Patches In the Rye Read online

  Patches In The Rye

  A Marcia Banks and Buddy Mystery

  Kassandra Lamb

  a misterio press publication

  Contents

  Books by Kassandra Lamb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Published by misterio press LLC

  Edited by Marcy Kennedy

  Cover art by Melinda VanLone, Book Cover Corner

  Photo credit: silhouette of woman and dog by Majivecka (right to use purchased through Dreamstime.com)

  Copyright © 2018 by Kassandra Lamb

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the writer’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/author’s express permission is illegal and punishable by law.

  Patches In The Rye is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some real places may be used fictitiously. The towns of Mayfair, Florida, Buckland Beach, Florida, and Collinsville, Florida, and Collins and Buckland Counties are fictitious.

  The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites and their content.

  OTHER BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB

  The Kate Huntington Mystery Series:

  MULTIPLE MOTIVES

  ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS

  FAMILY FALLACIES

  CELEBRITY STATUS

  COLLATERAL CASUALTIES

  ZERO HERO

  FATAL FORTY-EIGHT

  SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS

  ANXIETY ATTACK

  POLICE PROTECTION

  The Kate on Vacation Novellas:

  An Unsaintly Season in St. Augustine

  Cruel Capers on the Caribbean

  Ten-Gallon Tensions in Texas

  Missing on Maui

  The Marcia Banks and Buddy Mysteries:

  To Kill A Labrador

  Arsenic and Young Lacy

  The Call of the Woof

  A Mayfair Christmas Carol (novella)

  Patches in the Rye

  The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair

  The Sound and the Furry

  A Star-Spangled Mayfair

  Lord of the Fleas

  (coming 2020)

  Unintended Consequences Romantic Suspense:

  (written under the pen name, Jessica Dale)

  Payback

  Backlash

  Backfire

  (coming 2019)

  Chapter One

  I stared up at the large white house, a mini-mansion really, and swallowed. Buddy and I climbed the steps to the broad, pillared porch. The buzz of an electric trimmer, wielded by a gardener manicuring an already pristine lawn, reminded me of a swarm of angry bees.

  The noise covered the sound of the doorbell as I pushed the button beside the door. After a moment, I debated if I should knock.

  Not yet. If the former Navy Chief Petty Officer actually answered his own door—with a place like this, he might have servants—it would probably take him awhile. I didn’t want to make him feel rushed.

  I was daydreaming, trying to jive the non-commissioned officer rank with the fancy house, when the door flew open, banging against the inside wall so hard the glass panels around its frame rattled.

  And suddenly I was staring at a substantial amount of cleavage, tucked into a snug pink top. Long legs in tight jeans were already moving before the owner of the cleavage seemed to register that someone was standing in her way. She veered slightly to the side, but still came close to bowling Buddy and me over.

  I caught a glimpse of her face as she barreled past us, mumbling, “Sorry.” Long, straight blonde hair, red-rimmed blue eyes, tear tracks on fair cheeks, an overall impression of beauty and youth.

  I turned to stare after the teenager, my mind conjuring up a sordid explanation for why she was running away from my client.

  “Sorry.” This time, the word was delivered in a rumbling male voice coming from the open doorway behind me.

  I turned back with a plastered-on smile, then had to lower my gaze to make eye contact with the man in the doorway. “Roger Campbell?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He wore a blond buzz cut, a faded Navy tee shirt and a dark green throw over his legs. “And you just met my sister, Alexis.”

  Watch those assumptions. My mother’s voice. Even inside my head, she was annoyingly right most of the time.

  Campbell whirled his wheelchair around. “Come on in.”

  He led Buddy and me down a long wide hallway, dim rooms on either side, with blinds mostly closed to protect dusty antiques from the Florida sun. A formal parlor, a dining room, and a library with shelves and shelves of books that made me salivate.

  It was on my bucket list to someday own a home big enough for a separate library.

  The hallway opened into a sparsely furnished area, a great room. No rugs or coffee tables cluttered the space. A tan leather sofa, matching loveseat, end table, and overstuffed armchair lined half the perimeter of the expanse of hardwood floor. A large, flat screen TV hung on the wall opposite the sofa.

  The room would have been attractive—spacious with a lived-in air—if the dark wooden blinds covering the many windows weren’t completely closed. Instead it resembled a giant cave, with only a few scattered lamps casting a feeble glow.

  In one corner, a round oak table was surrounded by three chairs, with an open gap where one would expect a fourth to be. Roger’s place at the table, no doubt.

  That was confirmed when he maneuvered his wheelchair around in that spot until he was sideways to the table. He gestured toward the nearby loveseat.

  A beer bottle sat on a placemat at his elbow. He nodded toward the bottle. “Want one?”

  Another fake smile. “No, thank you.” I perched on the edge of the loveseat and signaled for Buddy to lay down at my feet.

  “I’m Marcia Banks.” I’m sure he’d been given my name, but it seemed polite to introduce myself. “And this is Buddy, my mentor dog. He’ll be helping to train whatever dog we pick for you.”

  This preliminary visit was a new addition to the process that Mattie Jones, the director of the agency I trained for, hoped would help the trainers assess what kind of dog would be most appropriate for new clients.

  “Do you have any preferences regarding breed?” I asked to get things rolling.

  Campbell shook his head without meeting my gaze. His mind seemed to be elsewhere.

  “Can you tell me how you sustained your injuries?”

  Suddenly his blue eyes, darker than his sister’s, were focused on me—two mini laser beams. “Can’t. Classified,” he said brusquely.

  I no
dded, even though I knew that was probably horse hockey. If the operation where he’d been injured was truly secret, he would have given me the cover story, not said out loud that it was classified.

  I caught myself reaching back to twirl my long ponytail of auburn hair around my fingers, a sure sign that I was more nervous than usual. Dropping my hand back into my lap, I said, “I’m not being nosy. I need to assess what kinds of things are triggers for you, what might set off a flashback, such as loud noises.”

  I’d be training his service dog to help with physical needs, such as picking up objects dropped on the floor, but our dogs were mainly trained to help veterans cope with PTSD and other psychological symptoms related to their service.

  He gave me a grim smile. “I was on an aircraft carrier. I’m used to loud noises.”

  I opted to give up on this tooth-pulling process. We had a waiver of confidentiality from him and I suspected Mattie had a detailed report on his symptoms by now, although it wouldn’t say much about the operation in which they were sustained, even if it wasn’t classified.

  I’d come back to that question another time, if necessary.

  I launched into my spiel about how the process would proceed, that I’d pick a dog and bring it over to make sure they hit it off, before starting the expensive training process. Then it would be several months before he heard from me again, at which point I’d set up some times to meet and teach him how to work with the dog.

  He was barely listening, looking at the door periodically and glancing at his watch.

  Sheez, what’s with this guy? snarky me said inside my head. I hid a proud smile. Ms. Snark, as I thought of that part of myself, was getting so much better at not blurting out her thoughts.

  I went back to my spiel. Campbell glanced at his watch again.

  I tried to mentally slap a hand over Ms. Snark’s mouth, but I was too late. “Am I keeping you from something more important?”

  He had the good grace to blush a little. “Sorry. I guess I’m preoccupied.”

  Duh, Ms. Snark said internally.

  He used his elbows to push against the arms of the chair and sit up straighter. “Mar-see-a.” He emphasized each syllable of my name. “Where’d you get that name?”

  From my parents, like most people, Ms. Snark said inside. I imagined putting duct tape over her mouth.

  I dug deep for another fake smile. “My mother thought that was more unique and melodic than Marsha, even though it’s spelled M-a-r-c-i-a.”

  He nodded, and I went on, describing some of the things I would train his dog to do.

  Again he was distracted, staring at the opening to the hallway. From where I was sitting, I could see an edge of the front door’s frame. He would have a full frontal view.

  I cleared my throat.

  His head swiveled back toward me. Again he shoved himself more upright. “Sorry. I’m just worried about my sister.”

  This time my small smile was more genuine. “I gathered that.”

  I have a masters degree in counseling psychology and, although I’ve never been in practice, I use the skills I’d learned to get clients talking. This time, however, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what drama was behind his sister’s precipitous exit.

  “It’s only me and Alexis now…”

  Crapola. Apparently, he was going to tell me anyway.

  “Both our parents are dead.” His voice was hoarse. “And I think I’m losing her.”

  I stifled a sigh. “How so?”

  “She’s dating this guy who’s too old for her, and he’s got a criminal record. We used to be really close, but now we fight most of the time, usually about him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  A year younger than Roger Campbell himself, if I was remembering his age correctly. But still way too old for Alexis. “How old is your sister?”

  “Twenty.”

  Wow. I’d have guessed sixteen or seventeen. Did her youthful appearance make her brother more protective of her?

  My older brother had never been particularly protective. When we were kids, he was the one I most often needed protection from. But we got along fine now. When Ben’s oldest picked on his younger brother at family gatherings, I’d roll my eyes at Ben and smirk. If no one was watching, he’d stick out his tongue at me and then grin.

  Elbows on the chair arms, Campbell leaned forward a little. “Do you happen to know any private investigators? I want somebody to look into this guy.”

  The abrupt change of subject surprised me, the word investigator making my heart beat faster.

  “I’m sure there’s more dirt there.” He grimaced. “Besides the sealed juvenile record I was able to find.” He looked at me with a hopeful expression. “I’ll pay good.”

  The corner of my brain that constantly worries about money perked up. An image of my past due electric bill flashed into my mind’s eye.

  I tried to tamp down both my excitement and my avarice. I am not a private investigator, I told myself.

  “No, I don’t know anybody, but my boyfriend might.” I kind of hated that term for an almost forty-year-old divorced cop, but for lack of a better word. “He’s a police detective.”

  Campbell frowned but then shifted his expression to a smile. “Would you ask him?”

  “Sure.”

  “That would be great.” The smile was still there, but his eyes didn’t look all that happy.

  He paid closer attention to the rest of my spiel after that.

  “I’ll be in touch, once I’ve found a suitable dog.” I pushed myself to a stand and Buddy rose too, giving his body a small shake.

  “Don’t get up. We can find our…” Heat crept up my cheeks as I realized my blunder.

  The ends of Campbell’s mouth quirked up and his eyes sparkled with amusement. It was the first genuine expression he’d exhibited. “I’ll let you see yourself out.”

  Once on the porch, I paused and lifted my face to the Florida sun, already intense even in early March. Its warmth chased away the slight chill running through my body.

  “Happy anniversary,” Becky trilled in my ear when I answered her call.

  “Thanks.” My tone was less than enthusiastic.

  “So what are you two doing to celebrate one year of dating?”

  “I’m eating a poptart and reading a client’s file. Will’s chasing bad guys.”

  “Oh sweetie.” Becky’s voice deflated.

  “Yeah, well. Goes with the territory.” Will had recently transitioned from the sheriff of a small rural county to a detective in a much larger county’s sheriff’s department, primarily so that he could move closer to me. He considered it a lateral career shift and was happy to be solving crimes again rather than attending eternal meetings with county commissioners.

  But it had its downside. He no longer controlled his own schedule. So our plans to celebrate the anniversary of our first date had gone by the wayside when a string of armed bank robberies threatened to put Marion County on the map, and not in a good way.

  Tired of my pity party, I changed the subject. “How’s little Buster or Betty Boop doing?”

  “Behaving his/herself lately. No more morning sickness.”

  I brightened a bit. Some good news tonight at least. “That’s great.”

  “So can you meet me for lunch tomorrow?” Becky asked.

  I slumped in my kitchen chair again. “Can’t. I’m dog hunting.”

  “You still gotta eat.” Her voice sounded borderline desperate.

  “I’ll probably be running all over central Florida, and once I get this dog rolling with their training, I’ll need to start another one.” Normally I liked to have one dog about halfway through their training before starting another, but multiple recent events had disrupted that pattern, and had left my bank account on life support.

  “I could go with you,” Becky was saying. “I’m dying of boredom down here.”

  I got that. It was one of the many reasons
I’d resisted moving in with Will when he was still sheriff of Collins County, the position Becky’s husband Andy now held.

  “You know that’s a bad idea, Beck. You’ll come home with a half dozen puppies.”

  A deep sigh. “Yeah. I’ve got no willpower where cute is concerned.” A pause. “So when can you get together?” The whine in her voice was unmistakable, and out of character.

  “Soon, I hope. I–” A mind-boggling idea blossomed in my brain, stalling my tongue. I knew instantly that it had been percolating ever since Roger Campbell had asked me about private investigators.

  And I also knew that pretty much everyone who cared about me would hate it.

  “You still there?” Becky said in my ear.

  The doorbell rang before I could answer her. I jumped up and headed for the living room. “Hang on. Someone’s at my door.”

  I peeked out my front window. A stranger in jeans and a tee shirt stood on my porch. Shafts of bright light from the setting sun lit up the cleared field across from my house. One sunbeam spotlighted the giant bouquet of multi-colored roses in the man’s hands. A green panel truck, parked at the curb behind my car, sported Belleview Florist on its side in pink frilly letters.

  “Will sent me flowers,” I told Becky as I threw open the door.

  The guy said my name, mispronouncing it as Marsha, of course. I nodded, too pleased by the sight of the roses to bother correcting him. Grinning, he relinquished the bouquet and trotted to his truck.

  “Is there a card?” Becky asked.

  “Yeah.” I read it silently as I stepped back inside the house, then found it difficult to get the words past a lump in my throat. “He says he’ll make it up to me.”