Hit and Run

Table of Contents

Cover

Further Titles from Sandra Balzo

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Main Street Mystery Series

RUNNING ON EMPTY *

DEAD ENDS *

HIT AND RUN *

The Maggy Thorsen Mysteries

UNCOMMON GROUNDS

GROUNDS FOR MURDER *

BEAN THERE, DONE THAT *

BREWED, CRUDE AND TATTOOED *

FROM THE GROUNDS UP *

A CUP OF JO *

TRIPLE SHOT *

MURDER ON THE ORIENT ESPRESSO *

* available from Severn House

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

 

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2014 by Sandra Balzo.

The right of Sandra Balzo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Balzo, Sandra.

Hit and run. – (The Main Street mystery series)

1. Griggs, AnnaLise (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Birthfathers–Fiction. 3. Heirs–Fiction. 4. Murder–

Investigation–Fiction. 5. North Carolina–Social

conditions–Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

813.6-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8394-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-541-3 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Jerry, my soul and Hart's inspiration

A
nnaLise Griggs couldn't believe her ears. ‘
Who
did you say you intend to invite?'

Seated on the opposite side of his massive antique desk, Dickens Hart grinned. ‘You're the wordsmith, my dear, but I do believe the proper pronoun in that question would be “whom.”'

AnnaLise clenched her teeth. ‘OK,
whom
did—'

Hart nodded toward a stack of papers between them. ‘By now, you've probably already made a functional guest list yourself.'

Of course, AnnaLise thought, a mite dazed. After all, didn't every bastard child keep track of her philandering father's conquests? Notwithstanding, of course, her own mother, Lorraine ‘Daisy' Kuchenbacher Griggs, who had raised AnnaLise with absolutely no help from the indisputable bastard across the desk.

AnnaLise raised an eyebrow. ‘I'm sorry, Dickens. Did you say … “guest list”?'

‘Yes.' Hart raked a hand through his wavy white hair, a perfected gesture combining impatience, arrogance and – mainly – vanity.

Dickens Hart had regularly penned ‘Dear Diary' journals for his private amusement. And AnnaLise, under contract to compile them into a publishable memoir, had begun slogging, then just skimming, her way volume-by-volume. According to her birth father's many enthusiastic entries, he'd been quite the happening guy back in the seventies, especially after he'd opened White Tail Lodge, a North Carolina High Country rip-off of the Playboy Club concept.

Situated on Sutherton Lake like the current palatial mansion where they sat, the lodge had been a ‘gentlemen's club,' featuring ‘fawns' – essentially scantily-clad pseudo-Bunnies – supposedly to serve and entertain the clientele. Clipping after curled-corner clipping from local newspapers and glossy regional magazines showed Hart smiling down the lens as some young female's manicured fingers toyed with his shaggy and darker hair.

‘You went through my journals,' Hart was now saying. ‘You must have found my big black book.'

‘You've given me at least a dozen boxes of journals, diaries and memorabilia,' AnnaLise protested. ‘Not to mention digital files on computer disks from back when they still were floppy. How could I possibly—' She interrupted herself. ‘Your
big
black book? Don't you mean
little
black book?'

Hart shook his head and held his palms about six inches apart. ‘Big' – sliding his hands out another six inches – ‘as in bigger, and even … biggest.'

What a pig, thought AnnaLise.

But said ‘pig'
had
hired her for his memoir project, though admittedly before she knew he was her biological father. On an indefinite leave of absence from a reporter's job in Wisconsin while she tried to sort out her Sutherton mother's ongoing memory problems, AnnaLise was in no position to turn down a paying job.

Especially a
well
-paying job. One hundred thousand dollars as an advance, with a fifty/fifty split of royalties, should there be any. As the saying goes, money can't buy love. Or even respect. But, in this case, it could rent days – nay, weeks, if not months – of AnnaLise's professional time.

‘I'm afraid I haven't come across this book yet,' she said, making a note. ‘You say it's black?'

‘I was using a half-truth to make a joke. And probably a bad one at that.' Hart shifted in his chair, at least having the decency to look uncomfortable, as though actually recognizing that he'd stepped over the line in conversation with a blood-child. ‘It has a black-and-white speckled cover with my name on the front in a juvenile's handwriting.'

Wait a minute. ‘You're talking about a student's composition book? Geez, Dickens, at what age did you start tallying—' AnnaLise waved away her own question. ‘Sorry, none of my business.'

‘Oh, but it is
exactly
that. You're writing my memoir, and even those early …' Hart put out his hands again, this time fingers splayed, ‘… “peccadillos” are a large part of the story. One might even view me as a bit of a hound.'

That struck AnnaLise as beneath the dignity of understatement. Even though she'd only skimmed through most of the handwritten journals so far, it was clear that the man had seen more tail than the proverbial last dog in a sled-team harness.

She said, ‘As one progeny of your “hounding,” I'm curious about something.' A pause. ‘Do I have any litter-mates?'

Hart shifted again, his uncomfortable expression now approaching pained. ‘Honest answer? None with your mother, Lorraine – or “Daisy,” as I know you call her. But, otherwise, I'm not entirely sure. I was hoping you'd find any, if they exist.'

‘And, as I started to ask you, invite them to dinner here in your rustic, waterfront cabin?' Horror at the idea made AnnaLise's tone rise half an octave.

‘Actually, I thought a long weekend might be better, even optimum. With, of course, their respective mothers attending as well.'

‘You do understand that you're out of your mind?'

‘I do. Or at least that my invitation could be seen as evidence of my being such.' Dickens Hart suddenly appeared old. And very serious. ‘Listen, my dear. As disingenuous as it might sound, I truly want to do right by any children I may have fathered, even if they are unbeknownst to me.'

‘Unbeknownst?' AnnaLise echoed incredulously, not managing to hurdle the
what
to get to the equally curious question of
why
– or, more particularly –
why now?
‘Weren't you
there
?' Did the guy really think he was God, right down to the miracle of Immaculate Conception?

A frown. ‘I'm just telling you that not one of the women I've been with ever told me about a pregnancy. Except, of course, for Ema Bradenham.'

Ema Bradenham, mother of one of AnnaLise's oldest friends, Sutherton mayor Bobby Bradenham. Ema was pregnant and needed money, making the rich “hound” an awfully tempting target. ‘But wouldn't the other women, who actually became pregnant by you, have come—'

Now an awkward, if theatrical shrug. ‘Your mother didn't.'

AnnaLise clenched her teeth again. Lorraine Kuchenbacher Griggs had made that ‘one mistake' with her boss at the time, Dickens Hart, but never revealed her condition to him. Instead, she'd married Timothy Griggs, a good man who'd loved her. And loved Daisy's child, as well, despite the fact he knew AnnaLise couldn't have been his own.

Decision time. ‘OK, I'll dig out this “black book” of whatever size, but I'll be damned if I track down your … girlfriends.'

‘That's fine,' Hart said hastily. ‘I'll have Patrick Hoag draft the letter of invitation.'

Patrick Hoag, Esquire, represented Dickens Hart and not three weeks earlier AnnaLise had accompanied her birth father to the law firm of Hoag, Christiaansen and Weir. There, Hart had insisted on legally acknowledging AnnaLise as his daughter, though not before a DNA test – at
AnnaLise's
insistence – which had come back as conclusive.

‘So, I drop the notebook off with Patrick?'

‘Ah, no. Given his law firm's gleeful fee increases every time it sends me an invoice, I see my money better spent by having Boozer track down the leads first. He can then provide Patrick with names and current mailing addresses for the actual letters themselves.'

Boozer Bacchus III was a broad-shouldered man of about sixty-five. AnnaLise had been told that he'd served Dickens Hart in one capacity or another since the opening of White Tail Lodge. Despite his name, or perhaps because of it, AnnaLise had never seen the man take a drink. The propensities of his grandfather and father – Boozers Sr and Jr – were, however, up for grabs.

With a sigh, AnnaLise jotted another note on her pad. ‘OK, I'm to find your composition book and then give it to Boozer.'

Hart squirmed, his expression now clearly pained. ‘Actually, I'd prefer that you study it first and generate a list of names with the most current, pertinent data for each. There are, I'm sure, certain personal … uhm, evaluations of my encounters that I'd just as soon not have come to his attention.'