Scent of Murder. Virginia Smith
Chase knocked on the door.
Nothing.
Exchanging a glance with Caitlin, he pounded with a fist. “Willie? Hey, Willie, are you in there?”
Not a sound from inside. Concern flooded Caitlin’s features. “Maybe he’s ill and can’t come to the door. I think you should go in, Chase. He might need help.”
She was right. Chase pounded on the door once again. “Willie, I’m coming in.”
He unlocked the door, stepped inside. And froze.
Willie lay facedown on a large throw rug, his head at an unnatural sideways angle. An incredible amount of blood soaked the thin rug. Chase’s stomach lurched. From his vantage point, he could see that Willie’s throat had been cut.
Just like the man in the park. Just like Kevin.
Chase backed out and pulled the door closed.
“Chase?” Caitlin sounded worried. “Is everything okay?”
Chase swallowed hard. “We’d better call 9-1-1. Willie’s dead.”
VIRGINIA SMITH
A lifelong lover of books, Virginia Smith has always enjoyed immersing herself in fiction. In her mid-twenties she wrote her first story and discovered that writing well is harder than it looks; it took many years to produce a book worthy of publication. During the daylight hours she steadily climbed the corporate ladder and stole time to write late at night after the kids were in bed. With the publication of her first novel, she left her twenty-year corporate profession to devote her energy to her passion—writing stories that honor God and bring a smile to the faces of her readers. When she isn’t writing, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature—snow skiing in the mountains of Utah, motorcycle riding on the curvy roads of central Kentucky and scuba diving in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Visit www.VirginiaSmith.org.
Virginia Smith
Scentof Murder
I’m grateful to many people who helped me take this story from idea to published book.
Thanks to
My husband, Ted, for helping me work out the details and for shopping with me in Little Nashville, though that’s probably his least favorite thing to do in the world.
A terrific group of friends with whom Ted and I have spent many delightful hours in Brown County: Trudy Kirk (my shopping buddy and retail therapist), Bob Young, and two we’ll see again on the other side, Larry Kirk and Paul Morris.
Janet Stephens from Candle Makers on the Square in Bowling Green, Kentucky, for openly sharing her knowledge and helping me understand the candle-making process. And Shawn Freeman, L.A.P.D.
The CWFI Critique Group for brainstorming all sorts of crazy things that can be stored in candles: Tracy Ruckman, Sherry Kyle, Vicki Tiede, Amy Barkman, Amy Smith, Ann Knowles and Richard Leonard. And special thanks to Tracy for reading this manuscript in its roughest form and offering excellent suggestions.
My agent, Wendy Lawton, for encouragement above and beyond the call of duty.
All the people at Steeple Hill Books who continually give to me freely of their time and expertise, especially Elizabeth Mazer, Tina Colombo, Louise Rozett and Krista Stroever.
And finally, eternal thanks to my Lord Jesus, without whom nothing would matter.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
The rising sun glimmered in the eastern sky as Chase Hollister followed a well-defined trail that skirted the edge of Brown County State Park. He maintained a brisk pace, though low branches from the dense trees made running impossible. Night clung to the forest around him with stubborn determination, even as tendrils of sunlight threatened its tenacious hold. Chase welcomed the shadowy darkness. It suited his mood.
A lingering chill penetrated his T-shirt and sent a shiver rippling through his body. Nights in early May here in Indiana were still pretty cold. He should have grabbed a lightweight jacket on his way out of the house.
Scratch that. He should have kept to the open road for his morning run, where the heat of exertion would have kept him warm. What possessed him to come to the park before dawn—again?
Chase climbed over a dead tree limb lying across the path. No matter how determined he was not to haunt this place, he kept returning.
Not as often as before. A year ago, right after the tragedy—his mind skipped across the details, best not go there—he’d wandered these trails almost daily. His parents assumed he’d found some sort of comfort in surrounding himself with nature. Maybe they thought he was praying. And Chase had done some praying, if his repeated questions of Why, Lord? Why didn’t I see it? How could I miss it? counted as prayers. But no answers had been forthcoming, and the questions still tortured Chase, almost a year later.
And he still wandered the park trails every few weeks. How sad was that?
The shadows lost their tenuous grip on the wooded area around him, and Chase could now make out a few more details. A movement up ahead turned out to be a deer. He caught sight of a patch of white fur as it scurried off and disappeared into the forest, no doubt startled to see anyone out at this early hour. Something rustled the thick green leaves in the tree overhead. The residents of the park were waking.
He heard the stream before he saw it, smelled the fresh, rich scent of mud from the shore. The trail turned sharply and ran alongside the wide stream for fifty yards or so, to the place where the path ended at the road. Chase tensed when he glimpsed a dark structure, the covered bridge that stood sentinel over the north entrance to the park. And beneath it…
He set his teeth together. The place that drew him here. That haunted him.
How many times had he told himself he would not come back here, that he needed to put the past behind him and move on? And yet, here he was.
His step slowed as he neared the trail’s end. The stream splashed along beside him, the sound an almost joyful counterpoint to his dire thoughts. I was too focused on myself, on my