Death Warmed Over Read online

  Death Warmed Over

  A Thea Kozak Mystery

  Book Eight

  by

  Kate Flora

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-936-8

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2017 by Kate Flora. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  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

  Meet the Author

  Chapter 1

  Home ownership is supposed to be the American dream. I've heard it, read it, even seen it in my realtor's promotional materials. Andre and I needed a house. Someplace with an office for me, a workshop for him. A place where we could finally unpack all our boxes, get my stuff out of storage, and stop feeling like we were camping out. We needed a place where there was no nosy landlady who felt free to comment on our comings and goings and undoubtedly—the floors and walls being flimsy—kept track of our sex life as well.

  So why, I wondered, as my phone rang for the seventh time on a thirty-minute drive from my office to the house I was going to look at, did the quest for this dream feel so much like a nightmare? I knew part of the answer: my work life had spilled over so completely into my personal life that I had no time for chasing dreams. In theory, I could concentrate on my driving and on following our realtor Ginger's directions to the place she had described as "absolutely perfect" for me and the man of my dreams, and still conduct business if I needed to. I had Bluetooth. I was hands-free. But the incessant calls that were dogging my journey required undivided attention to my clients' problems. They called for concentration, quick thinking, and useful answers.

  I had planned to use this drive to put myself in the right zone. Get my head into kitchens and closets, yards and living rooms. I wanted to be open to the possibilities of this house that had looked so lovely in Ginger's pictures. I wanted to imagine white wicker furniture on the deep, shady porch and our king-sized bed in the roomy master bedroom. Ginger's "absolutely perfect" had to be better than what we'd looked at so far. Awkward layouts, hideous paint jobs. Boxy little rooms with no space for furniture. Kitchens and baths that reminded me of the worst decorating sins of my childhood. It was hard to believe there were still places where people spent their days with copper, avocado, or gold appliances or pink tiled baths and pink-flocked wallpaper.

  It wasn't just a matter of needing paint or a little updating. House after house cried out for a serious makeover, if not for being scrapped and starting over. My quest was turning me into an amateur architect, imagining what things would look like with walls knocked down. With dormers. With whole new walls of windows. Some houses were oriented so poorly to the potential of their lots I'd even imagined picking them up and turning them sideways. It could have been fun with the right house but I kept seeing the wrong house. Over the months of looking, I'd become discouraged with house-hunting and a life that needed a makeover, which was why I needed my half hour of attitude improvement.

  Instead, I was spending that half hour trying to convince a demanding client to send us the data we needed to complete the report they needed in a few days for their annual trustees' meeting. Data only they had and that was essential for the report. This was not the first such half hour I'd spent with these people, nor the first time they'd promised to get it to me right away. I was out of patience. But clients pay the bills, and this was a big-bill project. Ordinarily, my partner Suzanne, the queen of sweet-talk, would have been handling this. But my day had begun with a six a.m. call from her, saying something didn't feel right and she was seeing her obstetrician this morning.

  When I say 'consultant' people's eyes glaze over, but the truth is that our work can be very challenging and we're good at it. EDGE Consulting is a small business that provides important services to independent—read private—schools. We consult on using traditional media and new social media to attract the applicant pool they want. On giving the right, unified 'look' to their website and promotional materials. On branding and their image. A few years ago, the word branding wasn't in my vocabulary, except to refer to something cruel that is done to cattle. Now I'm becoming a branding queen. We also, as was the case with this report, can analyze their application and acceptance trends and compare those with national trends to determine whether their approach needs tweaking.

  Then there is my own subspecialty—damage control. I'm the person they call when something bad happens on campus and they need help managing the resulting publicity. Sometimes they also need my help figuring out where their own systems went wrong, so bad things won't happen again. I'm the knight in shining armor. The girl in the white hat. I'm Jane Wayne.

  The downside is that the operative word is 'bad.' Lately it seemed like few weeks passed without an emergency call from a school. Most I could handle over the phone, but sometimes I had to show up, hold hands, and occasionally run the whole damage control show.

  I already had way too much on my plate. My calendar was stacked with projects like airplanes on a busy runway, which, like a good air traffic controller, I could handle until the call from Ginger's office moved the showing from nine a.m., when it had almost worked, to 10:30, when it threw everything into chaos. The incessant phone calls were bringing on a headache of epic proportions. There is no ring tone soothing enough for a too-busy day. The umpteenth iteration of the opening bars of Pachelbel's Canon quickly loses its magic.

  It was the end of March in Maine, affectionately known as "mud season." A time of year when we're all utterly sick of looking out at brown ground and brown grass and brown trees, or a dirty white world of snow banks and icy ruts and yellow pee circles and melting brown dog turds. Wher
e bloated cigarette butts litter the sidewalks outside of restaurants, bars, and every form of public building like an infestation of giant maggots.

  Okay. If this was becoming my worldview, I either needed therapy, a vacation, or to have something—like this search for a home—off my plate. I was barely into my thirties and I grimaced so often I was getting permanent frown lines. Soon children would run from me and people would start leaving flyers for Botox and Restylane on my desk. I knew I could improve my mood by going to the gym and getting all charged up with yummy endorphins, but I didn't have time for the gym. Or to buy the new shoes I needed for the gym, because mine were now held together with duct tape. My wardrobe was looking shabby. I needed some spring clothes. I was looking shabby. I needed a haircut. A massage. A chocolate cake picnic with my sweetie.

  I wanted a home because home represented normal. I wanted to unpack my books and put them on welcoming white shelves. Unpack my CDs and remember when I used to listen to music. It would be fun to dance around my living room with the sound turned up too loud without worrying about my landlady knocking on the door. Share a bottle of wine on the rug before the fire with my husband without one of us getting a call that would send us out the door.

  The Canon began again and the number that flashed on my screen was my mother. Not enough that Suzanne was on my case. My mother, the chronic complainer, was undoubtedly calling to ask for something and while she was at it, give me an update on my many flaws. That wasn't on my agenda, so I let her go to voice mail. The notes had barely died away when they began again. A client, so I answered.

  "It's Reeve Barrows, from Stafford Academy. Is this Thea?"

  I longed to say, "Wrong number," but said, "Yes."

  "We've got a situation brewing and we may need your help."

  The line of planes waiting for takeoff got longer. I gathered some facts regarding students selling drugs and a student who'd used the drugs and been rushed to the hospital. "Get out in front of it, Reeve. Limit access to the campus. Remind your faculty not to comment. Ask your students to wait for the facts."

  "I don't know if I can do that." He sounded dubious.

  "Seriously, Reeve. You have to control the message or your students and parents will panic."

  "It's really not my problem," he said.

  Then why was he calling me? The answer, it seemed, was because the headmaster was nowhere to be found. Gack. I had heard this one before. I asked him to keep in touch as the situation developed and disconnected, knowing he was likely to call back with a full-blown emergency and want me on his campus ASAP. I felt like a pressure cooker about to blow its gasket. I was living too much of my life on alert, waiting for situations to become crises.

  The overwhelming demand of work was something I'd vowed to limit when we settled into a home and lived a more normal life. I also wanted normal because it would help me to step away from the last years of my life, which felt like the plot from a fem jep novel or a women's adventure flick. Things kept happening to me that never happened to regular people. I'd been left at the altar when Andre was taken hostage by some crazy religious fundamentalists. I'd tried to help a school with a campus stalking crisis and ended up fleeing from an ax-wielding monster. I didn't sleep well because my mind was filled with horrific images. I didn't want to be one of Angelina Jolie's fictional avatars. I wanted to live in a nice house in an ordinary neighborhood and start claiming my life back.

  Something else I wanted that also seemed to be beyond my reach—a family. After my miscarriage, the doctors had said that everything was fine and I should relax and not worry about getting pregnant again. But months kept passing and nothing was happening, making it harder and harder to relax. My clock was beginning to tick. And, as everyone knows who has ever had difficulties conceiving, suddenly it seemed like the whole world was pregnant, including my partner, Suzanne. Expecting her second, Suzanne was sick as a dog, perpetually tired, and noticeably crabbier after a year of being crabby.

  As Miz GPS announced that I was approaching the turn onto Joy Lane, where I would have reached my destination, my phone rang for the eighth time. A truck barreling toward me was so far over the line it missed me by an inch. My desperately needed Dunkin' Donuts coffee, carelessly seated in the cup holder, was unseated by my swerve and turned the sleeve and belly of my last decent white blouse a rich café au lait.

  I pulled over to do some damage control, rolling down the window to let the coffee fumes and the heat of my temper out as I scrubbed at myself with a handful of napkins, then mopped up the seat and the console. I was five minutes late. Not bad, considering the morning I'd had. Joy Lane sounded like a chatty hostess on one of those unbearable morning talk shows—someone who would coo over Easter cupcakes or baby ducks or a dog that played the piano—not someplace I was supposed to live. But I needed a house, even if it meant living on a street with a ridiculous name. It was a pleasant street. Wide, clean, quiet, and lined with a few big old trees. The houses were large and well-maintained and they were set back from the street behind spacious front yards. It looked like the kind of street I'd grown up on. A street that felt like home.

  I took another moment to breathe, and turned off my phone so the next round of calls would go to voice mail. Muttering the word 'home' like a mantra, I pushed Stafford Academy and its student drug problem from my mind and tried to get centered, to be fully present in this search instead of scattered in so many directions.

  Then I put the car in drive and poked down the street until I found the house I was looking for. Ginger's little silver RAV4 was parked in the driveway. The 'for sale' sign with her picture swung in a slight breeze. There was an honest-to-goodness white picket fence around the front yard. After a minute, I turned off the engine, grabbed my purse, and got out of the car. Even though it was only mid-morning, it smelled like someone was barbecuing, the kind of smell that makes me hungry for steak or ribs because at heart I'm a carnivore. I've embraced whole grains. Bulgur. Quinoa. Faro. I eat my veggies. I even like my veggies. But sometimes, just like Andre, my hard-bodied detective husband, I really NEED steak.

  I let myself in through the gate, closed it behind me, and looked at the broad steps leading up to the front porch. A row of round pillars held up the roof. Along the edge of the porch were shrubs that gave partial privacy and looked like they would flower, if the dirty snow ever left us and spring arrived. What I knew about plants and shrubs wouldn't fill a thimble, but it was something I looked forward to learning.

  A wide strip of indoor-outdoor carpeting led to a shiny wooden door. I rang the bell and waited, and then, since the door was slightly open, I let myself in, calling for Ginger and hearing my voice echo in the high-ceilinged foyer. The floors were freshly done, and gleamed underfoot. I wiped my shoes on the doormat and looked around. A formal dining room to my right. Closed pocket doors that would open to what I knew was the living room on my left.

  Because the pictures had made it look so special, I saved the living room for last, and wandered into the dining room. Big enough to seat all of Andre's family. All those sisters and their husbands and their children. I pictured the happy chaos of a family dinner. His family, not mine. All their love and noisy squabbles were right out in the open. My family dinners were like White House state dinners with the Chinese. Fraught with underlying tensions and things that needed to be discussed but the time wasn't right and never would be. Andre's family might be big on reproduction and too eager to gobble up our meager free time, but they were otherwise pretty easy to live with.

  Creamy white bead board ran up the wall to a chair rail, with lovely blue and white toile wallpaper above. The house was unfurnished, but they'd sensibly left large, white-framed mirrors at either end of the room. My taste ran to paint, not wallpaper, but I could live with this, and I thought Andre, who was sometimes surprisingly traditional, would really like it. My spirits rose. This might finally be our house.

  As I went through the doorway into the large kitchen that opened onto a famil
y room addition beyond, the grilling smell got stronger. Whatever they were cooking, the scent had gotten unpleasant with overtones of something burning. Privacy, and a sense of distance from my neighbors, was important. So far, Ginger's gushing hadn't been so hyperbolic as I'd feared. What I'd seen of the house was great, but I wasn't sure I wanted to live in a place where I was so much in my neighbor's pocket I had intimate knowledge of what they were cooking.

  I'd barely taken in the warm terracotta floors and rust-flecked granite countertops, glass-fronted cabinets, and trendy stainless steel appliances when I heard a sound from the living room. Not a hello or someone calling my name. It sounded like someone in pain. Maybe Ginger had slipped on the shiny floor and fallen, and that's why she hadn't come to greet me or answered when I called. She was far too polite—and had too much of the realtor's necessary charm—to have deliberately left me on my own for so long.

  I retraced my steps through the dining room and the entry hall and shoved back the heavy pocket doors. The huge, bright, front-to-back living room was painted a soothing, soft gray-green. Light streamed in through a wall of windows at the end. In the center sat a single chair. The chair was surrounded by a circle of space heaters, each of them glowing fiery red, connected to outlets by long orange tails of extension cords. Our realtor, Ginger Stevens, was tied to the chair, a thick strip of shiny silver duct tape wrapped around her head and her mouth. Her skin was blackening red and blistered. Her clothes were charred and smoking.