Unexpected

  Unexpected

  by

  Cindy Blackburn

  A Cassie Baxter Mystery

  Book Two

  Unexpected

  Copyright © 2016 by Cindy Blackburn

  Published by Cindy Blackburn

  www.cbmysteries.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ASIN(Kindle): B01N7H2J23

  ISBN-13: 978-1541269705

  ISBN-10: 1541269705

  For Aunt Bev and Uncle Paul

  Vermonters who have known me since day one and are still talking to me. No, really!

  Thank you both for everything.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Why, yes! There is more.

  Unbelievable – Sneak Peek

  Still curious?

  The Cue Ball Mysteries

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Poof! The intergalactic tracker gasket’s gone completely kaput, girl.”

  “The what?” I looked up to see my father and his dog standing in the doorway. “Say what?”

  “The intergalactic tracker gasket,” Dad repeated as if that would clear it up.

  And here’s a scary thought. It did.

  I set aside the midterm exams I was grading and asked if the tracker thingamajig was some big important piece of the Spaceship Destiny. “Like the GPS?”

  “It’s teeny-tiny, but yes. The tracker gasket is the crucial component of the Destiny’s navigation system.” Dad shook his head. “This latest mishap leaves Chance Dooley in quite a pickle.”

  I glanced at Charlie, and the dog and I both tried not to laugh. Let’s just say, we’re used to this kind of thing. Chance Dooley, the absurd hero of my father’s absurd science fiction stories, is almost always in a pickle, almost always because his Spaceship Destiny is almost always on the blink. Also typical—my father was upstairs on my turf seeking help with his latest plot twist.

  I promised I’d ponder the pickle and pointed to the phone he held. “Who’s that?”

  “Not who. What. Without the intergalactic tracker gasket, the Destiny is grounded until further notice.” Dad grimaced. “This could put Chance out of business.”

  “I’ll put you out of business, Bobby!” I heard from the phone.

  “Is that really Sarah Bliss?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s really Sarah Bliss!” Sarah screamed.

  “She wants to talk to you,” Dad said as I jumped up.

  I snatched the phone. “You drive me nuts, old man.”

  “You are nuts,” Sarah informed me. “Remember me, babe?”

  How could I forget?

  “Listen up,” she continued. “Get your skinny little butt down here. Like, now. And when you get here, go along with anything I say. Any. Thing. You got it?”

  Not really, but I owed Sarah. I told her I was on my way, pushed my father aside, and started down the stairs.

  “To the sheriff’s office?” I asked. “Are you at work?”

  “Earth to Cassie Baxter.” She banged her phone on something, and I flinched. “Where else would I be? And be sure to change out of your pajamas this time. You got it?” She hung up, and I stopped mid-step to stare at the phone.

  Dad and Charlie bumped into me. “Is she at the sheriff’s?” Dad asked.

  “Where else?” I handed him the receiver and raced down the rest of the stairs.

  Oh, and for the record, I was not in my pajamas. It was one o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, and I was fully clothed, thank you very much. But Sarah did have a point—a long story which I will have to explain later.

  I threw a jacket over the moth-eaten sweater I was wearing, grabbed my purse, and told my father I had an errand to run.

  “With Sarah?” Dad and Charlie followed me to the porch. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” I said and headed for my Honda.

  ***

  Evidently a major crime wave had hit Hanahan County, Vermont.

  I scanned the parking lot at the sheriff’s office looking for a spot somewhere among their two patrol cars, Sarah’s SUV, a couple other civilian cars, a State Trooper vehicle, and two patrol cars from the Hilleville Police Department.

  Just my luck, the only available space was smack between those two cars. FYI, when the Hilleville cops aren’t busy tripping over their own feet, they’re busy getting into fender benders. Parking anywhere near their cars was asking for trouble, but Sarah Bliss was waiting. I threw caution to the wind, parked in the hot spot, and hustled toward the front door.

  But the Hilleville cops weren’t about to make that easy either. Two of them had stationed themselves smack in the doorway and were arguing with a woman who looked a lot like me. She was small with curly blond hair, and she was having the same problem I often have—no one was taking her seriously.

  “But where will he go? Who’s going to take care of him?” she asked. “Everyone at the office is very concerned.”

  “It’s under control.” Cop A said, and Cop B took her by the elbow and escorted her down the three steps to the parking lot just as I was climbing those steps. So of course clumsy Cop B collided into me and fell.

  I hopped over him and kept on going, only to be blocked by clumsy Cop A, who was threatening to help me through the doorway. I shrugged her off and cleared the threshold unscathed.

  Oh, yeah. A crime wave must have hit.

  The tiny reception area was jammed full of people—Sheriff Hawthorn, Deputy Dent, a few state troopers, a couple civilians—

  “Cassie Baxter!” Sarah Bliss stepped out from the crowd and shot me a glance that said, and I quote, “Pay attention, do as I say, and don’t argue.”

  I was expecting that. Officially, Sarah’s the sheriff’s administrative assistant, but unofficially, she’s the boss. If you val
ue your life, you obey Sarah. But what was up with that weird voice?

  “I’m so glad to see you!” she chirped and gave me a hug.

  Sarah Bliss chirping? And hugging?

  “What have you done with the real Sarah?” I whispered. “Who are all these people?”

  “Everyone is so glad to see you!” She let go and fluttered a few fingertips at the crowd.

  Sarah Bliss fluttering?

  “You know Truman, of course!” the Sarah-imposter continued. “Truman here is especially glad to see you.” She fluttered a few fingers at the little boy hiding behind one of the state troopers, and I glanced at Truman there. “Truman’s been especially anxious to see his Auntie Cassie.”

  Truman seemed especially anxious to see his sneakers. I decided staring at footwear was as good a tactic as any and took a look at my own sneakers. My Keds had seen better days—

  “Look, Truman!” Sarah kept chirping. “It’s your Auntie Cassie!”

  Auntie Cassie?

  Maybe I needed to pay closer attention.

  ***

  “Auntie Cassie!” Sarah elbowed me.

  “Yes, Sarah!” I almost saluted. “Here I am!” I took a step toward my supposed nephew, and the state trooper moved aside.

  The kid was blonder than I, but that’s about all I could tell, since he remained fixated on his sneakers. From his size, I put him at about four years old. Not that I’m an expert—I’m single and childless.

  I shifted my focus to the woman standing beside him. She was probably ten years younger than I, and about ten inches taller. Even so, the skirt suit she wore was at least two sizes too big for her. A huge canvas satchel was hoisted over her left shoulder, and with her right hand she held onto the little boy.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” I asked in my most authoritative voice.

  This, by the way, was a joke. I’m five feet one and a half inches tall and weigh less than a hundred pounds. I’m not exactly a commanding presence.

  “This is Ms. Mauve,” Sarah told me. “She’s the child welfare advocate for Hanahan County.”

  Ooo-kay. That didn’t sound so good.

  “And you’re Cassandra Baxter!” Ms. Mauve let go of the child to pump my hand. “I would have recognized you anywhere! The dead redhead-pajama incident.”

  Okay, so that probably doesn’t sound good either. But it’s how locals refer to that long story I mentioned earlier. That story is also why I was familiar with the Hanahan County sheriff’s office. I knew Sarah, obviously, but I also knew Deputy P.T. Dent and Sheriff Hawthorn.

  But back to Ms. Mauve. After she finished gushing over me, she found Deputy Dent in the crowd and asked him to take Truman outside. “It’s a crisp autumn day,” she said. “Far too pleasant to be cooped up inside.”

  P.T. glanced at Sheriff Hawthorn, who nodded his approval, and the deputy led the child away.

  The state troopers must have decided they needed some air also, and when the Hilleville cop-clown act tagged along, we were guaranteed a collision in the doorway. That time Cop A fell, but eventually the room was cleared of all law-enforcement personnel except the sheriff.

  “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

  “Your cousin is dead,” Sarah told me. “I know you must be heart-broken.”

  “We’re all very sorry,” Ms. Mauve and the sheriff added.

  I felt sorry also, even though I was pretty sure both my cousins were safe and sound down in Hoboken, New Jersey.

  “Judy ran off the road,” Sheriff Hawthorn was saying. “She probably swerved to avoid a deer and lost control of her car.”

  “Where?” I asked, since clearly I was supposed to know who.

  “On Route 19. She was killed instantly.”

  I cringed and said I was sorry to hear that, but in case you haven’t quite caught on, I did not know Judy. I was, however, starting to get the drift about the child. I glanced out the window at a game of—something. “Was the little boy in the car?”

  “Truman!” Sarah snapped, and I snapped to attention.

  “I meant, was Truman in the car?”

  “His car seat saved him,” Ms. Mauve answered. “The car flipped three times, but the child doesn’t have a scratch on him.”

  “The other passenger is in pretty bad shape, though,” the sheriff added. “Ryan Webb.”

  I blinked. “As in Edward and Eleanor Webb?”

  “They’re Judy’s neighbors,” Sarah told me, and Sheriff Hawthorn asked if I knew the Webbs.

  Hello. I didn’t know any of these people. But I’d heard of the Webbs. Everybody in Hanahan County knew about Hilleville’s reigning couple. The Webbs own every other business on Main Street, Eleanor is on the town council, Edward’s on the school board, and both donate to every local cause.

  “Ryan’s their son?” I asked, and the sheriff told me he was in a coma. I again glanced outside. “He’s friends with the little boy?”

  “Truman,” Sarah reminded me. “And no. Ryan’s sixteen, and Truman’s only five.”

  “Then why was Ryan in the car? Where were they going?”

  “That is not the point!” Sarah said. FYI, she had long-ago dispensed with chirping. “The point is, your cousin, Judy Tripp, is dead.” She spoke the name loud and clear, and I did a quick mental diagram of my supposed genealogy.

  “Judy was my cousin,” I said. “Which makes Truman my first cousin once removed, right?”

  “But he’s always called you Auntie, right?” Sarah nodded until I felt my own head bobbing up and down.

  “We’re real close,” I heard myself say.

  She kept nodding.

  “He’s like a nephew to me,” I heard myself continue. Bob-bob. “Truman, that is. The little boy. The one outside.”

  “I am so glad you understand,” Ms. Mauve said, and I shook myself to break Sarah’s spell over me.

  “I’m trying.”

  The social worker smiled. “As Truman’s only family, I’m sure you appreciate the predicament he’s in.”

  “I appreciate it, whether or not I’m family.”

  Sarah coughed.

  “But I am family!” I said loudly. “So, umm. You’d like me to talk to Truman? Being his Auntie and all?”

  Ms. Mauve’s smile faded. “There’s a bit more to it than that.”

  “More?” I squeaked.

  “Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

  “Who? What?”

  “Truman,” she said. “Judy Tripp named you as next of kin when she enrolled him in school.”

  “Who? What?”

  Ms. Mauve shook her head. “When she enrolled him at Hilleville Elementary.”

  “Gosh, Cassie,” Sarah chimed in. “I’m surprised you don’t remember. Truman started kindergarten only last month.”

  “Who? What?”

  “Your cousin did speak to you about this?” Ms. Mauve asked.

  Hell, no.

  But Sarah was silent-screaming at me to get with the program.

  “Yes!” I jumped. “She did!” I said. “But.” I swallowed. “But.”

  “But what?” Ms. Mauve asked. “Your cousin named you as the contact in case of an emergency. You do agree this is an emergency?”

  “Uhhh—”

  Sheriff Hawthorn jerked a thumb toward the door. “You’re the closest family that little boy has, Cassie. At least for the time being, you need to take custody.”

  Who? What?

  I turned to Sarah, and she raised an eyebrow. An eyebrow that spoke volumes.

  Chapter 2

  “I know this is a bit unexpected,” Ms. Mauve said. “But if anyone can do this, it’s you.”

  “Me!?” Okay, so I laughed. “Why?”

  “Because you’re such a hero. The dead redhead-pajama incident?”

  I laughed some more. Laughter on the nervous-hysteria end of the laughter spectrum.

  “We understand you’re a little flustered,” Sheriff Hawthorn said.

  “I get fl
ustered around death,” I agreed. “And children,” I added. “I get especially flustered around kids. I’m not a kid person. They make me—” I scowled. “Flustered.”

  Ms. Mauve sighed at Sarah. “You did warn me.”

  “Warn?” I asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “I told her you’re the official Miss Looney Tunes of Vermont.”

  “But she also told me we can count on you,” Ms. Mauve said firmly.

  I blinked at Sarah, and she again raised that stupid eyebrow.

  I took a deep breath. And another.

  Then I turned to the social worker. “Where? Do I sign?”

  The answer was everywhere.

  Ms. Mauve reached into her satchel and pulled out a wad of documents at least ten inches thick. A few fell from her hands, but Sarah gathered them up, Sheriff Hawthorn got me seated, and the paperwork extravaganza commenced.

  Somewhere along the line the sheriff grew weary just watching and snuck back to his office. That was probably a good thing. Because somewhere along the line it occurred to me I was breaking about a hundred laws with each signature. And I was adding my Dr. Cassandra Baxter to a lot of documents.

  But good old Sarah had taken the seat beside me and kept nudging me to sign this document here, and that document there.

  I stared at an especially large document with Truman’s photograph on it and envisioned a Wanted poster with my photograph. “Wanted for kidnapping,” it read. “Cassandra Baxter: mid-forties, five feet-one, blonde. Fugitive is traveling with a five-year old boy. Child answers to the name of Truma—”

  Sarah elbowed me. “I think you sign this one here, Cassie.” She tapped the form, and I muttered an exceedingly sarcastic thank you.

  But maybe she really was being helpful. I was unclear about the law, but Sarah knew what she was doing, right? She’s the sheriff’s administrative assistant. She wouldn’t lead me into trouble. Right?

  The paperwork ordeal finally ended, and Ms. Mauve stood me up and shook my numb hand. Then she wished me luck, promised she’d stop by to see how we were doing, and pointed me toward the door to take Truman away.

  With me.

  Sarah put a firm hand at my back and pushed. “I’ll be sure to call on you this evening, shall I?” she chirped. Oh, yeah. She was back to chirping. “I’ll go by Judy’s house to get Truman’s things.” Shove-push-shove. “I’ll bring them over this evening, shall I?” Shove-push—