Dead End

by Skillings, Judith

• ISBN13: 9780060582982
• ISBN10: 0060582987
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2004-03-09
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publications

Summary

Rebecca Moore has had more than her fill of dead men . . . The first, her lover David, took his own life in her bedroom just outside of Washington, D.C. -- a totally senseless act of violence that causes a severely shaken Rebecca to quit her job as an investigative journalist and flee to rural Maryland to run her late Uncle Walt's classic automobile restoration shop. Out here she faces a very different strain of rampant craziness -- not to mention a motley collection of potentially dangerous, allegedly reformed ex-convict employees she's inherited. As she tries to settle in, a second male corpse surfaces, murdered and stuffed into a glass beading machine on the shop floor, where it has no earthly right or reason to be. Now, with a sexy cop who's more interested in her than in the case, and with more death in the offing, Rebecca Moore is going to have to resort to what she does best: find the facts, finger a culprit . . . and somehow stay alive.

Excerpts

Dead End

Chapter One

"We having an open house? Or is he selling tickets to the policemen's ball?"

Rebecca forced herself to look up. Frank Lewes's rangybody blocked the sun, his face a dark void of shadow. She'dheard his Corolla drive in, the wrenching squawk of thedriver's-side door, the rhythmic shuffle of his boots on thetarmac as he approached. She'd imagined his eyes flittingfrom the sheriff's patrol car to the open front door to hisboss huddled on the cement stoop, belatedly guarding theshop. As ineffectual as the thrasher rustling in the deadleaves beneath the azalea.

She squinted at him. "We already gave."

"Uh-huh. That's what I thought." Frank peered over herhead into the foyer. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Frank -- "

"Or make me guess? Val?"

"No, Frank. It's -- "

"Paulie?"

"It's none of us. But it's bad."

"No shit." Frank glared.

Rebecca held out her hand. Her chief mechanic pulled herto standing with as little effort as if she were still a spoiledkid hanging around the shop for the summer. Frank had run the shop for her uncle and now did for her. On the step, shewas level with him. Close enough to smell Head & Shouldersshampoo tinged with a dose of fear -- Frank's Pavlovianresponse to the police.

He gripped her hand as if he could squeeze the news outof her. She didn't flinch. His intimidation was pure bluff. Alwayshad been, like his silences. Frank claimed to have lostthe knack of small talk in the state pen. Maybe. Or maybe hepreferred to listen. Soak up people's chatter like a sponge attackingspilled milk. Wring it out late at night when he hadtime to consider more than just the words.

Rebecca's words were strained but unambiguous.

"Graham Stuck was murdered. Then stuffed into our glassbeader."

Frank whistled. He dropped her hand, wiped his on the legof his coveralls as he stepped back, leaving her in charge."Mighty inconsiderate. Hope he didn't gum up the machine."

Rebecca and Frank watched in silence as Harry Tollandwheeled the remains of Graham Stuck through the doorwayof Vintage & Classics into the blinding sunshine. Past retirement,Harry should have put away his surgical tools. He'dgiven up private practice, stepped down to assistant medicalexaminer for the county, but he couldn't open his fist and letgo of the string. Which was okay with most everyone. WithHarry, you knew which way the wind was blowing. He wasan archetypal grandfather, if your grandfather brandished ascalpel -- as sensitive to the anguish of the living as he wasinvasive to the secrets of the dead.

Harry maneuvered the stretcher outside. The gurneybounced off the doorframe. No one much cared, since thecorpse wasn't complaining. Harry frowned, mumbled to thebody. "Muddier than tobacco fields soaked by spring rains."The front wheels bumped down off the step. Frank caughtthe back end and eased it onto the tarmac. Harry nodded histhanks. "Too damn muddy by half."

Rebecca tore a ragged thumbnail off with her teeth. If that was the aging coroner's assessment of Stuck's unnaturaldeath, she was inclined to agree. Who kills a classic car mechanic-- even a mediocre one who overcharged his customers?Why was Stuck in her shop instead of his own? Whyput his body in the glass beader? Where were his clothes?Nothing made sense.

Sheriff Bradley Zimmer wasn't troubled by such philosophicalquestions. The town's second-term sheriff was stilltrying to adjust the uniform over his middle-aged spread. Hecorralled everyone in the lunchroom. Like most areas of theshop, the lunchroom was clean and functional. Vanilla walls,beige Armstrong tile floor, window set high in the front wall.Access to both the office and the machine shop. Butcherblockcounter ran along a side wall holding a counter refrigerator,sink, microwave and Paulie's contribution: two-burnerBunn coffeemaker. The six-foot-long cafeteria table waswhite -- not the most practical color for a shop -- but UncleWalt had figured that way you could see when it needed to becleaned. In the corner, a water cooler belched as an air bubbleerupted.

Rebecca crossed her right leg over the left, tucked her anklebehind to keep it from swinging. She clutched a mug ofPaulie's coffee du jour with both hands. Mondays it wasequal parts French Nut and Zanzibar Roast. The sheriffhadn't touched his, which upset Paulie, who hovered offeringrefills. Frank sat at the far end imitating a sphinx, avoidingeye contact. Maurice sprawled on the table, playingcenterpiece. Presumably, Juanita was at Flo's Café waitingtables. Val was more than three hours late. The missing teenhad been there eighteen months and was still on probationfrom a burglary conviction. Being late was not a good move.

Zimmer lurched over the table in Rebecca's direction."You have no idea what Stuck was doing in your shop?"

"No, Sheriff. I didn't know twenty minutes ago and I stilldon't." Rebecca sighed. Moe stretched his legs, shovingZimmer's notepad onto the floor. "He shouldn't have been inthe shop, alive or dead."

"You didn't get along?"

"Why would we?"

"You were enemies?"

"We were business competitors. Maybe the shops wereclose, geographically, but we weren't. Why would we wanthim hanging around?" Rebecca shook her head, ducked beneaththe table to retrieve the notepad. It was too odd thinkingof herself as a business rival of a vintage car mechanic,even after six months running the place. Odd to think of herselfat all in her present guise. At thirty-seven, she was nolonger a reporter. No longer enmeshed in the drama of theDC scene. No grab-and-gab lunches at High Noon, swappingleads with Hayes. No evenings fishing the olives fromdesigner martinis with those politically connected, trying toabsorb more leads than you gave away. No trips out of townon the expense account. No need for a laptop, tape recorder,briefcase ...

Dead End. Copyright © by Judith Skillings. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Dead End by Judith Skillings
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