You're Perfect, Now Die (eBook)

Cassy Pickard (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
300 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-1689-8 (ISBN)

Infos

As a potter specializing in unique porcelain, Anne creates beauty-not the horror unfolding before her. Harris Mills, lawyer and bounty hunter, arrives at Anne's doorstep demanding information. Even though she was in a contentious divorce at the time of her husband's fiery car crash, Anne can't believe he embezzled the funds Harris swears were traced to an offshore account. He is adamant the accident was faked. Initially resistant, Anne eventually joins Harris's pursuit. Struggling, she draws on an inner strength and talent never before tapped for survival, but now absolutely necessary to avoid sudden death.

Writing thrillers has been an exciting and wonderfully challenging transition from academia for Cassy. She lives in coastal New England with an incredibly patient husband, not so patient dogs, and children near by.

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"e;You're Perfect, Now Die"e; is an 80,000-word thriller of betrayal and unexpected love. Anne Tucker discovers that the husband she was told had died, now plans to kill her. Never once thinking she'd be the "e;other woman,"e; everything changes when Anne receives a picture of her husband draping his arm around the soft-spoken, wannabe artist Belle, who constantly begs Anne for advice. As a potter specializing in unique porcelain, Anne creates beauty--not the horror unfolding before her. Everything changes when Harris Mills, lawyer and bounty hunter, arrives at Anne's doorstep demanding information he claims only she will be able to provide. Despite being in the middle of a contentious divorce at the time of his fiery car crash, Anne can't believe her husband embezzled the funds Harris swears he's traced to an offshore account, or that her husband is still alive. Against her better judgment, Anne joins Harris in Denver to attempt finding some resolution that Belle might offer. The police quickly decide that two wives and a dead (or not) husband don't add up. Anne realizes that even with Harris's help, no one is going to fix this unless she does.

Textauszug

Chapter 4

I pushed against Harris’s arms, trying to break free. My dear boat was going under. I had to get to her, help her, figure out what had happened. Harris squeezed harder. His arms were like straps constraining every move. I hit my head against his shoulder, yelling.

“Stop it,” he said. “It’s not safe. You can’t do anything until the explosions stop.”

Only then did I realize that the first horrible sound wasn’t the only one. Small popping eruptions continued. Bursts of flames came in spurts with sparks flying above the boat. Harris gently set me down but didn’t release my arms. There was no reason to fight him. Perfetta was so injured there was nothing I could do at this point that would make much of a difference. If crying could have accomplished anything, I would have burst into tears.

I swallowed twice. It was time for action, not reaction.

“There are a couple of fire extinguishers on board. Help me. Maybe we can contain it.” I needed to mobilize, as feeble as I sounded.

“No. Don’t move. We have no idea if more explosions will happen.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.

“The fire department is on the way,” Mrs. W yelled down the bluff.

It seemed natural she’d be on the spot exactly when needed. Harris waved an acknowledgement, relaxing control over my arms. I lurched with the sudden freedom. Perfetta practically begged for help.

I lay against the feather pillows on the couch. My foot was raised on another. Harris seemed at home in my little cottage as he set about putting ice cubes in a baggie wrapped in a towel for my ankle. Mrs. W fussed with Rosie while we waited for the police to come up from the dock. The fire was put out, nearly on its own, but the firemen hung around, making sure there was nothing left to ignite.

“It’s illogical,” I said, adjusting the ice pack to get it directly on the bruising area. “Did you see anyone here?” I looked at Mrs. W.

“Honey, there is no way anyone would make it passed me or passed Rosie.”

She was right. It could only be a ghost or a friendly neighbor for Rosie to let someone near Perfetta or anywhere she could monitor the property. Many might think Golden Retrievers are the gentlest dogs possible, until they meet one who loves her “people” more than the rest of the world.

That said, someone boarded Perfetta and set her on fire.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Mrs. W asked. Her anticipation was almost palpable.

“Rosie love, off of me.” Mrs. Warner gently held Rosie on all fours. She looked at my elevated foot and then at Harris.

“’An injury is much sooner forgotten than an insult,’” she said.

“And that’s from whom?” I asked.

“Philip Dormer Stanhope. He was the Earl of Chesterfield. He wrote it in a letter to his son in 1746.”

“Mrs. Warner, this is Mr. Mills. Harris Mills. Mr. Mills, this is my friend and my landlady, Mrs. Warner.” I waved my hand back and forth between the two. Rosie continued to push at Mrs. Warner, anxious for her turn to be recognized.

Harris stepped forward, his hand extended.

“Your shoes are ruined,” Mrs. Warner said, keeping her hands on Rosie’s head.

“True.”

Harris dropped his arm next to his side.

“Silly to be marching around in the tidal pools wearing shoes like those.”

“True.”

“Well, I see you’re fine,” she said to me. “Nothing that won’t heal in a day or two. I was at the window in the big house. Saw Perfetta explode. Wanted to see what’s up. Called 911 before coming down.” She touched my ankle.

“But to persevere, in obstinate condolement is a curse,

Of Impious stubbornness. ‘Tis unmanly grief.

It shows a will most incorrect to heaven,

A heart unfortified, a mind impatient.” 

“Okay, I give,” I said.

“Shakespeare. You might have used to write and now create those gorgeous bowls and plates, but I’m not sure you read.”

Rosie stood, pushing her full height, even taller if possible. She was in on-guard posture, waiting for my command before barking. I nodded to Mrs. W. Someone was climbing the steps to the cottage. Before he could knock, Mrs. W opened the door.

“What did you find, Oscar?” She didn’t mince words with the fire chief.

“Nothing, Ma’am. It sure would seem that someone set off an explosive. Except,” he paused.

“Spill it. Now,” Mrs. W held one hand on a hip and jutted her chin towards the poor man.

“Well,” he hesitated. “Does look like there were lots of rags, messy clean-up stuff, all stuffed into a bag. Only bits of it remain. You know you can’t do that with oil or chemical soaked cloth. Especially in a tight or warm space. There was enough of her still above water for one of my guys to board.”

“What?” I raised up off the couch. “What are you talking about? Who would do that on my boat?”

Harris motioned me to be still. There was no way I’d let that go. I took my work on Perfetta as seriously as possible. I never once had left dirty rags, especially those with saturated cleaning liquids, stuffed anywhere. Someone had been on her without my knowing.

“Looks like, pardon me Miss Anne, looks like maybe you were in a hurry and didn’t quite finish up.” The fire chief shuffled as he spoke. He kept sending furtive glances at Mrs. W.

I rose off the couch. As my feet touched the floor, I ignored the searing jolt through my left leg.

“Don’t you even go there, Oscar. And don’t do that ‘Miss Anne’ bit with me. We were in high school together. You know me well enough to know that I would never never never leave anything on Perfetta that would cause any danger. Someone did this to me. To her, my boat. And, why the explosions and not a smoldering fire?” My breath came in short puffs with the anger streaming from me.

Harris didn’t try to intercede. I scanned the room. Mrs. W crossed her arms close to her chest. It wasn’t clear how this would play out. But I was certain of one thing. Someone was trying to hurt me. If Charles hadn’t died a year ago, I would have put money on him. He hated the time I spent on Perfetta. He hated the water, sailing and when I sailed, I was the skipper.

“Anne, we all make mistakes,” Oscar took on the role of the placating elder statesman trying to talk a screaming woman down from a cliff. He even patted the air in front of him, reassuring everyone he was in control.

“Oscar, don’t do this to me. Perfetta is my love. She saved me from near insanity. There would be no way I’d do anything stupid such as leaving dirty rags tucked in nooks and crannies.” My fists balled against my sides. If my foot were better, I’d have been in his face.

“We found the hatch cover to the cabin. The lock was still in place.”

“I always lock her. The keys to the engine and hatch are over there. In the left drawer.” I nodded to the kitchen area.

“Guess that means the rags were left behind before you locked up,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “Damn shame. Losing a beauty like her.”

“Sounds as though we need to consider all the possibilities,” Harris said, his voice barely audible. Yet, his controlled speech took over the room.

“’Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important matters,’” Mrs. W said with force.

“Not now, Mrs. W. Please.” I wasn’t ready for the daily lecture on my lack of education. But, she was right. Where were we going to go with this?

“Einstein, dear,” she continued, ignoring my rebuttal. “He had a few interesting ideas.”

Harris raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

“Ah, well, I need to get back to the station and write all this up. You’re gonna need an insurance guy out here soon, Anne,” Oscar continued as if Mrs. W hadn’t spoken. “‘Fraid your boat will be a long time before sailing. If at all.”

“Oscar.” I plopped back against the arm of the couch. “Don’t you dare put down that I set this off. No way. You write it up that it is suspicious. Hear me?”

“Anne, I write it as I see it. Dirty rags, an explosion, and I’m guessing a large insurance claim. Is there anything you want to add?”

“Get out! You should know me better than that.” I pounded my fist against the cushions. Disgusted. My beautiful boat totally lost.

“We’ll see what the investigators say. They’ve done this a few times.” Oscar let the screen door slam behind him. I could hear him sputtering as he stepped off the porch.

“Well, that was interesting,” Mrs. W said. “I think it’s time for some dinner.”

“Dinner? How can you think of eating?” I mumbled.

“’Statistics show that of those who contract the habit of eating, very few survive.’”

Mrs. W stood stiffly erect as she delivered her statement. “And, before you ask, it was George Bernard Shaw who offered that comment. I’ve always like that quote, even though I’m bringing you something to eat....

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 26.9.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-1689-8 / 9798350916898