The Mystery at Love's Manor
Cozy Mystery
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Chapter One
A feeling of dread squeezed my
soul in its dark grip. I bolted upright in bed and searched the darkness for
the source of my discomfort. Was it a sound, real or imagined? A consequence of
my first week’s stay in a new home? I was chilled to the bone, and goosebumps
rose on my flesh. Too many of my premonitions proved well founded to
ignore…something was wrong. My thoughts went to my estranged family. Nana, in
the sunset of life, was in a battle with the demon possessing her—Dementia. Her
curse weighed heavily on my brother, Daniel, his wife, and their relationship.
If something was as wrong as my churning gut indicated, was it Nana?
No, if Nana, Gwen
would have called to let me know. Wiping the crud from the corners of my eyes,
I crawled out of bed. Last night’s mystery novel fell from its hiding place
between my flannel sheets. The day’s traumas and the two-hour drive to gather
the last of my possessions from my old digs had overwhelmed my curiosity about
the fictional “who-done-it.” My brother used to mock my choice of literature. I
considered it professional reading.
I glanced out of
my bedroom window. Raindrops slithered down the glass, and the filtered dawn
cast its shadowed light. I wished the window faced east for the sunrise, like
my childhood bedroom in the old house.
Nana is staying
there now. It was the closest one to Daniel and Gwen’s bedroom. I hoped Nana
would find more peace there than I had.
Sliding my feet
into cheap imitation fur-lined slippers, I set the book on my nightstand and
made my way to the kitchen, and the coffee pot. The old-fashioned percolator
began its flirtatious dance, and the scent of the fresh ground coffee teased my
nostrils.
I glanced around
the room, noticing all the work that needed to be done. The condition of the
place made it affordable for me. The paint was chipping from the walls, and the
kitchen cabinets were stained with decades of accumulated grease. The sink’s
constant drip kept time with the ticking of the kitchen clock, a throwback
black cat with rolling eyes and a swishing tail. But it was home, and it was
mine. Well, mine and Old Joseph’s—the name I gave to the source of falling
objects and bumps in the night. What I only somewhat jokingly referred to as my
resident ghost. I wasn’t sure I believed in ghosts, but I firmly believed in my
vivid imagination.
The phone rang as
I poured my first cup of the day, and my teeth clenched. I hated the sound, the
nerve-rattling jangle, and the irrational call to immediate action it demanded.
I wished the telemarketers would at least allow me to enjoy my morning coffee.
Who else would call so early?
At the second
ring, I felt an ice-cold trickle creep up my spine, like when Sammy Mattingley
threw ice cubes down the back of my blouse. My hand trembled, hesitating to
answer when I recognized the number. It was my brother, Daniel.
At the third
ring, I wished he hadn’t discovered I was home. Last month, Gwen spotted me
leaving the crappy hotel I used as my temporary local residence while I
house-shopped. This phone call meant the cat was out of the bag. I felt
disloyal anyway, not letting
Gwen in on my secret return, but
Daniel? My ten years away hadn’t healed all the old wounds. Creating a new life
and forging my independence provided a much-needed salve to my soul. Still, I
wished he didn’t know.
By the fourth
ring, I’d convinced myself his call was to bitch at me—feigning hurt for not
telling him I was back. My finger brushed against the phone’s “ignore”
button…but what if it was about Nana? And he was my brother…the DNA test said
so.
I answered before
the fifth jingle when the voicemail would kick in. Might as well get it over with—in
case it was about Nana…
“Hello?”
“Emma, I need you
at the house as soon as you can get here.”
“Daniel? How
about ‘Good morning, Emma. Did you pass the test and get your license, Emma?
I’m so glad you’re home safe and—’ ”
“Not now, Sis.
Please get here as soon as you can. It’s important. I need you.”
“Is something
wrong with Nana? Is she—” But the line was already dead. Typical of my brother.
His needs came before anyone else’s.
Pouring coffee in
a go-cup, I threw on a pair of well-broken-in jeans and a sweatshirt, hopping
toward the door as I pulled on my soft rubber clogs—as fancy as I get to go to
the family farm. They needed me, and from Daniel’s perspective at least, they
needed me now. He must figure even the black sheep of the family is handy in
bad times. I brushed my hair with one hand and backed my old soft-top Bronco
down the driveway with the other.
David W.
Thompson
https://www.david-w-thompson.com
David is a multiple
award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre
writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction
& Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family,
kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.
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