone, anyone, but it was just Roy and me.” She leaned forward on her arms. “But he said something.”

  Chris met her eyes and stilled. “He said something? What?”

  She squinted at the heatwaves coming off the trailer, thinking back to that horrible moment in the road. “It didn’t make much sense, but I told him I’d remember it. Did he know someone named Jo Jo?”

  Chris tapped his pencil on the picnic table. “Jo Jo? Not that I can think of.”

  “He said, ‘Jo Jo. Sorry.’” Robin’s watch buzzed again. She slapped her hand over it.

  Chris’s eyes darted to her wrist, his eyebrows pulling together. “Doesn’t that ever drive you crazy?”

  “Yeah, it does. Like right now.” She read the message from Jenn that included a few fifty-cent words. “Oh boy. I think I have to get going.” She lifted her legs out of the picnic table, taking care to avoid the pointy nails.

  Chris also stood up and walked beside her, back to the front of the trailer. Once they reached her car, still parked on the side of the road, Chris opened his notebook again. “I know you have to get going, but I may have more questions as the investigation continues. What’s the best number to reach you?”

  If you would’ve told Robin in high school that someday Chris Payne would ask for her phone number, she would’ve told you to get your head examined. She rattled off her cellphone number.

  “Is that the same number for your watch?” He pointed to said watch with his pencil, a smile blossoming on his lips.

  In mock seriousness, she replied, “Yes, it is.”

  “Thank you for waiting to talk to me. I know it was inconvenient.” He surveyed his officers, still milling about and talking to each other. “Back to work.” He threw her one last smile, waved, and walked away.

  Her eyes followed his well-formed backside, then he spun back to her. He cupped a hand to his mouth. “If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you at the wedding.” Then he gave Warsinsky his attention and the two of them ambled off toward the trailer.

  Chris was coming to Jenn’s wedding? Oh, my stars.

  Chapter 3

  Robin turned onto Creekside Road, slowing down so that her beloved Subaru wouldn’t take too much of a beating on the pitted back road. The car had already seen enough action for the day. She wasn’t going to press her luck.

  The Pearce driveway was just dirt and gravel, but her father maintained it much better than the county kept the roads. Rocks and pebbles popped under her tires. She drove over the short bridge that crossed Morgan Creek before it meandered around their backyard. The water sparkled in the late morning sun as she nosed her car into the space next to Jenn’s bright red Mazda, in front of their old barn.

  In her childhood, her father had briefly kept a goat and a few chickens. Now the barn was a workroom and storage space. Her dad’s workbench stood in the center of the barn. The pens were filled with plastic crates of tools, old furniture, boxes of magazines, and broken electronics that her father wouldn’t give up on.

  Her entire body slumped. She was home. Her homecoming would have been much more cheerful if she hadn’t spent the last two hours wondering who killed Roy and why she had to be the one to drive past his place when he got shot. She hadn’t practiced an answer for her mother about why she was late. An excuse would have to come to her before she reached the front door.

  Robin climbed out of her car and her eyes fell on her childhood home. When you’re a kid, you think little about the house you live in, except that it’s home. It’s the house you point out to other kids on the school bus when they ask where you live. It’s the place where you play flashlight tag with your friends, practice cartwheels, and take embarrassing photos with the guy friend of the moment, who has agreed to escort you to prom.

  The house was sided in a warm butter yellow, while cheerful white trim bordered the windows, dormers, and front door. A tiny window in the corner, just above the kitchen sink, gave the house a whimsical look, a more unique appearance than the cookie cutter homes sprouting up in the suburbs near Cleveland. Her mother’s favorite summer decoration, a long pouch bursting with live impatiens, which were the lightest, softest pink, adorned the front door, also painted white to match the trim.

  She walked to the back of the car to retrieve her luggage, breathing in the dank smell of the creek and the earthy scent of nearby beds of petunias. Just as she was pulling out her suitcase, the front door of the house banged open.

  “Jenn!” She could hear her mother yell from the kitchen. “Don’t bang the front door!”

  Her little sister came at her like a wide receiver heading for a touchdown. Robin’s face broke out in a big smile. Before she could say ‘hi’ thin arms with killer triceps choked out the words. She blew Jenn’s choppy, blonde hair out of her mouth. “Nice to see you, too,” she croaked.

  “I’m so glad you’re home.” Jenn stepped back to look Robin up and down. Her bright smile faded as she took in the blood stains and dirt smudges. “What the heck happened to you?”

  Robin shook her head. “You will not believe it, but I’d rather tell the story all at once, so can it wait until I shower and I can tell mom and dad, too?”

  Jenn’s eyes widened. “Are you okay?” She patted Robin down, pinching and squeezing in tender spots.

  “Ow!” Robin swatted her hands away. “I’m fine. This isn’t my blood.” Now Jenn’s eyes really popped. “Seriously, in a minute. But, first things first.” She held up her pointer finger. “Shower.” Lifted the next finger. “Change clothes.”

  Jenn grabbed Robin’s suitcase from her as they carried her luggage into the house.

  “Robin? Where are you?” their mother called.

  Both sisters winced. Jenn made shoo motions toward the stairs at Robin. “I’ll tell her you got up too early to shower, so you’re doing it now.”

  Robin nodded, grabbed her bag, and raced up the steps.

  ✽✽✽

  Showered and dressed in a soft, floral sun dress bought online, Robin stepped into the kitchen. Her mother was at the counter, pressing Hershey kisses into the centers of peanut butter cookies. Cookies were Robin’s weakness, and she didn’t need any extra weight right before Jenn’s wedding. She made a mental note not to look at them or even glance at them, although she couldn’t escape their heavenly smell.

  Jenn’s arm rested on the back of her wife-to-be’s chair. Deb, a pretty brunette who looked like an ad for skin cleanser and running shoes combined, waved at Robin. Lee Pearce, her father, spotted her and rose from his chair.

  “My little birdie, how are you?” He was dressed casually, in a jersey knit shirt and khakis, but impeccably neat. He wrapped her in a tight hug, his warmth enveloping her
, her face smooshed into his chest. Robin hugged him back, breathing in his spicy aftershave. He whispered, “Brace for impact. We’re at DEFCON two for the wedding.” She held back a snort. Speaking at a normal volume, he added, “Wait till you see the binder.” He put special emphasis on “the binder.”

  As Robin took a seat, Jenn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Robin’s not going to be a cranky pants about it. She’s going to be the most awesome maid of honor ever.”

  “Even if she missed her final fitting.” Her mother lobbed that jibe from the kitchen counter like a sugar-coated grenade.

  Jenn passed a teapot and a plate of buttered toast in Robin’s direction. “Speaking of which, I’ll call the seamstress and see if she can fit you in later today. I also have to call the spa and confirm our appointments.” Jenn dashed out of the kitchen, tapping on her phone.

  “Spa?” Robin wondered what derma-torture she was in for. She raised her eyebrows at Deb.

  “Don’t look at me.” Deb held up her hands. “It’s a sister thing.”

  Her mother finished prepping the cookies, popped them into the oven, and slipped off her apron. When she sat down, she smoothed her cotton dress underneath her, picked up her cup of tea, and looked pointedly at Robin.

  Uh oh. Time’s up. Her mother would demand she answer for those all-caps texts.

  Jenn breezed back into the kitchen, calling, “Hey, when are you going to tell us about all that blood you had on you?” She plopped down in her chair and propped her chin in her hands. They all stared at her.

  “Blood?” Her mother’s eyes took on a hawkish intensity. “What’s Jenn talking about?”

  Robin spared a quick raspberry for her sister, then inhaled. “The reason I’m so late is that on my way here—” Words failed her. An image of Roy begging for help filled her mind. She cleared her throat. “On my way here, I came across Roy Cooter—”