The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair, page 1
The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair
A Marcia Banks and Buddy Mystery
Kassandra Lamb
a misterio press publication
Contents
Books by Kassandra Lamb
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
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Published by misterio press LLC
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Cover art by Melinda VanLone, Book Cover Corner
Photo credit: silhouette of woman and dog by Majivecka (right to use purchased through Dreamstime.com)
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Copyright © 2018 by Kassandra Lamb
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, transmitted, stored, distributed or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the writer’s written permission, except very short excerpts for reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the publisher’s/author’s express permission is illegal and punishable by law.
The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and most places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Some real places may be used fictitiously. The towns of Mayfair, Florida, and Collinsville, Florida, and Collins and Buckland Counties are fictitious.
The publisher does not have control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites and their content.
OTHER BOOKS by KASSANDRA LAMB
The Kate Huntington Mystery Series:
MULTIPLE MOTIVES
ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS
FAMILY FALLACIES
CELEBRITY STATUS
COLLATERAL CASUALTIES
ZERO HERO
FATAL FORTY-EIGHT
SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS
ANXIETY ATTACK
POLICE PROTECTION
The Kate on Vacation Novellas:
An Unsaintly Season in St. Augustine
Cruel Capers on the Caribbean
Ten-Gallon Tensions in Texas
Missing on Maui
The Marcia Banks and Buddy Mysteries:
To Kill A Labrador
Arsenic and Young Lacy
The Call of the Woof
A Mayfair Christmas Carol (novella)
Patches in the Rye
The Legend of Sleepy Mayfair
The Sound and the Furry
A Star-Spangled Mayfair
Lord of the Fleas
(coming 2020)
Unintended Consequences Romantic Suspense:
(written under the pen name, Jessica Dale)
Payback
Backlash
Backfire
(coming 2019)
Chapter One
I tiptoed down the hall to Will’s kitchen—correction, our kitchen.
Grabbing a banana for myself and a carrot for my horse, I motioned for Buddy to follow me.
My horse! A frisson of excitement ran through me. My fingers twitched, anxious to be holding her reins.
Buddy, my Black Labrador mentor dog and four-legged best friend, rose slowly from his dog bed and shook himself, his tags rattling together.
“Shh.” I held a finger to my lips.
He gave me his what’s-up look, head tilted to one side, eyes bright with interest.
“Today’s the day, boy,” I whispered, while pulling on my barn shoes.
Today I would ride Niña through the fields and woods surrounding Mayfair for the first time. I’d owned the Paso Fino mare for several months now, my unofficial fee for some amateur sleuthing I’d done on behalf of her breeders. But she’d remained at their farm, a good forty-minute drive away, until the construction of the new Mayfair Riding Stable was finally completed—a process that had taken way longer than expected.
Yesterday afternoon, we had moved her into the new barn, right across the street from my house. Now I could ride pretty much every day!
Buddy and I went out the front door. I closed it gently and turned. And let out a soft groan.
Agnes Baker was stalking down the street toward us, her face pinched into a sour expression.
Agnes was a slender woman, with brown eyes and dark hair, which was already sprinkled with gray in her late thirties. Today said hair was uncombed, and her sleeveless, white cotton blouse was buttoned crooked over navy shorts.
She stopped in front of me, her feet spread in an aggressive stance. “He’s gotta do somethin’.”
“Wha’?” I said. Keep in mind, I’d only been awake maybe ten minutes at this point.
Agnes stamped her foot. “He’s gone too far this time. My Howie’s trike was tampered with durin’ the night. When he got on it this mornin’, it collapsed right under him.”
It took my brain a few seconds to translate. Howie was next to the youngest in the Baker clan of two adults and five kids. Agnes’s first he referred to my fiancé Will Haines, whom she expected to do something about the second he, our not-so-friendly neighborhood prankster.
Said prankster had been haunting Mayfair for five months now. And quite honestly, I thought Agnes’s eldest, thirteen-year-old Billy, was a prime suspect.
The collapse of his little brother’s trike did nothing to dispel this suspicion.
I was tempted to ask questions—where was the trike, in the house, the garage, outside? Glancing longingly over Agnes’s shoulder at the wooden walls of the Mayfair Riding Stable, pristine in the morning sunlight, I resisted the temptation.
“Will is still asleep. He didn’t get to bed until two a.m.”
Heat rose in my cheeks as Agnes’s gaze raked over my tee-shirt-and-jeans-clad body, staring critically for a moment at my too broad hips. I could almost hear her thinking, And what were you doing, you little hussy, keeping him up that late?
“He was on surveillance,” I said, my tone terse. “I’ll let him know, when he wakes up, that the prankster has struck again.” Not that it was Will’s job to catch him—he was a homicide detective—but he would pass on the information to those working the case.
Agnes let out a loud “Harumph,” turned on her heel and marched back up Main Street.
I sighed and headed for the stable, Buddy trotting along beside me. I hadn’t bothered with his leash, since I couldn’t use it while we were trail riding anyway.
As we approached the new barn, my heart sank into my stomach. The walls weren’t so pristine after all.
Spray-painted across the front was Mayfair Stinks, in neon green.
Of course, my first priority had been to check on Niña. She was safe and content in her stall. And nothing in the interior of the barn had been disturbed.
It could be worse, I told myself. At least the barn hasn’t been painted yet.
We’d been locking the barn door at night, with a big fat hasp and combination padlock, since the prankster had targeted it for most of his more destructive mischief. The earlier pranks had been more annoying than harmful—such as dog poop in a couple of folks’ mailboxes and the white-chalked message on the back window of my neighbor’s classic Bonneville, This is a ugly car.
Our prankster is a tad grammar-challenged.
I’d even let out an involuntary chuckle when I’d gone to the Methodist church for a Chamber of Commerce meeting and caught sight of the Sinners Welcome banner over the entrance. It had been there for as long as I’d lived in Mayfair, going on four years now, and was looking a little tattered. The prankster, as everyone now referred to him, had decided to spruce it up with In Hell spray-painted in black across the bottom.
But when most of the newly delivered supplies for the barn had disappeared, I was no longer amused. The prankster had continued to disrupt the construction of the barn, delaying its completion for months.
But there hadn’t been any recent incidents, for at least two weeks. Now this and Howie’s trike all in the same night.
I stared at our beautiful new barn, marred with neon green letters, and felt queasy.
We have to find this guy! And we needed to stop calling him a prankster. He was a full-blown vandal.
Normally, I love a good mystery and am at my happiest when investigating something. But the idea of checking out my friends and neighbors didn’t hold much appeal.
I grimaced. It was most likely a local teenager, and we only had a few of those. I’d write up a list later.
But for now, I was debating whether to go back to my house for a can of primer and a paintbrush or to forge ahead with my plan to ride Niña, before the mid-October day heated up. For most of the rest of the country, it was autumn, but in Central Florida, it was still summer.
The sound of crunching gravel. I turned. Edna Mayfair was crossing the parking lot across from the Mayfair Motel.
She opened the gate in the new four-board fence that surrounded what had once been an overgrown
Edna had two versions of footwear—flip-flops from March to November and moccasins during what passed for winter here. Neither were adequate around a barn, where horses’ hooves could crush toes or worse, but I decided today was not the day for that battle.
The rest of Edna’s plump, octogenarian body was clad in one of her many muumuus, this one with bright orange hibiscus on a hot pink background.
A throbbing began in my right temple, threatening to blossom into a headache.
I love Edna, I truly do. But ever since I had become her de facto stable manager in exchange for free board for my mare, things had been a little tense at times. Edna was a hard worker, and her expectation that others would also devote themselves fully to her projects was not always realistic.
I hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those tense times. Because I’d made my decision. I wasn’t letting the vandal ruin my first ride on Niña in Mayfair.
Edna frowned as she read the neon green words.
“I’m going to paint over it,” I said, “as soon as I get back from my morning ride.”
She nodded curtly, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Marcia. This job’s turned into more than either of us bargained for. I’ll send Susie over to start on primin’ the walls.”
Susanna Mayfair, Edna’s niece, was technically the stable’s manager, but she knew next to nothing about horses. Thus, I had been recruited to help her.
“And I’m thinkin’,” Edna was saying, “that I should be payin’ you for your efforts here, once we get some revenue comin’ in.”
I wasn’t sure if I liked that idea. As long as I was more volunteer than not, working in exchange for Niña’s board, I felt like I could turn down certain jobs. But if I were a paid employee…
Edna seemed to misread the discontent on my face. “Don’t worry. I know your time is limited, what with your trainin’ and all, and plannin’ your wedding.” A sparkle came into her brown eyes.
I groaned inside. My wedding was the last thing on my mind right now.
I know, not the typical attitude of a bride-to-be, but I’d been married before and burned by my cheating ex. It had taken poor Will almost two years to get me to this stage, engaged and living together. Actually planning a wedding and making marriage a reality… I wasn’t quite there yet.
“I came over to talk to you ’bout somethin’ else,” Edna said. “I wanna make the stable into a haunted house for Halloween. I’ve already got some advertisin’ lined up to get people to come.”
I’d kind of stopped listening after haunted house. My teeth clenched together, doing nothing good for my blossoming headache.
“I thought we were going to get some more horses to board.” I tried to keep my voice even. “Haunted houses and skittish horses don’t exactly go hand in hand.”
“Well, I’ve bin thinkin’ on that. We ain’t got any more boarders lined up yet. And I figured we could keep Niña in your backyard on Halloween, when the haunted house would be open.”
I slowly pulled in air through my nose and counted to ten. It was Edna’s stable, and my horse lived here for free, so I could hardly object to the plan.
“What about the vandal? A haunted house will be a tempting target.”
Edna waved a dismissive hand in the air. “We’ve got weeks to figure out who’s doin’ this stuff.”
I resisted the urge to point out that we’d been trying to figure that out for months now.
She means well, I told myself. Edna was one of the town’s matriarchs, and she was determined to revitalize Mayfair by attracting tourists our way.
I managed a smile, although it felt a bit lopsided. “Okay, I’ll help Susanna with the painting later.” I edged toward the door of the barn.
“’Bout that.” Edna pointed to the orange flowers on her muumuu. “I figured we’d give it a coat of this color for Halloween, then a second coat of red afterwards.”
I caught myself halfway through an eye roll. “Sure, why not?”
I really, really needed to get on my horse and away from Edna, before I said something I’d regret.
Chapter Two
As we negotiated the field behind my house, putting more and more distance between us and the stable, I felt my muscles relaxing. The headache faded away.
Unsure of the terrain, I watched the ground carefully, looking out for holes or rocks that might make Niña stumble. Buddy trotted alongside, his tongue already hanging out.
He looked up at me. I could have sworn he was smiling.
I laughed out loud and tightened my knees slightly. Niña shifted to a slow corto, and I leaned back a little into her smooth gait.
The mare’s breeder had educated me about Paso Finos, a South American breed originally developed to herd cattle. They could trot and canter, but their more natural way of moving was a lateral gait, with the legs on each side moving almost together.
They had three speeds of “gaiting,”—fino, a very collected gait that looked like they were prancing, corto, the most natural of the gaits that you would see them using out in the pasture, and largo, a more extended gait equivalent in speed to a canter.
I put both reins in one hand and reached down to pat Niña’s silky black shoulder. The Florida sun had brought out some reddish highlights in her coat, just as it did in my own dark auburn mane, currently pulled back into a long ponytail.
Dang! Forgot the sunscreen.
My freckles would stand out worse than usual by the time we got back. But for once, I didn’t care. I felt lighter than I had in months.
We crossed the field behind my neighbor’s house. Sherie Wells, the other town matriarch and chairperson of our Chamber of Commerce, waved from her back deck. I wondered if Edna had told her about the florescent orange she planned to paint the barn.
Even from a distance, I could make out the flash of white teeth splitting Sherie’s brown face. She knew how long I’d been anticipating this moment.
I waved and grinned back.
A few minutes later, Niña stepped out onto the edge of Mayfair Avenue, not far from Highway 25. Rachel Bachman waved from her front yard, where she was supervising the play of her two preschoolers.
I waved back—one’s hand and wrist get a lot of exercise in a small town. I also made a mental note to put her teenaged stepson, TT Bachman, on my list of potential pranksters turned vandal.
If I had a nickname like TT, I’d want to rebel, Ms. Snark commented internally.
I just shook my head, glad that I had finally mastered keeping that snarky part of myself reined in—most of the time.
But Ms. Snark had a point. TT’s full name was Anthony Thomas Bachman, Jr. His father went by Tony, and TT was for Tony Two.
I felt for him, since I’d endured teasing as a child for my name. And yet at the beginning of every school year, I’d raise my hand when the teacher called out, “Marsha Banks,” and point out that my name is pronounced Mar-see-a, not Marsha.
Did TT give a different nickname at school? The kid was quiet, to the point of sullenness. And who knew what grim back story explained why he lived full-time with his father and stepmom?
I shook my head again, unwilling to taint our riding time with thoughts of family dysfunction and vandalism.
On the paved street, the rapid-fire beat of Niña’s hooves was soothing—one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. I blew out a long sigh. We neared the junction with Highway 25.
“Road,” I said.
Buddy immediately dropped to his belly in the grass just before the shoulder. I smiled down at him, pleased with how well he was picking up the responses needed to be a good trail dog.
Across the street was a strip of woods. Southern pines, live oaks and palmettos clustered together in a postcard rendition of Florida flora.
