(c) by Kim Cox

Mystery of 70,000 words

(in process)

Blurb:

Alan Pierce leaves his home in Charlotte, North Carolina, bound for the Blue Ridge Mountains after  receiving a phone call in the middle of the night  from a young police officer in Chimney Rock, NC.  His business partner, Daniel had been in a tragic accident.  Throwing a few clothes haphazardly into a suit case, he sets off to speak with the investigating officer, Jesse Kendall.  Alan thinks he, the officer will willing give him all the details concerning his friend's death.

When Jesse Kendall turns out to be a small, but feisty female who as much as accuses him of Daniel's murder, Alan isn't sure how to deal with her.

Excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

Alan Pearce woke with a jolt, an insistent ringing in his ears. The sound continued until it finally dawned on him that the noise wasn’t part of his dream, but the shrilling of the phone.

Pushing the hair from his face, he glanced at the glowing red numerals on the bedside clock: 3:15AM. "What in the world!" Who could that be? Whoever it is better have a good reason for . . . As the noise persisted, he realized he either had to answer the phone or listen to the ringing and forget going back to sleep.

Wondering which of his many clients had a problem, he rolled over, reached for the phone and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. "Look, whatever it is, can’t it wait until morning?" That was one of the drawbacks to his job, his clients didn’t seem to care what time they called.

A squeaky sounding voice answered him. "This is Ebner County--"

"Who did you say this is?" Alan swung his legs over the side of the bed and combed his fingers through his shaggy locks, pushing them out of his eyes.

"Ebner County Sheriff's Department, and this is Deputy Randy Johnston, sir. There’s been an accident on secondary road 1008. Leta Treadaway asked me to call you."

That’s the road leading to Daniel’s house. Leta had him call. So she must be okay, which only left Daniel. "Man, what are you saying?" Cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and he rose from the warm bed to pace the hardwood floor.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. . . Your friend, Mr. Daniel Treadaway, was in the accident, and Leta, I mean Mrs. Treadaway, was so upset that--"

"Hold on a minute. Where is Daniel?" Unbelievable! Daniel had left him at six to go home. When the deputy didn’t answer right away, he continued. "I mean what hospital . . . Is he okay?"

"Sir . . . ah . . . he didn’t survive the crash. He was killed instantly."

The ensuing silence was deafening, lingering like a bad taste. Alan knew the deputy expected a response, but words lay trapped in his throat.

"Mr. Pearce? Are you there?"

Numbness permeated his body like a shot of Novocain. The phone slipped from Alan's hand and clattered to the floor. The deputy's words echoed over and over in his head. Didn't survive. Killed instantly.

For a moment, Alan stared at the phone by his feet, wanting to stomp it into silence. But he needed to know more. How had the accident happened? It had to be a mistake. Daniel’s driving record was impeccable. Someone must be playing a cruel joke.

How could such a vibrant, vigorous, full-of-life man have his existence snuffed out so completely?

He picked up the receiver to speak but his throat constricted. Barely audible to his own hearing, he asked, "You say Leta is upset?" Knowing Leta, she was probably more upset over what to wear to the funeral than losing her husband. "Where is she?"

"She's at her house. My mother is staying there tonight lookin' after her. The doc gave her a sedative."

Why would the deputy’s mother stay with her? Then he remembered the little town he’d visited with Daniel. Rock Landing was just the type of town where neighbor helped neighbor in times of need.

"Why didn't Leta call me when this happened?" As soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. She was going to play the distraught widow to the hilt.

"I can't rightly answer that for sure, Mr. Pearce. But she was pretty over-wrought, as you can very well imagine. So she asked me if I minded calling you for her and I didn’t."

"Thank you, deputy. How’d . . . " Alan gulped more air. "How’d the accident happen?"

"I wish I could answer your questions, but I can’t. The investigator and the Highway Patrol haven’t finished their investigation. Would you like someone to call you in the morning?"

"I'm getting ready. I'll be there at daybreak. By the latest, seven o’clock. I’ll want answers. Should I ask for you?"

"No, sir. My shift ended four hours ago and there's really not much I’ll be able tell you. I’m not the one who found the car or Mr. Treadaway. And I’m not the investigating officer."

"Who should I ask for then?"

"Detective Jesse Kendall."

"Tell him, or better yet, leave him a note, saying I’ll be there first thing this morning. Bye, Deputy."

"But, sir--"

Alan slammed the phone onto its cradle before he realized the deputy had spoken. He didn’t want to waste anymore time. Whatever it was, he’d find out when he arrived in Rock Landing. He pulled on worn jeans and stumbled across the cold wooden floor to the kitchen.

He removed a box of coffee from the cupboard, dropped it and spilled the bags all over the floor. With shaking hands, he hastily retrieved them. Then he deposited one into his favorite Dale Earnhart mug, filled it with water and placed it in the microwave. Punching in two minutes, he waited and watched the carousel turning in rhythm with his thoughts.

Unable to endure the thought of never seeing Daniel again, his elbows hit the green-tiled counter with a bang and his head fell into trembling hands. He squeezed it, warding off the pain. What a nightmare.

The microwave timer beeped, signaling the coffee was ready. Sitting the steaming mug beside the sink, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face.

As much as he wanted the coffee, the smell of it made his queasy stomach cramp, and he poured the offensive liquid down the drain.

Alan temporarily denied his partner’s death as he returned to the bedroom and threw clothes all over his bed. There had to be some kind of a mistake. Maybe he’d get there and find out it wasn’t Daniel after all. Thirty minutes later, after shower-ing and packing enough clothes to last a week, he was ready to find answers to the multitude of questions spinning through his mind.

First stop was the realty company he and Daniel owned as equal partners. He left a note on the door for his secretary, Lois, saying there was an emergency and he’d call her later with details.

Staring at the green-and-gold sign over the doorway, Alan recalled the jubilance with which they’d first hung it. Daniel used his cash inheritance to start Treadaway and Pearce Realty, allowing Alan to buy his shares in monthly installments. They made a great team, one’s strength balancing the other’s weakness.

He slid behind the steering wheel of his Oldsmobile and headed toward Brookshire Freeway. Though highway 74 would take him from Charlotte to Rock Landing, he found he always made better time traveling the Interstate. Keeping his mind on his driving proved to be impossible. Thoughts of Daniel clouded his subconscious.

A year after Daniel’s marriage to Leta, the couple moved to Rock Landing, North Carolina where he opened another realty company, also bringing Alan in as co-owner. Since Daniel used Treadaway and Pearce Realty money to buy the new business, he’d thought it the fair thing to do.

Alan remembered the discussion like it was yesterday. "You don't have to make me a partner. Why do you want to move anyway?"

That's when Daniel told him of his hopes. "It's the perfect place to raise kids," were his exact words. He’d wanted children so much, but Leta--the mere thought of her turned his stomach. Tires hitting gravel on the side of the road jostled him out of his reverie. He screeched his car to a stop, until he could gain control of the shaking, his heart beating at least one hundred beats per second.

Back on the freeway, Alan turned his car onto Interstate 77.  He tuned the radio to his favorite country music station, 103.7, hoping to drown out the thoughts threatening to drive him slowly insane.

However, his depression deepened with each song that played. With a twist of his wrist, he silenced the emotion-laden songs and slammed his hands to the steering wheel. How could Daniel suddenly be dead? It wasn’t possible. He refused to believe it.

The straight road did nothing to take his mind off his problems. He remembered the trees were beginning to turn, signaling fall was here with winter close behind. Fall, Daniel’s favorite time of year. Yesterday, Alan had promised to visit him by the end of October when the mountain trees would be in full color.

In Statesville, the large green sign for Interstate 40 West loomed ahead. As he exited, his mind flipped again to Leta and the events leading up to Daniel’s death.

When she called last night and asked him if Daniel planned to stay the night in Charlotte, he’d told her he was probably stuck in traffic. Why didn’t he sense something was wrong? How stupid can you be, Alan Pearce? He wanted to kick himself, but that wasn’t enough punishment for being a total block-head.

Daniel was never that late—no more than an hour because of traffic or an accident. Accident? The deputy’s voice echoed in his mind, "There’s been an accident."

Alan pulled off I-40 and onto Highway 221 an hour later. Once in Rutherfordton, he found the road that would lead him straight into Rock Landing. Highway 74 curved and climbed like a copperhead the closer he came to his destination.

Along the way, he passed towns so small they didn’t even receive a place on a North Carolina map, some consisting only of a general store and a post office, if they were lucky.

Large rocks scattered the countryside with distant hills growing larger. Even in the dim light of the coming dawn, it was evident that fall was more pronounced at this elevation, sprinkling its leaves with yellow, orange and red. When he saw a sign for Fairway Resort, he knew he was close.

The sun was rising over the top of a tall mountain just as he drove into the town of Lake Lair. The sky turned pink with a spray of blue mingled into what was once dark. A few more miles and he would be at police headquarters in nearby Rock Landing.

Other than the common small town police station, general store, library, and fire department, Rock Landing’s main enticement was what the natives called the western town in the sky. Landing Junction set atop a secluded mountain top, where tourist rode chair lifts to see a reenactment of gun fights, cancan dancers in old-time saloons and motels with antique furniture dating back to the 1800s. Below the tourist attraction, a multitude of gift shops lined the streets.

Recalling his last visit brought a slight smile to Alan’s lips. He and Daniel had acted like school boys on a treasure hunt while they searched for a house Leta would like. They laughed and teased each other unmercifully that day.

"The mountain breeze does that to you," Daniel had claimed. "It makes you feel young and alive. The sound of water splashing against the rocks in the creek relaxes the soul."

Anger raged through Alan’s body at the senselessness of his friend’s death. "Why?" he yelled into the quietness. He pulled in front of a stone building. Wrapping his fingers tighter around the steering wheel, he clutched it in a white-knuckled grip. Perspiration dotted his face and his hairline became damp.

He observed his surroundings before getting out of his car. The sign swinging in the breeze read: "Rock Landing Police Station." Alan wiped the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief. Walking through the glass doors, he strode to the waist-high wooden counter. A young woman with fiery red hair sat behind a desk, her fingers pounding the keys of an old manual typewriter.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

She looked up from her paperwork and flashed him a bright smile. Standing, she sauntered up to the counter. "The name’s Maybelle. How can I help you?" she asked with a thick mountain drawl.

"Yes, I'm here to see . . ." He pulled the paper from his pocket. "Detective Jesse Kendall."

"Detective Kendall is out on patrol right now. Can I help you?"

Annoyed, he raised his voice to an angry pitch. "I can’t believe this." He pounded on the counter with his fist. Maybelle jumped from the unexpected noise. "I told Deputy Johnston to make sure he let the detective know I would be here at daybreak."

"Sorry, sir. But, Jesse isn't here just yet."

He hit his hands on the counter top, palms up. "Is there anyone else I can talk to about Daniel Treadaway’s accident?"

"Nope. You’ll have to talk to Jesse about that. Besides, no one else is here right now."

Heat crept up the back of his neck, causing the hairs to prickle. "What kind of two-bit town is this, anyway?"

"Jesse isn’t here. There’s nothing I can do." Her smile was sympathetic. "Look, there’s no need to get all hot and bothered. Now just calm down," she said, lowering her tone. "In a town this size, patrolling ain't gonna take very long."

A picture of Maybelle, a man and a carrot-haired little girl garnished the desktop behind her, along with a ham biscuit and mug of coffee. The only other desk held a spider plant and a picture of a large, red lab puppy.

Alan sighed heavily. "I apologize for my rudeness." Snapping at everyone he met wasn't going to gain him the information he wanted.

"That's okay. Just have a seat over yonder, and I'll call you when the detective gets back."

Turning, his gaze caught three wooden chairs and a table, the only furniture making up the small waiting area. Wanted posters of sour-looking criminals hung on the walls, while neatly stacked magazines covered the table. He sat down and thumbed through the magazines, finding one to pass the time.

The cold, hard chair did little for his disposition as he flipped through the pages of a two-year-old issue of Field and Stream.

The squeak of leather soles on the tile floor drew his attention to an attractive blond woman crossing the lobby. Although she was short, her strides were long and purposeful until she circled the counter.

"Good morning, Maybelle," the blond said. Unlike Maybelle, who wore an old-fashioned floral and lace dress, she was dressed stylishly in a tailored, navy-blue suit. Another secretary, he assumed. Did a police department this small really need two?

Speaking in low tones, the two women retreated to the back of the building. When they were finished, the blond sat behind the desk with the plant, and began writing on a legal pad, shaking her head as she did so.

For some reason, the small woman held his attention. Perhaps it was her natural beauty. The kind of clean, free-spirited attractiveness soap commercials took credit for creating. She seemed as refreshing and unspoiled as the mountains around her.

But not even a pretty woman could keep him from thinking about his friend and conjuring terrible thoughts about the accident. Tiring of watching the clock, he paced the floor as if it would help pass the time.

He walked back to the counter and rang the bell. Maybelle’s head popped up, her eyes wide with surprise. With a sigh, she stood.

"Radio Kendall if that’s what it’ll take to get him here. I want to talk with him now. I don’t have all day to sit here and wait."

The blond waved for Maybelle to remain where she stood. "I’ll take care of this." Her strides were more pronounced than before as her heeled pumps clattered on the linoleum. Short, chin-length hair bounced with each step. "Okay, sir. You can stop being impatient. I’m all yours for the next few moments." A silky sprig fell across her brow, resting on the lashes of her right eye, and she brushed it behind her ear. She wasn't smiling and he got the impression she was annoyed with him.

"I need to speak to a detective, not a secretary."

"Here I am. All the morning’s business is finished. Now it's your turn. And I’m not a--"

"No. I’m waiting--"

"You said you needed to talk to someone now."

"There must be some sort of mistake. I'm waiting to talk with the detective in charge of the Treadaway accident out on road 1008. Detective Jesse Kendall was the name Deputy Johnston gave me this morning."

"No mistake, that's me," she said.

"You're Jesse Kendall?" Heat crept up his neck, splashing his cheeks with warmth.

"That's right. What can I do you for?"

How could I be such an idiot? All he could do was stare at the woman standing before him.

Jesse’s hands rode high on her hips, and her sky-blue gaze raked over him from head to toe, making him feel like a specimen in a jar. "Can I help you?" she repeated, emphasizing each word.

He towered almost a foot above her. "I would like to know what happened. What caused the accident?"

"We don't know yet," she said with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

His temper flared again. "What do you mean, you don't know? I think you should’ve been able to figure it out by now. You’ve had all night." Cops. Never any help when you need them, but there to bust your chops when you don’t.

Squaring her shoulders, Jesse inclined her head and looked him directly in the eyes. "Look, mister. I came into work at six this morning and was handed this case then. The night officer who found the car and Mr. Treadaway said in all likelihood, it was an accident. We have a lot of those around here since so many people try their damnedest not to slow down for the sharp curves."

The need to explain his short temper overcame him. "I didn't mean to come off as some kind of know-it-all. Daniel was my friend and I need to know why it happened. How it happened. He was a good driver. I don’t understand any of this." Alan knew he was jabbering like an idiot but he didn’t care.

"I understand you’re upset and you don’t know our procedures. The highway patrol has been called in to help with the investigation. They're at the accident site now. To be honest with you Mr. . . . ah--"

"Pearce. Alan Pearce," he said, shuffling his feet.

"Mr. Pearce, I haven't had a chance to get out there myself. I was just reading the report left by the officer who found the wreckage."

"Should I speak with the highway patrol?" he questioned, feeling at a loss as to which way to turn next.

"No. That won’t be necessary. I'm going down there and I’ll be out to speak with you and Mrs. Treadaway later. Now, if you’ll excuse me." She rounded the counter.

Alan slid his white cowboy hat off and wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. "I'd like to go with you," he said, walking up beside her.

"I’m afraid I can’t take a civilian to an accident site." A slight smile creased her lips, but her deep tone portrayed she meant what she said.

Opening the glass door, Alan motioned her through with a sweep of his hand. "How long will you be?" he asked, knowing it was no use arguing with a cop, much less a woman. Besides, he’d just meet her at the site later.

They walked side by side to the parking lot. "An hour. Two at the most," she said before sliding behind the wheel of her blue sedan. She closed the door and turned the key in the ignition.

Alan watched Jesse pull away from the curb, biding his time. Thanks to Deputy Johnston, he knew the road where he’d find her, on the same road Daniel had lived. Not wanting the detective to sense him behind her, he waited. He didn’t trust Jesse Kendall, or any other police officer.

What could a small town cop do, anyway? No, he’d have to keep an eye on them or they’d probably just file the accident away without a thorough investigation.

Enough time had passed. Alan turned left on Highway 74 and then right on Road 1008. Daniel lived five miles down the road, his house nestled in a valley. So the wreck would’ve occurred somewhere between.

***

When Jesse pulled her car to a halt at the scene of Treadaway’s car crash, she noticed the different shades of glass scattered in the road. Had his car collided with something or someone before going over the mountain?

She made a mental note to examine it further and walked to the edge of the cliff where the car had ripped through some saplings and brush before tumbling into the gorge below. Jesse stooped to the ground and felt the dirt. Looks like he lost some oil.

A tall, dark-haired man searched the car and grounds thirty feet below the ridge from Jesse. From where she stood, the car resembled a can put through a trash compactor. How awful for anyone to go through such a torturous death as Treadaway must have.

Jesse threw up her hand and yelled to Tom Kendall, recent graduate of the North Carolina Highway Patrol Academy and her brother, "Tom!"

He ran up the incline to meet her half-way. Brother or not, Jesse had to admit Tom was a dashing figure in his gray, patrolman uniform. Neither the thick underbrush nor the steep, rocky terrain failed to deter him from reaching her in a matter of seconds.

He wrapped muscular arms around her neck and hugged her, placing a kiss on her cheek. Pulling away, she spun around to see Alan Pearce watching them from the road above.

"Tom, stop," she said. "You’re not acting professional. I’m Detective Kendall right now, not your sister." They finished their decent, then stood just a couple of yards from the crash.

As he pulled away, she followed his gaze to where Alan was slowly making his way down the incline toward them. What is he doing here? "Dog gone his hide!" Her anger soared, causing her head to ache. She massaged her temples.

"Sorry, Sis. Just couldn't help myself. I haven't seen you in weeks. Mom is furious with you, you know," Tom said, grinning.

"That man!"

"Who? Him?" he asked, pointing at Alan who slid along the sloping ground. "Who is he?"

"That, dear brother, is my pain in the butt for today."

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