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Anything For A Mystery: A Nosey Neighbor Mystery (Volume 1)

By Cynthia Hickey

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1

Tromping through the dark was not on my list of favorite things.
My flashlight’s beam barely cut through the black of a moonless night. Why did I, Stormi Nelson, New York Times bestselling author and all-around scaredy-cat, volunteer to head up the neighborhood watch program? I could’ve been upstairs in my renovated Victorian, glass of wine in hand, plotting out my next romance novel. But no, I’d gone and opened my big mouth. Now, I wandered the scary night street.
It didn’t matter that I lived in a gated community. Evil could scale fences.
What sounded like a shriek came from my left. I whirled, shining my thin ray of light into the bushes. A cat yowled and dashed past my feet. Yep, definitely not my thing. Bad things lurked outside my house. I read it in books, newspapers, and on television, even wrote about it my books. I experienced it firsthand five years ago with the death of my father.
There ought to be something else a reclusive author could do to contribute to society. But no, my all-knowing agent suggested I mingle more to prevent my characters from becoming cardboard cutouts. Said I needed fresh fodder for my stories. Ugh. Can’t I squeeze in a couple hours of reality television and call it a day? Rely on someone else’s observations of the human species to feed my creativity?
Maybe I should’ve moved to a remote cabin in the mountains instead of the classy, gated community I chose. Oh, but I love my house. I love its turrets and balconies and original wood floors. The stuff romances are made of, minus the handsome hero, unfortunately.
A dog barked. The sound cut through the night and increased in intensity. With my heart in my throat, and perspiration coating my forehead, I slid through an opening in the nearest hedge and headed toward the sound. After all, neighborhood watch people are supposed to, well, watch the neighborhood, right? Investigate anything suspicious?
I stepped off the sidewalk and into a pile of noxious smelling mushiness. By the odor, nobody needed to tell me someone’s pet left their calling card and that it now stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Definitely a point to be brought up at the next neighborhood gathering. Grimacing, I wiped the bottom of my sneaker in a lush pile of grass and continued toward the frantic animal. Before I reached my destination, the dog gave a shrill yelp, and then went silent. Nothing stirred. No leaves rustled. No birds chirped. The hair on my arms stood at attention.
Crouching, I waddled closer to where I’d heard the animal. Maybe it was hurt. My flashlight illuminated green eyes from the recesses of an Igloo style dog house.
“What’s the matter, sweetie? Afraid of the dark?” I inched closer, leaving the protection of the hedge. “I don’t like it much myself.”
The dog whined and pulled back its massive head. Before I could straighten, a step crunched behind me. Something struck me in the back of the head. I dropped my flashlight, and fell forward into probably the only mud puddle in Oak Meadow Estates.
Footsteps pounded away. I groaned, blinking against the multi-colored spots behind my eyelids. Was this what my agent had in mind when she wanted me to be more social? Somehow, I didn’t think so.
With my stomach threatening to lose its contents, I pushed to my feet. Leaves crunched behind me. I dove over the fence, skirted around a mound in the yard, and scrambled into the doghouse. A tight squeeze, but it beat the alternative of being attacked again.
Maybe not the smartest move, ducking into a strange dog’s territory, but the poor pooch seemed as scared as I was. I wasn’t too afraid of being bitten, at this point. We cowered together and waited until silence once again filled the spring night.
I tangled my fingers in the thick, coarse fur of my new best friend. “I feel a little foolish, kiddo, but someone clunked me in the head. I bet I have a huge goose bump back there. There’s no blood, is there?” I gingerly felt the spot right above my spine. No blood.
“So, buddy, what do we do now? Shouldn’t you be out there growling and warning off two-legged predators? Keeping me safe?” It didn’t appear I could do much for myself in that area.
The dog woofed low in his throat.
“A fine time to show a little backbone.” I crawled to the door and peered outside. Since I’d dropped my flashlight, I couldn’t see a thing. I shoved my hand into the pouch of my hoodie and withdrew my cell phone. Three key punches later, the 9-1-1 operator answered.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“Somebody attacked me and hit me in the back of the head.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.” At least I didn’t think so.
“Did you get a look at your assailant?”
“No.” Didn’t I say they hit me from the back?
“Where are you now?”
“I’m … in a dog house on Pine Street.” This conversation was going nowhere fast.
“A dog house?”
“I hid in here.” I rubbed the back of my neck, my wish for something cold to drink stronger than ever before. “Look. I’m going home. Can you please send an officer? I’d wait here, but I really hate the dark.” I cut off my rambling and gave the woman my address on Hickory Road and crawled from the confining space. “See you later, new friend.” With another glance to make sure no one waited to clobber me again, I ran home as fast as my wobbly legs would carry me.
Being quiet by nature, violence of any kind never failed to take me by surprise. Tears burned the back of my eyelids. There was a reason I wrote romance and not crime novels. With a sniff, I slammed and locked my front door behind me and made a beeline for my refrigerator.
Glass of wine poured, I tossed rice, butter, French onion soup, and chicken breasts in a nine-by-thirteen-inch pan and tossed it in the oven. I wasn’t sure when cooking became my escape from the world, but the overstocked freezer in the garage attested to the fact I cooked way more than I could eat.
My cats, Ebony and Ivory, twined around my legs as I moved to the living room and stared out the plate glass window that covered most of one wall. Where were the police? It occurred to me, for a second, that maybe I shouldn’t stand in front of the window, but I decided tonight’s attack was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What were the odds the attacker knew my name, much less where I lived? Besides, I hadn’t done anything more than take an evening stroll.
No. I sipped my Chablis. I’d stumbled upon someone up to no good while I made my rounds for the Neighborhood watch, reinforcing my desire to rarely venture from the safety of my house.
A tantalizing smell of butter and onions drifted from the kitchen at the same time a dark sedan pulled into my curved driveway. I stepped behind the curtain and peered around the edge. Hopefully, the tall, muscular figure who slid from the car and marched toward the house was a police officer and not a bad guy. The doorbell rang, answering my question. After all, whoever heard of a crook ringing the bell?
I took a deep breath, exhaled hard enough to puff out my cheeks, and opened the door. “Yes?”
“Ma’am. I’m Detective Steele. You called about an assault?”
They sent a detective? I expected a routine cop. I stepped back and opened the door wide enough for him to enter. One look at him in the light and my breath caught. He towered over my five-feet-five inches by about a foot. Hair the color of ripe wheat was combed back from a face that ought to grace the cover of my romance novels. His eyes were the color of my favorite comfort food—chocolate.
I patted my stick straight hair for flyaways. “Yes, I’m, um, Stormi Nelson.”
He smiled. “The author. My sister loves your books.”
“She does?” I lifted my glass and tried to give an alluring peek over the rim. Spending so much time in my own company didn’t exactly teach me proper flirtation techniques. Except for the ones I used in my novels, anyway, and I made most of those up. My mother said nobody acted that silly in real life.
The conk on the head must’ve knocked me loopy, considering I forgot my manners. “Please, come in.” I waved him toward the only chair in the parlor.
Detective Steele pulled a small spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and sat in my leather easy chair. His eyes widened as he looked around the sparsely furnished room. “Did you just move in?”
“No.” I dragged in a lawn chair from the dining room. “I rarely use any room but my bedroom and office. Never saw the sense in furnishing rooms I rarely use.”
He shook his head. “You told the operator someone hit you over the head and you, uh, hid in a dog house.”
“Yes.” I sipped my wine. “I’m head of our neighborhood watch.” An element of pride laced my words. “Today was my turn to patrol.” Actually, every night would until someone else volunteered.” I heard a dog barking so I went to investigate. When I did, someone hit me. I scrambled to safety inside an igloo.”
His lips thinned. “Did you happen to see the body you tripped over?”
I coughed, spewing my drink across my lap. “Excuse me?”
“The dog you spent time with had an owner. An owner, that according to clues at the scene, you tripped over.” His eyes probed mine.
“I, oh!” I remembered the shapeless lump on the ground. “It’s dark outside. I didn’t know it was a body, and I’m certain I walked around it.” With a shaky hand, I set my glass on an unpacked cardboard box. The thought I might have actually touched a dead body, left me trembling. “Do you think whoever hit me killed that person? What about the dog? What’s going to happen to it? It was scared to death.” The poor thing couldn’t stay there alone. A flush of guilt washed over me as I realized I might appear to care more about an animal than a person. “This is tragic.”
“Miss Nelson—”
“Do you think I killed somebody?” I clutched my throat and leaped to my feet. “I’m an author, not a murderer!” Good Lord, he was here to arrest me. “I only kill people on paper, or I will soon, anyway.”
“Miss Nelson—”
“Am I a suspect? Do I need a lawyer?” I didn’t know one. How would I go about hiring a reputable attorney? I’ve only lived here a few months. My throat threatened to swell shut with suppressed tears. “How did you know which dog house I hid in?”
“I’m only here to ask some questions, Miss Nelson. Did you obtain medical attention for your injury?”
“No. It’s just a bump on the head. I mean, I fell to my knees, got a little sick to my stomach, but other than some mud on my favorite jogging pants, no harm done. Should I go?”
“It might add credibility to the fact you attest to being struck.”
My eyes widened, and I bent my head forward. “Here. Feel. There’s a bump as big as your fist.”
“No need.” After I glanced up, he handed me a business card. “Please come down to the station in the morning and fill out a report. If you don’t show up, I’ll be back to arrest you. If I have more questions, I’ll contact you.” With another shake of his head, he stood and strode past me without answering a single one of my questions.
Wonderful. Now, he could go home and tell his sister that her favorite romance author was a complete nutcase and possible murder suspect. I sank into the chair he’d vacated and buried my flaming face in my hands.
Within minutes, my doorbell rang again. One peek out the window showed Detective Steele. I sniffed and answered the door. “Yes?”
He handed me a leash. Attached to the leash was the wiriest-haired mutt I’d ever seen. “This is the deceased neighbor’s dog. I was going to take her to the pound until we found a relative willing to take her, but your concern told me you might be the better choice.”
“I can keep her?” My heart leaped.
“Well, temporarily, at least. The tag on her collar says her name is Sadie. I think she’s an Irish Wolfhound.”
Ebony and Ivory wouldn’t be happy, but I was ecstatic. The poor dog wasn’t the prettiest thing, but we’d shared an adventure together. “Thank you.”
“Good night, Miss Nelson.” He nodded and headed to his car.
“Good night, Detective,” I whispered as I closed the door. I sure wished I’d have met the handsome officer under different circumstances. Somehow, being a suspect in a murder investigation did not lend a romantic tone to a meeting.
I’d no sooner pulled my casserole from the oven before headlights flashed through my window. I sighed and wished again for a cabin in the woods. I parted the curtains and frowned.
Why was there a U-Haul truck in my driveway?

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