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Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Escarpment Press
ISBN-10: 149097217X
Type: Fiction
Pages: 332
Copyright: October 23, 2012
ISBN-13: 9781490972176
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
Eighty-six-year-old woman found shot to death: no witnesses, no clues, no motive.
When the body of Maggie McFarland, an 86-year old widow, is found among the rubble of the once-famous, landmark Artemis Hotel, leveled by fire nearly seventy years ago, residents of Roscoe are shocked. However, it is not the location where Maggie is found, but rather the manner of her demise that has everyone puzzled. For it isn't a heart attack that has felled her; nor has she suffered a stroke, or taken a fatal fall from a porch. Her life has not ended so uneventfully. Maggie has been killed by a bullet to the heart, fired from a pistol at close range. Who would possibly want to kill this kind, gentle woman, known throughout the area as one of the best trout fly tiers within a hundred miles of the famed Beaverkill River? That is the mystery that confronts Matt Davis in Broken Promises, one of the most baffling cases of his career.
Excerpt
Maggie McFarland is 86-years old, but as she looks in the ancient, mahogany-framed mirror that hangs above her dresser, the face that stares back at her is that of a much younger woman—to be precise, a girl of only seventeen.
Using a silver-handled, natural-bristle brush given to her by her great grandmother, Maggie strokes her long, chestnut brown hair carefully, arranging it so she might capture every strand behind her head with an ivory barrette, also a treasured gift. A touch of rouge to each cheek, a pat of face powder to her forehead, neck, and the sides of her face, and all that is left to do is apply a hint of lipstick. Being careful not to overdo it, she traces the outline of her lips, and then purses them together as her mother taught her so many years ago. Her hazel eyes sparkle wildly beneath arched eyebrows that have been carefully plucked in wanton defiance of her mother’s strict orders to the contrary.
The dress Maggie wears is one that was tailored to her perfect, hourglass figure seventy-years ago for a very special occasion. It is textured lavender cotton with pearl buttons down the front and a high collar trimmed in white lace that both accentuates the length of her slender neck and frames her angular face and high cheekbones. It has a fitted waist, with a bottom portion that is straight and pleated, falling to just above satin-finish shoes with stacked heels and laces, all dyed in matching lavender.
She picks up her purse. Its contents are meager: her social security card, a small, silver-edged mirror, a fountain pen, and two dollar bills. She won’t be late this time; after all, she has promised him. Her proper Scots Irish upbringing mandates that punctuality is something to be adhered to. Besides, she reasons, why would she want to be late for such a special occasion?
The tall, mahogany grandfather clock standing guard in the corner of her bedroom displays the time in Roman numerals: 9:45 p.m. She is expected at eleven—same as before. She’d better hurry. With a final glance in the mirror, satisfied that every hair is in place, Maggie turns toward the bedroom door. Then, just as quickly, she turns back to the mirror and can scarcely believe her eyes. Who the hell is that? The reflection she sees is that of an old woman; the face lined and weathered, the hair and eyebrows white; the lips drawn and thin. Is that me? She shakes her head. Why that’s nonsense! And yet, she has to admit the face does look vaguely familiar. Utter nonsense!
With a shrug of her shoulders, Maggie makes her way to the bedroom door, twists the clear-glass knob and slips out into the hallway to the landing at the top of the stairs. If she tiptoes quietly enough, she can make it down the single flight and out the front door without her mother ever knowing she is gone. Taking a deep breath, she starts down the staircase.
As she passes the parlor, she glances quickly to see if her mother is about, but thankfully no one is in sight. She breathes a sigh of relief, opens the front door, and dashes out into the night, feet flying over the damp grass of the front lawn, propelling her effortlessly toward the elegant Artemis Hotel, the finest meeting place in all of Roscoe. With the house receding in the distance, she gradually slows her pace and strides down the dirt road that leads to her objective—and her rendezvous with fate.
The walk to the hotel takes Maggie less than ten minutes, or so she thinks, but when she arrives in front of the stately edifice, she finds she is bone-weary, her heart beating rapidly within her chest as if she’s been hiking for far longer. She looks at the delicate watch strapped to her wrist and is shocked to find that she’s actually been traveling for close to an hour. I’m late, she thinks. It’s happened again. Why can’t I get it right?
The Artemis Hotel stands atop a gentle knoll, surrounded on all sides by tall oak and maple trees. It is a two story, white-painted, wooden structure designed in the plain but elegant Federalist style so popular with architects of the 19th century. A generous portico protects the main entrance, which is comprised of oversized double doors of polished oak with shimmering crystal insets. Normally, the cut glass reflects the light from the bright crystal chandeliers that adorn the lobby within. But this night there are no reflections. Instead of bustling with guests checking in and out, the hotel is dark and lifeless. Maggie is puzzled. She climbs the several concrete stairs to the porch and nearly falls as she stumbles on a large, piece of burnt timber. Her breathing is ragged, and perspiration dots her forehead. She is very confused.
As she stands there, desperately trying to recapture her breath, the image of the hotel changes before her eyes. The walls deteriorate and disappear completely, exposing a hollow shell of burnt clapboard surrounding piles of discolored rubble. Broken glass and charred wood are everywhere. Maggie steps carefully over the carnage, hopelessly confused and disorientated. What has happened to the hotel?
Suddenly, a blur of motion catches her eye. Is it him? Her heart beats more quickly, and a flush comes to her cheeks. She peers through the darkness and perceives the image of a young man with his back to her. Apparently, he is searching for something—or someone. But for what, or for whom?
“I’m here!” she shouts at last, a broad smile spreading across her face. “I’m so sorry I’m la—”
The man turns and starts toward her, but Maggie doesn’t recognize him. As he moves forward, he trips, and suddenly there is a flash of light and a loud crack like a tree being struck by lightning. Maggie feels a dull thud, then a burning pain in the center of her chest; and in just seconds, nothing. She never hears the words the man screams, his voice filled with anguish. “Oh, my God! What have I done?” The man shoves the still-smoking pistol into his coat pocket and rushes toward her, stumbling over the piles of rubble, but it is too late.
Bending over the old woman’s motionless body, the man lifts her bony wrist and feels for a pulse, some sign of life. But there is none. He falls to the ground beside her, sobbing uncontrollably, his narrow shoulders heaving, as he mindlessly strokes the thin white hair atop her ancient head. At last, he gathers his composure, wipes the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, and then rises. His heart is filled with remorse, but right now he has no time to grieve. He is hell-bent upon disappearing as quickly as he can. He thinks briefly of calling the police, but if he does call—even from an anonymous pay phone—it would only result in his spending the rest of his life behind bars—and it surely won’t bring the woman back. Ultimately, he decides against it. Looking about to be sure no one has seen him, he moves carefully out of the ruins of the hotel, makes his way deliberately down the broken concrete stairs, and disappears into the night, his mission abandoned and forgotten.
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