Evidence of Murder. Jill Nelson Elizabeth
Samantha’s intercom buzzer sounded. On shaky legs, she padded to the kitchen and pressed the button to hear who was there.
“Ms. Reid, this is Officer Johnson of the Plymouth Police Department. Your intruder says he has a right to be here. Would you mind coming down?”
A few seconds later, Samantha cautiously unlocked her door and peered out into the night. A pair of officers held a man between them—someone she recognized. She glanced up into the stone face of Ryan Davidson, the same man she’d seen in a photo earlier that day.
Their gazes locked, and raw emotion flickered in his blue eyes. The power of his bewildered pain snagged her breath. In recent times, she’d seen that look in another pair of eyes.
Her own.
JILL ELIZABETH NELSON
writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as a housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.
Evidence of Murder
Jill Elizabeth Nelson
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble, or hardship, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger or sword?…No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.
—Romans 8:35, 37
To the victims and their families affected by
violent crime. May they find peace and comfort in the Lord who loves them.
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks goes out to numerous people who contributed to this book in priceless ways. First of all, many hugs to my husband, Doug, who is so patient with my busyness and distraction, particularly when deadlines loom. I’m also particularly grateful to my cousin, Neil Wicks, who willingly answered endless questions about the Boundary Waters canoe area based on his personal experience. Also, many thanks go to Ira Casperson and the staff at Monte Cleaners in Montevideo, MN, who provided a tour of their fine facility. Waving from shore to Mike Fries of Great River Houseboats for filling me in on the operation of a houseboat business. Many kudos to my fine editor at Steeple Hill, Emily Rodmell. She applied the necessary sandpaper and polish to this story. Finally, to my agent, Beth Jusino—you’re the bomb!
CONTENTS
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
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
One more nasty surprise in this old building might send her screaming for the funny farm. Samantha Reid glared at the door in front of her. Another unexplored room to tackle. What mysterious trial lay beyond? They’d disturbed a mouse nest in one of the dryers, and herds of spiders scurried for cover every time they moved something. Did spiders run in herds? They sure seemed to around here, especially down below in the basement—mice and spiders. Sam shuddered.
Good thing nothing was down there except museum-quality dry-cleaning equipment that must have dated back to the early days of the industry. That stuff could stay put until she found a place interested in carting the heavy pieces away. But up here on the main floor, she didn’t have the luxury of delaying the project.
Squaring her shoulders, Sam turned the knob and eased open the door to the storeroom. She groped along the wall and flipped the light switch. A pair of fluorescent tubes flickered to life as smells of dust and chemicals nipped her nose. Her gaze scanned the twelve-foot-square room, and she puffed out a long breath that didn’t stir the sweaty bangs plastered to her forehead.
How had a lifelong bachelor like Abel Morris accumulated so much junk? She stared at a maze of stacked boxes and metal shelves stuffed with dust-coated paint cans and half-empty jugs of cleaning solvent.
“Great!” Sam rubbed the small of her aching back. Her best friends, Jenna and Hallie, were going to be delighted at this discovery of a fresh room full of junkyard treasures. They’d been sorting and throwing things away for hours and had barely made a dent.
Fur brushed Sam’s bare calf. She stiffened then relaxed at the familiar rumble that accompanied the touch. An Abyssinian cat wound around her sneaker-clad feet. Chuckling, she bent and scooped up the long, lean feline. The cat’s motor revved up a notch as he rubbed his head against Sam’s chin.
She stroked the soft, blue-gray fur. “So, Bastian, was I nuts to buy this neighborhood dry cleaners and expect to make a go of it?”
Her breath hitched, as it had many times since she signed on the dotted line. She’d paid out a big chunk of the inheritance money from her grandmother in order to become an independent businesswoman in Apple Valley, Minnesota—a healthy distance from her loving but smothering hometown. Twenty-six ought to be old enough to strike out on her own, shouldn’t it? Nine years had passed since that one horrible night. Sam shook herself and deposited the cat on the cement floor. She had to stop going to that place in her mind.
The throaty tones of Hallie Berglund’s television-personality voice came from the front room, followed by Jenna Newmann’s bright laugh. Sam’s shoulders relaxed. With the help of her friends and God, she could make a success of this business. She would.
Sam studied the room again. Her gaze caught on a toaster-size cardboard box high on a set of freestanding metal shelves in the middle of the room. The side of the box was labeled in red marker: Lost, but alas, not found. She laughed. God rest his soul, Abel Morris had been no ordinary hoarder; he was a poetic packrat. Now that was one box she had to open.
She stepped to the shelves. Her five-foot-five-inch height put the box level with the top of her head. Grasping the sides, she pulled it toward her. It was a little heavier than she liked. She put one foot back to brace herself. Something soft squished beneath the heel of her sneaker.
Mrrrow!
Bastian! Sam jerked her foot up. The box tilted toward her, threatening to land on her head. She ducked, still on one foot, teetered, and grabbed for the shelf. Off balance, she fell forward, toppling the set of shelving onto a stack of boxes, which thumped to the floor every which way, scattering contents.
Umph!