The Bell River Murder, page 1
The Bell River Murder
A Jenna Stack Mystery
Hanna Wren
You are about to enter a fictional universe. Names, characters, places, events, peoples, things and incidents are either imaginary or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to persons, living, dead, or in some nether state, or to actual events in the past, present or future are simply a curious coincidence and not meant to upset or alarm the reader. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
© 2024 Hanna Wren. All rights reserved.
Cover Design: Jessie Horsting
For all of the teachers, coaches, and mentors out there who make a difference every day.
Contents
1. Home for the Holidays
2. Bell River Heritage Society
3. Boomer's Bistro
4. Bell River PD
5. The Vault
6. Stockade Wade
7. Dangerous Territory
8. C & C Emporium
9. Push Back
10. The Winter Festival
11. Super Sports
12. Suspect
13. Dinner Party Disaster
14. Burned
15. Independence Day
16. Date Night
17. Hater
18. Eastmoor Correctional Facility
19. Puzzle Pieces
20. Stake Out
21. Midnight Surprise
22. The Lab
23. The Winter Bridge
24. Marker 27
25. Closure
26. Moving Day
27. Cheers
About Hanna Wren
Chapter 1
Home for the Holidays
The train shudders to a stop with a long wheezing sound. Bell River Station is on the wrong side of town by a stretch of barren earth locals call the Scrublands. The small brick depot is unmanned, butted up against a cement parking lot. Dark woods surround the isolated platform. The station is deserted on this gray afternoon. I expected more activity on Christmas Eve.
Only one other traveler, an older man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and earmuffs, is left on the train. All of the other passengers exited at more cheerful destinations farther south. Without making eye contact, he pops up from his seat, grabs his bag, and slips out. I text my mom.
Me: Just arriving. Called an Uber. See you soon.
I pull my roller bag from the overhead compartment and drag it onto the platform. The minute I step outside, my breath rushes out in a cloud. The cement is frosted with ice and slippery. But I know the drill. I grew up in this iceberg of a town. What do they say in Norway? “There is no bad weather, just bad clothing choices.” I’ve packed an alluring wardrobe full of ski vests, gloves, mufflers, thermal shirts, and woolen socks, and I’m wearing my favorite lug-soled snow boots. Still, the cold in Bell River always surprises me.
Maybe it’s the busy sidewalks, the steamy subway grates, or the rattling salt trucks, but ice never lasts long in New York City, where I live now. Here, ice creeps over everything, from the windows on the train to the bricks on the station building. Snowflakes swirl in the yellow lamplight. I can make out the river, cutting through the landscape, heavy with—you guessed it—more ice. I peek at the announcement board inside the station: 30 degrees. My fingers tingle as I zip my jacket tight.
An alarm chimes on my phone. My driver just arrived…somewhere out there.
Headlights blink on and off in the parking lot. I follow the beacon, dragging my suitcase behind. A small man jumps out of a Toyota 4Runner. He’s wearing a plaid hunting cap, a heavy coat zipped up over his nose, and cheap-looking night vision glasses.
“Pick up for Jenna Stack.”
“Over here.” I wave even though we're alone.
He grabs my suitcase and opens up the back. “Remember me?”
I narrow my eyes in the dim light. “Um, I can’t even see you.”
The driver unzips the top of his jacket and grins. His broad face is rimmed by a scrubby beard peppered with gray hair. There’s something about his eyes. They’re mischievous. He certainly looks familiar, but…I shrug.
“Maybe this will help.” He pulls a glowering expression. “Stay off that floor, kid; I just mopped.”
“No! Mr. Barnes? The janitor?” I say, amazed.
“You’re not a kid anymore. Call me Andy.” He stomps his feet to stay warm.
“You always let me into school when I was late.”
“And your brother, too. You were good kids, always polite, said hello. Not like those other rowdies.” Andy loads my bag in the back of his SUV. “Climb in. I’ve got the heat running.”
“My mom is staying at—”
“Annie Dupont’s. I know. Moved in last year. Martha always did have the patience of a saint.” Andy grins.
“Do you mind if I sit up front with you?”
“Riding shotgun, eh? Sure thing, city girl.”
Andy pulls onto the snowy two-lane highway. After the congestion and tall buildings of New York, it’s unsettling to see so much open space. We pass empty fields with dry stalks of grass poking up through the snow, then drive through the industrial section of town. Bad memories flood back. Mom, Tyler, and I had to move to a dingy two-bed apartment for a while when she was sick, and times were tough. I shake it off. Up ahead is the river, the dividing line between the Scrublands and the good side of town. The Winter Bridge stretches over a section of dark water choked with ice. A sloping hill leads to the water's edge, where the kids used to hang out…before the accident. Andy slows down as we pass by a metal plaque erected on the side of the road.
In Loving Memory of Abigail Wade.
Every town has its stories. In Bell River, everyone knows the story of little Abby Wade, who drowned in the river my senior year. A bunch of kids were skating by the Winter Bridge when the ice jam broke upstream. Abigail fell through the ice and was swept away to drown in the freezing water. When they announced her memorial service over the school sound system, every classroom erupted into whispers about how it happened and who was to blame.
“Poor Abby,” I say. “She was such a sweet girl.”
“Some folks think Abby Wade’s death cursed Bell River, and it’s just catching up with us now.” Andy crosses himself.
Down the road, I see old brick buildings covered in twinkling lights. The town seems just as I remember…Until we get closer and I notice how many beautiful old homes look empty and neglected. Windows are boarded up with plywood, the curb is crumbling, and yards are dotted with foreclosure signs. Andy turns down Main Street. Every other shop is empty. All that’s left is the grocery mart with gas pumps, a drug store, the police station, and a weather-beaten City Hall. The old movie theater is closed. Even the eagle statue in front of City Hall has been graffitied. The town is a rundown mess.
“My God, Andy. What’s happened to this place?”
“I told you, something’s not right. It started with just a few families leaving town. Then, the crime rate skyrocketed, and the real estate market crashed. It’s starting to look like a ghost town. There’s one new place, though. It’s real nice. But not stuck up.” He points ahead to the middle of the block. A cheerful red and white awning announcing Boomer’s Bistro frames a large plate glass window lined with sparkling Christmas lights. I can make out a handful of figures seated in the cozy interior. The café looks totally out of place, and very appealing.
Then, I spot the billboard above City Hall plastered with a fresh ad. A man with red hair and a practiced smile faces the camera, his arm thrown around a petite blonde woman with perfect, doll-like features.
“Stop the car. Now!”
Andy slams the brakes. The four-wheeler slides on the icy street before coming to a stop. He looks at me like I’ve gone crazy.
“Is that—” I point at the sign.
“Woody Wade? Sure is.”
The words Woody Wade for Congress are blazoned across the top of the sign.
“And Star Simonsen?” I’m shocked.
“Soon to be Mrs. Woody Wade, a real trophy wife, that one.”
“Wait. Did you say they’re engaged?” I can barely choke the words out.
“That’s right.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Star was my best friend in high school. I’ve been trying to reach her for the last month. Unlike the other popular girls, she was a total bookworm. We met at the library and bonded over detective novels. She was smart and independent, definitely not the trophy wife type.
“Woody claims he’s going to fix this mess.” Andy points at the neglected streets. “But I’m not so sure. That kid was a hellion. Remember when he almost burned the library down?”
“Sure do. One kid went to the hospital. That idiot is running for Congress?”
“Well, he is the son of the Sheriff,” Andy reminds me as he accelerates slowly.
“I just remember him as the school bully,” I point out.
And poor Abby Wade’s brother. Even more shocking than Woody running for Congress is that Star Simonsen is engaged to the jerk. The image of the two of them together is unnerving. Clearly, a lot has changed. Why didn’t Mom mention how bad things have gotten?
“Come on. Let’s get you home.” Andy takes a left and another right and pulls up in front of a rundown two-story duplex. The paint is peeling, and the porch stairs sag.
Andy wrestles my bag onto the sidewalk, puts a hand on my shoulder, and looks me in the eye. “What happened with your brother ain’t right. And your poor mother’s had more than her share of grief. It’s real nice you’re here.”
Annie Dupont is outside, bundled up in a puffer jacket with a striped scarf wrapped around her neck. She’s wearing a knitted newsboy hat with a large daisy on the brim. Scattered around her are a bunch of seed pots. She digs up some crusted dirt and pops a seed in a pot before she trowels dirt over the top and methodically moves on to the next. Above her, icicles are frozen along the gutter. She addresses me before I can delicately ask her if she’s lost her mind.
“So, you’re back, are you?” Annie says without looking up.
“That’s right, Mrs. Dupont. Isn’t it a bit cold to be gardening?”
“I’m winter sewing.” Annie straightens up, dusting dirt from her lap. “Germinating the seeds outside in the cold makes them stronger. That way, they’re hardy and robust, used to the trials of being outside.” She looks me up and down and frowns. “You look thinner than I remember.”
“Well, I’ve been eating like a horse, so I’m not sure why.”
“Maybe if you came home more often. What do you do in New York City anyway?”
Annie Dupont has always been a snob. Not only is she the lone real estate agent in town, but she’s also the President of The Bell River Heritage Society. Somehow, whenever she opens her mouth, I feel like I’m being judged…probably because I am.
“Is Martha home?” I ignore her question.
Annie nods and motions to the adjoining townhouse.
“I’ll never understand why you call your mother by her Christian name. Disrespectful if you ask me.”
I’m about to snap back at her and say Mom likes it, but I hold my tongue when I notice how neglected the duplex has become. One thing Annie shares with my mother is a deep love of the architecture and the homes of Bell River. There’s no way she would let her own place fall into disrepair if she could afford the upkeep. I always thought Annie was independently wealthy. I guess I was wrong.
Walking up the steps to Mom’s door, I spot a birdfeeder hanging from a tree. A red cardinal and his buff-colored mate are pecking at the seeds. Little three-pronged bird tracks cover the snow on the railing. Just like my mom…always feeding something, whether its people, wildlife, or strays. Before I can knock, the door opens. The smell of cocoa and sugar envelops me.
“Jenna Bean!” Mom throws her arms around me. “Guess what I made?”
“Hot chocolate?”
“With marshmallows.” She beams.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she pours two steaming mugs of homemade hot chocolate before topping them with two marshmallows each. Outside the window, the birds are chased off by a red squirrel who swings upside down, stuffing his cheeks.
Mom leads me to the living room. On an end table, there’s a tiny Christmas tree covered with ornaments I recognize from childhood. There’s the plastic roulette wheel Dad brought home from Atlantic City, next to the clay cat with rhinestone eyes I made in school, and the antique wooden drummer boy Mom found at a thrift shop. The tree strains from the weight, and every ornament holds a memory. Wrapped around the entire display is a string of real cranberries.
“I saved one for you to put on.” She hands me my favorite childhood ornament, a worn felt polar bear. I struggle to find an empty spot toward the bottom of the crowded tree, so I hang the bear at an angle as if it were standing on its hind legs.
Martha smiles, plops down on the couch, tucks her legs under her cozy sweater, and gestures for me to join her. Sitting next to her now, it’s hard to believe she was ever sick. She was a history teacher when our long streak of bad luck hit. First, my dad disappeared. He sent letters for a while, more like elaborate excuses. We got along fine without him for a few years until Mom contracted meningitis and was knocked off her feet for six months. Even with insurance, the bills piled up. Eventually, we had to move to the Scrublands, and Tyler started getting into trouble. I didn’t think things could get worse…until they did. During his junior year, Tyler was arrested for murdering our high school football coach, Joe Vitner, and Martha—sweet, bookish, and tirelessly optimistic Martha—lost her teaching job. The school board claimed her dismissal was due to the town’s declining population. But they fired her right after Tyler’s conviction, making it hard to believe that excuse.
“How’s school?” Mom sips her chocolate.
“Tricky. Luckily, I got your brains.”
She laughs, and two spotted cats saunter into the room.
“Which one is Eliza, and which one is Alex?” When her beloved tomcat, George Washington, passed away last year, Mom took in a pair of strays and named them after Alexander and Eliza Hamilton.
“Eliza’s tail is fluffier, and Alex has that swirly white mark on his back.”
I lean down to offer Alex my hand to sniff, but he bolts under the couch.
“He’s a bit nervous. He’ll get used to you. In the meantime, try this.” She scoops up Eliza and gently sets her on my lap. The cat immediately starts purring.
As we chat, I notice a pile of bills on the sideboard, cracks in the wall, and a leaky ceiling. The curse of Bell River has definitely spread to this duplex.
“Oh. This came for you.” She pulls a creamy white envelope from the stack of bills and hands it to me.
On the front, my name is written in elaborate cursive, care of my mother’s address. I slip my fingernail under the flap, rip the thick paper open, and slide out a gold-embossed invitation.
You are cordially invited to
The Winter Carnival Party
Peyton Honeycutt will host an Informal-Formal Class Reunion
Candidate Woodrow Wade Jr. will be in attendance
“No, thank you.” I toss the invitation on the coffee table for Mom to read.
“You can’t miss that. All of your old friends will be there.”
What friends? Star is the only person I want to see, but now that she’s engaged to Woody Wade, I’m not so sure.
“Now, Jenna Bean—”
“I just want to keep a low profile, Mom. Besides, who has an eight-year reunion? That’s ridiculous. It’s obviously just a ploy to promote Woody Wade.”
“Maybe. But it still could be fun. Promise you’ll at least think about it?”
There’s no use arguing with Martha.
“Want another marshmallow?” I move Eliza to the floor and head for the kitchen.
“I’m good,” she calls after me. “I set your room up with all your stuff.”
I find the open bag of marshmallows inside a sparsely stocked cupboard. There’s spaghetti, sauce, a few cans of soup, and that’s it. I check the fridge. It’s bare bones, too. I’ve asked Martha how she’s doing a dozen times. Now, I’m starting to get the picture.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I call out, stalling for time.
“Left side of the hallway.”
I order my usual list from Instacart with a few extras. When I return to the living room, Martha is fiddling with her hands, a dead giveaway she’s nervous. I flop down on the couch and meet her eyes.
“So, when were you going to tell me you're broke?”
“The day you have a daughter, you'll understand. It's not an easy thing to say. Besides, I’m getting a check from The Heritage Society in a few days.”
“You’re working for cranky old Mrs. Dupont? I thought you were tutoring and reselling thrift finds on eBay?”
“Hush! I’ve also been cleaning houses to make ends meet. Annie’s been a real godsend.”
The thought of Martha cleaning houses for Annie Dupont makes me cringe. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s an honest way to make money, but Mom really loved teaching history. I’ve never met anyone more passionate about the past than Martha. Things aren’t just bad in the town, but also in Martha’s life.
An hour later, while we're watching a rerun of Antiques Roadshow, the doorbell rings. Martha answers and says, “Are you sure you're at the right house?”
