PICKED OFF Read online

  Praise for the Brie Hooker Mystery Series

  “Between the four-legged farmyard shenanigans, the two men vying for Brie Hooker’s favor, the formidable task of proving her aunt’s innocence, plus the villain’s attempts to end her life, this book is a thrill-a-minute read.”

  – Cindy Sample,

  National Bestselling Author of Dying for a Donut

  “Grabbed me at chapter one and refused to let go until the very last page…Lovely offers up a charming setting that’s so real you can almost smell the hay, a story that’s laugh-out-loud funny, and a mystery that will keep you up past your bedtime.”

  – Annette Dashofy,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Uneasy Prey

  “How vegan Brie Hooker balances cheese loving carnivores, more than one romantic interest, and murder in Linda Lovely’s Bones to Pick is a humorous delight. A well-crafted series debut.”

  — Debra H. Goldstein,

  IPPY Award-Winning Author of Maze in Blue

  “Packed with suspense and action and some spicy romance. Its excitement wasn’t the only thing that kept me flipping pages. The characters are funny and sweet and I look forward to getting to know them better in future books. I ate up every morsel.”

  — Dorothy St. James,

  Author of the Southern Chocolate Shop Mysteries

  “An entertaining mystery with a cast of colorful characters, a delightful Southern setting, and plenty of action. Spend time with Linda Lovely’s Brie Hooker—a gutsy, smart heroine with a sharp eye and refreshing sense of humor—and you’ll want to return to Ardon County and the Udderly Kidding goat farm again and again.”

  – Wendy Tyson,

  Author of A Muddied Murder

  The Brie Hooker Mystery Series

  by Linda Lovely

  BONES TO PICK (#1)

  PICKED OFF (#2)

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  Copyright

  PICKED OFF

  A Brie Hooker Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | June 2018

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Lovely

  Cover art by Stephanie Savage

  Author photograph by Danielle Dahl

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Las Vegas was chosen as the home of Picked Off’s fictional Sin City Aces football team because the city had no pro football team when the book was written.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-342-6

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-343-3

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-344-0

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-345-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  For My Writers’ Police Academy “Family”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe continuing thanks to the owners of Split Creek Farm in South Carolina and Morning Glow Farm in Wisconsin for all information related to goat dairies. Split Creek Farm also was kind enough to host the book launch for Bones to Pick, while Six & Twenty Distillery provided mystery fans with tastings of fine local spirits akin to those my character Paint Paynter will offer when he expands his product line beyond moonshine. Of course, after attending, author Polly Iyer did threaten to sue me due to her new addiction to Six & Twenty’s Carolina Cream.

  For information dealing with fantasy football, I need to thank friends Chris Christensen and Matt Goddard. I also should give a nod to my great-nephew Braden Mann, a kicker for Texas A&M University, whose talents have certainly increased my interest in watching the sport. Any errors in football references are mine alone. Educating someone like me who is a total pigskin dummy is a daunting task.

  My good friend Kay Kirkley Barrett, Esq., former City of Clemson Attorney/Prosecutor, provided insights into how my character Iris Hooker, Esq., might spend her workdays. I also want to thank Howard R. Lemcke, another member of the legal profession, for his winning charity bid to have a Picked Off character named for him. Mr. Lemcke has written a riveting true crime book of his own, In Her Own Backyard: A Perfect Husband, A Perfect Marriage, A Perfect Murder, based on a murder case he tried as a prosecutor for the State of Utah.

  Grateful shout outs are due to the Henery Press editorial team, including Maria Edwards and Rachel Jackson, who helped improve my manuscript, and illustrator Stephanie Savage for her cool covers. I also owe thanks to Rowe Carenen of The Book Concierge for her efforts to reach new audiences.

  Major thanks to my critique partners—Donna Campbell, Danielle Dahl, Charles Duke, Howard Lewis, and Robin Weaver—for their support, excellent suggestions, and, most of all, their friendship. However, I need to single out horse-and-mule wrangler Howard for his suggestions. Howard spins great tales about how he’s learned his equines’ many peccadillos.

  As always thanks to my husband, Tom Hooker, who couldn’t be more supportive. I value his feedback on early drafts, and his help in talking through plot dilemmas. For this series, he has even lent his surname to the main character, Brie Hooker.

  With incredible thanks, this book is dedicated to the Writers’ Police Academy, celebrating its tenth anniversary in 2018. The determination of founder Lee Lofland and Dr. Denene Lofland to help crime writers “get it right” through hands-on learning experiences makes this annual event at a real police academy a fun adventure for both writers and fans of crime fiction. I’ve been lucky to be included in the volunteer “family” that helps with this event.

  ONE

  I shrank into a tight crouch and crept along the fence line. The gate sat twenty-five yards away. It felt like a mile. My nerves jangled. Who could blame me? Yesterday’s assault would have scared the beans out of a bowl of chili.

  Mist shrouded the hilly field in the skimpy pre-dawn light. A dark silhouette moved. He was awake, alert.

  Could I reach the gate before he noticed?

  The wind whistling down from neighboring mountains favored me. It whisked sound and scent away from the enemy—a one-time friend who’d turned into an animal I could not recognize.

  My arm ached from lugging my heavy load; the cold of the metal handle pierced my glove. If forced, I’d use my burden as a club. Duncan’s choice. I scuttled ahead. Ten yards closer.

  A rooster’s crow broke the silence. I held my breath. Would the sound prompt Duncan to turn? No. Something else captured his attention.

  Five more yards.

  Duncan stamped the ground. Cold? Or did he sense my approach?

  Don’t turn around, please.

  My icy fingers found the gate hasp. Last night I’d sprayed WD-40 on the hinges, hoping to silence its rickety creak. I lifted the hasp and pulled. The gate no longer creaked, it emitted a low groan. Not low enough to escape Duncan’s se
nses.

  Holy Swiss Cheese.

  I ran. The metal pail banged against my calf.

  I reached the trough, dumped the pail’s contents, and sprinted back toward the gate.

  Duncan pounded after me. Too close. I could hear his snorts over my panicky wheezing. I jumped outside the pen and jerked the gate closed.

  Duncan squealed in frustration and butted his hairy head against the wire fence.

  “Ha. Beat you today, you rancid chunk of Braunshweiger.” I shouted in victory.

  Okay, Brie. Stop yelling cheese and meat curses at a stupid billy goat. Duncan’s not an alien life form, just a horny buck intent on boinking anything that moves.

  Once I’d walked beyond Duncan’s spitting range, I upended the pail I’d used to carry his high-energy feed. Like he needed more energy. I parked my behind on the bucket for a short rest. I’d completed deliveries to two of our billy boys—Duncan and Jordan—and escaped clean.

  It galled my butt that our male goats had taken to spitting at me, Brie Hooker, the vegan. Hardly seemed fair. I fed them. Didn’t even eat any of their animal-kingdom cousins. Why me?

  Behind his fence, Duncan, our Nubian buck, was putting on quite a show. His long pink tongue squirmed in the air as if he were slurping imaginary ice cream. His eyes rolled, and he blubbered. That’s the noise our horny bucks emitted to express undying affection for nearby does.

  Fortunately, the wind carried most of Duncan’s racket and smell away. Up close a billy goat’s odor could choke a rotting zombie. Thank heaven, our boys only smelled during rutting season.

  When I came to live at Udderly Kidding Dairy last spring, the bucks were affectionate, non-odiferous gentlemen. Aunt Eva said shorter days and less light triggered rutting madness. If we didn’t need their randy assistance to breed our does, I’d keep the boys’ pens noonday bright year-round.

  Enough wishful thinking. We were expecting two-hundred people for tonight’s shindig. The goal was to raise money for Carol Strong’s campaign for South Carolina governor. And, I had to admit I was looking forward to meeting her son, Zack, quarterback for the Sin City Aces. He was flying in for the party.

  I was a big fan. What wasn’t there to like? The football star was an exceptional athlete, articulate, and did I mention handsome?

  While Hallow’s Eve was still a week away, tonight’s Halloween-themed event was a costume party. I hoped my friend Mollye, who tended to be a tad scatterbrained, had kept her promise to pick up my Little Bo Peep costume.

  I still remembered our first meeting. Mollye explained her mom added an “e” to her name to make it six letters—a lucky number.

  While I didn’t know if the nonessential letter had improved Mollye’s fortunes, I felt super lucky she was my pal. When we were kids, Moll boarded ponies at my aunts’ farm, and we were inseparable during my summer vacation visits. Our friendship always renewed itself with ease. Now that I lived at Udderly Kidding Dairy we had ample opportunities to join forces and stir up trouble.

  Hmmm. Maybe I should plan an alternate outfit in case Moll forgot my costume. I could wear the newest in horny goat protection—a heavy-duty rain slicker and hazard gloves.

  As I hung my slicker on a peg outside the milking barn, I spotted Eva standing with head bowed on the hill where she’d scattered her twin’s ashes. She often went there to commune with Aunt Lilly, whose unexpected death brought me to Udderly. Without her twin, Eva needed my help to manage her farm and its four-hundred goats. The arrangement was meant to be temporary. But it had been months since Eva or I had broached the subject of an end date. We both had our reasons.

  I yoo-hooed and pointed toward the cabin. I hoped Carol would be on time for breakfast. I was starved. My body clock had tuned itself to farm routine—up before Riley the Rooster crowed, in bed before network TV broadcasted adult-rated fare. Life was soooo exciting. Truthfully, the calm felt sort of good after last spring’s near-fatal adventures.

  As I neared the cabin, Carol’s brand-new Cadillac bumped down the farm’s gravel drive. Socks, one of our five Great Pyrenees guard dogs, woofed and ran to join me, apparently unsure I was smart enough to know we had company.

  I waved. Carol, a state senator, was my aunt’s oldest Ardon County friend, and Eva really missed her when the legislature was in session. I waited as she exited Big Car—Carol’s name for it. The Caddy was one of Zack’s many expensive gifts. Now that she was running for governor, Carol fretted that Big Car made her look like a fat cat politico, but she hated to appear ungrateful.

  “Hey, Carol. Eva’s headed our way. Come inside while I put on coffee and start breakfast.”

  Carol patted Socks’ head, while deftly moving in circles away from the huge body trying to rub on her. She lost the battle. Socks butted her thigh with his face, drool escaping his happy lolling tongue. Then he did a shimmy and plastered his entire body against her leg. Streaks of slobber and white fur clung to her black slacks.

  Carol just laughed and scratched the big Pyres’ cheeks. No wonder Carol was one of my aunt’s favorite people.

  “I’ll wait for Eva,” she said. “I see her chugging down the hill. Want to make sure her chunky self doesn’t need CPR.”

  I laughed. “Won’t tell Eva you said that.”

  “Then I will,” the sassy redhead quipped.

  I’d heard Eva tell how Carol had saved her sanity. When she arrived in Ardon County as a nineteen-year-old bride, Carol, also a married teen, became her friend and confidant. As Eva’s husband became more abusive, Carol assured her that wasn’t the way marriage was meant to be. She was helping Eva plan an escape when my aunt’s brute of a husband vanished.

  These days Carol seemed to kid Eva more than ever. I think she realized the jibes reminded Eva of her twin. As long as I could remember, my aunts delighted in trading barbs. When Carol wasn’t around, Eva directed most zingers at her live-in help—moi. I was slowly getting the hang of counter-punching.

  The minute I entered the cabin, Cashew, my seven-month-old puppy, ran excited circles around me. I gave her a quick pat and promised to pay more attention after I brewed coffee.

  Eva and Carol entered, jabbering like agitated crows. Carol picked up Cashew, who had a knack for hoodwinking visitors to fawn over her.

  “What do you want for breakfast, ladies?” I asked. “How about oatmeal with blueberries and walnuts?”

  “Ha,” Eva answered. “Make mine eggs over easy, thick bacon, and buttered toast.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Carol said as she opened the fridge to get cream for her coffee. When the state legislature wasn’t in session, she visited Udderly enough to act like family.

  “What’s with the Post-It?” Carol asked and then read the note. “The aliens have surrendered. Quit beheading Martians.”

  I rolled my eyes having already seen the sticky refrigerator barb. “That’s Eva’s culinary critique of last night’s menu. I served braised Brussels sprouts. She prefers to call them Martian heads.”

  Carol chuckled. “Good one. I’m not a fan of the little green hockey pucks either. But I know you’re a fabulous chef, Brie. I wanted you to cater tonight’s fundraiser—especially since Udderly Kidding Dairy is hosting. But I owed the owner of Red’s Bar-B-Q. He’s a long-time supporter, and he provides eats at cost.”

  “Not a problem. With carnivores in the majority, you better serve more than veggies. I only try to convert meat-eaters in small groups, and I don’t give them knives.”

  Carol smiled. “Hope we have a good turnout. I need money for a final campaign push. Zack offered a big donation. But if I accepted, I couldn’t scream about the out-of-state super PAC throwing money at my opponent. Everyone knows the PAC’s run by the oil lobby. My stand against off-shore drilling doesn’t endear me to them.”

  Eva huffed. “Everyone knows our paper’s numbnuts owner is a major contributor to that PAC. If off-shor
e drilling gets the green light, Allie will make a pot load of money. The Ardon Chronicle lets her vent. Real estate and energy investments are her gravy.”

  I jumped in to thwart Eva’s familiar rave about the local press. My aunt had good reason to bear a grudge. Allie’d used the newspaper’s horse-pucky headlines to snipe at Eva for decades—ever since my aunt’s husband disappeared. The publisher employed every trick from innuendo to unnamed sources to label my aunt a murderer.

  “We’re thrilled Zack’s coming, but how in the world did he get a weekend off?” I asked.

  I’d been surprised a pro quarterback could take any time off in the height of the season.

  “His team played Thursday and the next game’s a week from Sunday, so Zack scored a weekend pass,” Carol answered. “He’ll fly back to Vegas Sunday morning.”

  Aunt Eva smiled. “Can’t wait to see Zack. I remember when he threw the touchdown pass that cinched Ardon High’s state championship. I cheered so hard I had laryngitis for a week. I love that he’s living his dream. Quarterback for the Sin City Aces.”

  Carol’s fingers fidgeted with her coffee cup. “I still worry his dream could morph into a nightmare. The possibility of injury is bad enough, but you wouldn’t believe how many weirdos and gamblers send threats. If he gets sacked or a throw’s intercepted, it’s as if they think Zack did it on purpose.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut. “This Halloween tomfoolery must be getting to me. Not sure it was smart to plan a campaign event with a Halloween theme. The Chronicle will probably print a picture with the caption ‘Carol’s Ghouls.’”

  “Nonsense,” Eva replied. “It’ll be fun. Brie’s boyfriends are helping her decorate, turning our barn into a spooky haunted house.”