Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

He was gone.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.

Then I sent the text anyway. There was no signal. And no recipient. But maybe Mettle’s ghost would see it.

Look familiar?

I sighed and lowered the phone. Kendall didn’t strike me as a kidnapper—besides, he would have been thirteen years old when Chrissy disappeared. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with it, could he?

No. No way. Not possible. Not him.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, unlocked the door, and went downstairs. On the east side of the house, the morning sunlight was coming through the French doors that lead out to the deck and laying bright on the hardwood floor. Whenever the light hit the inn like that, the air would sparkle, but this cabin, although supposedly rarely used, was remarkably free of dust.

In the refrigerator, I found a bottle of Evian water and some organic granola snacks. I chewed slowly and drank slowly, not wanting to stress my upset stomach.

I finished the water and then set the bottle down on the counter. Seen through the plastic, the label backward read Naive. I really hoped that wasn’t the case.

With nothing better to do, I moseyed around the living room and inspected the furnishings. Everything looked relatively new, as if an Ethan Allen truck had pulled up to the front door and unloaded. A large-screen TV hung opposite the windows and the French doors and various pieces of wrought iron clung to the walls in an attempt to make the modern cabin look more rustic. A bear trap with teeth as sharp as shark’s teeth hung with its jaws pried all the way open, an old rifle was mounted over the mantel of a fake fireplace, and a set of horseshoes hung from railroad spikes jutting out of the cedar paneling.

I went to the French doors and looked out across the property. In the valley behind the house, the morning sun hadn’t succeeded in burning the mist off the lake and a long dock extended into the gloom. A set of wooden lounge chairs, vague in the grayness, sat near the end of the dock and a metal bucket collected the fog like a pail full of gauze bandages.

I unlatched the brass locks and stepped outside onto the deck. The entire rear of the house was in shadow, kept cool by the darkness. I descended the composite stairs and walked across the field, the high, stalking grass scratching at my legs and leaving my calves wet with dew, hitchhikers clinging to my jeans.

The sun on my shoulders felt good and strong. It cast my tromping shadow on the waving tentacles of weeds, giving me the impression that the whole property had gone underwater. Yet, the sun wasn’t strong enough to reach the lake. Ahead, the whole depression was a dark crater, immune to the sun, sitting low enough that the fog never left.

Down at the dock, I walked across the planks, the grayness swallowing me. I sat in the one of the wood chairs and watched the water smoke. The surface was mostly still. It wasn’t glassy, but dark and green, only a faint ripple when the breeze blew.

I inhaled deeply, feeling the gray moisture coat the inside of my nostrils. I was deeply bored and craved something to keep my mind off Mettle. I took out my phone to read, but the battery was down to twenty percent and I didn’t want to risk it dying and slid it back into my pocket.

I had to admit that disconnecting from the rest of the world brought a certain kind of peace. The concerns of my failing inn, of the inflammatory comments, of even my feud with Captain Herrick, all felt like a lifetime ago.

Yet I couldn’t help but imagine Mettle sitting in his smoke-lined throne over the lake and gazing down on me. In too many ways, his death was all my fault. If I hadn’t been such a prude, he might have spent the night with me and avoided arrest. If I hadn’t been such a prude, he might be sitting in that second lounge chair and we might be holding hands and gazing across the lake like a silly Cialis commercial.

My eyes popped open when a cold drop of water struck my forehead. I must have fallen asleep. I looked up. The sun had retreated behind a gang of heavy clouds.

I stood and turned to head back to the cabin, when a pair of headlights cut through the trees. I took out my phone and glanced at the time. It was a few minutes after noon. The battery was down to seventeen percent.

The rain began to fall. I hurried through the tall grass and back up to the deck in time to see Kendall swing the Mercedes around and pull up to the front door. He got out and carried two armfuls of grocery bags through the front door.

I met him in the living room and grabbed a paper towel from the counter and patted down my hair.

“I thought you lawyers worked long hours,” I said.

He put the groceries on the counter. “We do, but I told your foster father I had some shopping to take care of.” He opened one of the bags, took out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of red panties and a bra, both too frilly for my tastes.

“I know they’re nothing fancy, but I hope they will suffice.”

I ignored the underwear and grabbed the jeans with suspicion and turned the waistband inside out to read the tag.

“Was I right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Most guys I know don’t have a clue about women’s sizes.”

“I worked at a Banana Republic in college. Got some great discounts.”

“How bourgie of you.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a purple package. “I bought you some lady pads too. Just in case.”

“Thank you,” I said. I couldn’t help but imagine him standing at