Bowled over americano, p.1
Bowled Over Americano, page 1
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Bowled Over
Americano
A sara and SEAn COZY MYSTERY
BY
CAROLYN ARNOLD
Published By:
Hibbert & Stiles
Publishing Inc.
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Books by Carolyn Arnold
Detective Madison Knight
Ties That Bind
Justified
Sacrifice
Found innocent
Just Cause
Deadly Impulse
In the Line of Duty
Power Struggle
Shades of Justice
What We Bury
Girl on the Run
Her Dark Grave
Life Sentence (prequel romantic suspense)
Brandon Fisher FBI
Eleven
Silent Graves
The Defenseless
Blue Baby
Violated
Remnants
On the Count of Three
Past Deeds
One More Kill
Detective Amanda Steele
The Little Grave
Stolen Daughters
The Silent Witness
Black Orchid Girls
Her Frozen Cry
Last Seen Alive
Her Final Breath
Taken Girls
Sara and Sean Cozy Mystery Series
Bowled Over Americano
Wedding Bells Brew Murder
Matthew Connor Adventure
City of Gold
The Secret of the Lost Pharaoh
The Legend of Gasparilla and His Treasure
Standalone
Assassination of a Dignitary
Midlife Psychic
For a complete updated list of Carolyn Arnold books visit CarolynArnold.net/Books
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Carolyn Arnold
Newsletter
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
More Books by Carolyn Arnold
A Letter from Carolyn
Wedding Bells Brew Murder
Ties That Bind
Eleven
The Little Grave
City of Gold
Midlife Psychic
About the Author
Copyright
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To George, my partner in solving crime
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Chapter 1
“Books don’t write themselves.”
Sara Cain just wanted to finish writing one novel. High hopes and all that. It certainly had her muttering under her breath like a madwoman. She hadn’t realized when she’d chosen the working title of Dead in the Water how painfully accurate it would be. She’d been working on the book for two-plus years. It wasn’t all a loss, at least. The book’s setting, the victim, and the murder method were working. The motive was tripping her up. What had sounded good in her head fell flat on the page, and she had no idea how to fix it. She also had no clue how to lead her sleuths to the killer. All because she decided to jump in without plotting in advance. Big mistake. Though writing by the seat of her pants—organically, panster style—came with its fun moments. Until she hit a wall called writer’s block. And it was real, all right.
She swore the blasted cursor mocked her with every blink, as if hammering in the fact that zero words were hitting the page. Well, she’d show it! She closed the lid on her laptop.
Time for a break!
Sara put on her running shoes and stepped onto her front porch, drawing in a deep breath of the summer night air. Even with a touch of humidity, the temperature was perfect. She locked the door and headed out.
Nothing worked like a walk to clear the mind. Fingers crossed…
If her mother knew, she would try to talk Sara out of going because it was six thirty at night—sun still up or not—and there were safer neighborhoods in Albany. Even better, her mother would have preferred Sara stay in Cotton Spring Falls, about fourteen minutes from the city, and made the daily commute. “It’s safer here,” her mother would argue. But when Sara signed on with the Albany Police Department, she’d wanted a fresh start, and that meant a new place to rent.
Not like her mother had to worry anyway. Sara had some martial arts classes under her belt, and what she hadn’t picked up there, she learned on the job as a detective in Homicide.
Sara set off down a side street, enjoying a rather quiet Wednesday evening. The only sounds were birdsong and crickets getting an early start. It was the perfect night to drink wine and watch the sunset, ideally with that special someone.
She pushed her work partner, Sean McKinley, from her mind. He was five foot ten—three inches taller than her—with brown eyes that always regarded her with affection. And he had this ability to read her mind. But by far the most dangerous things about him were his smile and his charisma. The latter he wielded like a superpower that came naturally and required the slightest effort. He dated a harem and never got serious about any one of them, but she didn’t think of him as a player. She preferred to believe he was, like her, trying to find the one. Until that person came along, they had their friendship and solving murders to keep them company.
The sidewalk was mostly barren except for a young boy of about twelve pedaling his bike straight toward her at a fast clip. She got out of the way just in time.
“Sorry,” he called out over a shoulder.
Sara smiled. Thoughts of her book had been scared out of her.
A man reversing his car out of his driveway waved at her. She waved back. It was a sad stereotype that people in cities weren’t friendly; she always found a smile in the crowd. Her mother would tell her it had to do with the fact that she still had her youth and beauty. Sara hated to believe the world was that vain, but her youth was slipping away. She didn’t really want to think about her birthday next Wednesday. Yikes. The big three-three.
Maybe she could outrun aging, right along with her manuscript. She picked up her pace until she felt a soft burn in her calf muscles. She wasn’t inclined toward jogging or running, but she relished a cardio high.
She entered a nearby park, planning to stick to the paved path that cut through it. She passed a man and woman with two children. The girl was on a swing while the boy played in the sandbox. Their guardians paid them little attention. Both had their heads bent forward, their faces toward their phones.
It was sad how obsessed people were with their phones while their lives in the flesh-and-blood world passed them by. The seconds continued to pass, the minutes, the hours, the days… the years. Life was over in a blur. Possibly one reason people sought the distraction that electronics provided.
But Sara couldn’t escape the reality of death—not when it was her day job. She also had what most would consider a morbid pastime. She loved reading obituaries and sinking into the lives of strangers. Reading about their accomplishments inspired her.
Sean would tease her about seeking more of the macabre after work hours. He didn’t understand her desire to write a murder mystery either, but that shouldn’t be any of his concern. She viewed it as her outlet to escape. After all, the world she created and wielded at will constantly evolved at her fingertips.
The mystery of death may fascinate her, but so what? It might have to do with never knowing her birth parents. Her father, who had been raising her alone, died in a car accident when she was just a baby, and her mother’s only contribution had been birthing Sara. Sara found this out at age thirteen, after her adoptive parents, Jeannie and Leon Cain, traced her heritage. Her mother’s na me was Monica Wilcox, but otherwise she remained a mystery.
These thoughts were bouncing around in her head when a beagle came out of nowhere and ran into her leg.
“Hey there, little fella.”
The tricolor hound wasn’t a stranger to her. She’d seen him before, even knew where he lived. She looked around. There was no sign of his owner, a miserable coot who was always scowling. The dog may have decided to go off leash to do some mind clearing of his own.
“We better get you back—” She bent over to grab the dog’s collar, but he darted away and ran across the lawn toward the baseball diamond. She’d call out his name if she knew it.
“Come here, boy. Here.” She clapped the front of her thighs.
The dog paid her no attention, bounding across the freshly mowed grass.
She looked down at her new running shoes—a brilliant white she’d prefer to keep. The dog really wasn’t her responsibility, but outside of the park, city streets and the vehicles that came with them posed a danger. She’d never forgive herself if he got injured.
She whistled for him, but his tail pointed in the air as he put his nose to the ground.
“Here goes…” She traipsed toward the dog. Stopped walking.
He had lifted his head and stood there watching her.
“Oh no. Don’t you dare run.”
Of course, that was exactly what he did—barreling toward her, then juking out of reach at the last second. This was a game to him. She became a tangle of arms and legs, trying to corral a twenty-pound beagle. She could use some help. A quick glance at the playground confirmed the man, woman, and children stood watching her escapade. Not that any of them made a move to assist.
The boy cried out, “Doggy!” followed by an outburst of giggles.
For the cuteness of the beagle, or in response to her antics?
Not that it mattered now; she was committed to catching the dog. A few more bumbled attempts at reaching for its collar before victory. She looked at the family again, as if expecting applause, but they were gone.
No good deed…
“All right, little guy…” He had a name tag on his collar, which she flipped over in her hand. “Magnum.” Huh. “Nice name. How about we take you home?”
The dog made no argument, but it wouldn’t be much fun walking hunched over for half a block. She reached the path and noticed her shoes. Not a brilliant white anymore, but grass-stained like an abstract painter had gone wild with green paint. Her stomach sank. She liked her things nice and neat, organized, presentable. She’d have to put in some elbow grease scrubbing them, but hopefully with a pinch of luck…
She carried on, walking down the street, curious if any onlookers had surfaced from their devices long enough to pay her any heed and find humor in her situation.
“Almost there.” The redbrick home was a few houses down. She climbed onto the front porch. “We did it, Magnum.” She reached the door, prepared to knock, but it was cracked open. Guess the mystery of how the beagle had gotten loose was solved. “Hello?” she called out. “I have your dog, Magnum.”
She listened. Nothing.
Instinct told her to stay put. But what if the dog’s owner needed medical attention?
“Albany Police, I’m coming in.” She wasn’t there in an official capacity, but if the man was conscious, her presence shouldn’t frighten him.
Sara let go of Magnum’s collar and pushed the door with her elbow—a habit formed on the job to preserve evidence at a crime scene. But surely, that wouldn’t be an issue here. Blame the job for her cynicism and seeing murder everywhere she went.
“Hello?” she repeated.
As she opened the door farther, silence and the faint hint of a woman’s floral perfume greeted her. It became clear why her shouts were not getting a response.
Magnum’s owner lay on the entry floor. Dead. A large bloody gash on his head. Sara looked around, seeing nothing that could have caused the injury. This wasn’t an accident.
She looked at Magnum, now sitting next to his master. “Well, you certainly got my mind off my book.”
And right onto murder…
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Chapter 2
“You didn’t touch anything, I hope.” Detective Davenport was one of the most incompetent and irritating officers on the force. He looked at Sara as if she were a first-day rookie and not a third-year detective.
She’d found a leash for Magnum, and they were on the front porch with Detective No-Good. Neighbors had spilled from their houses, finding the unfolding scene at 816 Cedarwood to be exciting enough to pull them from whatever they might have been watching on TV. After all, they had a real-life crime drama going on right on their street to entertain them. “Are you going to have uniforms cordon off the area?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Cain.”
Guess he doesn’t like to be patronized either! “Would never dream of it.”
Davenport bellowed over his shoulder to the closest uniformed officer and requested he usher people back inside their homes. To Sara, he said, “Just answer my question, Cain. Did you touch anything?”
He hadn’t asked before; he’d made a statement, but she’d let that slide. “Of course I didn’t.”
Davenport perched his elbow on his substantial belly and scribbled in a notepad.
He’s probably doodling…
“Why are you here this evening?”
“We’ve been through this.” Magnum winced at her side as if he too were tiring of Davenport’s attitude.
“Yadda. Yadda. So this guy”—he pointed at the dog—“led you here?”
“I wouldn’t put it like that.” She took a deep breath, thankful she had a lot of patience to pull from, but Davenport threatened her reserves. If he didn’t get on with the investigation, the victim’s friends and family could never hope for justice.
“And how do you know Cliff Cunningham?”
“I don’t.”
“Yet here you are at his house.” He gestured toward the structure with the tip of his pen.
“I’ve seen him around. That’s how I knew where Magnum lived. When I brought him here, that’s when I found Cunningham.” She prattled off the entire story again without an ounce of energy, exasperated. “Listen, are you going to go inside, look around, or do you plan to interrogate me all night?” The sun was low in the sky, and she’d guess the time was after eight.
“I have seen the vic, and I will— Hey, you’re doing it again,” Davenport huffed.
She wasn’t intentionally telling him how to do his job; it just kept spilling out. But given how fast he “closed” his cases, he’d benefit from a refresher course on murder investigation. “How did Cunningham die?”
“He was murdered.”
“That would be the manner of death.”
He grimaced.
“I asked how.”
“Someone hit him hard on the old…” He tapped his head. “And how the heck should I know how? If you’re talking all technical and stuff, that’s what Needham is for.”
Albert Needham was the chief medical examiner in the area. Sara gave the detective a few seconds to cool off before she went on. “I am curious if you’ve figured out what caused the man’s injuries yet.” There was nothing near the body, but it wasn’t like she’d had a chance to look around. Upon discovering Cunningham, she’d backed out of the house, taking the dog with her—preservation of the crime scene of utmost importance.
“Don’t know yet.”
Then again, how could he when he’d spent the last hour and a half talking with her? Sara pressed her lips. Her mother had taught her if she had nothing nice to say, then keep quiet.
Davenport flipped his notepad closed and jacked a thumb toward the road. “You can go. I’ll call if I need anything more from you.”
With pleasure… She tried to give Davenport the dog leash, but he held up both his hands and stepped back.
“I don’t want him.”
“He comes with the crime scene.”
“Nope. You found him. He’s your responsibility.”
“What am I supposed to do with a dog?”
