Bones and Brew

  Bones and Brew

  Copyright © 2019 Shirley Spain

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction.

  The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Email: AliceHolladayAuthor@gmail.com

  Website: https://AliceHolladayAuthor.weebly.com

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  Dedication

  For MY Ben

  Acknowledgements

  Writing, though seemingly a solitary task, actually requires the support of many.

  My wonderful husband, Curtis, is my biggest fan, an amazing content editor, and will gladly make dinner or vacuum the house to free up more time for me to write. I could not be living my dream as an author were it not for him.

  My beta readers are the BEST. My books are better because of their input and ability to find typos. THANK YOU!

  To the wonderful readers who send me delightful emails and write glowing book reviews, I can’t thank you enough. I write because writing is my passion. I write to entertain. I write for YOU!

  I am blessed and deeply humbled to have so many wonderful people in my life who accept me and love me despite my quirkiness. Hugs of appreciation to all of you.

  “Everyone thinks they have the best dog. And none of them are wrong.”

  – W.R. Purche

  Chapter One

  Wednesday Morning

  Hunted!

  BBOOM! BLOP!

  A spray of water splashed up as the bullet hit mere inches from the side of Louise’s rowboat.

  “He’s shooting at us!”

  “Woowf.” Ben nuzzled his snout under Louise’s armpit.

  “No time for loves now.” She pushed the dog aside, slapped the oars into the water, and gripped the handles. Rowing as if their lives depended on it, she propelled the boat toward the other side of the lake. The side opposite her cabins where she had parked her SUV.

  Louise knew the Tumble Lake mountain trails well, should she and Ben have to hoof the eight to ten miles back to town.

  That was the good news.

  The bad news, cell phone reception sucked around the lake. Or was nonexistent, which meant there was no way to call for help.

  Milt’s warning about the dangers of going to the lake alone hit her like the slap of a cold, wet towel across the face. She should have listened!

  Leg muscles burning, lungs aching, sweat rolling into her eyes, Louise rowed hard. So hard, she was running out of steam. Fast.

  Just when she thought their situation couldn’t get worse, the shooter climbed into one of the rowboats she kept at the cabin for renters. “He’s coming after us,” she shrieked, fear skyrocketing to panic.

  Ben nudged his nose against the back of her arm. “Woowf,” he softly barked, consoling her.

  Louise instantly calmed down, at least a tad, which was all she needed to keep her head on straight. “Thanks, Buddy. I needed that.” Ben’s nose-poke charged her energy. She picked up speed, rowing harder. Faster.

  The shooter kept pace.

  Finally, the boat hit the shallow water, jolting to an abrupt stop a stone’s throw from the shore.

  “Come on, Ben.” Louise jumped out of the boat and grabbed the oversized duffle bag packed with emergency supplies. She flung it over her shoulder and powered through the calf-deep water for the concealment of the woods.

  Louise ran along the rugged rocky trail as fast as her arthritic knees permitted. “Go … Ben,” she called out between heavy breaths. “Find … Milt … find Milt.”

  The hefty Labrador sprinted ahead, disappearing over a wooded ridge.

  Ben was smart. He knew what the word find meant and knew Milt. She prayed the dog would put the two words together and run to the trading post where Milt worked.

  She veered off the main trail. In anticipation of losing whoever was chasing her, she zigzagged through the woods.

  While picking her way along the deer trails, three crates lined up under a clump of quaking aspen trees caught her attention. “What in the world are those?”

  The boxes appeared coffin-sized. The blonde wood, not weathered gray, indicated recent construction. Someone had plans. Deadly plans.

  A wave of dread rolled over her. She slowed to a trot. Her mind ran wild.

  Was the corpse floating in the lake she and Ben discovered destined to fill one of the coffins? Were bodies already in the boxes? Or did they remain to be filled with victims yet to be murdered? Had a serial killer taken up residence in Tumble Lake … a serial killer who might be chasing her?

  There was no time to investigate the coffins. Despite her attempt to throw the shooter off her trail, the crackle of snapping twigs and thunder of pounding footsteps foretold he remained in hot pursuit.

  Unable to keep herself from glancing back at her pursuer, she craned her neck over her shoulder. The sight of the man—a man she recognized—took her off guard. She gasped. Did a double-take. Distracted, she failed to pay attention to her footing.

  “Ahhhhh,” she shrieked as the toe of her athletic shoe clipped a bulging root, catapulting her to the ground. The weight of the duffle bag threw her onto her right side. Her head smashed into a tree trunk.

  Vision blurred, head spinning, Louise continued to move, crawling along the narrow trail on her hands and knees.

  “You weren’t supposed to be at the lake this morning,” the man growled. He grabbed her arm and yanked her rearward with such force her back slammed against the front of his legs.

  “Uuummph,” she groaned, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

  He dropped to his knees behind her and engulfed her neck in the crook of his thick arm. Clamping her head in a brutal chokehold, he squeezed. “You very well could have ruined the entire op.”

  Unable to breathe, her windpipe on the verge of collapse, black panic consumed her. Thrashing her body about, kicking wildly, and madly clawing his arm, Louise fought for her life.

  But she was no match for the well-built man.

  An instant later, Louise lost consciousness.

  Chapter Two

  Two Days Earlier

  Monday Morning at the Store

  Louise restocked the personal-sized bug spray kept on a rack behind the only cash register in the general store. Rachel and Scott took over the management of the Tumble Lake Trading Post ten years ago. Since then, Louise hadn’t worked a regular shift cashiering at the combination store and diner Milt and she co-owned.

  She agreed to cover Rachel’s scheduled hours, from 7 a.m. to 1 p.m., Monday through Wednesday, until someone was hired to work the shift. Rachel and her husband, Scott, had recently adopted an infant. Rachel wanted more time to spend with the child, and Louise was happy to oblige.

  TING-A-LING. The sound of the old fashioned shopkeeper’s bell indicated someone had entered the establishment.

  The stench of sweaty armpits overpowered the delicious smell of freshly baked cookies wafting from the diner.

  Her back to the door, Louise ceased breathing through her nose. Without looking, she knew the distinctive malodor belonged to one of the men from the Barr clan. The survivalists didn’t believe in deodorant. Or changing clothes more than once a week. She spun around and recognized the stinker immediately. Pasting on a smile and hamming up a cheery tone, she greeted the pat
riarch of the Barr family. “Good morning, Porter.”

  “Whet-whew,” he whistled. “My heart be still!” Thrusting his grime-encrusted hands over his heart, he arched his back and acted like he was about to faint. “You look mighty fetching in that flowery pink top, Miss Louise.”

  “Thank you, Porter.” On the verge of puking, for more reasons than his repulsive body odor, Louise continued to breathe through her mouth while fidgeting with the low-cut scoop neckline of the semi-sheer blouse. Her trading post smock would have covered her somewhat revealing blouse, but she forgot to slip it on. Probably because she wasn’t used to working a regular shift.

  “Those bright pink stripes in your hair take me back to my childhood and remind me of a carnival.”

  A carnival? Not giving a bee’s behind whether she should take his comment as a compliment or insult, Louise flipped her fuchsia-streaked hair over her shoulder. “What brings you to town?”

  “A distant cousin’s here on vacation from Tennessee.” He tipped his head back toward the door and grunted. Clearly not pleased at the arrival of his company.

  Louise stretched her neck to look outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the visitor.

  Porter’s dual-wheel, four-door pickup consumed two parking spots. The bed sagged, almost touching the wheel wells. An army green tarp concealed something excessively heavy.

  Guns? Drugs? Tools? For all she knew, it could be rocks stolen from the local quarry. The Barrs were one of the few known criminal elements residing in Tumble Lake.

  Morton, one of Porter’s sons, had been recently released from prison. He spent two years behind bars for killing a man with his bare fist in a barroom brawl.

  Otherwise, poaching deer and committing retail thefts were the Barr’s primary offenses, at least those for which they had been caught. Perhaps because Porter was sweet on Louise, the Barrs never shoplifted from the trading post. However, the other small businesses in Tumble Lake hadn’t been as fortunate.

  Shortly after Tom had become Tumble Lake’s police chief, he arrested Porter. He allegedly kidnapped and raped a young woman who had been hiking around the lake. But the victim withdrew her complaint and refused to testify. She claimed to want to forget the attack and move on with her life. Tom suspected Porter had threatened her, but couldn’t prove it.

  About five years later, Tom arrested Porter again. That time for selling knock-off Rolex watches as the genuine article to gullible tourists. Pleading no contest, he was sentenced to two years probation and one-hundred hours of community service.

  Louise often wondered if Porter had killed Tom, if not personally, then masterminded the execution. Despite her suspicion, law enforcement never found any evidence to prove either way. Maybe if the murder weapon, a 12-gauge shotgun, had been found…

  The sun backlit the person sitting in the passenger seat of Porter’s truck, creating a silhouette and shrouding details about the cousin. She couldn’t see into the backseat where another person or two might be seated.

  “Is Preston with you?” Louise asked, speaking loud enough that Milt working in the kitchen diner could hear. Previous run-ins with Preston warranted concern. Milt’s help might be required to manage the cantankerous man.

  Dealing with Porter was one thing. But his eldest son, Preston, was another. Porter was Mother Teresa compared to Preston, who was bad to the bone. Of the entire Barr family, which operated more like a religious cult, Preston was the most dangerous. Mean, cold, and carrying a boulder-sized chip on his shoulder, encountering an angry rattlesnake would be more pleasant.

  “Nah,” Porter chuckled. “You know Preston. He wouldn’t win any Mr. Congeniality awards.”

  No argument from me. “How’s the rest of the family?” Louise inquired to be polite.

  “Fine. Everyone’s fine.” Porter stuffed his thumbs under the camo-patterned suspenders holding up his grungy blue jeans. “With our cousin visiting, we’re gonna party a little. So I need to pick up a couple cases of beer.”

  “You’re buying beer?” Louise could hardly believe her ears. The Barr’s home-brewed beverages had become a local tradition. During Tumble Lake Town Days in the fall, folks looked forward to swilling his beer. “What happened to the legendary Barr Brewery?”

  Porter puffed out his barrel chest and grinned ear to ear. His salt and pepper wizard-long beard looked like fuzzy mold growing around his red worm lips.

  His reaction indicated her use of the word legendary stroked his ego, just as Louise had intended. Although not interested in a friendship, she didn’t want to make an enemy of Porter Barr either.

  “We’re still steeping, fermenting, bottling, and aging. We have plenty of beer and plenty of varieties. But Dot prefers the lite beer and we don’t make any of that diet crap.”

  “Dot? Is that your cousin?”

  He nodded. “Says my beer would give her heartburn or some such gastrointestinal issue.”

  I have a gastrointestinal issue right now but my urge to vomit has nothing to do with beer and everything to do with your B.O.

  Resting his elbows on the counter, Porter bounced his bushy gray brows at Louise. “I came up with a new flavor. It’s sweet and spicy with a bit of a kick to it, kind of like you. That’s why I’m calling it, The Mayor.”

  Speechless, Louise didn’t know whether to feel flattered or horrified but leaned toward the latter.

  “Why don’t you come up to my place and sample it. Your opinion, and maybe even your endorsement, would mean a lot to me.”

  Your place? Louise couldn’t keep her eyes from pancaking. Porter lived on the other side of the lake in a rundown log cabin. Old tires held down faded blue tarps on sections of the roof she presumed leaked. Before his wife, Frita, walked out on Porter and the boys thirty years ago, the three-bedroom cabin was a well-kept home.

  “That’s a very generous offer, thank you, but I’ll have to pass. My doctor prescribed new medication that forbids the consumption of alcohol,” she fabricated off the cuff. Pulling a face as if bummed to decline his offer, she raised her thumb and index finger, indicating a small amount. “My doctor said even a shot glass-sized swallow of alcohol could throw me into cardiac arrest.”

  “Geez, Miss Louise!” Porter pushed back from the counter. “That’s one scary drug.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  TING-A-LING.

  Louise tilted her body to the side to peer around Porter.

  A middle-aged woman with long sandy blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail strolled in. Her high-profile baseball cap drew Louise’s attention.

  “Welcome to Tumble Lake,” she called out to the woman. “Love your California Raisin hat.”

  “Thanks. My grandmother collected those California Raisin characters that were popular in the 1980s.” She tugged on the brim of the faded purple ball cap. “Granny gave me this hat before she died about five years ago. It’s my good luck hat. I never leave home without it.”

  Porter grunted and speared his thumb over his shoulder at the woman. “This is my distant cousin, Dorothy Shumway.”

  She stepped up to the counter and extended her hand. “Call me, Dot. Everyone does.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dot.” Louise grinned, taking an instant liking to the woman. Couldn’t help but wonder how distant of a relation she was to Porter. Dot appeared far too classy, too sophisticated, and too free of unpleasant body odors to be related to the Barr family she knew. “I’m Louise, but everyone calls me, Lou.”

  “Almost everyone,” Porter corrected with a goofy grin. “She’s Miss Louise to me, the mayor of Tumble Lake and the most eligible and sexy widow in the state.” He flashed a snaggle-toothed smile and winked.

  Louise’s face burned with embarrassment. Wished she could shrink herself to the size of a gnat and buzz away. She cleared her throat. “So, Dot, how long will you be in town?”

  “Depends on how long he lets me hang around.” She smiled and nudged Porter’s arm with her elbow.

  Long-faced, Porter flatl
y said, “You know what they say about fish and house guests. After three days, they both start to stink.”

  The air thickened.

  Brows furrowed, Porter strolled back to the beer ice cave.

  Awkward.

  “Uh, if you need bug spray, we have all varieties.” Louise pointed to the rack behind her.

  “Oh, that would be great.” Dot dug into the back pocket of her skinny jeans and pulled out a money clip. “Why don’t you give me whatever bug spray you use.” She peeled a one-hundred-dollar bill off the top and set it on the counter. Another hundred dollar bill remained in the bulky clip.

  With credit and debit cards all the rage, Louise found it odd a thirty-something-year-old woman would carry cash. Let alone that much cash, in a money clip no less.

  “I hope my cash purchase won’t cause you to empty your till.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.” Louise rang up the bug spray and handed Dot her change.

  TING-A-LING.

  “Mrs. T!” One of the two young men shouted as they strutted into the trading post.

  The rock star-like energy of the two college boys radiated through the store.

  “Ruben Boyd and Alton Higgins.” Louise smiled as she spoke the names of the square-jawed athletes she’d known for years.

  The men jogged up to the counter, walked behind it, and engulfed Louise in a group hug.

  She hugged them back and inhaled deeply. Polo shirts with designer logos and the distinctive scent of expensive cologne gave away the preppy boys’ old-money wealth. “Welcome back. Are you two working for the Forest Service again this summer?”

  “Nah. Just visiting,” Alton answered.

  “Me, too,” Dot spoke up. “I’m visiting my cousins.” She pointed to Porter walking up from the beer cave, his arms loaded.

  As Dot introduced herself to Ruben and Alton, Louise sensed the three knew each other. Something about their body language and the way they eyed one another didn’t match the casualness of the words they spoke.

  TING-A-LING.