Death Takes A Break: A Taylor Texas Mystery, #1

Death Takes A Break

A Taylor Texas Mystery

Morewellson, Ltd.

Death Takes A Break

Copyright @ 2019 by Vikki Walton

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial use is permitted by copyright law.

For permission requests, write to the publisher:

Attention: Permissions Coordinator

Morewellson, Ltd.

P. O. Box 49726

Colorado Springs, Colorado 80949-9726

ISBN:

978-1-950452-12-5 (standard edition print)

978-1-950452-11-8 (e-pub)

978-1-950452-13-2 (large print edition)

This is a work of fiction. Names characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. In order to provide a sense of place for the story, business establishment names have been included under the aspect of nominative fair use of products or services. No establishment noted in this fictional account has provided any incentive or endorsement of said account.

Front cover illustration: Mariah Sinclair

Publishing/design services: Wild Seas Formatting

Editing: Top Shelf editing services

Death Takes A Break

A Taylor Texas Mystery

Morewellson, Ltd.

Chapter One

There’s no mistaking the sound of a shotgun being engaged.

Cha-chuck.

Christie sat bolt upright and sought the source of the noise. Nothing she could see with a quick glance around. She struggled to unwrap the sheet tangled around her from in the night while she slept on the rust-colored tweed sofa. Oblivious to the fact that she only wore an extra-long Cowboys jersey, she scrambled over to the open front door. Peeking around the corner, she saw her father, R.C., with his shotgun at his side. It pointed to the ground and her Pop’s finger was off the trigger.

Looking toward the driveway, a man stood on the packed earth leading up to the porch. Pushing the auburn curls from her face, Christie subconsciously tucked the hair behind her ear. A sound caught her attention. Glancing to her right, she saw her father’s dogs, Mutt and Jeffrey laying on the porch, their heads moving back and forth between Pop and the stranger. As they did so, their tails went up and down in a half-hearted attempt between being friendly and hesitation. The rescued labs were good dogs but weren’t much use as guard dogs. People really had to be bad for them to bark at them.

Christie’s attention returned to the man as her father spoke. You can tell that no-account boss of yours that my answer’s the same. I ain’t selling my property and that’s final.

Selling the property? Pop had said nothing to her about that. Christie moved closer and the man’s head swiveled over to where she stood behind the screen door.

Christie, come on out here, her father intoned.

She opened the screen door but stayed inside. The man pushed his lips together, bowed his head and looked at the ground. Embarrassed, she realized she had been standing there in the skimpy top.

As a hospice nurse, Christie had seen and heard almost everything possible, but appearing half-naked to a stranger wasn’t a great way to start the morning.

Just a minute, Pop.

She hurried back inside and grabbed the blue jeans she’d shucked off on the leather recliner before going to bed. She didn’t want to leave Pop for too long, so she shrugged into her denim jacket that she’d tossed nearby, crossed her arms over her ample chest and elbowed the door open.

What’s going on? Pop, put down that shotgun before someone gets hurt.

That’s the point of a shotgun, Missy. He turned back to the man. Now git off my property.

Christie stifled the sigh that sought to escape her lips. To her knowledge, the only time her father had shot the gun was when he killed a rattler and that had been decades ago.

The young Hispanic man wore the prerequisite Texas men’s outfit of a crisp white shirt, starched blue jeans, and much-worn cowboy boots. The only noticeable difference is that he wore a straw hat over a baseball cap or felt hat. His shirt was embroidered above the pocket with a company logo. While Christie struggled to read the business tag, he’d stayed far enough back from the porch to make a quick return to his truck. He’d parked so it was also difficult to see the firm’s name on the side of his dually cab.

Ma’am, he removed his sunglasses. Are you his daughter? I’m here to speak with your father about a great opportunity he has with this land. As you may know, Boerne is growing so quickly that they can’t keep up with the pace and it’s just a matter of time before people want to seek property further out. To put it bluntly, your father stands to make millions with all this acreage. And he’d still get to keep a parcel, should he want it–like this homestead, for example.

Pop grumbled, Well, ain’t that mighty generous that I’d get to keep land that’s been in my family for generations.

Sir, I meant no disrespect—

R.C. Taylor took a step toward the porch railing and spat, Y’all destroyed places that have been in families for generations with all your development. I won’t have you come ruining it here too.

Christie stepped forward and laid her hand on her dad’s arm. She addressed the man. Mister—

Garcia. Hector Garcia. He tipped his hat and Christie got a glimpse of a full head of thick wavy black hair.

Mr. Garcia. I haven’t heard about any of this as I just arrived last night, but I’ll speak to my father, okay? Christie knew her father had no intention of selling the property, but she wanted a chance to speak to him alone. She figured this would end the current conversation and calm her father down.

Certainly. He pulled a business card from his pocket and Mutt raised his head as if to show he was on the job. Hector took one step toward the porch before appearing to change his mind about it.

Christie came off the porch and retrieved the business card from him. Thanks. We’ll let you know.

He tipped his hat and turned so that his head was away from R.C. Under his breath, Hector said, This is a great opportunity. Your dad’s not getting younger and all that money would go to you on his passing.

Christie flinched. She wanted to say, Are you kidding me? Instead, she pressed her lips together and stuffed his card in her jacket pocket. Striding confidently to the truck, he swung up into the cab in one easy movement. Hector started the truck up, touching a finger to his hat in a gesture of politeness seen all over Texas.

Christie stepped back into the shade of the front porch as the man reversed the truck, kicking up dust. The dogs jumped off the porch, barking excitedly as the truck made its way down the drive.

Now you’re tough guys? Christie threw back her head and laughed. They ran up to her and Christie petted their heads as they fought each other for her attention, tails wagging and tongues lolling with enthusiasm. You’re absolutely worthless, you know. The labs seemed to smile at her as they followed her to the porch where Pop now sat in a rocker, the shotgun open and resting on his knees.

Pop, give me that before you shoot your foot off.

Not my eye out? he grinned and winked at her.

Funny. Not. But she still smiled at his corny humor attempt.

Ah, it’s not loaded, darling.

Tears sprung to her eyes at the old familiar nickname. She’d been known by her last name—Taylor—for so long that even going by Christie again would take some getting used to hearing. Now the sound of her Pop’s endearment for her felt like a sweet caress. While at home, she’d enjoy being called by her first name again. Maybe that would be another way to erase some of her past hurts and the reason she’d returned to Comfort, Texas and the old homestead.

Her thoughts traveled back to that horrible weekend when tragedy had struck her and some old college friends. Being stuck in a blizzard with someone who was a killer had made her realize that she had grown tired of being around misery and death constantly. The idea of not knowing when your life would end had made her think twice about her current position and life’s trajectory. While she had dealt with the aftermath of her feelings about the weekend and all that had occurred, going back to work at the hospice center had taken its toll on her. She couldn’t give her patients the care they needed when she was burnt out.

Realizing how much of a toll it had taken on her, she’d asked for leave and management graciously told her to take all the time she needed, that a place would be there whenever she wanted to come back. Even though dealing with death had been a daily part of her job it had never caused her the angst that had crippled her work. Natural death was difficult enough without someone who sought to cause harm being a part of your life. It had made her think back to some of her patients. Had they died natural deaths, or had they been ‘helped along’ in death? The thought that she may have missed those signs weighed her down mentally and emotionally.

During her years of care, she often received notes of appreciation from patients and their families remarking that her sweet spirit had been a great comfort as they said their final goodbyes. Yet, when an old college friend had been murdered, something snapped. Her heart had broken and for the first time, she realized that her work was suffering because of it. She needed time away from death. Time for life so she’d done the best thing she knew to do. She needed comfort.

She’d come home.

Pop reached over and Christie placed her hand in his arthritic scarred one. He squeezed her hand, but the firm grip she recalled from her youth wasn’t there.

A moment of silence passed between them.

She patted her father’s hand. How’s about some of your homemade biscuits?

That sounds mighty good. We can do a fry-up. He struggled to rise from his chair, and it was at that moment that Christie saw the frail, old man her father had become. The rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt showed arms peppered with bruises on reddened skin. She took the gun from him and cocked it over her left arm. With