Slash in the Pan Read online

  Slash in the Pan

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2018 by CeeCee James

  ~All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my Family— who ate my pancakes and lived to tell about it.

  And to my friend Sue, who gave me my first recipe, and Jesikah who taught me to make them with bananas. <3

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Introduction

  Georgie Tanner and her best friend, Kari have known each other their whole lives. Georgie was maid of honor at Kari and Joe's wedding, so when Joe is accused of a horrific murder, Georgie is determined to learn the truth.

  The details look bad- a body was found in the subdivision under construction where Joe is the general contractor. The body has Joe's favorite knife sticking out of it. To make things worse, the dead man is Devon Walters, Joe's professional rival.

  Joe doesn't have a good alibi, and the DA quickly discovers that Devon was about to file a lawsuit against Joe. As Georgie finds out when she digs deeper, Devon had a good reason to file a lawsuit. Despite Joe's underhanded dealings, Kari begs Georgie to prove he didn't do it... but the more Georgie digs, the worse things look.

  Worse, Georgie unearths clues that seem to tie back to her fiancé, who died years ago... this may be one case where the truth is too hard to face.

  Chapter 1

  It was supposed to be a happy day, filled with sunshine and laughter. The kind where the temperature is hovering in the upper 80s, and you get to show off your cute sundress on a date with your boyfriend. A day filled with Frisbee throwing, flowers, good food and maybe a little wine.

  Instead, it was gray and miserable, dumping buckets and not just outside. The flu had declared war against me, and my entire face was flooding too. My body ached miserably, and I fought not to cry as all my expectations were ripped from me like dozens of petals plucked off a rose. A tickle in my nose forced me to grab yet another Kleenex from the nearly empty box to stifle a sneeze. I swallowed hard and tried to muster my voice over swollen vocal cords as I returned to my phone call.

  “This is the worst day ever. I’m sorry Frank, I'm super bummed, too.” I hoped he could understand me. My stuffed nose made my p’s and b’s sounds like a lisping character from a cartoon.

  “Hey, I get it. You’re sick. You can’t help that. At least let me swing by with some chicken soup,” Frank said, his voice low and sweet.

  What? No!

  Alarm filled every part that wasn’t already sick-swollen. Frank was getting ready to leave for training, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he caught what I had. I could just picture him in the swampy air, trying to breathe while navigating an obstacle course.

  “No way! Don’t you dare.” Realizing how that sounded, I tried to soften my response. “I mean, you can’t come over. I don't want you to catch what I have. Right now, I feel like Armageddon is happening in my body between my white blood cells and the germs, and I can't tell which side is winning.”

  As if to prove my point, the threatening sneeze decided to show up at that moment. I trapped it in a tissue. Then, I stuffily added, “Besides, you don’t even know how to make chicken soup.”

  “No, but I know someone who does.” His voice rose at the end of the sentence like I should know who he was referring to.

  “Oh, Cecelia?” I said.

  There was a pause and then, “I was actually thinking of Campbells, but Cecelia works, too, if that’s what you prefer.”

  Of course, he’d meant canned soup. I was too miserable even to smile. “No soup, for now, sweetie. I hate to say it but just stay away. I’d be crushed if you got sick. Especially since you’re leaving for that training.”

  Frank was a cop with the Gainesville police force. Every so often, he had different seminars he had to attend, some of them lasting a few nights. This one would take almost two weeks and was located near the Pennsylvania border, about three hours away.

  “I’m going to miss you,” His voice was low and rumbled through me, making me forget for a second how I miserable felt.

  This time, I did smile. “Me too.”

  He made a kissing noise through the phone, and suddenly my heart ached with loneliness, even though he hadn’t left yet. I tried my hardest to make a kiss noise back, probably sounding like a hippopotamus coming up for water.

  My eyes burned at the injustice of not seeing him today. Great, now there were tears mixing with the sniffly flow. We said goodbye, with me reluctant to hang up until he did. When he was gone, I flopped back into my pillow with my head feeling like it was as heavy as a bowling ball.

  These next two weeks were going to feel like forever, and this stupid cold had ruined everything. Sighing, I tried to roll on the bed without success. What was it about being sick that made everything seem so much harder? With a grunt, I finally got over and grabbed another tissue. After a quick wipe of my nose, I chucked the phone onto the nightstand.

  My bedroom walls stared back at me, looking like they’d been decorated with scrap art. It was where I hung most of my paintings because I didn’t want people to see them. In fact, the walls were getting kind of ridiculous, and I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my canvases. But lately, painting was the only thing that seemed to ease my busy mind.

  What was on my mind was my late fiancé, Derek Summers. I’d met him after college. I’d just been hired by an Estate lawyer firm, and he’d been working at art restoration.

  I remember when he proposed. We’d been hiking on one of our favorite trails on Black Mountain. It actually wasn’t very romantic because I’d been looking for a bush for a little break if you know what I mean. And, he kept saying, “Oh, I think there’s one up here.”

  Well, it turned out he was trying to get me to a boulder that overlooked the valley. Luckily I’d found a bush right before that and didn’t ruin the moment by peeing my pants.

  It was a beautiful memory, with his stammering and blushing as he said all the right things. And I was beyond excited to say yes.

  Two months later, he was dead. He had a car accident that had been ruled a suicide.

  That was a couple years ago, and I was still trying to move past it. Recently, I’d gotten some news that brought all of that movement to a screeching halt.

  My new friend, Oscar O’Neil, a retired FBI agent and Cecelia’s neighbor, had some interesting stories to tell. He’d kind of slip them in when I was least expecting it. And he’d hit me with the first real clue I’d gotten in two years with his last story about a company called Midnight Trucking. Oscar had said that Midnight Trucking was operated by some well-known gangsters, apparently, and its operations spanned between Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. I’d heard of it before, but only as a legitimate business. One that transported art merchandise. One that had hired my late fiancé, Derek Summers, right before he died.

  Like I said, Derek’s death certificate stated that he had committed suicide. I neve
r believed it though. The day that Derek had died, he and I had been heading up Tiger Mountain on our way to have a picnic lunch, when his car veered over the guardrail and down a cliff. We’d taken separate vehicles because he had to be someplace right afterwards. I’d been following close behind him, and the next thing I remember is slamming on the brakes and watching in horror as his car flew over the edge. I tried to climb down to him even though the cliff was so steep. Frustration and fear ripped through me and I lost my voice screaming for help. I’ll never forget that moment.

  It was the fire marshal who’d arrived on the scene that had insisted it was suicide. And the coroner had agreed with him. The problem with that was that I knew Derek had loved me. I knew he wouldn’t have done that to me, not with me driving right behind him. And, despite the stress of his new job—which apparently I’d known nothing about—he’d seemed really happy. Happier than I’d seen him in years.

  So when Oscar dropped the name of Midnight Trucking in the middle of a story about one of his corrupt money stakeouts, I was shocked. I still didn’t know what was going on, or how Derek had been involved. But I was determined to find out.

  I’d been trying to dig stuff up on the trucking company ever since. The crazy thing is that, even though Oscar had said the trucking company was as black as its name, all the hits on the internet made it seem like a legitimate business. In fact, even the trucking company ads were innocent, just spouting how they were available to export recycling from business offices.

  Those ads still portrayed a different trucking service than the description Derek had given me about the company, so that gave me hope to keep on searching. And finally, I did find something interesting. Midnight Trucking had been involved in another fatal accident only a few months before Derek’s death. What stuck out to me in the news story was that the same fire marshal had ruled a suicide in that case as well. I still remembered his name. Barnett.

  That sure had whetted my interest in the fire marshal. So, a few days ago, I contacted the Pittsburgh City Office and requested some information on just who this fire marshal was. Now I was on pins-and-needles, waiting to hear back from them.

  At least, I hoped someone from the city office would write back. They would, wouldn’t they?

  For the thousandth time in the last few days, I opened my email app and refreshed it. Disappointment clunked through me like a suitcase falling down the stairs. My new emails were for makeup and clothing sales.

  Sighing, I closed the app and opened a web page for the latest news. I scrolled through them. Despite the screaming headlines, there was nothing but the usual doom and gloom. I was about to close my phone when one story caused me to pause.

  It was a jewelry store that had been robbed near the border of New York, up in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania. What had caught my eye was the fact that the thief had waltzed in during business hours, wearing a Daffy Duck mask. I snorted at the visual and read further.

  Apparently, the guard had been heavily questioned and was a person of suspicion for not apprehending the thief the moment the thief entered the store. The guard maintained his innocence, saying he’d been preoccupied at that moment with a text message. As an added sting, the thief had taken the security guard’s watch.

  Interesting. Not often you hear about a cartoon character making off with over a million dollars in jewelry. I read on and saw the police had no other suspects and the jewelry heist was still unsolved. There was the standard plea that anyone with information to please come forward, before the next news story headline began, warning about disintegrating foreign affairs.

  I groaned and shut off the phone, unable to deal with any more bad news. I stared around my room which was in a sad state of disrepair— clothing lying around, balled tissues on the floor, a forest of drinking glasses— and felt even more discouraged.

  As a last resort to pull myself out of my pity party, I opened my kindle and scrolled through the books. But nothing captured my eye. Disappointment about the lack of email about the fire marshal, plus my canceled date, had dampened my interest in anything.

  Alright, Georgie. Time to buck up. I shuffled into the kitchen and took a second dose of decongestant and then went into the living room. With a groan, I eased down onto the sofa and grabbed the remote.

  With my stomach slightly queasy, my favorite food channel was a hard no this morning. I flipped through the other channels, hoping for anything that would distract me, and finally ended on a home remodel show.

  Two hours later, I realized I was feeling slightly better. I made myself some soup. Frank’s offer came to mind. I was a canned soup girl myself. After it had heated, I carried the steaming mug into my bedroom where I checked my email on my phone one more time.

  A red flag sprang up, indicating a new message. Don’t get too excited, Georgie. Remember the underwear sale ad you just got.

  Still, my heart was pumping as I devoured the subject line.

  A smile spread across my face. Bingo.

  Chapter 2

  It was what I’d been waiting for. I held my breath as I clicked the email from Pittsburgh City Hall to open it. As it opened, I snuggled down into my oversize chair—a steal from the second-hand store, and sipped my soup.

  To whom this may concern.

  I’m responding to your request for the public records of fire marshal of the 17th district. This came as an odd request and I wanted to clarify that you gave me the correct information. As much as I searched, I could find no one who worked here with the name Barnett, not the year you requested nor any year since. To be thorough, I also searched through our neighbor districts 21 and 233, but neither of those employed the person you are seeking either. May I suggest that you mean an entirely different fire district? Perhaps in another state, even.

  At any rate, I’m sorry to return this information to you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.

  Sincerely,

  Martha Bartley,

  Secretary of City Hall.

  While reading it, my blood ran cold. Was it possible I didn’t remember the fire marshal’s name right? No, of course, I did.

  Just to be sure, I searched up the story where I’d found Barnett’s name listed in the second accident, and browsed through it again. What was this? My eyebrows raised as I read a sentence stating that Barnett was a fire Marshall in Wyoming. That’s definitely not the same as Pennsylvania. What on earth was going on?

  I set down my mug and tried to digest the fact that there was no record of the man I’d met at Derek’s scene of death. I wondered if I could get more information about Barnett from Derek’s death certificate. I shook my head, realizing the fire marshal’s name wouldn’t be on there.

  The coroner would know, I thought. He spoke with the fire marshal that night. I remembered the coroner, but barely. We’d only talked on the phone and he’d spoken in a stiff, unnatural tone as if he were carefully mulling over the importance of each word he said as though there was a word shortage. What was the coroner's name? I squeezed my eyes tight, trying to remember.

  My phone rang, vibrating in my hand and scaring me. I flipped it over to see who was calling.

  It was my best friend, Kari. For a hard-second, I thought about ignoring her. But how could I? She rarely called— usually communicating through a text—so I figured this had to be significant.

  “Hi, Kari,” I answered. My nose still sounded plugged.

  “Oh. Hi, Georgie. You sick?”

  “Yeah.” I eased onto the bed with a sigh. “The virus from the last guests of the bed and breakfast caught up to me. What’s up?”

  “Well.” Her breath gushed out in squeaky excitement. “I passed! I actually passed!”

  I tried to sound excited over my sore throat. “Oh, yeah? Wow!” I knew Kari had been studying for her real estate license over the past few months. It was a big deal.

  “And not only that, I got a new job!” she squealed.

  Okay, that was huge news. News so big I would have jumped up i
f my head weren’t threatening to squeeze my face off. The excitement tickled my nose, and I pinched it to hold in the sneeze.

  “Georgie? You still there? I haven’t lost you, have I?” Kari asked. A second later, she added, “You know, this is kind of a big deal.”

  Almost there … almost there. My eyes watered as I held the sneeze in. I felt terrible not answering. I also knew if I let it loose, there would be a marathon of them.

  “A new job,” Kari stated, sounding a bit defensive. “Where I make money.”

  The tickle finally passed. “That’s great, Kari! Sorry. I was trying to head off a sneeze.”

  “I thought my call had dropped. I had to check to make sure you were still there. Anyway, not only that. Sunnyside Estates offered me a job!” Her voice was high, sounding like the cheerleader she’d been in high school. I could picture her short blonde hair flipping as she shook pom-poms.

  “Amazing! Congratulations! How was the test? Was it super hard? Did it take long?”

  “It was so hard. Especially after being up all night with the dog. He’d gotten into the cat box and was puking and pu—”

  My stomach somersaulted and threatened to commit mutiny. “Okay. I get it. No more details, please.” I knew how she liked her descriptions.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “I was so exhausted this morning. But it was nothing a couple shots of espresso couldn’t handle.” She paused and then added. “Make that four.”

  “Four? You had four shots of espresso? You must have been shaking. How’d they even get your answers recorded? It probably looked like giant scribbles.”