Praise for Evelyn David's
Murder off the Books
"A
fast-paced mystery with a lively and indomitable heroine, a tough-guy hero, and
a lovable dog." –JoAnna Carl, author of The Chocolate Bridal Bash
and other Chocoholic Mysteries.
"Evelyn
David's quirky sense of humor sparkles on every page. Murder Off The Books is a clever, witty
romp with plenty of twists and surprises. A laudable
debut." –Kathryn R. Wall, author, Bishop's Reach and the Bay Tanner Mysteries
"Murder off the Books is a fast-paced, engaging read with memorable
characters and a plot that never quits. Readers are sure to hang on
and enjoy the invigorating, unpredictable ride." –Judith
Kelman, author, The
Session and Backward in High Heels
"…suspenseful,
fast moving, and funny. Before the
mystery is solved, Rachel is up to her ears in conflicts…and needs all of her
wit and grit to survive. Readers should enjoy this
entertaining tale." –Philip Craig,
author, Dead in Vineyard Sand and other
"Murder Off the Books should definitely win
the award for 'Best Performance by a Wolfhound since The Hound of the
Baskervilles.' In this quirky mystery, comic relief is provided by the
heroine's unusual job and hero's constantly rotating fleet of undercover
vehicles (most notably a pest control van)." –Lynne Murray, author of A Ton of Trouble and other Josephine
Fuller mysteries.
A Sullivan Investigations Mystery
Murder with a Whiskey Chaser
Murder off
the Books
Evelyn David
Prologue
Friday Night
The pop of a human head cracking against rock sounded
surprisingly loud. As the man fell
against the wall of the clock tower, the killer unscrewed the silencer from the
gun, musing about the number of details involved in planning and executing a
perfect murder. And
this was certainly not a perfect murder.
Several loose ends were going to need tying. Next time a list might come in handy.
* * *
Sunday Night
Murder victims shouldn't have to wait. Discount store shoppers, people with broken
dental crowns, drivers in the middle of rush hour. Those people deserved to wait. Expected to wait. But not…
She was tired of being last on everyone's 'to
do' list.
Ten minutes.
Way too long to be hiding in a closet.
Way too long to be in the dark.
She really couldn't stand cowering in the
dark. If she had to cower, she'd do it
in the light–just like always.
She clicked on the flashlight she'd grabbed in
her frantic dash from the bed to the walk-in closet.
Much better.
The light was comforting. The light was… The light was…risky.
She hastily clicked off the beam and disappeared
back into the shadows.
She left the closet door ajar. Like everything else in her life–slightly
warped. Once fully closed, it couldn't be opened from the inside. She'd be stuck in there
until…until what? Who'd rescue
her?
She wished again that she hadn't left her
cordless phone downstairs.
Run.
She wasn't going to be able to run.
Her right foot tingled–numb.
Rachel Brenner shifted, stretching out one bare
leg, quietly trying to move her foot, thinking that at some point she might
need to slip down into the living room and search for her second cordless
phone, the one that fit into the charger on the kitchen wall and had been
missing for a couple of days. She'd
probably find it under the sofa or between the cushions. That's where she'd look first–if she had
time.
"Enough," she whispered. "Concentrate on something besides the
damn phones."
Dust. The
closet floor was cramped–and dusty.
Stifling a sneeze, she decided she had some serious cleaning to do if
she survived. If she didn't, well it
would be someone else's problem.
She wiggled her toes until the feeling returned
and then rose to her feet intending to open the closet door and listen.
Two steps.
Her heart pounded so loud that she couldn't think,
much less hear.
Looking around, she grabbed a twenty-year-old
trench coat that had belonged to her ex-husband and rolled it into a ball. She pressed the material against her chest to
muffle the sound.
Stupid.
No one else could hear her heart.
No one else could hear her. The
coat's owner hadn't.
Thoughts of Charlie cleared the noise from her
head.
She peeked through the crack in the door. And listened.
Nothing but the furnace and the sound of her own
ragged breathing.
She held her breath and opened the door a little
wider.
Nothing.
She didn't hear….
No. She heard
it again. Something…just…there. A shuffling sound–still
downstairs.
Rachel carefully closed the closet door again
and returned to her spot on the floor, this time sitting on the bunched trench
coat, instead of hiding behind it.
She hugged her knees to her chest and stared at
the bits and pieces surrounding her and wondered what would happen to all of
her things when she was gone.
Sam would be the one to have to deal with
selling or giving away her lifetime accumulation of clothes, costume jewelry,
and mis-matched china and silverware.
Oh, he'd probably keep a few things.
He might want some of the old family photographs she'd organized into
albums. Thank goodness she'd gotten them
labeled last year during one long, miserable night right after her divorce was
final. At least Sam would be able to
tell his children about her side of the family and put the correct name to the
face.
Her brother wouldn't be of much help. Dan had his own problems. He was settling into a new job and a new
life. She sighed and stretched out her
legs. Rachel nudged a shadow in the
corner with her toe. A well-used hockey
stick–another remnant of her ex-husband, something from his glory days.
She flicked on the flashlight again and played
the wavering beam over the clothes, empty suitcases, and shoes. God, she had too many shoes. She glanced at the row upon row of neatly
labeled shoeboxes lining the shelf above the clothes rod, and the additional
stacks on the carpeted floor beneath.
Setting down the flashlight, she picked up a nearby box and peeked
inside.
Beautiful black leather pumps, $89 on sale. Never worn.
She glanced in another box. All purchased
within the last two years and she'd never worn any of them. Her well-worn favorites were in a heap by her
bed: Nikes, Reeboks, high-topped, brightly colored basketball shoes. The pumps, well, they were mostly just…
Rachel set down the box. They were a mistake. They were her way of trying to be more like
the women Charlie Brenner had been screwing the last three years of their
marriage. She frowned and put the lid
back on the box. Like the woman Charlie currently
lived with now. Tina of perky breasts
and four-inch heels.
Tina would love all those shoes. Charlie would probably give them to her too,
Rachel realized. Help
out Sam by taking them off his hands.
Her shoes on Tina's feet. No way.
The spurt of anger and the loud sound of a
closing door gave her the courage to act.
Rachel got up and grabbed a pair of sweat pants
off a hanger and pulled them on. Picking
up the hockey stick, she stalked out of the closet.
Tina could buy her own damn shoes.