Rest in Peace
Authors: Frances Devine
© 2011 by Frances Devine
Print ISBN 978-1-60260-397-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-265-5
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-266-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Faceout Studio,
www.faceoutstudio.com
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses
.
Printed in the United States of America.
EDICATION
I’d like to thank Susan Downs, who was willing to take a chance on
The Misadventures of Miss Aggie
, and Barbour Publishing for their helping hand to new authors. To Nancy Toback, whose editing skills helped to get the manuscript to its final form in the best shape possible. Thanks, Nancy.
Thanks to Cedric Benoit for being kind enough to allow me to put him and his wonderful band, The Cajun Connection, into my stories. You’re the greatest.
To Silver Dollar City for giving me permission to mention you in all three books.
To my friends at the Hughes Senior Center who pray for me.
To Carol, who tells me to write and then prays that God will inspire me.
To my family. You are all my darling angels.
And to my heavenly Father, thank You for giving me the desires of my heart.
FRANCES L. DEVINE grew up in the great state of Texas, where she wrote her first story at the age of nine. She moved to southwest Missouri more than twenty years ago and fell in love with the hills, the fall colors, and Silver Dollar City. Frances has always loved to read, especially cozy mysteries, and considers herself blessed to have the opportunity to write in her favorite genre. She is the mother of seven adult children and has fourteen wonderful grandchildren. Frances is happy to hear from her fans. Please e-mail her at
[email protected]
.
CHAPTER
ONEC
ome—
umph
—on—Buster!” I pulled and tugged in an attempt to get the monster of a dog out of the backseat of the van. Apparently he remembered Clyde Foster’s pet store all too well.
Sorry old boy, shot time again
.
I wasn’t entirely sure it was legal for Clyde to be giving shots, but the seniors at Cedar Lodge Boarding House assured me he’d been doing it for years, and the alternative was a thirty-mile drive down curving roads to Branson. One final tug and the unwilling animal came sliding off the seat. Sighing with relief, I blew a stray lock of hair from my forehead, snapped the leash onto Buster’s collar, and headed for the door. I didn’t always win these wrestling matches with the humongous dog.
As we approached the shop, Buster stopped abruptly. His hair bristled, and a low growl emitted from his throat.
“What’s wrong, boy? Smell a cat in there?” I reached for the doorknob.
Buster stared up at me and whined, blocking the door.
Dread washed over me. A feeling I had become familiar with in the past couple of years. This was more than Buster’s reluctance to get a shot.
“It’s okay, boy. Let’s take a look inside.” I turned the knob, then with caution, pushed the door open. Buster pressed close against me as I stepped inside. A loud screech pierced the air. I screamed and pressed my hand to my thundering heart. Catching my breath, I forced a chuckle. Clyde’s parrot, Whatzit, was going to be the death of someone one of these days. Still, it wasn’t like him to screech so long and loud. I glanced toward his cage, surprised to find it empty.
Sunlight streamed in through the open door, flooding the room with daylight. The overhead light still burned, as well as several wall lights. Highly unusual. Clyde was known for being very frugal, or cheap, as some would say. His customers often complained that he kept the shop too dark.
“Mr. Foster?” My voice cracked. I really needed to get a grip. For crying out loud, I was thirty-one, not ten. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Mr. Foster, it’s me, Victoria Storm. I have Buster with me for his shot.”
A heavy silence lay on the shop. I drew a deep breath.
Get yourself together, silly. He probably went upstairs for something
. But Buster had started toward the rear of the shop, a low growl coming once more from his throat.
I followed cautiously through the door into the dark storage area.
“Mr. Foster?” My strained whisper seemed loud in the dead silence, but Clyde Foster either didn’t hear or chose not to answer.
Swallowing hard, I blinked, and suddenly my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. I gasped and froze in my tracks. Nausea washed over me. Clyde lay sprawled on the floor, halfway on his stomach, his head sideways in a pool of blood.
Buster stood beside him, whining as he nudged the still form.
I forced myself to move, stumbled across the room. Bending, I pressed two fingers against his throat. No pulse.
With shaking hands, I yanked my cell phone from the front pocket of my jeans and dialed 911. After telling the dispatcher what I’d found, I pulled on Buster’s leash and stumbled back into the front room of the shop. Whatzit was perched on a corner of a supply cabinet and continued his ear-splitting screech.
“It’s okay, Whatzit. It’s okay.” My voice trembled as I tried to calm him. Wild-eyed, he stared at me and then began to squawk unintelligibly again.
Poor Whatzit. Of course it wasn’t okay. And apparently, he knew that very well. I approached him warily. Should I try to get him back into his cage? Not with that look in his eyes. I headed toward the door, and Buster growled at the bird before following me.
I peered out the door, watching for the sheriff. What in the world would Whatzit do now? Who’d want to take the cantankerous bird? Miss Aggie, maybe. I took a deep breath. What was wrong with me? Worrying about a bird when a man was dead? Okay, so Clyde was mean and crabby and had scared me half to death when I was a child. But as far as I knew, he was all alone. If he had family, I’d never heard of them.
I sighed with relief as the sheriff’s vehicle turned the corner and pulled up in front of the pet shop. Sheriff Bob Turner and his deputy, Tom Lewis, got out and headed toward the door.
When the sheriff saw me, he stopped in his tracks and frowned.
“Victoria, are you the one who called about a body?”
“Yes.” I was happy the word came out strong. I wouldn’t want Bob Turner to have the satisfaction of knowing how shook-up I was. “Mr. Foster’s in the back room, and I think…he’s dead.”
He grunted and walked past me with Tom Lewis tailing him like a shadow. Like the sheriff’s little puppy.
Ah. Stop that, Victoria
. Sarcasm seemed to be second nature with me, but I’d been doing so much better lately. Well, except in my thoughts.
Sorry, Lord
.
I hurried after the two officers.
The sheriff stooped down next to Clyde and checked for a pulse. “Tom, get the coroner over here. He’s dead all right. Looks like he fell and hit his head on that stone doorstop.”
I glanced at the doorstop and could make out a dark blotch. Nausea threatened to rise up again. I swallowed and licked my dry lips.
The sheriff stood, rubbing his back, then turned and scowled as he saw me standing by the door.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill him.” My voice sounded guilty to my own ears.
“Did anyone say you did?”
The sheriff and I had a cautious respect for one another, but I suspected he didn’t like me very much. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. Did he think it was my fault I kept getting mixed-up in what he considered his business? I certainly didn’t get involved with kidnappers and dead bodies on purpose.
After asking a few questions, he told me I could leave.
“Do you have a problem with me taking Whatzit withme? Miss Aggie might be able to calm him down. He’s used to her.”
He scratched his head. “I guess it’s okay. One less animal I have to worry about.” He glanced at the snake cage, and his face paled. I couldn’t help grinning. I’d bet he wouldn’t be the one to care for the other pets in the store. “But only until we can get in touch with Clyde’s next of kin,” he added.
