Copyright Information

      Copyright © 2002 by Joan Garcia.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      Chapter One

      Six days after Labor Day I bid a grateful farewell to the sultry and oppressive heat of the dog days of summer. In less than a week, the winds blew away the grey cocoon of humid, low-lying air that had trapped the summer’s heat to expose the brilliant blue of the early autumn sky. These high stratospheric winds scoured fluffy white clouds into thin wispy ribbons. Mares’ tails, that’s what my father used to call those high striated clouds. He claimed it was sailor’s jargon. I’m sure it was. Sailing was just one of the many things he had loved to do

      The summer had been wet as well as hot. The grass was tall and green, and every hillside was brightly decorated with dancing yellow heads of Goldenrod and Black-eyed Susans. Dainty white splotches of Queen Anne’s Lace lined the roadsides and country lanes. Dragonflies and honeybees skimmed over the newly mown fields with a pleasant hum, and songbirds were outdoing each other with farewell concerts before heading south for the winter. It was my favorite time of year in Kentucky.

      Everything would have been perfect except for the fact that my beautiful daughter, Cassandra, was in love again. The first sign of this emotional turn of events came one evening when she asked if she could raid my closet. She needed something silky and feminine from my past. Another dead giveaway was the fact that she kept bumping into furniture and breaking her grandmother’s antique porcelain teacups. And most troubling of all, she had developed a very inconvenient memory loss concerning the care and feeding of her nasty-tempered but adoring Lhasa Apso, Agatha Christie—Aggie for short.

      The object of her affections was a nice enough young man. He was not very handsome, but he was not hard to look at in a homely blonde sort of way. He was pleasant and polite, interesting and intelligent, and he enjoyed spending time with the whole family. I tolerated him as politely as I had all of his predecessors.

      My imaginary alter ego, Leonard Paisley, the detective hero of my mystery novels, had been instructed by my agent to “get busy or else.” The real writer, me, Paisley Sterling, was having trouble getting started on a new book. Lazy Indian summer days on the farm were just too beautiful. I often found myself gazing through the French doors of the library in my mother’s sprawling country home instead of conjuring up daring deeds for the intrepid Leonard.

      More often than not, after a delightful lunch prepared by my culinary genius of a parent, I would whistle for Aggie and sneak out for a run in the back forty. The dog never tired of hunting things smaller and furrier than herself, and I never tired of just being me and being here.

      Meadowdale Farm had been in my family for years. When I rented out my townhouse in New York and came back here to live a year ago, I became a true clodhopper, a mud bud, a lover of all things earthy and fertile. I had also happily forsaken my city persona and burned my panty hose. It was clean livin’ in high cotton for me, Paisley Sterling DeLeon, country girl, from now on. Cassie was welcome to anything in my closet. I was through with Gucci and Pucci. My idea of formal dress was a linen jacket over my jeans. If more formality was required, then my presence was not. I kept my unruly auburn hair under bandanas or within the restraint of a ribbon if the occasion called for it. My figure had slimmed to the dimensions of my college days, and my hazel eyes dressed up my freckled face with happiness. I was free of the constraints and demands of city life. I had followed my bliss.

      It was ironic, really, if you considered that when I was writing nature-oriented stories, the Bartholomew the Blue-eyed Cricket children’s series, I had lived in the middle of Manhattan. Now, happily ensconced in my rural paradise, I was writing hard-boiled detective novels set in the tough, dirty streets I had abandoned. Unfortunately, I was about to find out that every paradise has its snake.

      The afternoon it all began, Aggie and I took a long, satisfying walk over to the man-made lake at the back end of the farm and picked up a ton of beggar lice along the way. I dreaded the thought of having to comb them out of the dog’s thick, soft fur. She was a vicious little mutt and had the bite of a cobra.

      We walked for almost two hours before we headed back home. Aggie’s tongue was hanging out, and I was really looking forward to a cold gin and tonic on the patio before dinner.

      My mother, Anna Howard Sterling, was much more proper, stylish, and, well, much more everything than me. Tonight she was making one of her spectacular dinners for Ethan’s birthday. Cassie was creating, or maybe constructing was a better word, her boyfriend’s cake. For my part, I had promised to behave myself, comb my hair, and wear a dress—ergo, the gin and tonic.

      Aggie and I ran the last mile home. We collapsed in a grateful heap on the chaise lounge on the patio in the middle of the big lawn in back of the house.

      “There you are, my pretty! I was afraid I would have to drink alone.”

      Horatio Raleigh, my mother’s old and dear friend, came out to greet me with a tray of canapés and two tall, frosty glasses decorated with a slices of lime. Horatio himself was tall and lean, and walked with a military bearing. A neatly trimmed white halo of hair circled the sides of his head, and a Van Dyke beard adorned the bottom half of his handsome, roguish face.

      He smiled ruefully as he handed me my libation. “I’ve abandoned the kitchen. Your lovely mother will not even acknowledge my presence when she is in the throes of working her culinary magic. And I was afraid to disturb your daughter. She might make me taste something.”

      He leaned closer and patted my arm. “Just between you and me, my dear, we’d better find some other outlet for young Cassandra’s talents—judging from the looks of her young man’s birthday cake.”

      I took a long, cool sip of gin. “Umm, that bad?”

      “Do the words, ‘leaning tower of Pisa’ ring a bell?”

      “Perhaps animal husbandry…” I mused.

      Horatio nodded at the puppy curled up against my legs on the chaise “Yes, by all means. Let her breed that vicious little mutt.”

      As if she had been cued by a stage manager, Aggie raised a perfectly adorable fuzzy head and curled her little black puppy lips in a snarl.

      Horatio shuddered dramatically and added in a theatrical whisper, “Imagine the savings in our national defense budget. We could kiss the Cruise missile goodbye.”

      A large and very fat rabbit crept out of the blackberry bushes along the fencerow and munched cautiously on some clover. He must have given a silent bunny signal to his buddies, because a short while later, six more joined him in the picnic. Horatio and I sat very still and watched their antics. When a big groundhog, whom we had named Zacharias, lumbered up from his den under the herb garden, the rabbits respectfully made way for him as he waddled over to the pear tree to dine on the fallen fruit.

      I sighed contentedly and thanked God for the one millionth time that my father and grandfather had had the foresight and the vision to buy this place. I was also grateful that the next generation of Sterlings, including me, had held on to it for dear life.

      The big old farmhouse had originated as a “four pen” log cabin with no electricity and no plumbing. By the time I was born, that original humble dwelling had become a sprawling country cottage with six bedrooms and seven baths.

      We no longer farmed the land. The pretty, white-faced Hereford cattle that we kept in my grandfather’s day were long gone. But the fields were still sown with seed every spring and mowed every fall. And according to my father’s wishes, we were careful to leave scattered thickets and bits of woods here and there for the abundant wild life.

      Horatio leaned back in his rocker and smiled at me.

      “There’s a bit of gossip in town about this young man of Cassandra’s.”

      “Oh, yeah? Just what has the Rowan Springs Country Club rumor mill come up with this time?”

      “Well