An Excuse For Murder Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Vanessa Westermann

  An Excuse for Murder

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  The ghost of her laughter teased across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms.

  There she was, vibrant as though she was in the room with him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it.” She gave her new dress a twirl, barefoot and beautiful, all ready for a night out but for the heels she would wait to put on to the last. Her toe-nails were painted red. The arch of her foot flexed strong and graceful with the movement. Her blonde hair shone in the light of memory. She stopped short, the soft blue fabric swinging against her legs, and grinned at him.

  It went straight through him. He raised the bottle to his lips, holding on to the vision. It wavered beneath the intensity of his gaze.

  Then there was nothing on the floor but scuff marks and the shimmer of dust. His trainers, mud-caked from that morning’s eight-kilometer run, took up the space where her heels should have been. He had almost forgotten the way she used to toe her shoes off, always sliding the left one off first for some inexplicable reason.

  The wall was cold and hard against his back, the Scotch smooth and warm.

  There was no other choice. He’d made his decision two years ago. It was time.

  Tomorrow, he would commit murder.

  Praise for Vanessa Westermann

  “A riveting introduction to a charming, smart bookstore owner… AN EXCUSE FOR MURDER is original, compelling, and a lovely launch for a great new sleuth.”

  ~Carolyn Hart

  ~*~

  “AN EXCUSE FOR MURDER skillfully interweaves the elements of spy thriller and cozy to create an engaging story with emotional resonance.”

  ~M. H. Callway

  ~*~

  “A mesmerizing page-turner… Westermann is a talent to watch!”

  ~Rosemary McCracken

  ~*~

  “Engaging characters, and an intriguing take on a classic murder mystery.”

  ~Sleuth of Baker Street Mystery Bookstore

  ~*~

  “A lyrical thriller that crackles with defiance, danger, and uncertain romance. Kate Rowan is the perfect heroine for our times: wit, charm, and spirit balanced by impressive skills in self-defense and lock-picking.”

  ~Barbara Fradkin

  An Excuse for Murder

  by

  Vanessa Westermann

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  An Excuse for Murder

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Vanessa Westermann

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2517-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2518-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my family,

  for encouraging me to follow my dreams,

  and especially for my mom.

  You inspire me, always.

  Prologue

  Gary couldn’t stop thinking about the way her skin felt under his hands. How the curve of her shoulder had glowed palely in the dusky room that morning, the faint shadow of a bruise below her knee, the almost translucent skin on the underside of her wrist.

  His concentration should have been centered on the parking lot, planning and scanning the premises, alert to potential danger. It was what he was paid for, what he was good at. One of the best, in fact. The sun, low and intense on the horizon, glared off car windows, in flashes of light that left dark imprints across his vision. Despite the glare, the air was damp and cool. If necessary, he could recite the license plates of the vehicles parked on the street in that London borough, but still, there were blind spots, and he knew it.

  Tension shimmered like heat waves at his peripherals. His jacket collar chafed uncomfortably against his skin. There was an edginess in the air Gary couldn’t explain. Something pressing at him, threatening. But still he could feel a smile lingering on his lips, warm as her hand resting on his arm.

  “Did you read it?”

  “Read what?” He looked back at her, an involuntary move, assuring himself she was there. It should have been another day like any other, but there was something in the details he couldn’t grasp hold of, that felt wrong. It was just the faintest impression of fear, a tingle at the back of his neck.

  “The book.” She was insistent now, meeting his eyes with hers, and he found himself looking too long, caught again by that small brown fleck in the iris of her right eye. “The one I gave you?”

  “You’re like a cat,” he laughed. “You only want my attention when I’m busy.” He glanced at the sidewalk, at two passing pedestrians, white male and female, mid-forties, heads bent together with the easy closeness that years of marriage provided.

  “That’s not true. I always want your attention.”

  “Now if only that were true,” he teased. “Your father hired me to protect you. Let me concentrate on the job at hand, and I promise you’ll have my undivided attention later.” What was it about her that always made him want more, even though it was wrong? “Don’t worry, you’re always on my mind. You’re like a poison. I can’t get you out of my head.” The way she had led him in long strides through the Victoria & Albert museum earlier, past exhibits without so much as a glance for artwork, porcelain, and stained glass, until she stood in front of one cabinet. Floral marquetry of walnut, pine, oak, and ivory. Sprays of berries tied with ribbons, a central door concealing tiers of more drawers. Aged wood, birds rich with detail, and a prowling lion, claws extended had been caught in the passage of light, spilling dimly from the sloped windows above them. You can look and look, she’d said to him, and always see more.

  Movement on their right had him pivoting, placing a hand beneath her elbow, pulling her closer to him. He searched for the source of the threat, scanning sidewalk, empty cars, opaque windows, skyline. Instead of a casual shift in their positions allowing him to shield her, his muscles had tightened, not with the useful surge of adrenaline, but with mindless and inexplicable dread. He resisted the sudden urge to rush her to the car, away from that space filled with too many unknowns.

  “What is it? You’re hurting me.” She tried to pull her arm from his hand.

  “It’s nothing,” Gary said, loosening his hold on her reluctantly. Just a door opening and closing across the street. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. He glanced at Adriana’s bent head, her features hidden behind a wash of pale hair, and pulled her closer to him. She was toying with the necklace he had given her, running her finger over and over the orchid impressed in the pendant. “I’d lose my job if your father found out about us.”

  She looked up at him then, with that serious expression he’d seen so many times before. “Is the job more important than me?”

  “Of course not.” He counted five empty parked cars, one of them a Ford Focus with a distinctive scrape across the passenger side door.

  “So quit then.”

  “And let someone else protect you? The jealousy would
kill me.” The smile was for her, although he was looking away, toward the building on their right, the shape of the tree and the shadow beneath it.

  He felt the movement of her body as she turned toward him. “I love you, you know.”

  Gary couldn’t tell if he was walking or rooted to the spot. She was a client and he should keep his distance, at least until the assignment was over. But all he could see was the smile playing at the corners of her mouth, the softness in her eyes that was only for him. To hell with the rules. Gary knew he was grinning like a fool, quick and reckless and carefree. “Adriana—”

  The pressure came from above his left shoulder, a sudden shift in the air. A whistle of sound past his ear. Her body jerked against his as she staggered. At first he thought the bullet had missed its mark. That sweet, heady gasp of relief.

  His next instinct was to find safety, to clear the scene. His thoughts were already racing through the following stages. Make sure the shooter was no longer on the scene. Check for wounded, for injury.

  She was sliding toward the ground. It was as though a weight was pulling her down, and him with her, until he was on the pavement next to her.

  He pressed against the wound, blood running warm across his knuckles to pool on the ground, damp beneath his knees. He knew there was little to be done for a chest wound like this. The acrid-sweet metallic smell of her blood was nauseating and unforgettable, altering her familiar scent into the bitter stench of impending loss.

  There was a surge of focused movement behind him, running footsteps, cries for help, a siren in the distance. Her heart beat beneath his hand, fainter each time. With each beat, she was slipping farther away from him, and all he could think about was finding the person who pulled that trigger.

  Rage compressed within his chest, a cold force. Hatred pulsed in the sharp pain at his temples, in the clenched fingers of his blood-stained hand.

  He should have moved faster, turned in time, gotten her out of the way. He should have relied on his own instincts, instead of being distracted. Hell, he’d warned her against routine, but all it had taken for him to let her go to the museum was a touch of her hand against his and an unhurried kiss. If only the empty apartment and coffee with him had been enough. Instead, she’d wanted antiques and lunch, pasta and wine. As though nothing else existed.

  It was his fault.

  He could feel her last painful breath burn in his own lungs. He would calculate the exact trajectory of the shot. He would dissect that moment, tear it apart and find who did this. Hunt them the way they hunted her.

  Dense impressions crowded his mind, clarifying and concentrating. The pavement grinding against his knees, the sun reflecting off her blood, steam rising, the weight of her in his arms, the wild arch of her throat, the curve of her cheek. The guilt aching like violence in his bones.

  Chapter One

  For a man who knew how to handle his liquor, Gary was two pints the worse for wear and on his way to finish off the job. His apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk from the pub. Cold night air rushed past him, a sudden gust that whistled down the alley farther ahead and had his ears buzzing. A cluster of teenagers jostled their way down the other side of the street. Gary heard a shout, followed by loud laughter as the tallest boy finished the joke he’d been telling, hitting the punch-line.

  The shops in the pedestrian area were closed, the windows shuttered, while the pubs were coming to life. An empty crisp packet drifted past on a current of air. The wooden sign of the bookstore at the end of the street swung on rusted hinges. He was still too far away to read the sign, but it didn’t matter. He’d seen it before, many times. Fortune’s Cove Books. Kate Rowan, proprietor.

  Adriana could never walk past a bookstore without going in. Hard to believe it was two years to the day since she died. He could almost hear her heels ringing against the pavement, feel her silver ring cold against his skin when he slipped his fingers through hers.

  It would be easier to leave Caulden, but he doubted he’d be able to build another company as successful as Fenris Securities somewhere else. He had put everything he had into planning his revenge.

  There was still a choice. He could stay home tomorrow instead. Listen to a live album, speakers turned up too loud, the bass pounding through the walls. Or he could go out, have a good time. Forget Adriana.

  A door banged in the distance. A car drove past slowly, the tires rasping over the pavement.

  A step fell in pace with his own.

  Gary glanced over his shoulder but said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood for company.

  They continued in silence, the rhythm of their steps matched perfectly over the years. The man beside him began to whistle a minuet by Mozart. The sound was clear as glass. Gary’s fingers tensed on a flash of irritation. He dug his hands into his pockets.

  “Nice night, boss,” Percival remarked in his rumbling baritone.

  “Go away, Perce.”

  “Had a pint in the pub, eh?” The tone was easy, conversational.

  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to make that deduction. He hadn’t hidden the fact that he had been drinking. Still, it seemed like Percy had spotted a weakness.

  The familiar sizzle of violence began at the base of his skull and spread down his arms, through the tendons in his hands. His nostrils flared, his breath came fast. He was itching for a fight. “I mean it, Percival.” His voice was dangerously calm.

  Other men might have sensed something off, a quiver of tension in the air and nothing more, but Percival knew the warning signs. He could read them like no one else could. He should have walked away. “Buy you a coffee?”

  Gary spun and dragged the man toward him by the collar until he could see the whites of Percival’s eyes. The crisp fabric strained under his grip and cut into his palm. Percival outweighed him by a good two stones, but what Gary lacked in size he made up for in skill and the sheer muscle to back it.

  Percival was impassive, infuriatingly patient. He grinned. “Round of chess, then?”

  Gary let him go, exasperated. “Friday night maybe, but not now.”

  “All right then.” Percival shrugged, his massive width straining at the shoulders of his tweed jacket. “A client came in today. Didn’t like the security system we installed. Said it didn’t suit his needs. I thought we’d covered all the bases, but people hide things, boss.” It was said casually. “Sometimes you have to dig up the truth, no matter how deep it’s buried.”

  Gary ignored the sharp taste of adrenaline at the back of his mouth. It could be small talk. There was a fine line between cautious and paranoid. Still, the shock of that one sentence almost had him sobered. He should have been prepared but, here he was, caught off guard. Another man might have come up with lies. Gary waited.

  Percival looked up at the sky, now a bruised purple and dark with the promise of rain. “Then again, sometimes it’s better if things stay hidden.”

  “So long as the client’s happy. We’ll draft an alternative system for him.” Gary watched the bookstore’s sign swing in the breeze, and he knew. He’d made a mistake somewhere along the line. “See you in the office Monday.”

  “Sir.” Percival walked away, whistling softly to himself.

  He had to be more careful. Even if he changed his mind, decided to wait again before making his move. He couldn’t afford another mistake. Not before it was done and over.

  ****

  The key scraped over the lock before sliding home. Gary rammed his shoulder against the door in one well-aimed move, applied just the right amount of force to release the latch, and entered his apartment. He had chosen the flat on the top floor, up three flights of stairs that creaked under the slightest weight, for the same reason he hadn’t fixed the door. There was only one way in and one way out, and he wanted to know if someone was coming.

  He stepped into the living room. A green light flashed beside the door. Gary punched in the code that disabled the security system he had installed himself. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights. As he moved into the room, he was met with the stale scent of what had been an excellent Arabian blend. A mug half-full of yesterday’s coffee was still on the end table in the living room.

  A pockmarked wooden support beam was the only division between living room and kitchen. High quality speakers, powerful enough to spread the sound of classic hard rock through the apartment, were set up on a shelf full of vintage LPs. On a low table on the other side of the window was a wood carving of a dog and a marble chess set, the pieces laid out two moves into a five-move problem. The knight was next to play. The natural luster of the board was dulled by a film of dust. The walls were bare. He’d left them the same indeterminate beige the last bloke had painted them. There were no photographs, no pictures.