A Lethal Time (A Samantha Jamison Mystery Volume 4)

A Lethal Time

A Samantha Jamison Mystery

Volume 4

A Novel

by

Peggy A. Edelheit

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Lethal Time: A Samantha Jamison Mystery, Volume 4
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Copyright © 2012 by Peggy A. Edelheit
. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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Published by Telemachus Press, LLC
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.samanthajamison.com

ISBN: 978-1-938135-53-8 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-938135-54-5 (Paperback)

Version 2012.05.24

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A Special Thanks To My Editor

Winslow Eliot

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A Lethal Time

A Samantha Jamison Mystery

Volume 4

Chapter 1

Hey, Someone Stole My Woods!

I lifted my head off the pillow when I heard a phone ringing
.
It was mine. I glanced at the clock. It was 6:35 a.m. I waited a beat, trying to focus, looked over at a dead-to-the-world Clay, and finally grabbed it.

“Hello,” I whispered sleepily, while yawning.

“Someone just stole my woods!” shouted a woman on the other end of the line. “You have got to help me,
now!
”

I sat up and shook my head to gather my thoughts. What did she just say to me? Had I heard correctly?

“Excuse me? I think you’ve got the wrong phone number,” I said, fuzzily.

“You
are
Samantha Jamison aren’t you?”

I sat there still in my sleep-induced stupor.

Was I?
Well of course I was!
“…Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, I was told you were real good at figuring out unusual mysteries, so you have got to help me. Someone has stolen my woods!”

I held the phone away from myself and stared at it, then put it back to my ear. “Is this some kind of prank call?”

“Does this sound like one?” cried the hysterical woman on the other end of the line.

I couldn’t believe I was still having this conversation with someone at…
I looked over at the clock ...6:40 a.m.
“You do sound a little off the charts,” I said doubtfully, not wanting to be rude.

“Well, I’m Sarah Smith. We’re descendants of
the
original Smiths that arrived on the Mayflower!”

I shook my head in disbelief.
I doubted that.
“Okay,
the
Ms. Sarah Smith. How about I call you back in about an hour or two and you can explain further, okay?” I was about to hang up the phone on this lunatic when…

“No wait! I’m not some nut.”

She could have fooled me.

“I am Sally and Tom’s neighbor down the road. My property is on the corner after you make a left heading toward Robinson’s, her other neighbor, off that dirt road.”

I paused. …
Was she legitimate?

“Take down my number and please call me later.”

To humor her, I did just that, and then fell back to the pillow, irritated and baffled from the conversation. Was the woman for real? Was she nuts? Was I crazy to even consider calling her back? I have heard some strange things in my time, but this one was really weird.

How could someone steal someone else’s woods?

…Let me stop right here. I think that before I go any further, I’d better take you back to the very beginning of this story and explain how I got here and how all this craziness started in the first place.

It was about two days ago…

Chapter 2

Arriving In Style

First, as a quick update, I have to preface this by saying that when I suggested to Clay we go somewhere remote and quiet to relax when we left the French Riviera the week before, I heard interesting news from Martine regarding the French villa at 86 Avenue du Goulet where I had stayed.

Martine said that since the garden mystery was finally solved, Curat’s estate was being broken up into two properties with buyers already waiting in the wings. One was going to renovate the original villa, and the other was going to build a new villa. Each one would have new pools. By doing this, the old gardens would be torn up and the secrets they once held would be permanently buried.

As a novelist who seemed to continuously fall into unusual mysteries such as that French one, I thought by agreeing to go on this trip to New Hampshire I was probably conned by Clay’s casual suggestion of a location plus Crystal’s surprising offer a week earlier. But nothing connected at the time they were both brought up.

Crystal said she thought of me when the opportunity arose from her cousin, Sally, who had begged Crystal, via her cell phone, for a name of someone reputable to housesit her farm in Sanbornton, New Hampshire. I finally accepted, flattered Crystal thought of me as reputable.

Me, reputable? Why of course! Come on…really…I was.

My friend, Crystal was the owner of Crystal Cleaners, an Ocean City, New Jersey cleaning service. I met her there after renting a beach house in early spring to write my second book, which turned out to be Without Any Warning. We became friends. So when I left for the French Riviera, she eagerly accepted my spontaneous invite.

The phrase ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ might be suitable to some, but in France, although time flew by, ‘chaotic’ was more apropos for what happened, which also included my three
senior
troublemakers, Martha, who ran my antique shop back in Highlands, North Carolina, and Hazel and Betty, who both worked at one of that town’s bookstores, called The Bookworm, and of course, the last to arrive unexpectedly, Clay himself, the owner of that bookstore and player in other questionable ventures, which also included a slightly controversial investigative business.

After a bumpy start when Clay first arrived in France, he and I sort of temporarily settled things between us. That was why, at Clay’s suggestion, we were here for a getaway in scenic New Hampshire, to have some private time to figure out where we stood, or didn’t stand, with each other.

As it all came to a final conclusion on the Riviera and we were leaving to go back to the States, that was when Crystal asked me for this special favor for her cousin, Sally, already knowing it didn’t matter where I stayed, as long as I had the internet, my laptop, and a
‘quiet’
place to write.

My agent and editor laughed and wished me good luck.

I weighed the pros and cons. Needless to say, the pros won out. Sally was offering her New England colonial farm for free if I would look after a few horses and her house while she traveled with her husband, Tom, on business. So I figured, hey, how hard could that be? Plus, I could start my next novel in an idyllic setting. But right then and there I should have been suspicious when Clay voiced sudden interest, saying the timing couldn’t have been better.

Now that I was in New Hampshire a week later, this was my
aha
moment when it finally dawned on me why Clay suggested this spot in the first place for our getaway, which happened to include his Harley and the motorcycle rally.

Coincidence? Had Crystal & Clay conspired on this?

Clay had said we’d cruise through Laconia first because he wanted to see Weirs Beach, the rally headquarters, and then we would ride up along Lake Winnipesaukee to Meredith. After a few hours checking out everything and briefly stopping at the Harley dealer, we would then swing back down Route 93 to Sanbornton and head over to Sally’s farm to get acclimated and unpacked. The whole side trip was one big loop.

We eased alongside one of those riders on the congested route. His blonde-streaked ponytail caught my attention. It wasn’t quite as long as my blonde one, but still hung down his back below his tied bandana, which apparently complimented his sunglasses, tattoos, torn jeans, and scuffed, black leather boots. He also wore what looked like a small ruby stone in his right earlobe.

Now, that was an unusual-looking stone for a man.

For all I knew, he was probably a doctor, lawyer, or CEO, who wore long-sleeved shirts in the
real
world.

When we rolled to a stop at a light, I was able to lean into Clay’s ear, saying, “Looks like that’s the usual attire.”

“It’s typical,” said Clay. “Welcome to Laconia, New Hampshire’s famous motorcycle rally, Sam.”

The traffic light turned green and we crossed the busy intersection. Clay’s Harley once again became swallowed up among the thousands of other motorcycles in attendance for the rally that was held there every year.

He explained the first small rally was held in 1916 and as the event slowly grew in popularity, it became one of the top three motorcycle rallies in the country, and was, perhaps, the oldest. People came from everywhere. One year, Clay saw a map that was set up in Weirs Beach with stickpins representing states and countries where visitors were from. According to him, we were lucky to catch the tail end of the rally, which had only five days left.

My opinion wasn’t in yet on that lucky part, though.

I mean, come on, remote yes, plus quiet and relaxing? We were riding in the middle of all these motorcycles that were rumbling through every conceivable street and thoroughfare for the races, tattoos, clothes, leather goods, parades, and whatever else bikers’ hearts desired. Which, when thinking on that particular aspect of it, and after seeing a few of those participants, I didn’t really want to know what their heart desired …only Clay’s.

After riding on the back of Clay’s motorcycle for hours on end, I was stiff and hoped I could walk when I finally got off. Even though in my thirties, after a while, every pothole and bump we hit along the way took their toll.

A massage and a hot bath were just what my achy body needed. I already had the bath angle figured out, packing bath salts in my luggage. And even though he may rub me the wrong way every once in a while, on the massage side of the equation, and with those hands of his, trust me, Clay had skills way beyond selling books or being a PI. Plus, I was determined this trip was going to be different.

But still…

My past experiences told me that was wishful thinking.