Unbelievable Read online

  Unbelievable

  by

  Cindy Blackburn

  A Cassie Baxter Mystery

  Book One

  Copyright

  Unbelievable

  Copyright © 2014 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): B00OJXBUEE

  ISBN-13: 978-1502855961

  ISBN-10: 1502855961

  In memory of my parents.

  They took the girl out of Vermont,

  but they didn’t take Vermont out of the girl.

  Acknowledgements

  So many people. So much help! Here are a few of the terrific people whose support, advice, and encouragement made Unbelievable possible: Megan Beardsley, Peter Lacey, Kathy Powell, Linda Lovely, Polly Iyer, Ellis Vidler, Betsy Blackburn, Joanna Innes, Jane Bishop, Bob Spearman, Penny Travis, Kathy Miller, Louise Sobin, Joy Kamani, Teddy Stockwell, Howard Lewis, Traylor Rucker, Beverly Boudreau, Cindy Boudreau, Karen Phillips, and Caroline Miller. Thanks, you guys! And extra special hugs, kisses, thanks, and gratitude to John Blackburn, my husband, my techno-geek expert, my partner in crime, my hero.

  Prologue

  Do yourself a favor. Never agree to move in with your father. Even if he retires and moves to Vermont to be closer to his only child. And even if he invites you to live with him rent-free. And even if the lease on your apartment runs out, and the owner decides to convert the building into condos, which you couldn’t afford, even if your teaching salary were doubled. And even if your father moves into a rambling old house with plenty of room, and offers you the entire third floor with a turret on top. And even if you adore turrets. And even if this old house is in a lovely lakeside town only twenty miles from where you work. And even if you’ve always dreamed of living on a lake. And even if your father promises to respect your privacy because he knows you’re an adult woman capable of conducting her own life.

  Don’t do it. Even then. Because this is what will happen if you move in with your father. He will: Drive. You. Nuts.

  Chapter 1

  I poked my right foot out from under the sheets and kicked at the rocking chair next to my bed. “Go away.”

  “But I can’t sleep, Cassie.”

  I kept kicking.

  “Would you stop doing that?”

  “When you stop waking me up at the crack of dawn.” I sat up and tore back the covers. “Move!”

  My father rocked the chair backwards, and I skirted past his feet.

  I pulled open the curtains and took a look outside.

  “The sun’s almost up,” he informed me. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “It’s 4:42 a.m., old man. There’s nothing beautiful about it.”

  “Let’s have breakfast, shall we? How about waffles?”

  I turned from the window. “How about you letting me sleep past five at least one day this summer? Move!”

  Dad stood up, which put him even more in my way. But at least Charlie got the hint. The big black lab scooted his front half under the bed and out of my way as I stomped past and headed for the stairs.

  “We Baxters are early birds,” Dad called after me.

  “I haven’t been an early bird since I was twelve.”

  “We can put berries on our waffles.” My father was, of course, following me.

  I stopped at the second floor landing. “No berries. No waffles. I’m going kayaking.” I bounced down the remaining flight of stairs, and pulled my binoculars from their hook at the door.

  “We can eat when you get back.” Dad pointed to the binoculars. “You’re going bird watching?”

  I grabbed a lifejacket out of the wicker chest on the porch and kept going.

  “If we took the canoe, I could join you.”

  “I’m taking the kayak.” I started dragging my kayak over to the dock.

  “And if we took the rowboat, Charlie could come.”

  I looked down at the dog, who had followed me onto the dock, and he wagged his tail.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” I said gently and climbed into the boat. “It’s a one-seater. Single-occupancy. A phrase I am really, really, starting to appreciate.”

  “Cassie, wait,” Dad said.

  “For what?”

  “You’re in your pajamas, girl.”

  “Who’s going to see me at this hour? The geese?”

  I paddled away from the dock, and Charlie jumped in to escort me out. “Even the geese will be asleep,” I told him.

  He turned around and swam back to shore.

  ***

  Turns out the geese weren’t asleep. So I guess they did see me. But the woman in the canoe definitely did not see me, even though her eyes were wide open. Because the woman in the canoe was dead.

  “This is not happening,” I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Move!”

  She didn’t move.

  “Move, move, move, move, move!”

  Nothing.

  Well, if she wasn’t moving, I was. But I was a little flustered and ended up banging into her canoe a few thousand times before I finally managed to steer my kayak out of the cattails and into open water.

  I left her there unattended. Because, as she had so clearly demonstrated, dead people don’t move.

  ***

  “Please don’t be dead,” I said as I crawled out of my kayak and onto the dock of the Lake Store. I staggered barefoot up the side stairwell and pounded on Oliver Earle’s door.

  Nothing.

  I tried to estimate the time and decided it had to be at least 5:30. And the store opens at 6:00.

  “Don’t be dead,” I said as I retraced my steps downward. I pounded on the back door of the store, and Oliver answered.

  “Thank God you’re not dead.”

  “What?” he asked. “Why would I be dead?”

  “Why would anyone be dead?” I pushed past him and made my way through the stock room.

  “Cassie, wait.” He hurried to catch up. “Has something happened to Bobby?”

  “My father’s fine.” I barged through the swinging doors leading onto the main floor. “He’s making waffles.”

  “What?”

  I stopped at the deli counter. “With berries.”

  Oliver skipped a beat. “Do you need eggs? Is that why you’re here so early?” He pointed. “In your pajamas.”

  I looked down at my outfit—pajamas and a lifejacket—and muttered a colorful word. “We need the sheriff,” I said and rushed along the bread aisle toward the front counter.

  “Sheriff Gabe? Why?”

  “Because that’s who you call in an emergency, right?” I pointed at the phone. “So please call the sheriff.”

  “But why?”

  “Because!” I said. “There’s a dead woman in the lake!”

  “Dead!” Oliver grabbed the phone. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  ***

  I took a few deep breaths while he punched in the number. I knew Oliver Earle was the man to see. His general store is the heart of Lake Elizabeth, Vermont, a
nd Oliver does most everything around here. He’s our postmaster, fire warden, realtor, and Avon lady. Definitely the guy to see in a crisis.

  I listened to Oliver listen to the sheriff.

  “Mm-hmm,” he kept saying. “Mm-hmm,” he kept repeating. He glanced at me. “Got it,” he said and hung up.

  “The sheriff’s on his way?” I asked.

  He held up an index finger and made about five other phone calls before answering my question. “Okay,” he said as he finally put down the phone. “Everyone’s coming.”

  I asked who everyone was, and Oliver spouted off the list—Sheriff Gabe Cleghorn, of course, but also the Hilleville Police Department and the Hilleville Rescue Squad. And a little closer to home, the Lake Elizabeth Volunteer Fire Department, and the forest rangers from Lake Elizabeth State Park.

  Oliver grimaced. “All nine of them.”

  “Lake Bess has nine forest rangers?”

  “No, but there are nine camp counselors.”

  Nine college kids. I looked up at the moth-eaten moose head gazing down at me from above the cash register. “It’s going to be a very long day,” I told him.

  Oliver waved the phone at me. “You should call Bobby.”

  “Good idea.” I took the phone. “Dad can make himself useful and bring me some clothes.”

  My father informed me I’d been gone a long time. “Where are you?”

  “At the Lake Store.”

  “Excellent, girl. Pick up some eggs.”

  ***

  Oliver got the store ready to open. I paced.

  He made coffee and restocked the dairy case. I counted can openers. He carried in the daily newspapers from the front porch. I got bored in housewares and paced over to frozen foods.

  I had counted all the frozen pizzas and was browsing the greeting card rack when my father arrived. I pointed to his empty hands. “Where are my clothes?”

  He pointed to the dog. “I brought Charlie.”

  “My clothes,” I said again.

  “I forgot.”

  “Da-aad! I can’t face the sheriff dressed like this!”

  “I got over here as fast as I could, Cassie. You need my moral support.”

  “But I also need my clothes!”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go get your clothes.” He turned to leave, but I yanked him back.

  “Stay!” I said, and Charlie promptly sat down. I rolled my eyes and headed to the clothing rack. “I’ll make do.”

  Or maybe not. The clothing rack, usually overflowing with Lake Elizabeth or Lake Bess tee-shirts and sweatshirts, was nearly empty.

  “Where are all the tee-shirts?” I called to Oliver.

  “All gone.” He emerged from the storeroom with a full round of bologna hoisted over his shoulder. “A new shipment’s due in later this week,” he said and headed to the deli counter. “You want I should save you something?”

  I mumbled a no thanks and took a look at my options—a meager selection of children’s sweatshirts. But luckily I’m small. If any adult could fit into one of those sweatshirts, it was me.

  I found the one remaining children’s size large and held it up. Lime green. Fluorescent lime green. But at least it had a picture of a loon on the chest. I reminded Charlie loons are my favorite waterfowl, shed my lifejacket, and tugged the sweatshirt over my pajamas.

  Then I tried to convince myself it fit. The neck was too tight, and the wristbands hit exactly at my elbows. But other than that it worked.

  I didn’t bother looking at the back before putting the thing on, but maybe I should have. When I finally took it off later that day, I discovered the slogan emblazoned thereon. ‘I’m looney for Lake Bess,’ it read. Hindsight is everything.

  My father, Oliver, and Charlie were standing at the coffee pot when I walked over. Everyone stared at me, aghast.

  “Put it on my tab,” I told Oliver and walked out.

  Chapter 2

  Chester Stewart and Hollis Klotz stopped short as I emerged onto the porch. “Are those your pajamas?” they asked.

  “Bobby needed eggs,” I answered and kept on walking.

  Trust me, I didn’t need to worry about Chester and Hollis. They practically live at the Lake Store and would learn soon enough what was happening. But meanwhile I needed to get down to the dock, since I could already hear the sirens headed our way.

  I dropped my lifejacket into the kayak and was fetching my binoculars when Bobby and Charlie joined me. Dad traded me a cup of coffee for the binoculars.

  “You know,” he said as he lifted them to his eyes. “None of this would have happened if you stayed home and had waffles.”

  “So she wouldn’t be dead, if only I’d eaten waffles?”

  Dad and I were frowning at each other when the troops Oliver had promised began to arrive. Trust me, no one did so quietly. Philip Hart and Dustin Adams pulled up in a boat from the Lake Elizabeth Fire Department, sirens blaring. And a second later two forest rangers from the state park arrived in their boat, with their sirens. We got the sirens turned off in time to greet the pontoon boat overflowing with camp counselors. No sirens there, but plenty of shouting, shoving, and jostling as everyone found their footing on the dock.

  About then, the rescue squad from Hilleville rounded the bend from Route 19 onto Elizabeth Circle. The ambulance drove into the dirt lot between the Lake Store and Town Hall, and those sirens stopped only after the vehicle was parked. A woman in an EMT uniform popped out.

  “Ginger Graham,” Philip told me.

  Ginger trotted over, toting a stretcher, and Chester and Hollis emerged from the back door of the Lake Store and followed.

  “Oliver’s busy in the store,” Hollis announced. “He put us in charge until Sheriff Gabe gets here.”

  That seemed about as likely as my father’s waffles reviving the dead woman, but no one argued, and Chester asked Ginger if he could hold her stretcher. They were wrestling for control, and I was suggesting someone should use the thing to go get the dead woman, when two patrol cars from the Hilleville Police Department drove into the parking lot.

  “Oh, no!” Ginger let go of the stretcher. “Everyone hold your breath.”

  We held our breath and crossed our fingers, and watched the two police cars park. That accomplished, we emitted a communal sigh of relief. Was it possible that not one, but two, Hilleville cops had managed the drive—all six miles from Hilleville to Lake Elizabeth—without incident? I’m new in town, but even I knew this qualified as a minor miracle. Let’s just say the Hilleville police have a habit of getting into accidents, usually with each other, whenever duty calls.

  “Keep holding your breath,” Ginger ordered. She reclaimed the stretcher from Chester and stood at the ready as the two cops emerged from their patrol cars. They bumped into each other, and one tripped on their way down to the dock.

  “We’re here to help,” the cop who was still standing told us.

  ***

  “Excellent!” I said. I elbowed Hollis aside and stepped forward. “Because there’s a dead woman down in Mallard Cove. We need to go get her.”

  The cop stared at me. “Are those your pajamas?”

  “The dead woman doesn’t care what I’m wearing.”

  No, but everyone else sure did. My father tried explaining, but the cop ignored him.

  “Who are you?” he asked me, and several other people seemed interested in that, too.

  I gave my name.

  “Cassie’s my daughter,” Dad added. “She moved in with me last month.”

  That might have helped. But Dad was also a relative newcomer to Lake Bess, so some people didn’t know him either.

  “The Baxters bought the old Tumbleton place,” Dustin Adams added. He pointed to the big green house across the lake, and a few people nodded recognition.

  Meanwhile the cop who had fallen stood up. “Are those your pajamas?” he asked me.

  “Dead woman!” I shouted. “Mallard Cove!” I pointed. “Canoe!” I flapped my arms.

>   Both cops shook their heads, and Cop A informed me they were out of their jurisdiction.

  “Sheriff Gabe has to call the shots,” Cop B said.

  “We’re just here to help,” Cop A added.

  “And doing a fine job of it!” I snapped.

  “You don’t have to get all testy about it,” Cop A told me.

  Bobby reached out a hand to stop me from killing them and appealed to the firemen. But Philip and Dustin also refused to budge.

  “Sheriff Gabe called before I left the house and told me to wait for him,” Philip explained. “He doesn’t want us messing around with things if there’s anything fishy going on.”

  “We have to be patient,” Dustin said.

  “Cassie’s not very good at that,” Dad mumbled.

  ***

  Maybe not. But everyone else was an expert at it.

  Ginger tossed her stretcher to Chester so she could more fully engage in a conversation with Philip Hart. Evidently, she needed some advice about her tractor, and Philip was the guy to see.

  “Tractor?” I asked, and Ginger explained she’s a farmer when not driving the Hilleville ambulance.

  “It keeps stalling out,” she complained.

  Philip blamed it on all the rain we’d been getting that summer and began reminiscing about a tractor he had known on his grandparents’ farm in Craftsbury.

  I lost track of Philip’s childhood memories and tuned in to the camp counselors, who were debating the intimate details of Amber Jensen and Derek Moody’s breakup.

  I didn’t know Amber and Derek personally, but I could have predicted that. I’m a college professor and trust me, anything even remotely out of the ordinary gets twenty-somethings all atwitter. Let’s face it, that morning wasn’t exactly ordinary.

  Speaking of all atwitter. My father and the forest rangers were thoroughly absorbed in Dustin Adams’ description of the bass he had caught the previous weekend.

  “We should try fly-fishing,” Dad told me. “We can take the rowboat and Charlie, and go out first thing every morning. It would build your appetite for breakfast.” Bobby spoke to the crowd. “Cassie doesn’t eat enough breakfast,” he announced. “This morning she refused—”