Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (read a book .TXT) 📗

By the time he, the ME, and the CSI team had arrived, and he and his deputies finished taking detailed statements from everybody, the sun was already rising over the giant pines in the east, and the birds were getting busy singing and doing whatever it is birds do in the early morning. A warm copper mist was rising off the grass and the sky seemed to stretch and yawn as it turned from dark to bright blue and the moon finally sank down in the west.

The sheriff promised to forward his report to the 43rd and asked us, as a courtesy, next time we wanted to shoot somebody in his county, to let him know beforehand. We had promised we would and driven away.

At the bottom of Elk Lake Road, we had come to the intersection with County Route 84. There I had turned left, headed back toward the I-87, New York City, and the Bronx. Along the way we passed once again through Blue Ridge, and shortly after that we had come to a small cottage on the left, set back among the trees, and there must have been at least a dozen ancient, half-rusted signs posted outside it. Everything from County Route 87, to arrows pointing to campsites, gas stations, and nature reserves. There was something beautiful about the woods and the cottage, and even about the signs that seemed to belong to an older, simpler world.

But the sign that really caught my eye was bigger than the rest. It was a long, wooden arrow pointing back the way we’d come. It was painted brown with white letters in the style of the old West. It said, ‘Adirondack Buffalo’ and under that it said, ‘Bison meat’.

I pulled over to the side of the road. Dehan looked at me without much interest and said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the inspector.”

She gave a single, upward nod. While I dialed, she said, “That was pretty neat, Stone, about the snow shoes and the furnace… Simple, when you know…”

The phone rang on the other end. I shrugged. “It just made sense.”

“So who killed Jane?”

“I figure it was Jasmine. Five minute drive early in the morning. Jane would let her in. She had no real quarrel with her. Her pretext was to convince her to come to the reunion. Jane insists she won’t, and Jasmine kills her.”

“What about the whole samurai sword thing?”

“Eskrima, the ancient Philippine art of fighting with blades. We will never know for sure, but my guess is she had some training.”

“Huh! And what the hell is a Mangku…?”

“A Mangkukulam. A practitioner of Philippine voodoo.” The phone stopped ringing and I got the inspector’s voicemail. I said, “Hi, Inspector, it’s Stone here. We got lucky and managed to wrap up the case. The Essex County Sheriff’s Department will be sending over their report. We’re on our way back, but we seem to have got a little lost. Cells just don’t seem to work up here, sir, no signal at all. But as soon as I can, I’ll call you. If I can’t, expect to see us no later than, say… Tuesday.”

Dehan burst out laughing. I swung the Jag around and headed back into the mountains. I had seen a sign earlier for Aunt Polly’s B&B. I figured with a name like that, it couldn’t be bad. And nearby was The Cellar, on Long Lake, where they were bound to do Bison Steak and good artisan beers. I began to smile and looked at Dehan. The sun was shining, she had the wind in her hair, and she was grinning behind her shades. She looked like a million bucks wrapped for Christmas, and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

BOOK 10

TO KILL UPON A KISS

ONE

“Do you know how many times I have stood at this breakfast bar watching you cook bacon and eggs, wanting to tell you how much I love you when you cook bacon and eggs?”

It was seven o’clock in the morning and the smell of bacon and coffee was strong and rich on the air. She didn’t look at me but I could tell she was smiling. She said, “Yup.”

“How many?”

She wielded the spatula with dazzling skill and slipped two eggs onto each plate as though it was easy. “I’m not going to tell you because then we’ll get all mushy and we’ll have to go upstairs and shower again. Put these on the table.”

I carried the plates to the table with a self-satisfied saunter and a slightly foolish grin on my face. I sat and as I reached out to pour the coffee I felt her breath and her lips on my ear as she whispered in a husky growl, “Why d’you think I did it, dumbass?”

We were rescued from having to rush back to the shower by the jangling of my cell phone.

“Stone,” I croaked. She grinned and sat.

“Good morning John, it’s John here.”

I frowned, then my head cleared. “Oh, Inspector, good morning.”

“Good morning. I’m sorry to call so early. I’m probably interrupting your breakfast. Look, I have a letter here, maybe nothing but you never know, do you…?”

I waited. He waited. I said, “No, Inspector, I guess you don’t. What is the letter about?”

“The Westchester Angel.”

I groped my way through the fog of coffee, bacon and Dehan toward a dim glimmer of recollection. “Jane Doe, spring 2016, they found her body by the Westchester Creek. Raped and strangled.”

Dehan was chewing, watching me with narrowed eyes, nodding slowly. Inspector Newman continued. “Probably raped, that’s the one. Indeed. The writer claims to have information relevant to the case, and as the case has gone cold I thought perhaps you would like to talk to him.”

“Sure, of course. Give me