Dying to Remember Read online

  “It must be a neighbor. Whoever it is will think it’s strange if I don’t answer my door.”

  “You’re not at home. You went out. People do that from time to time.”

  The doorbell rang again. “Kate?” I heard Emily call. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Is that your pesky next-door neighbor?” St. Peter asked.

  “Emily. My friend.”

  St. Peter took a step forward. “Open your door.”

  “No.”

  Her hand moved on her gun. “Open your door, let her in. Now.”

  “What, so you can kill us both? You’re going to kill me anyway. You expect me to invite my friend in?”

  “Kate?” Emily shouted. She knew I was at home. I wouldn’t have left without telling her. Her electrician had come and gone, and she’d made her second phone call to Frank Pelletier. She had new information to pass along.

  “Open the door now,” St. Peter threatened. “All I want to do is convince you to shut up. Both of you. Then I’ll leave, and we’ll all get on with our lives.”

  She thought I was an idiot. That was the only explanation. To keep her off balance, I changed tack. “Why did you kill Ray? That sweet, kind man.”

  “I keep telling you, I’m the cleaner. Foley’s the muscle. He shouldn’t have killed him, but what’s done is done. He said the old guy called 911 but he ripped the phone out of his hands. Then he knew he had to act fast, so he stood behind old Ray and pressed a plastic bag into his face. And why do you think Nick did that—I mean, honestly?” She threw back her head. “This was quiet, dead and over, until that fool started writing about it. He caused his own death. It’s his fault.”

  Emily banged on the door. “Kate, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  “Everything was fine,” St. Peter said. “Everything was peaceful, we were all going about our own business in a merry fashion until that crazy old man—”

  “If he was crazy—if everyone thought he was crazy—what were you worried about?”

  St. Peter was silent for a moment, glaring at me, gnawing at her lower lip. “Rancourt,” she said at last. “He never let Williams go. He’s one of those cops. Has to tie up every loose end. Every year about this time he’d go through the case files again.”

  “Only he never saw Ray’s true statement.”

  The door banging stopped.

  The inside of my mouth was like cotton, my lips were sticking to my teeth, and my legs were so wobbly they trembled. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand there, waiting for St. Peter to make her move. What would I do if her gun came out of her holster?

  “So Rancourt’s one of the good cops,” I said.

  “He makes twenty thousand more a year than I do.”

  “You’re sick. Murder for money. Two innocent people dead because you wanted money.” My hands went to my mouth. I thought I would choke.

  St. Peter slipped the gun from her holster. “You think you’re so—”

  That’s all that came out of her mouth, because an instant later Minette charged for the sergeant’s face.

  St. Peter screamed like a banshee, tumbled backward, and discharged her gun, the round hitting the ceiling. A second later Detective Rancourt burst through the back door and tackled her to the floor.

  Feeling faint, I dropped to a kitchen chair, but not before using my last ounce of strength to wave Minette from the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Brewer?” Rancourt said.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I told Rancourt as he handcuffed St. Peter.

  “Kate? I heard a gun.”

  I looked up. A distraught yet relieved Emily was at my back door.

  “Stay outside for a minute,” I told her, trying to catch my breath.

  I heard sirens out on Birch Street, and soon after, Officer Bouchard and another officer whose name I didn’t know were escorting Sergeant St. Peter out my front door. Poor out-of-shape Detective Rancourt grimaced his way out of my kitchen, massaging an arm and a rib or two. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

  Emily came in from the back door, staring in wonder at the bullet hole in my ceiling. “Holy cow. Oh, Kate.”

  “How did Rancourt get here?” I asked her.

  “I called the police a minute ago,” she began.

  “He got here that fast?”

  “No, the station told me he was on the way. He’d already called for backup. When I walked around to your back door, he was there, creeping up the steps, trying to be quiet.”

  “Not quiet enough,” I said.

  “St. Peter heard him?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head and smiling. “The timing couldn’t have been better.”

  “I’ll say. Rancourt gave me a look that said Get out of here, lady, so I did. Two seconds later, boom! He was busting down your door.”

  “Oh, Emily, I’m shaking.” I lowered my head in my hands.

  “Tea,” she said firmly. “I’m making herbal tea, nice and hot. You stay right there. Take deep breaths.”

  I heard knocking on my open front door, and Rancourt asking if he could come in. We were past the point of formality and graciousness, but I appreciated his courtesy.

  “Come in, Detective. Please. How did you get here so fast?”

  “After I left your house, I called the station to see where St. Peter was. They couldn’t raise her on the radio, so I drove around to Elm Street and saw her squad car parked. She wasn’t in it.” He sat across from me at the table, studying me for a moment before he asked, “How are you?”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m just a little wobbly. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

  “St. Peter said Nick killed Alana and Ray, and she was involved with transporting cocaine using the nursery.”

  “Yup. Nick is being arrested as we speak.”

  “You must be relieved.”

  A faint smile crossed his lips. “I’m glad to put this to rest. I’m only sorry I couldn’t help Ray Landry.”

  “You’ve helped Alana’s parents. They no longer have to wonder who killed their daughter.”

  “St. Peter is spilling it all,” Rancourt said. “She’s talking like a drunken parrot. In fact, she’s ranting about being attacked by a giant pink bee with a human face. She said she was taking her gun from her holster when this dinosaur-sized insect came out of nowhere and flew right for her face. She’s shaking like leaf.”

  “Really?” I said. “How odd. I almost feel sorry for her. It sounds like she’s losing her grip on reality.”

  “A giant pink bee?” Emily said. “What’s wrong with the woman? Of course, murderers are unstable to begin with, aren’t they?”

  “Yup, yup.” Rancourt groaned his way to his feet.

  “You should go to the hospital,” I said.

  Emily chimed in, saying, “You look awful, Detective.”

  “Thank you, ladies. I think. Mrs. Brewer, would you mind coming to the station tomorrow for a statement? Of if you’d rather, I could come here. I know the Pumpkin Festival is tomorrow, so . . .”

  “Yes, I have a giant pumpkin to carve.” I shot Emily a grin. “But I’ll come downtown. It’s not a problem.”

  I glanced at the hutch and then into the living room, but Minette had vanished for the moment—probably up the flue. She was one resourceful little creature. And she, along with Detective Rancourt, had saved my life.

  “If you’re sure,” Rancourt said.

  “I’ll be there about ten o’clock,” I replied.

  And right after that, I thought, I’ll do a little shopping. Pick up a few things. I knew a lovely little store downtown that sold real maple syrup from southern Maine. I’d buy a jug of the stuff. It was the least I could do.

  DEAD AND BURIED

  SMITHWELL FAIRIES COZY MYSTERY BOOK 2

  DEAD AND BURIED CHAPTER 1

  SNEAK PEEK

  On the whole, I was a sensible woman. A little jumpy and sleep-deprived since the death of my husba
nd, Michael, eleven months earlier, but other than that, quite ordinary. An ordinary fifty-year-old in the ordinary town of Smithwell, which was smack dab in the middle of ordinary central Maine. No harbors or quaint coastal villages here. So when I’d first encountered Minette the fairy a few weeks ago, sitting in a teacup in my hutch, I figured I’d lost my mind.

  I hadn’t.

  But three weeks on, I was still filled with wonder whenever I saw her. In October she had spent some nights away from my house—I was never sure where she went—but now she was here all the time, safe from the cold rains that afflicted this part of Maine every November. At night she made her bed in her favorite teacup, the bottom of which I’d lined with cotton balls, and most mornings I made her breakfast, though sometimes she ventured into the woods across from my house on Birch Street to dine on tender roots, reindeer moss, and wild radishes. She declared the latter a delicacy.

  This November morning, she sat atop my kitchen table eating breakfast with me, nibbling at a tiny square of buttered toast and sipping maple syrup from a small measuring spoon while I finished my eggs and tea. I enjoyed her company. In my mind, I likened her presence to having a talking pet in the house—a comparison that would have offended her greatly.

  She wasn’t Michael, of course, but it was astonishing how calming the companionship of another living creature could be. My insomnia was fading fast, as were my bad dreams, just knowing Minette slept in my hutch at night. Trouble was, no one else knew she existed. Not even my next-door neighbor and dearest friend, Emily MacKenzie. And having to keep mum about this flying, talking being in my house had led to some dicey situations. More than a few times I’d had to shield Minette from Emily’s view until the tiny fairy could shoot up the fireplace and out of sight. No doubt Emily was giving thought to my mental health.

  I took a drink of almond oolong tea, staring at Minette over the rim of my Wedgwood cup. “What would you say about me telling Emily that you live here?”

  She gazed up at me, her green eyes alight. “No, Kate.”

  Heaving a sigh, I set down my cup. The secrecy was wearing on me. “You know she would never hurt you.”

  “Yes, I know.” Minette stood—all four inches of her—her blush-colored wings bending backward, balancing her body as she moved. “Someone is walking to your door.” A second later, she flapped her wings forward, went horizontal, and flew for my hutch, landing in her teacup.

  “This is just what I mean. You have to hide, even if it’s Emily.” I rose from the table and started for my front door, telling her we’d talk about the matter later.

  A few feet from the door, I paused, listening for the bell. Minette’s hearing was extraordinary—like all fairies’ hearing, she’d told me. I had to slow my responses to what she heard in order to keep tongues from wagging. Have you noticed how Kate Brewer opens her front door before you even knock? It’s downright spooky.

  When the bell rang, I strode to the door and found Emily staring open-mouthed at me, a glazed, holy-cow look in her eyes.

  “You’re freezing,” I said, waving her inside.

  “No, I’m not.”

  I leaned on the doorjamb. “I saw Laurence leave early this morning. Where’s he off to this time? Liberia? Croatia?”

  “England.” She took a deep breath. “Kate.”

  I straightened. “What’s wrong? Is it Laurence?”

  She shook her head, and lifting her right arm, she pointed at her house. “There a body behind my house.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  She wasn’t kidding. Emily didn’t play pranks, anyway, but standing on my doorstep, she looked shell-shocked and not at all in the mood for kidding around. “Hang on a sec. Let me get my coat.”

  I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed my coat from a chair, and as I slipped my arms in the sleeves, Minette floated down from the hutch and dropped inside my right pocket. “No, not a good idea,” I said.

  “What was that?” Emily asked.

  I looked up just as she peered around the corner of the foyer. “Never mind, I’m talking to myself. Coming.”

  There was no time to argue with Minette, as she was now tucked away at the bottom of my pocket and Emily was looking at me squint-eyed, as though I really needed to get a grip on this talking-to-myself thing, a habit I’d fallen into after Michael died.

  We took off down the flagstone path that Michael had cleverly laid between our two houses a decade ago. Although we were next-door neighbors, our homes were half an acre apart, and because we lived at the top of a broad, gently sloping hill, there were no sidewalks in the area.

  Emily led me through her house and paused at the back door, her hand on the doorknob. “She’s lying face-down, and she’s all . . . I’ll show you.”

  As soon as she pushed the door open, I caught sight of the body. It was a woman, or appeared to be. Short and slim, she wore jeans and an olive-colored barn jacket, and from the top of her head to the soles of her boots, she was covered in dirt.

  “See what I mean?”

  “She’s right here,” I said, “practically at your back door.” I headed down the two back steps and then hesitantly approached the woman. “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  Refusing to budge from the bottom step, Emily said, “Her face is in the grass and she hasn’t moved since I saw her five minutes ago.”

  “This is awful.” I crouched next to the body. “Ma’am?” Putting aside my squeamishness, I touched my fingers to the inside of the woman’s left wrist. Nothing—not a flicker of life—and she was as cold as the morning air.

  “She’s dead?” Emily asked.

  I nodded.

  “There’s dirt all over her.”

  When I bent closer to the woman, looking for signs of injury, I saw a patch of blood crusted in her brown hair, almost hidden by the collar of her jacket.

  “Why is she here?” Emily said.

  “That’s a very good question.” I stood. “Do you know who she is? Can you tell?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Did you look closely?”

  “This is as close as I’m getting, Kate. She was buried and someone dug her up.”

  “Huh?” I pulled my eyes from the woman and trained them on Emily.

  “Someone dug a body from a grave and put it in my back yard.”

  “No,” I said in my most commanding don’t-be-ridiculous voice. “They don’t bury people in their barn jackets, and even if they did, they wouldn’t dump them straight in the ground. There are things called caskets.”

  “Oh. Right. Of course.”

  “Anyway, she has an injury behind her left ear. I think she was hit with something.”

  “Are you telling me she was murdered?”

  I heard a tiny peep from my pocket but kept my eyes on Emily. “Maybe. You need to call the police.”

  “What am I going to tell them when they ask me why she’s here?”

  “The truth. Are you sure you’ve never seen her before?”

  Emily took three small steps forward. “Well, her face is in the grass, so . . .”

  “What about her hair and clothes? If you come closer, you can see a little of her face from where I’m standing.” I threw my hand out. “No, on second thought, don’t come any closer. If she was murdered, I’m making a mess of the crime scene right now.” I backed away, straight out to my right, and then circled well around the woman until I was once again by Emily and the steps.

  “This is crazy,” she said, her fingers to her lips. “I wish Laurence hadn’t left this morning.”

  “Call him after you call the police.”

  “No, he’s taking off for London at any moment. There’s nothing he can do except worry.”

  To my surprise, Emily took a step toward the woman.

  “Don’t go any closer,” I said. “You might destroy evidence. Actually, we should get inside your house right now. Emily?”

  My friend was riv
eted in place, staring down at the body, scowling. “That watch. The pink face on it.”

  “Yes, I see.” On the woman’s right wrist was a watch with a bright pink face and black hands. “What about it?”

  Emily shrank back.

  “Come on, out of the cold.” I tugged at the sleeve of her black sweater.

  “It gets worse,” she said, turning her eyes to me.

  “How can it get worse than a body in your yard?”

  My lighthearted remark did not cheer her.

  “I know her, Kate. I’ve seen that pink watch before. She was buried. I saw her.”

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  If you enjoyed Dying to Remember, would you consider leaving a review on Amazon? Nothing fancy, just a sentence or two. Your help is appreciated more than I can say. Reviews make a huge difference in helping readers find the Smithwell Fairies Cozy Mystery Series and in allowing me to continue to write the series. I couldn’t do it without your help. Thank you so much!

  MORE BOOKS BY KARIN KAUFMAN

  JUNIPER GROVE MYSTERY SERIES

  Death of a Dead Man

  Death of a Scavenger

  At Death’s Door

  Death of a Santa

  Scared to Death

  Cheating Death

  Death Trap

  Death Knell

  Garden of Death

  Death of a Professor

  CHILDREN’S BOOKS (FOR CHILDREN AND ADULTS)

  The Adventures of Geraldine Woolkins

  ANNA DENNING MYSTERY SERIES

  The Witch Tree

  Sparrow House

  The Sacrifice

  The Club

  Bitter Roots