Book Sunday #OurAuthorGang

 Today's recommendation

Cozy small-town mystery

Mysterious things happen in small towns.

When Danielle finally quits her boring accountant job and opens an Antiques & Stuff store, her life changes for the better. But soon happy life starts to spin out of

control when the snobbish new owner of the Couture mansion brings a seemingly worthless painting into Danielle’s shop. The ownership of the painting is questionable, and the town’s future is threatened by the plans of the ruthless, rich owner who wants to build a leather factory on the estate, too close to town.

An unexpected visitor arrives, and he may possess the much-needed solution to everyone’s problems in this quaint little town.

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Danielle fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. In her jumbled dream, she was running in a dense forest and her shoes kept sticking in mud slowing her down. She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. Someone or something was chasing her, and she knew she had to get away. Suddenly, a beautiful man appeared and embraced her. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face and all her fears disappeared. She held onto his strong arms and looked into his passionate eyes. He started talking in a soft voice and Danielle struggled to hear his words but couldn’t. He caressed her shoulder and when their lips met in a sensuous kiss, she felt a pleasant tingle deep inside her body.

A sudden crashing sound yanked her out of the sweet dream. ‘Bloody Hell’ she heard a man’s muffled voice. What the— someone’s in the store! Fear coursed through Danielle as she stood up and reached for the handgun she kept by the couch, just in case. She felt safer when she occasionally slept in the store after a long day.

Gun in hand, she tiptoed from the backroom and turned the light on. “I have a gun, and I’m a good shot,” she warned, cocking the gun, trying to sound confident.

“Don’t shoot!” The man yelled and Danielle saw him running toward the door. He yanked the door open and heard his footsteps as he was running down the street. A minute later she heard a car engine and then the car speeding away.

Danielle took a deep breath and put the gun on the counter. Her hands were shaking as she dialed the police. “A man broke into my store! He’s gone but I’m afraid he might come back!” she cried.

“The dispatcher instructed her in a calming voice, “Hide in a room where you can lock the door. I’m sending a patrol car right away.”

Danielle was afraid to stay alone and called Sarah. Her best friend didn’t need a long explanation. “I’ll be there in a minute, don’t hang up,” she said, in a sleepy voice and Danielle heard the jingle of keys and Sarah starting her car engine a few seconds later.

The police car arrived at the same time as Sarah’s car screeched to a halt in front of the store. She jumped out and ran into the store barefoot, still in her pajamas. “Are you okay?” she cried out running to Danielle and hugged her.

“I’m fine,” Danielle assured her and looking at the two officers entering the store with guns in hand, continued. “He ran out of the store when I put the lights on, and I heard him driving away.”

“Did you see his face?” the taller officer asked, putting his gun in the holster.

“No, he stood here in front of the counter,” Danielle recalled. “But he turned his back to me so fast that I couldn’t see his face. All I saw was his dark overcoat, and he had gray, neatly trimmed hair.”

“Please look around to see if anything is missing.”

Danielle scanned the shelves and looked at the register. “Nothing seems to be missing.”

“The lock is busted,” the officer observed. “We’ll park in front of the store for a while. I advise you to go home.”

“No, I want to stay here,” Danielle replied. “I’ll call the locksmith in the morning.”

“Then I’m staying with you.” Sarah decided.

“I have spare clothes in the backroom. Go, change.”

“Okay.” Sarah turned and walked by the counter suddenly becoming upset. “Put that gun away, Danielle! I hate guns.”

“I will, don’t worry.” Danielle smiled and put the gun on the shelf under the counter.

After the officers walked out to the patrol car, Danielle closed the door behind them and secured a sturdy chair under the doorknob to hold the door closed. She left the lights on and legs still shaky, walked to the backroom to make coffee.

“Who could it be and what did he want?” Sarah questioned, putting the sweater on she found in the closet.

Danielle spooned the coffee into the filter and filled the machine with water. “I have no idea. Nothing is worth a lot of money in the store.”

Sarah cocked her head and pulled her thick, curly hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie. “Maybe he thought he’d find cash, or perhaps he knew exactly what he wanted.”

“He didn’t seem like a bum or addict who would steal anything to get his next fix. He looked well-groomed and wore Italian loafers. I recognized it because the lawyer down the street wears those kinds of shoes and he makes sure everyone knows that they’re Italian leather.”

“Yeah, he’s a pompous fool.” Sarah giggled and then her voice changed to a serious tone. “But if this man wasn’t just an average burglar who steals anything, he could get his hands on and wanted something specific, why didn’t he just come to the store and buy it?”

“I have no idea. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I was really scared. Thank you for coming over so fast, even in your PJs,” Danielle hugged Sarah.

“Of course, what are besties for?” Sarah patted Danielle’s back.

“I’m too wired to sleep, but you need rest. You’re working today, right? It’s 2 a.m. so you can still sleep for a few hours.”

“Nope, I’m off today, and I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re safe.”

Danielle held up the coffee pot. “Do you want some?”

“No, it always gives me heartburn in the middle of the night. Why don’t you lie down to sleep a little? I’ll stay up.”

Danielle filled her cup. “I’m too wired to sleep. I’m going to paint for a while.”

“Okay, then I’ll rest my eyes on that comfy couch.” Sarah yawned.

Danielle walked to her painting corner and after taking the cover off the half-done painting, she changed her mind. I’m going to clean the portrait of the Musketeer. Let’s see what’s hiding under that new coat of paint.

***

Danielle heard a knock on the window and looked up startled. She saw Mr. Jones straining to peek into the store through the window. Sitting on her stool in front of the easel with a brush in hand, she glanced at the clock. Oh, my! Is it nine o’clock already? She stood up and hurried to the front door. Pulling the chair from under the doorknob, she opened the door.

“Thank God you’re okay!” Mr. Jones pushed through the half-open door and hugged her. “I just heard from the butcher. Do you know who it was? Did they take anything? Did they try to hurt you? Why were you in the store so late?” his questions came as he was trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine,” Danielle assured the worried mailman, smiling. “I haven’t the faintest idea who it was and what he wanted. He ran away when I yelled out and cocked my gun.”

“Oh, good! You should’ve shot him in the leg. He deserved it.”

“I don’t think he’s from around here,” Danielle speculated. “Only the lawyer down the street wears that brand of expensive loafers.”

“You don’t think…”

“No, he has brown hair and the burglar had silvery gray hair.”

“Now wait a minute!” the mailman grabbed Danielle’s arm in his excitement. “I might have seen that man at the Couture mansion. Mrs. Van Bramer’s secretary said he’s an art expert.”

“What’s going on?” Danielle heard Sarah’s sleepy voice behind her. “Oh, good morning Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones just told me he saw the man who broke into the store,” Danielle explained to her best friend.

The mailman yanked his carrier bag higher on his shoulder. “I’ll stop at the police station and report this.” He started walking away but turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. The bakery is open. Lucy’s niece had a baby boy. I got you fresh croissants.” He smiled and handed a paper bag to Danielle.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones! It was very nice of you,” Danielle called after the mailman as he hurried away down the sidewalk, and then turned to Sarah. “You’re not going to believe what I’ve found! Come, let me show you.” She reached for Sarah’s hand and led her to the corner in the store.

“Phew, it smells like turpentine over here.” Sarah crinkled her nose.

“I’ve been working on taking off the new layer of paint and now the signature of the artist is visible. He was a much sought-after painter in 17^th century France.”

“Let’s search it,” Sarah perked up. “Maybe this painting is worth a lot of money!”

“I’ll boot up the computer, but first, I’m going to call the locksmith. While the computer is warming up, we’ll eat the croissants Mr. Jones brought.” Danielle decided and covered the painting.

“Your ancient computer takes forever. You have to get a new one.”

“I know.” Danielle sighed. “I never had the money for it, but after the surge of customers, now I do.”

The locksmith said he’ll stop by before lunch and by the time the women finished breakfast, the ancient computer was ready for search. Danielle Googled the name of the artist and her jaw dropped when she clicked on the first website which popped up on her screen.

Sarah peeked over Danielle’s shoulder. “What? No way!” she shrieked and read the headline out loud. “The portrait of a noblewoman of the famous 17^th century artist was sold to a well know American art collector for ten million dollars.”

Danielle, not believing her eyes, backspaced and clicked on the next link. It was the auction website where the price of the painting was confirmed. She kept searching and found fifteen more paintings from the same artist that had been sold for similar amounts in the past ten years. “I have to tell Mrs. Van Bramer about this. She gave me the painting not knowing the possible value of it.”

“Wait a minute!” Sarah exclaimed. “What if that so-called expert knew the value of the painting and lied to Mrs. Van Bramer? I think he broke into the store. And what if she wants the painting back after she finds out how much it’s worth?”

“I’ll give it back to her, of course. She bought the house and found the painting in the hidden room; it belongs to her.”

“Nah-uh!” Sarah announced. “That’s not right. It belongs to the Couture family. I bet the old lady didn’t tell her relatives about the hidden room.”

“Or, maybe she didn’t even know about it. But you’re right; it had to be a member of the family who hid the painting in the secret room. It belongs to them. I’m going to finish cleaning the signature part to be sure, and then I’ll call Mrs. Van Bramer.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sarah decided. “I’m gonna go home to change but I’ll come back around one o’clock to bring you lunch.”

CONTINUE READING

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a cozy mystery

The Mystery at Love’s Manor

D.W. Thompson

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 it was 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 needing 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 was a firm believer in my vivid imagination.

As I poured my first cup of the day, the phone rang, 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 the time 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.

My recently purchased cottage on the outskirts of Newtowne was seven miles from the farm. The home place was a sprawling acreage with a creek bed running along one border and a pond at the bottom of the hill from the main house—what some called Love’s Manor. Many of those same folks claimed the place was haunted. At times when I lived there, hearing the scratching in the walls and the bumps in the night, I almost believed the stories to be true. Locals claimed the hauntings were from the deaths occurring in the house over the past century—not least of which were my parents, my older sister, Maya, and her best friend, Jessie. Others widened its haunted origins to include the entire town. These candidates included Benjamin Hance, the young black man who was lynched on June 17, 1887, for allegedly attempting to assault a white woman. An even older tragedy was that of the legendary witch, Moll Dyer, whose cabin was set ablaze on the coldest night of the winter of 1697 by village vigilantes. Moll froze to death. It is rumored she still roams the area and wishes to reclaim the lands she once walked. I put little stock in such things. It wasn’t the supernatural that had pushed me away from my ancestral home, nor was it the reason for my return.

The half-mile driveway followed the contour of old tobacco fields—now covered with stubble from this year’s crop of soybeans. Not much appeared to have changed in the years I was away. Driving past the pond, I smelled the honeysuckle vines, and an unexpected tear slid down my cheek.

“Miss you always, Maya,” I said to the ghost of my sister claimed at Love’s Manor.

Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the trees as the Bronco sputtered up the hill toward the house. Cops were everywhere. Three squad cars and a lone ambulance were parked in front of the house.

The car groaned as I slapped it into Park and raced to the house to beat the rain. Daniel met me, holding the front door open.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

“Emma, it’s Gwen. I don’t know what’s happened. The house was broken into, and she’s nowhere to be found.”

“What’s Sheriff Wathen saying?”

“Just what I told you. The glass in the side door was broken, and that’s how they got in. There’s no note from Gwen saying she was going anywhere, and if she was taken against her will, there’s nothing from the kidnappers.”

“The sheriff thinks she was kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what he thinks, but he suspects me of something, the way he’s putting me through the third degree. That’s why I called you. You’re a private investigator now, right? You passed your test?”

“Where were you and Maria when the house was broken into? You didn’t hear anything?”

“No, but we weren’t in the house, Emma. Maria can vouch for that. She heard me driving the tractor to check on the cover crop in the backfield. I offered to take her along as Gwen suggested. She said a break from Nana might be good for her, but Maria wanted to weed Nana’s flower bed. She said she’d promised her.”

“When was this?”

“Last evening. I got back around dusk and parked the tractor in the barn. Maria was still in the backyard in the flower beds. We came in together through the back and went up to check on Nana. She was agitated about something, but I couldn’t make much sense of it and didn’t pay her much mind. You know how she gets. After I calmed her down, I went to bed. Gwen wasn’t there, but she often stays up late. She curls up by the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book. I tried to wait up for her, but I must’ve passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up this morning, and she wasn’t in bed. I went through the house calling for her. That’s when I saw the broken glass.”

“So, after you came home, you never saw her before you went to bed?”

“No, I told you—”

“Have they found anything yet?”

“They found blood on a broken necklace outside in the grass, Emma. The clasp snapped like it was ripped from her neck. It was the one I gave Gwen on her birthday last year.” Daniel’s face was pale, bloodless, and his eyes swollen.

“Deep breaths, brother,” I said.

“Right. So, did you pass your test? Did you get everything unpacked in the new place?”

“I did, and I have. Thanks.”

“What do you think happened to her, Emma?”

“I don’t know, but here comes the sheriff. Maybe he found something new.”

“He’s been grilling Maria for the last hour as if she would know anything…”

Sheriff Wathen stepped toward us. His footfalls were as silent as our father taught us to be when stalking game, like a true predator. John Wathen was Daniel’s age, but young to be sheriff—even in a community as small as ours. It helped that he ran unopposed in the last election and that his family went back as far as ours. His ancestors were also passengers on the Ark at Maryland’s beginning. They’d lost some local standing in recent times over a scandal involving his younger brother Robert and drugs. The family’s wealth and social standing meant Robert got off with less than a slap on the wrist, but it did rub some muck on the family’s name. I heard Robert was running for County Commissioner next year. He’d probably win too.

“Emma,” the sheriff said. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I felt his nails dig in through my sweatshirt. He twisted me around to face him.

“How have you been, girl? I’ve heard good things.”

“I’m doing well, Sheriff.” I grabbed his hand, lifted it off my shoulder, and dropped it as if it were repulsive, rotted flesh. I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“Same old Emma, I see.”

The sheriff smiled as if it hurt his face, and his jowls shook at the effort. He was a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of man and kept his dark receding locks slicked back like he owned stock in several hair products. His girth had grown proportionate to his arrogance since I’d last seen him.

“Congratulations on winning the election, Sheriff. Do you have any clues about what happened to my sister-in-law? This isn’t like her at all.”

“I’m hoping your brother can help me with that. What do you say, Mr. Love? Would you like to chat here or back at the Newtowne station?”

 

****

 

I knew better than to ask the sheriff’s permission to sit in on the “chat,” AKA interrogation. There was bad blood between our families as far back as anyone could remember. My school years with the younger Wathen brother, Robert, did nothing to dissuade me from my family’s low opinion of the clan.

Deputy Sam Mattingley (yes, that same Sammy Mattingley—he of ice cube notoriety) was a different story altogether. Sam was a tall lanky man with a face full of freckles and an aww-shucks way about him. Despite our childhood pranks on each other, we became good friends over time. It only took a wink and a smile, and Sam had a chair set up for me just outside of the door. I could hear every word…

The sheriff started slow, and I’ll give him the credit due—he knew how to get an interviewee to open up.

“Can you give me a description of your wife, Mr. Love? Or a picture for our case file? I knew her, of course, but a detailed description with any unusual identifying features, that sort of thing, would be helpful.”

“Okay. Gwen is five foot, five inches tall, and weighs about a hundred thirty pounds. I know because she was just saying the other night that she’d gained a few pounds and needed to go on another one of her crazy fad diets. She has shoulder-length wavy black hair. Two weeks ago, she had two pink streaks put in the front of her hair at Brandy’s beauty parlor out on Route 235. She said it framed and accentuated her face or something. I thought it was a little strange at first, but it looks good on her. She has a small mole at the base of her neck that she wants Doc Johnson to look at on her next appointment. The only other thing is a birthmark. Where I won’t say…”

“It could be important, Mr. Love, if we need to identify…Never mind. We’ll let that go for now. Mr. Love, what do you think happened to your wife?”

“I wish I knew, Sheriff. I’m afraid for her. There’s the blood on the necklace, and her purse is still here. I think she’s been taken.”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mr. Love. Ordinarily, we wait twenty-four hours to follow up on a missing person’s case when it’s an adult, but for now, at least, her disappearance appears to be involuntary. I understand your pain, Mr. Love, and we’ll do everything in our power to find her. I’d like to monitor your phones in case any ransom demands are made. Is there anything else the sheriff’s office can do for you during this horrible time? I know, I know—catch the perp—but would you like a police presence at night, for instance? You know, to keep an eye on the place? I can spare a deputy…”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“That’ll be fine then. Mr. Love, besides the broken door glass, did you notice anything else different in the house this morning?”

“No, except my wife wasn’t anywhere to be found. Otherwise…wait, there was a half-empty glass of milk on the kitchen counter. That wasn’t unusual for her though. Do you think she got up in the middle of the night and that’s when they nabbed her?”

“It is certainly possible. How long have you known Miss Maria Clements?” “A year or so, maybe. She was recommended by a family friend. Honestly, we couldn’t ask for a better live-in companion for Nana. Maria’s been a godsend. She sees to all of Nana’s needs…and our grandmother can be a handful in her condition. Why do you ask?”

“Did she get along well with your wife? Any tension between the two of them? You know what they say about two women not being able to live peacefully in the same house. Was there anything like that?”

“No. They got along well.”

“I’m surprised. Miss Clements is quite a looker. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and you know how women can be. Young Deputy Abell got all tongue-tied when she opened the door this morning. Young and shapely, yes sir…not that your wife wasn’t a lovely woman herself. But no jealousy there at all?”

“No, Sheriff, and I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“So, she’s just an employee of your family? Nothing more? Ever tempted to stray a bit, Mr. Love? Nobody could hardly blame you.”

I heard my brother’s sharp intake of breath and a soft growling sound. The sound he learned to make to control his ill temper. “No, I have not. What are you implying, John?”

“Well. It’s just that the both of you live here but were conveniently absent when the break-in occurred and you’re each the other’s alibi.”

“My wife is missing, Sheriff. There’s nothing convenient about this situation. Is that all or is there another bee in your bonnet?”

“I reckon that’s about it for now. You know what they  say  in  the  movies,  Mr.  Love—‘don’t  leave town.’ ”

I heard the sheriff’s chair scrape against the floor. I gestured to Sam to grab mine before the sheriff cleared the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Love,” the sheriff said. “Did you know Miss Clements has a police record? Seems she was picked up over in Chapman County for prostitution ten years ago.”

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.

Book Friday: The Worthless Painting

 The Worthless Painting

EBOOK 

AUDIOBOOK

I was watching the Musketeers series and my mind wandered off. I imagined a painter in France in the 14th century whose painting ends up forgotten in a family's closet in America. What if this painting would be found and after lots of confusion would bring two people together?

Small-town cozy mystery novelette.

Danielle’s life spins out of control when the snobbish new owner of the Couture mansion brings a seemingly worthless painting into her antique shop. The ownership of the painting is questionable, and the town’s future is threatened by the plans of the ruthless, rich owner. An unexpected visitor arrives, and he may possess the much-needed solution to everyone’s problems.

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AUDIOBOOK

Posted by Erika M Szabo

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com