Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Read online

  “Watch your step,” Paxton said. “It hasn’t been mowed.” He moved toward the greenhouse, through wet emerald grasses speckled with tiny white daisies, around patches of mud cleft by rain furrows.

  “So someone in the group let Kurt Ellison in?” Anna said.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning his head to the side. “My dad must have known who, but I never pressed the subject and he never told me.”

  “Not even decades later?”

  She saw Paxton’s shoulders rise in a shrug. “The whole subject was taboo with him. He had this naive dream of starting a movement, and it fell apart when Ellison died.”

  “If the police declared Ellison’s death an accident in 1970, how did the murder rumors start?”

  “That’s the question.” He stopped at the greenhouse door and looked at her. “The rumors started immediately. I don’t believe in ghosts, but neither do I believe Ellison’s death was an accident.” He pointed at one of the two stone lions sitting on either side of the door, their regal manes flowing as though the stone mason had carved them in an instant, in the breadth of a wind gust. “These are original too.”

  Corroded with rust, dandelions crowding its threshold, the door opened only after Paxton, gripping its handle with both hands, wrenched it open. “The frame is original,” he said, leading the way. “Most of the glass has been replaced over the years—what’s left of it.”

  Streaks of rain rippled the glass panes, creating a watery portrait of the world outside. A brick planter, one side of it forming an outside wall, ran the length of the greenhouse, and on the other side was a twelve-foot pot-strewn wooden shelf, half rotted with age.

  Paxton reached down and plucked a tall weed that had thrust up through the pea-gravel floor. He examined it briefly then tossed it to the shelf. “I’ve always wondered if the police weren’t involved in a cover-up.”

  “Is that what your dad thought?” Chilled by the damp air, Anna wrapped her arms around her chest.

  “Everyone who was there thought Ellison was murdered, but the police called it an accident and shut down the investigation. Why?”

  “Why don’t those people call for the case to be reopened?”

  “They were probably like my dad. They wanted to forget about it and get away. Now most of them are dead.”

  Anna noticed something carved into the shelf, partly hidden under a salt-crusted clay pot. She pushed the pot aside, revealing a circle separated into sections, like a sliced pie, and filled with intricate carvings. She’d seen circles like this before.

  “A mandala,” Paxton said, moving in for a closer look. “How about that.”

  “It’s not a fresh carving. From the 1970s maybe?” she said, giving him a smile.

  “I’ll bet my dad carved that. You know what mandalas are?”

  “A combination of art and meditation aid, aren’t they?”

  “Basically, yeah. Very hippie.” He sighed, lost in reverie.

  A noise, something like the roar of a bear, pierced the silence of the greenhouse.

  “What was that? The storm?” Paxton looked to the roof, waiting for rain to strike the few remaining glass panes, his face a mask of irritation.

  “It didn’t sound like thunder.”

  Again the sound, louder, closer.

  “No, it’s not.” Paxton bolted for the open door and stood outside the greenhouse, listening.

  “Someone get help!” a man shouted. “Get an ambulance!”

  Paxton dashed for the driveway, Anna on his heels. When he reached the grass on the opposite side of the drive, he spun and signaled her to stay. “Wait here until I find out what’s going on.” He shot across the lawn, heading toward the carriage house until another shout sent him sprinting south, then disappeared from sight behind a forsythia hedge.

  It thundered again and raindrops spattered against Anna’s glasses and onto her bare arms. She couldn’t stand here in the rain—or worse, lightning. Not in the Colorado high country, where lightning strikes were common.

  She marched up the drive and mounted the front steps. When no one answered her knock, she turned the doorknob and let herself in. The door was so heavy she wondered how it managed to stay on its hinges and not come crashing down, taking the door frame with it. She shut it and, using the trick she’d seen Bee employ, pushed on it until it snapped.

  “What’s going on? Where’s Paxton?”

  Anna wheeled back to see Bee glaring at her. The door—opening and closing it—fell under her authority, and she let Anna know as much with a steely gaze.

  “Outside.” Anna pointed an unsteady finger in the direction of the forsythia hedge behind which Paxton had vanished. The grandness of the house was making her nervous, and she felt distinctly unwelcome in Bee’s presence. “We heard someone yelling for an ambulance.”

  “What on earth?” Bee sprinted to the door and pried it open just as Paxton was heading up the steps.

  “Call an ambulance, Bee. Devin’s unconscious and we can’t wake him.”

  Bee cut across the entryway and veered to the right of the staircase and down a hallway, her stride quick but constrained in her effort to keep her heels from slipping on the marble.

  “What happened?” Nilla asked. Standing in the doorway of the sitting room, hands to her chest, she stared open-mouthed at Paxton.

  “Mitch found him in the lily garden. He looks like he’s been there a while.”

  Nilla’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “That’s why no one could find him.” Paxton looked bewildered. It was incomprehensible to him that someone was lying unconscious—ill or worse—on his property, and the thought appeared to paralyze him.

  “Should we bring him in?” Nilla said.

  “No, we shouldn’t move him.” The act of making that simple decision propelled him forward and he sprang to action. “We need blankets. He’s soaking wet.”

  “Blankets,” Nilla repeated, hurrying into the sitting room.

  Paxton turned to Anna. “Could I ask you to move your car? I want to make sure the EMTs have plenty of room and don’t get stuck in the mud.”

  “Yes, of course.” She moved for the door, stopping as her hand took hold of the knob. “I’ll just go, get out of the way. I’ll pick up Liz and come back later.”

  “Good idea.” He looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “No, please, it’s all right.” She tugged the door open just as Nilla arrived in the entryway with an armful of blankets. Paxton scooped them from her arms, trotted down the front steps, and headed out across his lawn.

  4

  Anna pulled to the curb just outside the Sparrow House entrance gate and turned on her cell phone. She had two text messages, both from Liz. Could they meet at the Buffalo Café? Liz wondered. She had something to give Anna.

  Anna texted back and discovered that Liz was already at the Buffalo, the coffee shop with the stuffed buffalo named Cody outside its front door—and Liz’s unofficial office. Good. She could meet with Liz, ask her if she wanted to help with the Birch family tree, and pick up a much-needed cup of coffee. Three birds with one stone.

  The chill morning air made her shiver, and though she hadn’t seen the groundskeeper’s assistant, the image of him unconscious on the lawn, soaked to the bone, was vivid in her mind. Had he fainted and hit his head? Worse? She said another prayer for him and pulled from the curb.

  Driving south on Aspen Road, she mentally ticked off the tasks she needed to attend to before she drove back to Sparrow House. Pack a suitcase. Get Jackson. Jackson’s food. Tell Gene.

  She smiled. It still took her by surprise, like the sudden appearance of a mountain peak through a break in the ponderosas. There was someone to tell. Someone who thought about her. Someone to worry if she packed and went off somewhere without saying anything.

  She’d met Gene just before last Christmas, two years after her husband Sean’s death in an accident on Highway 34. In the four and a half months since then, Gene had spen
t most of his waking hours running Buckhorn’s Trading Post in Elk Park and trying to sell his house in Loveland—and driving the hour-plus commute between the two. Buckhorn’s was doing well, the house sale wasn’t. In the sour economy, no one was buying.

  The new leaves on the cottonwoods along Aspen Road and Black Bear Road shone deep green in the aftermath of the rain. Anna rolled the window down an inch. Water from the morning’s showers dripped from the trees and ran along the curbs, sweetening the air. The smell of spring rain was intoxicating. In the Colorado mountains and foothills every drop of rain in May was precious. It might not rain again until the short monsoon season in mid-July.

  Anna made a left onto Summit Avenue, Elk Park’s main street, and began the hunt for a parking place. In winter it was easy to find a spot, but in May, as tourists from the flatlands began their annual migration into the mountains, finding a place to park grew increasingly difficult. From June to August, Anna avoided parking downtown altogether.

  A block east of the Buffalo she spotted a Ford truck leaving the curb, raced up behind it, and nosed into the vacant space. A heavy mist blew against the windshield, fogging it with moisture the moment she clicked off the windshield wipers. She grabbed her purse and fished under the passenger seat for a manila folder. Umbrella, she thought. She’d have to add that to her list of things to take to Sparrow House.

  Once inside the café’s doors, Anna shook rain from the folder and scuffed her shoes on the welcome mat. Looking to the far end of the narrow café, she spotted Liz Halvorsen at a small table, her laptop open, her eyes riveted, as always, to the screen.

  Behind the counter near the back of the café, Grace Bell, the Buffalo’s owner, was steaming milk. Anna longed for one of Grace’s cappuccinos—better yet, a caramel macchiato—but her budget wouldn’t allow. “Is that for me?” she said, sliding up to the counter.

  Grace turned her head, grinning broadly as she continued to work the milk into a froth. “Where’s Jackson?”

  “Good morning to you too. It’s Jackson you prefer, isn’t it?” Anna said.

  “It’s Jackson my Suka prefers. They haven’t played in a week. Where have you been?”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Black coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Grace poured foamy milk into a wide-mouthed cup, sprinkled the foam with cinnamon, and made her way, cup in hand, around the counter. “Hang on a minute,” she said as she passed Anna on her way to a table near the window. She grappled with her bib apron, which was riding up her somewhat plump hips and bunching at her waist.

  “Do you deliver now?” Anna asked as Grace returned to the counter. “You always make me pick up at the counter.”

  Grace tossed her head in the direction of the table. “I deliver to her.” She leaned across the counter and whispered, “She broke her foot last week. A car ran over it in the parking lot of the Safeway.”

  Anna cringed. “Ouch. So you’re not instigating a new policy.”

  “Not at all. Which means,” she said, raising her chin and her voice, “you still have to travel all the way to the counter for refills.”

  Liz grinned, typed another few words, then looked to the counter. “Hi, Anna. Sorry, had to finish a post.” She pointed at her laptop.

  “I rue the day—” Grace began.

  “You got wireless for the Buffalo. Yes, we know.” Liz leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You love me lounging in here with my computer, advertising your wireless capabilities.”

  Grace rolled her eyes as she poured black coffee into a white cup. “Not when tourist season goes mad after Memorial Day I won’t. Taking up table space for two hours? No.” She gave Liz a knowing look and handed Anna her coffee.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Anna hooked her purse strap to her chair and sat across from Liz. She blew over the rim of her cup, cooling her coffee, then took a sip.

  Liz, still grinning at Grace, made a show of shutting off her laptop, her right hand floating downward, her index finger diving like a missile for the on-off button.

  “That’s better,” Grace said, swallowing a smile.

  Anna had seen the same ritual played out dozens of times. Grace, the mother hen, insisting that Liz stop work and smell the roses—or the coffee—and Liz, who after little more than a year had built ElkNews.com into the Elk Valley’s premier site for news and entertainment, ignoring her and working ceaselessly.

  Anna settled back in her seat, cradling the cup in her hands. “I’ve got news for you.”

  “Shoot, now I want a refill.”

  “You’re going to like this news,” Anna said, her eyes following Liz to the counter.

  Liz gave Grace her empty cup and tucked back a strand of dark hair that had escaped the clip perched at the back of her head. “I’ve got news for you, too,” she said, twisting back to Anna.

  “That’s your job, isn’t it?” Grace said, filling Liz’s cup. “To have news, I mean.”

  “Don’t mock your best customer.” Liz made a face and carried her cup back to the table. “You first, Anna.”

  Anna took a long, slow sip, lingering over the best cup of coffee in Elk Park, before she set her cup on the table and spoke. “You know how you’ve always wanted to see the inside of Sparrow House? Write an article about it?”

  “Yeess?” Liz said, stretching out the word, her eyes wide with suspense.

  “How would you like to stay there overnight?”

  “You’re kidding.” Liz lowered her cup to the table. “How? Why?”

  “I’ve been hired to do the Birch family tree—in record time, I should add—and I need your help.” She leaned toward Liz, crossing her arms on the table. “And thank you for recommending me. Paxton Birch just told me.”

  “He did ask if I knew anyone good.”

  “Well, this good genealogist hasn’t had a substantial job in weeks, so it’s come at just the right time.”

  “But why overnight? How did that happen?”

  Anna told Liz about Paxton’s dilemma and the nearly impossible four-day schedule. It would mean working long hours, she warned, and leaving for the mansion immediately, but Paxton had no problem with her writing articles about her stay—or any haunted details she wanted to add. In fact, he welcomed the publicity. And Sparrow House was wired for Internet.

  Liz didn’t blink. Visions of articles for her website danced in her head. “I can just see it. A whole series. ‘The Sparrow House Horror,’ ‘Encounter with Terror,’ ‘Night in the House of Death.’”

  “Liz . . .”

  “You’ve always said you believe in evil.”

  “Yes, but in people, not inanimate objects.”

  “What about disembodied evil? Aren’t there evil spirits?”

  Anna gave a mock shiver. “If you’re going to talk like that, you can’t come.”

  Liz held up three fingers in a Girl Scout salute. “I promise I’ll keep it to myself.” She dropped her hand. “Do I get paid?”

  “Of course.”

  “This is perfect. You know the Elk Park Herald started its own website last month.”

  “It’s not a very good site.”

  “Not yet it isn’t, but the paper has resources I don’t.” The smile disappeared from Liz’s face and worry crept into her voice. “They’re going after my advertisers, offering them lower rates if they’ll sign with them and stop advertising with me.”

  “Oh, Liz, I’m sorry.”

  “I lost an advertiser last week to that bird-cage liner. I was just starting to make a real profit—enough to help pay for Emily’s tuition in the fall.”

  Liz and her husband Dan were probably paying part of Emily’s rent in Colorado Springs too, Anna thought. Their daughter, who was working in a restaurant from late spring until school started again, couldn’t have been making sufficient money, especially for a city as expensive as the Springs. “Liz, you’re going to write a Sparrow House series that will blow those advertisers away, and the
y’ll pay double to come back.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” Liz shook her head. “I can’t go back to working in an office, not even part time. It would kill me. And that’s presuming anyone would hire me, which is doubtful.”

  Liz was a glass-half-full person, an eternal optimist, and in all the years she’d known her, the only other time Anna had seen her this dispirited was a year and a half ago, before she’d started her website and after she knew Emily would be attending college 150 miles from home.

  “You don’t need to look for a job,” Anna said. “God knew what He was doing when he put that bug in your ear about starting a website. You were meant to do this. How many people go to ElkNews.com now for real, unfiltered news?”

  A hint of a smile played on her lips. “I get far more hits than the Herald has subscribers.”

  “Just think of what you can do with four days at Sparrow House.”

  “A week’s worth of articles, maybe more.”

  “Will Dan object to losing you for that long?”

  Liz brightened at the change of subject. “We’ve both become very self-sufficient since Emily went off to college. It took most of her freshman year to adjust, but I think we’ve got it down.” She fiddled with her cup, pushing the handle back and forth. “As we slide inevitably toward our forties.”

  “You’re not there yet.”

  “Thirty-nine next month. Thirty-seven for you this fall, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re a ray of sunshine this morning.”

  Grace walked up to the table, coffee carafe in hand, and refilled Anna’s cup. “More, Liz?” she asked, the carafe suspended above the table.

  Liz spread her hand over her cup. “No, better not.”

  “I thought you didn’t deliver,” Anna said.

  Grace relaxed her arm. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You said something about Sparrow House. Are you working there?”

  “I was just hired to do the Birch family tree. They need it done quickly, so I’ll be staying overnight.” She tossed her head in Liz’s direction. “Both of us will.”