Murder by Misadventure

  Copyright © Bety Comerford (B.T. Lord)

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1543284027

  ISBN-10: 1543284027

  Cover art by Michelle Motuzas

  Cover design by Alison Ouellette

  Other books by B.T. Lord:

  Murder on Ice (Book 1 of the Twin Ponds Mystery Series)

  To SPW –

  Teacher, Mentor, Friend

  PROLOGUE

  February

  First this ingredient. Then another. Hmmm. Not too much of this and a pinch of that. Everything had to be right. It was vital that everything be just right.

  Next came the book. Things had to be done in their proper order. It was carefully opened and a puff of air that spoke of death and decay filled the kitchen. The book was old. Its pages bore witness to the generations it had been in existence, the handwriting faded in places and almost illegible. But the power it contained was still potent.

  Still deadly.

  A finger ran down the various words – some easy to pronounce, others difficult. But it didn’t matter.

  Laughter filled the room as a harmless rhyme was recited.

  Double double toil and trouble.

  Fire burn and caldron bubble.

  I will say what needs to be.

  What is your life worth to me?

  In a tiny, one room cabin, tucked in the woods on the shore of Mkazawi Pond, Paul Langevin abruptly awoke from a sound sleep. It had been another busy day and he’d gone to bed early, falling asleep almost immediately.

  He now stared at the ceiling, orienting himself, a brief question in his mind.

  What had awakened him?

  The air was chilly. Glancing over at the small Franklin stove across from his bed, he saw a collection of dying embers glowing through the glass front. He was reluctant to get up from beneath his warm blankets, his body heat creating a cozy spot. But something tugged at him – urging him to arise – pushing him towards his back door.

  Paul was a bearish man, standing tall and straight despite his 70 years. However, as much as he tried not to admit it, age was starting to catch up to him. In the past, he could have easily sprung from his bed. But now, aches and pains in his joints and back accompanied him as he threw back the heavy covers that were a collection of patched over quilts accumulated over the years. Slowly and painfully, he hoisted himself to his feet and shivered as he stretched out the kinks in his muscles before padding over to the coat rack he kept near the front door. He threw on his boots and long wooly coat, then turned, took a few steps across the small cabin and opened the back door.

  A blast of frigid night air hit him hard as it careened across the pond and seemed to aim itself right at him.

  I’m getting too old for this, he thought, at the same time knowing he wouldn’t ignore the inner voice that drove him to venture out of his warm bed and into the icy night.

  He stepped out onto a small wooden deck and took a long, deep breath. Opening his senses, he felt rather than observed the wild life around his cabin. In the tree behind his home, he felt the heartbeat of an owl. Near the pile of logs he kept in a tiny shed next to the cabin, he felt the pulse of a fox. He looked up at the sky, never tiring, despite his age, to be awed by the brilliant canopy of stars and constellations that blinked back at him.

  He let out his breath, its vapor dancing before him. He looked out over the frozen pond, the light from the perfectly round, full moon painting shadows of the tall pines onto the thick layers of ice.

  He waited. Patiently. With no thoughts of past or future. Soaking up the energies of the moment.

  After a while, he shrugged. Maybe he was getting too old. Maybe it was a simple dream that had awakened him. Nothing more.

  With his snug, cozy bed calling out to him, he started to turn back towards the door. A strong gust of wind suddenly blew across the pond. This time, it deliberately threw itself against his face and chest. He involuntarily took a step back, momentarily stunned at the ferocity of the air. He’d felt the wind many times over the years, but this was different. There was fear in this wind. With the fear came a warning. He scanned the horizon, reaching out slowly and tentatively with his senses. Burrowing into dark cubby holes, beneath the snows, beneath the leaves covered by thick blankets of white, around the trees and up into their black finger-like limbs.

  Abruptly, a knowing exploded into his conscious mind. He sucked in his breath.

  This is not good.

  Horror shot through him – a dread he had not felt in years. It gurgled up from the pit of his stomach and washed over him, sending violent tremors throughout his body that had nothing to do with the chilly temperatures.

  With a cry, he stepped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He leaned against the wood, trying to catch his ragged breath. He closed his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge what was out there. He attempted to veer his mind away, fill it with a list of things he had to do in the morning. He chanted a song under his breath. But through it all, the knowing would not go away. It seized him and held on, unwilling to relinquish its hold on his mind and his soul.

  This is definitely not good.

  Emmy Madachuck was beginning to lose feeling in her toes. She wiggled her feet in her boots, but it was no use. She was going to have to make a move, or risk freezing to death in the front seat of her Jeep. What a ridiculous sight that would be. Frozen within a few feet of a warm house.

  She glanced out the window towards the bright lights that beckoned. A light snow was beginning to fall, but then, at this time of year in this remote town in Maine’s northwestern corner, it was always snowing. And consistently cold, with below zero temperatures. It wasn’t unusual to freeze to death if someone wasn’t careful.

  Emmy, however, was one of those people who were overly careful in everything she did. Freezing to death a few yards from warmth was not of those situations she would ever fall victim to.

  However, it didn’t preclude Twin Ponds’ police receptionist/dispatcher from considering the real possibility of turning around and driving home. She could pretend she was sick. Or pretend she’d taken a nap and overslept. She could pretend a host of things to keep her from getting out of her vehicle. But they’d know. Whether it was by her guilty look – she just wasn’t any good at lying no matter how hard she tried – or by an innocuous gesture, they’d know.

  They always knew.

  She couldn’t face that.

  What was once fun and entertaining and informative now filled her with doubt. If only she hadn’t done what she’d done, she could continue coming here. She could continue belonging. But ever since the other day, the doubt monster had started to rear its ugly head. The weird part was that she was getting what she wanted. Only now, she didn’t want it anymore. Not this way.

  You’re being a complete idiot. Even if it’s not really real, you can still enjoy it. And why not? I’m not hurting anyone, am I?

  Was she though? She didn’t know anymore. If she was another sort of person, she wouldn’t care. But she did. A lot. Which made the guilt that much more corrosive.

  She hated when she got this way. If nothing else, she should be awed that after what she’d done, the changes had been almost miraculou
s. She couldn’t believe it at first. Even after pinching herself a dozen times, it had happened. So just be cool with it, and forget the guilt and doubt. It was all going to go away soon anyway. No one would ever know.

  She unconsciously squeezed the small baggie she held in her coat pocket and grimaced.

  Had it been worth it?

  Yes!

  And no.

  Oh dear, here she went again. Vacillating. God, how she hated when she got this way.

  Glancing at her round face in the rearview mirror, she thought she saw see a tinge of blue on the tip of her nose. Her dark brown eyes widened as she peered at her reflection. Oh no! She was getting frostbite. Great. That’s all she needed.

  Well, as the sheriff always said, it was time to shoot, shit or dismount.

  With a heavy sigh, she opened the Jeep door and stepped out into the frigid night.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the other side of town, Sheriff Cammie Farnsworth pushed the puck back and forth between the hockey stick, skating easily over the frozen ice of Waban Pond. She eyed the empty goal net and set up her shot. She aimed, raised her hockey stick and –

  Missed.

  Again.

  “Damn it!” she shouted, hearing it reverberate back to her over the huge pond.

  She sighed with frustration as she watched the puck careen across the ice towards shore, mocking her as she once more missed the net. For the fifth time.

  What was it going to take to score a goal? If she stood any closer, she’d be inside the lousy net.

  She unconsciously moved her left arm in a small circle, still feeling a bit of stiffness in the muscle.

  Three months had passed since she’d been shot in the shoulder during the apprehension of a murderer. Thankfully, her habit of wearing multiple heavy sweaters under her parka in an effort to keep warm kept the bullet from doing extensive damage.

  The last murder in tiny Clarke County, Maine had been fifty years before. As the county’s first female sheriff, the pressure had been on to solve the homicide. Especially since the victim was a man who’d meant so much to the townspeople. She’d solved it, earning herself a gunshot wound and the respect of the county. She was still recuperating from the physical injury.

  She wasn’t sure she’d recovered from the emotional injuries yet.

  Still in a funk over how everything had played out, Cammie threw herself into the often excruciatingly painful physical therapy route to keep her mind and body occupied, and away from thoughts she didn’t wish to have. Her hard work and determination gave her back mobility in her arm, though it still wasn’t quite where she wanted it to be. Playing hockey to boost her depressingly almost non-existent stamina was Doc Westerfield’s idea.

  Samuel Westerfield, known officially as ‘Doc’, was a true blue blooded Boston Brahmin, right down to his John F. Kennedy-esque accent. Standing at 5 ft 6 in, with thinning ginger hair, large round glasses and owl-like eyes, he and Cammie had met in Boston’s tony Beacon Hill section when she’d been a private investigator, and he a victim of a mugging. At the time of the assault, he’d been wearing a stunning Stella McCartney black lace evening dress with matching heels. Unwilling to risk a tear in the gown, he hadn’t put up much of a resistance, which allowed Cammie, who’d been tailing a cheating husband, to step in and rescue him. From this inauspicious beginning, a close friendship was formed.

  When Cammie received word of her father’s death, and the need to settle his estate, she’d reluctantly made the decision to return to the place of her birth. She’d left Twin Ponds, the largest town in Clarke County, fifteen years before under less than ideal circumstances. The thought of coming back to all those painful memories made her queasy. To her relief, Doc decided to accompany her, hoping time away from Boston would ease his family’s constant condemnation of his alternative lifestyle.

  To her surprise, she found an unexpected peace in her father’s old two room cabin on Mkazawi Pond, and a sense of closeness to a man she’d never been able to connect with in life. The unanticipated open arm welcome the townspeople had to her return also helped heal any outstanding wounds she still carried.

  Doc too found peace in Twin Ponds. The townspeople didn’t care he was gay, nor did they care that his favorite way to relax in the evenings was to don women’s clothing and his comfy bunny slippers. Many of the female residents found it appealing when, in the short time it took him to become county coroner and town doctor, they discovered he dispensed excellent medical care with insightful fashion tips.

  Urged on by Doc, Cammie decided to keep her father’s cabin. She’d barely moved in before Twin Ponds’ mayor tracked her down and asked that she run for county sheriff. The old sheriff, who at best guess was at least a hundred and twenty years old, (or so Cammie believed), was finally retiring. Mayor Barnes knew Cammie’s past law enforcement experience in Seattle would be a coup for the small town. It was certainly more experience than any of their previous sheriffs ever had. And after dealing with the worst a big city could offer, Cammie was tempted to take a job where the most unpleasant offences had to do with drunk and disorderly conduct or getting lost in the dense forests that surrounded Twin Ponds.

  Now here she was, trying her best to recover from both the physical and emotional wounds of the shooting. As usual, Doc was there for her. After repairing the damage to her shoulder, he’d offered to put her up until she was able to function on her own. For Cammie, accepting his offer was a complete no brainer. Not only did he live in a custom made, luxuriously comfortable log cabin on the shores of Waban Pond, but he was an excellent cook. Cammie was not. Compared with her diet of corn flakes, saltines and cheese whiz, and the slightly lumpy mattress in her cabin, she would have been certifiable to turn him down. The additional appeal of the bed from paradise and the shower from heaven cinched the deal.

  Throughout the weeks of her recovery, she was kept apprised of what was going on around town through the daily phone calls and visits of her deputy, Rick Belleveau. Half Native American and half French Canadian, Rick was doing an excellent job of running the police department in her absence. Already depressed over the aftermath of the shooting, and the struggle to gain back her strength, the fact that her presence at HQ seemed superfluous wasn’t helping her any in the emotional department.

  During one of his visits, while regaling her with the gossip that was the lifeblood of Twin Ponds, he inadvertently let some information slip that only added to her depression. Too proud to show how much it affected her, she managed to fool him into thinking she was fine. However, as soon as she closed the door behind him, she fell into a dark, morose mood. Attuned to her mental state, Doc thought whacking a puck around would help ease her growing malaise and save his priceless artwork if she ever decided to go postal.

  Once upon a time, in a lifetime that seemed as remote as the moon, Cammie had been a phenom on the ice. In an area where most kids were born holding a hockey stick, she’d played right wing with the local team, the Night Hawks. She was so fast, no one could touch her. But that was fifteen years ago.

  She’d been great, no doubt about that. If she didn’t pick up a hockey stick, she could still pretend she was great. She could still hold on to the glory of her past. With everything she’d been through lately, why add a further dose of reality into the mix?

  But Doc had inherited a healthy portion of the New England Yankee stubbornness that ran through his lineage. Once he set his mind on something, he didn’t give up.

  Ever.

  Astutely understanding the roots of her growing misery and listlessness, he tried everything from promising to cook Cammie her favorite meals, to buying top of the line hockey equipment for her. When these enticements failed to rouse her, he had no choice but to play dirty.

  He threatened to throw her out of his home.

  As expected, the thought of returning to her small rustic cabin on the other side of town and face what she was not yet ready to face finally got her out onto the ice.

  Now her
e she was, two weeks into trying to get her rhythm back, and she still hadn’t scored a goal. Not one crummy, stinking goal. Not even close. At this point, she stood the same chance of scoring a goal as winning the Miss America Pageant. If there was any consolation to the nightly frustration fest, it was that she at least remembered how to skate.

  She took a deep lungful of cold night air and slowly let it out through her nose, watching it vaporize and swirl away in wispy furls in the glare of the halogen lights Doc had set up on shore that lit up enough of the pond to actually hold a game. If she was so inclined. Which she was not.

  She looked back to the empty goalie net and sighed. Maybe she was expecting too much from herself. Fifteen years was a long time to be away from any sport. It was logical that everything would feel awkward; the style and finesse of old completely gone. Yet just as she’d once braved frigid temperatures to practice night after night, she wasn’t going to allow her rustiness to defeat her. Nor could she deny that if she didn’t get her ass moving in any kind of physical activity, it was soon going to be bigger than the sectional couch in Doc’s living room. Her once athletically lean 5 ft 8 inch body was growing out in directions that were horrifying. Doc’s gourmet cooking was hard to turn down, but it was leaving her looking like the huge, gelatinous creature in the old 1950’s Steve McQueen movie, The Blob.

  She glanced at her shadow reflected on the ice, and noted how even her silhouette looked like a huge pimple on the surface of the ice.

  “Ugh,” she groused aloud as she began to skate in a tight circle.

  You can do this. Just give yourself time. You suffered a gunshot wound, for pity’s sake. You really think it’s all going to come back to you so soon? Honestly, Cammie --

  Thwack!

  Jerked out of her reverie by the sharp sound, she watched the puck bounce away from her stick. She scanned the darkness where the halogen light didn’t reach. At first, all she saw were shadows. Then a figure detached itself from the gloom and skated towards her. Her heart skidded to a stop when she recognized who it was.