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  Death on Shady Bridge

  Secret Sleuth, Volume 5

  Patricia McLinn

  Published by Craig Place Books, 2020.

  Death on Shady Bridge

  Secret Sleuth, Book 5

  Patricia McLinn

  A cold case murder heats up

  Sheila Mackey has secrets to keep, far from the publishing world that once defined her. But her plan to escape to a quiet life in small-town Kentucky keeps hitting bumps in the road. Murder has come to some of her most-traveled new haunts: the dog park, a yoga studio and even the local supermarket. Now a mystery has hit closer to home.

  Secret Sleuth series

  Death on the Diversion

  Death on Torrid Avenue

  Death on Beguiling Way

  Death on Covert Circle

  Death on Shady Bridge

  Death on Carrion Lane

  Other mystery from Patricia McLinn

  Caught Dead in Wyoming series

  Sign Off

  Left Hanging

  Shoot First

  Last Ditch

  Look Live

  Back Story

  Cold Open

  Hot Roll

  Reaction Shot

  Body Brace

  “While the mystery itself is twisty-turny and thoroughly engaging, it’s the smart and witty writing that I loved the best.”

  — Diane Chamberlain, New York Times bestselling author

  Mystery with romance

  Proof of Innocence

  Price of Innocence

  “Evocative description, vivid characterization, and lots of twists and turns.”

  — 5-star review

  Ride the River: Rodeo Knights

  Bardville, Wyoming series

  A Stranger in the Family

  A Stranger to Love

  The Rancher Meets His Match

  Join Patricia McLinn’s Readers List and get news on releases and special deals first.

  Copyright © Patricia McLinn

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-944126-29-2

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-944126-71-1

  EPUB Edition

  www.PatriciaMcLinn.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover design: Art by Karri

  * * * *

  Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at [email protected]. Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! — Patricia McLinn

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Day One — Monday

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Day Two — Tuesday

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Day Three — Wednesday

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Day Four — Thursday

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Day Five — Friday

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Day Six — Saturday

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Day Seven — Sunday

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Day Eight — Monday

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Patricia McLinn

  About the Author

  DAY ONE

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Walking into the Haines Tavern, Kentucky post office that day, I — like Alice in pre-Wonderland days — was beginning to get very tired of waiting.

  Alice had been sitting and waiting for her sister, who read as they sat on a bank.

  I was waiting for the return of Clara, my buddy and cohort, who was off having fun in Chicago with her husband, Ned.

  Unlike Alice, I had my own book to keep me occupied.

  When Alice peeped into the book her sister was reading, she wondered what use was a book without pictures or conversation.

  You might think my resolution was obvious— Go get a different book, Sheila. There, problem solved.

  Alas, I was writing my book.

  That made me the responsible party for all word pictures and conversations it lacked.

  Which was why I was in the Haines Tavern, Kentucky, post office.

  This trip was part of a campaign to find all sorts of other chores to keep me busy while I waited for Clara to come back or a white rabbit to lead me into Wonderland — having learned absolutely nothing from the unpleasant and downright odd experiences of Alice.

  I didn’t care. I needed something to distract me from facing the foot-dragging word pictures and conversations in the romance novel I was trying to write.

  Clara? White rabbit? I’d take whichever came first.

  The compact post office was one of the oldest buildings in Haines Tavern and one of my favorites.

  When I first saw it, I was taken by the red brick balance of its tidy façade.

  Now, I also appreciated the warmth of its equally compact and tidy proprietor, Ruby Zweydorf.

  Come to think of it, Ruby rather resembled a white rabbit, with her shock of white hair and eyes pinkened from rubbing them, presumably from post office dust. Though she did not wear a waistcoat, so had no waistcoat pocket from which to take a watch.

  Her husband, Ike, smiled. His gentle, rather unfocused expression was for my collie dog, Gracie, not me.

  I hesitated when I saw a third person present. Partly because three people put the postage stamp — pun intended — building about at capacity. With Gracie and me, it qualified as a crush. Partly because, while I recognized the third person as Millie, a friend Clara’s, I didn’t know how she felt about a dog in the post office.

  One resident had objected to Gracie entering the building. He wasn’t around anymore — not that his objection had anything to do with that — but I didn’t know if it was an opinion shared by others.

  Ruby made her opinion clear.

  “Gracie girl! How’s my sweet girl? Sheila, you bring her right in here. What’re you standing there like the threshold’s a forcefield in one of those Star Trek shows for? You wait just a second, my Gracie girl. Just one second.”

  Ruby must have stepped up on something behind the high counter, because she reached farther than she ever could have with her feet on the floor.

  Still, with her tail going happily, Gracie had to jump up and stretch her neck toward the offering. Even then it was only thanks to Gracie’s long collie nose that treat-to-mouth contact occurred.

  “Oh, what a smart gi
rl. What a smart, smart girl you are, Gracie.”

  For the chicken treats Ruby gave her, Gracie would have done calculus.

  “Now, go see Ike. He’s got something for you, too,” Ruby instructed. “Look at that. Do you see how smart my Gracie girl is? She knows who Ike is right off.”

  I suspected what Gracie knew best was Ike had more chicken treats in his sweater pocket.

  But I had no intention of saying that. Not with Ike’s expression of delight. A car accident had left him with brain damage and if thinking Gracie knew his name could bring a smile like that to his face, I was all for it.

  Millie didn’t look as impressed. If I recalled correctly from Clara, she had a dog. I didn’t know — or remember — the kind, because she didn’t live in my neighborhood to see them out while Gracie and I took walks. Nor did Millie bring the dog to the Torrid Avenue Dog Park.

  Still, I’d wager it wasn’t a collie.

  First, you don’t see as many collies around as there were at one time — as I’ve been told many times since I adopted Gracie.

  Second, owners of the same breed usually announce the fact first thing if they don’t happen to have the animal along for show-and-tell. Rather like fans of the same baseball team who meet halfway around the world because one’s wearing a logoed cap.

  Third, I’d heard Clara tell Millie about Gracie and Millie had not said she’d had a collie as a child. Or her grandparents had a collie. Or a beloved aunt and uncle had a collie. No matter what the connection, that collie had been the best dog ever.

  Ruby was a prime example of I-had-a-collie-as-a-child category. She’d shared photos and reminiscences of their family collie, Lady.

  To my surprise, Ike brought me out of my collie reverie.

  “Talking,” he said.

  I didn’t recall ever hearing him speak before. It took me a second to put together his sounds into the familiar word.

  Ruby picked up the thread immediately. “That’s right, we were talking about you, Sheila.”

  “Oh?” I hoped the edginess I felt didn’t seep into my voice.

  I’d spent a decade trying to be talked about. Or, rather, having books whose covers held the name I used then being talked about.

  That decade ended last year. And so had that period in my life.

  At the start of that decade, it had been both terrifying and exciting.

  Exciting because those books bearing pieces of my family names on their covers were bestsellers and beyond. Heard of Abandon All? This half-century’s To Kill a Mockingbird, is what they called it.

  Pretty heady stuff that would have been far headier if the words inside the covers had been written by me.

  The person who had written the words inside the covers and the person who was the brains behind the success of Abandon All, its sequels, and our charade was my great aunt, Kit.

  Did I mention terrifying?

  But Ruby and Millie wouldn’t be talking about the name of the author of Abandon All. Though the name Sheila Mackey might be getting better known than I liked, despite efforts to have Clara Woodrow, my companion in recent investigatory exploits, get the credit and the attention.

  All that flashed through my mind as I emitted that “Oh?”

  I sure hoped none of it showed on my face. Or sounded in my voice.

  “Yes, the very second before you and Gracie came in, Millie and I were talking about you and I was telling her you’re just what she needs.”

  I couldn’t imagine what need of Millie’s I could fulfill.

  It wasn’t like I had a skill people clamored for.

  I am trying to write that word-pictures and conversations book I mentioned. In fact, trying two novels, because I got stuck on the first one, started a second, and am now stuck on it.

  So, I am failing to write two novels. Yay, me.

  But the only person who knew was Clara, the friend who’s off in Chicago, who also owns LuLu, one of Gracie’s two best friends.

  The third member of their pack is Murphy, owned by Teague O’Donnell. A former police detective turned substitute teacher to troubled teens and a carpenter/handyman. A nosy man, who’s been in my house and has parked himself in my life.

  In other words, the man most likely to succeed in figuring out the secret of my former identity.

  Have I mentioned we’re dating?

  Ruby’s voice pulled my thoughts away from Teague.

  “I was just telling her to not be shy of you and to tell you all about it. Well, you and Clara, except she’s not here right now and you are, so go ahead, Millie.”

  For the first time since entering, I really focused on the other woman in the post office.

  I knew Millie through Clara. They were long-time friends and fellow members of an established book club. According to Clara, Millie knew everyone in North Bend County and beyond. That helped us a time or two when we were trying to untangle, um, situations. Situations involving someone not dying a natural death.

  But Millie and I had not had many direct dealings beyond hello.

  She was probably in her mid-thirties. A medium build, wearing neat, but uninspired jeans and shirt. Her chin-length dark hair with thick side bangs, fell into place, also neat and uninspired.

  She did not appear delighted to see me. Or, perhaps, her reaction was for Ruby’s less than subtle nudging.

  “Millie, I can’t speak for Clara, but—”

  “Of course you can’t. Right there, that’s what I said, Millie. You need to get the two of them at the same time. Talk to them together, I said. They work together, so that’s how you need to approach them and then they’re sure to help. Told you not to try to get just one, now didn’t I? And here you are, spilling it all to Sheila.”

  I sucked on the inside of my cheeks to prevent any laughter from escaping.

  I could see annoyance pushed Millie toward pointing out she hadn’t spilled anything. Ruby had done all the spilling after that single, unexpected word from Ike.

  Then I watched prudence push Millie back from annoyance. One does not want to make an enemy of the local representative of the United States Postal Service.

  “While I can’t speak for Clara,” I started again, “if there’s something I can help you with…” I hoped she could pick it up if she wanted or easily sidestep.

  Watching her face, I was banking on the latter when Ruby jumped in.

  “You can help her. You and Clara. Nobody else round here can. Or will,” she added ominously.

  “Ruby,” Millie protested.

  “Well, it’s true. If they were going to do what they should have done, they’d have done it long ago. Instead of doing nothing. It’s about murder,” Ruby dropped her voice on the last word.

  “Ruby.” Anguish edged Millie’s voice now. Or despair. I didn’t know her well enough to distinguish clearly.

  “Well, it is. You know it is, even if you don’t want to say the word. Because it sure wasn’t suicide.”

  What do you know — Ruby was the White Rabbit, leading me into an investigating adventure potentially worthy of Wonderland.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anguish.

  Definitely anguish in Millie’s face now at the word suicide.

  She didn’t even remonstrate with Ruby, who took full advantage.

  “Wasn’t suicide any more than it was an accident. Even though they said that like it made things better when everyone was already whispering suicide. Should have been saying it was murder and they knew who did it.”

  “Who?” popped out of my mouth.

  “The husband, of course. Alex Nesper. They live over on Shady Bridge — you know about that? Well, let me tell you, there’s plenty shady about that household on Shady Bridge. Not to mention his pretending to doing landscaping and deck work.”

  “Ruby.” Now Millie’s voice added resignation to the anguish and despair.

  Ruby might have finally caught some of those reactions, because she reached over the counter and patted Millie’s arm. “Had to be said,
Millie, not just whispered all the time amongst us few. While all the others have moved on and forgotten.”

  “Not forgotten,” came unexpectedly from Ike in the corner.

  “That’s right, darling. Not forgotten by us. Millie, you go talk to Sheila right this minute before you talk yourself out of it. I’d do it myself, but I can’t leave the post office, you know. But you come by another time, Sheila, I’ll tell you what I know, too.”

  “If Millie wants to wait and talk to Clara—”

  “No more waiting. She’s come close before and never went through with it. But she’s talking now, so even though Clara isn’t here right now, you are. Millie, you tell her about the goings-on at that Shady Bridge house and, Sheila, you listen. Go on now, you two, scoot.”

  We scooted. Without the stamps I’d intended to buy.

  “Shall we sit in the square?” I asked Millie, even though my offer raised my guilt level.

  My previous stop had been the veterinarian for Gracie’s annual shots.

  I’d felt no guilt about leaving LuLu, Clara and Ned’s Great Pyrenees mix, who was staying with Gracie and me while they were gone, at my house. She’d thank me for leaving her out of the vet stop. But the post office and now the town square spiked my guilt.

  “Okay.”

  “We could swing over to the café on the way.” I’d get a treat for LuLu to assuage my guilt … along with my sweet tooth.

  Millie gave me a You poor geographically challenged soul, you look. “That’s in the opposite direction.”

  “And get something to eat for while we talk in the square,” I added as explanation.

  “No, thanks. I already had lunch.”

  “I was thinking dessert.”

  “Oh. No, thanks, not in the mood.”

  This was why Clara Woodrow was my best friend in North Bend County. Not only did she never make me say, Well, I’m in the mood for dessert, but she would have understood why I wanted to swing by the café without making me explain at all.

  Heck, she’d probably have suggested it first.

  I followed Millie, missing Clara and chocolate.