Murder Makes it Mine Read online

  REVIEWS of Christina’s work...

  From reviewers:

  “After the last page, I felt as though I said good-bye to old chums, the definite sign of a good book. I lingered over the closing door rather than rushing to shut it behind the last word.”

  - Crescent Blues Book Views

  “[Her] writing bursts with charm and energy.”

  - Publisher’s Weekly

  From readers:

  “...It made the people seem so real and down to earth.”

  -Carol M., from Ohio reader’s letter

  “This was a great book! A Must-read! A keeper!”

  -Janice M. a reader from AR

  “Loved it! I hope there’s a sequel coming!

  -Rosemary F, reader’s online comment

  “I’m not the kind of person to read fiction...but I could not put it down.”

  -Svonne S, reader’s online comment

  About Murder Makes it Mine:

  “I loved this story...the main characters were very likeable...and Rags had me chuckling out loud more than once.”

  -Eva W., a reader from PA

  “The interaction between Samantha and McLain is priceless. Loved how all the friends followed the winding garden path, unearthed the details, and worked to figure out whodunit. A clever story. ”

  -Marshall N., a reader from CA

  Murder

  Makes it Mine

  by

  Christina Strong

  Murder Makes it Mine (Masters & McLain Mystery #1) Copyright © 2017 by Christina Strong

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Christina Strong may be contacted by mail c/o Steeplechase Publishing (address below),

  on her Facebook page, @CStrongAuthor on Twitter, or at http://www.MastersandMcLain.com

  Steeplechase Publishing

  (div. Steeplechase Group, LLC)

  Post Office Box One

  Violet Hill, Arkansas 72584

  www.Steeplechase.Group

  ASIN: B076WX5DV3 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-9631563-1-4 (standard print paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9631563-1-0 (standard print paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9631563-3-4 (18pt. Arial Large Print)

  First Edition: November 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Christina Strong has 16 published works as Christina Cordaire or Christina Kingston which are currently in the process of being re-released (except Married in Black). Her newest venture is the mystery series of Masters and McLain books. We invite you to join the adventures beginning with Murder Makes it Mine.

  As Christina Cordaire—

  Regencies:

  Heart’s Deception

  Daring Illusion

  Love’s Triumph

  Beloved Stranger

  Pride’s Folly

  Historical Romances:

  Forgiving Hearts (a Best Seller)

  Loving Honor

  Winter Longing

  Spring Enchantment – Haunting Heart’s Series [ghost]

  Loving a Lowly Stranger

  Time travel:

  A Ring for Remembrance (a novella) in Jennifer Blake’s Quilting Circle

  As Christina Kingston—

  Ride for the Roses

  The Night the Stars Fell

  Ride the Winter Wind

  Ride the Wind Home

  Married in Black (a multiple book club release)

  As Christina Strong

  Murder Makes it Mine

  Table of Contents

  Reviews

  Christina Strong

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  “Murdered!” Samantha clenched the phone’s receiver with a hand that had suddenly frozen. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the body they just found!” Samantha could hear the hysteria in Laura’s voice.

  “Now calm down, Laurie and tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Her usually placid neighbor babbled, “A stranger. Dead. A dead man here. Right here!”

  “Honey, take a deep breath.” Samantha took her own advice, and then asked, “Just how do you know about this? And how do you know he was murdered? The man could have died of natural causes, couldn’t he?”

  “Then who took his identification and sanded off all his finger prints and cut his nails to where he bled? Just tell me that.”

  “Removed his fingerprints?” Samantha shuddered. “Are you sure. Did you see his hands?”

  Irritation steadied Laura. “Of course I didn’t see, Samantha. What a perfectly dreadful thought.”

  Samantha’s tone changed to one people use with difficult children. “Then how do you know someone removed his fingerprints?”

  “Because,” Laura told her as if she was the child, “I heard Colonel McLain tell the police officers.”

  Samantha frowned mightily. Though she hadn’t met their new neighbor yet, she’d been briefed by her friends and was beginning to form a firm dislike of him. She couldn’t help herself. That independently wealthy military retiree seemed to have put his nose into everything! Supposedly he had his own Learjet, too, and he’d had no trouble paying for the Stoddard place next door without taking out a mortgage.

  Samantha gave herself a mental shake. Her thoughts were beginning to sound like sour grapes, and she knew herself well enough to know she wasn’t jealous. She just resented anyone who came along so blithely to take the place of her dear, departed friends Mimi and Ben Stoddard. The wound of losing them was still too fresh. It was for all of them who had known the Stoddards. She just wished that she could behave better about this man who was somehow, in her mind, trespassing on their memory.

  Finally she asked, “What has he got to do with it?” “Oh. He was the one who found the body. On his morning run, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I don’t know what the man does.” Samantha didn’t even try to keep the acid out of her voice.

  “Well, he does. Run every morning, I mean, and there was this dead man right there over on the next street. He’d been dragged part-way under that huge purple Formosa azalea on the corner that keeps you from being able to see if another car is coming. You know.”

  Samantha did know the Formosa. It was magnificent. Fully five feet high and ten feet across if it was an inch. She hoped it hadn’t been injured. Azaleas were so brittle.


  With an effort she dragged her mind back to the dead body. Trying to be sensible she said, “If he’s a stranger, I imagine he was visiting someone. Surely his host will come forward and tell the police who he is, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I guess that could happen, but . . .”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we.” Shaken as she was by her own dreadful attitude as well as the murder, she was trying to get off the subject so she didn’t make it a question. “Come over for a cup of coffee, Laurie. I just made a fresh pot.”

  “Oh, yes. I’d love to. Be right there. Bye.”

  The phone went dead and Samantha just stood looking at it in her hand. Then she said softly, “Murder.” A shiver ran down her spine. “How awful.” It took her a full minute to remember to hang up the phone.

  ***

  The next morning, Samantha walked her Yorkshire terrier as usual. The rhythm of life went on, after all, she told herself, no matter what awful things had happened. Their walks were never very long. They were tailored to the small size of her charge. When they got back to the edge of her property she said to the little dog, “Since we’re out here, Rags, we might as well see what progress the peonies have made.”

  She looked over the low brick wall that separated her property from the two estates that sprawled on the river. Her best friend Laura Fulton’s peonies were already knee high. Samantha had to repress a spurt of envy even as she admired the deep green plants. She sighed. They’d probably bloom before hers were even ankle high.

  All the Riverhaven gardeners watched the Fulton estate to gauge what would soon appear in their own gardens. Laurie’s property being on the river gave it a microclimate that was warmer than Samantha’s, thanks to the temperature of the river’s water. Her own garden here behind Laurie’s wall was a good hundred yards from it. She glanced over her own back wall at the neat garden of the Chamberlains’s who lived directly behind her and saw no sign of their peonies, either.

  Walking over the lush grass and listening to the birdsong that filled the bright spring air around the feeders lifted her spirits. She was almost her usual self again. The rush of horror she’d felt when Laura Fulton had called to tell her about the murder was past. The news had carried it briefly that evening, but nothing more had been mentioned since. The police simply stated that they had no clues as to the murdered man’s identity.

  They didn’t report that the murderer had filed off the poor man’s fingerprints, just that his identification had been stolen. Samantha’s nose wrinkled as she recalled the word ‘filed’ but that was the word Laura had repeated when she’d come for coffee. She’d said it was the way the police had expressed it.

  Nothing more had been on the news report except the usual ‘and that the investigation is on-going’, and that was that.

  She reached her peony bed only to find that the peonies were little more than the short ruby-hued shoots they’d been when she’d checked them last week. Samantha frowned; she’d really expected more growth.

  The Virginia climate was famous here in the Tidewater area where the Gulf Stream flowed north and warmed their shores as it passed. It promised early spring and tantalized you with buds and shoots and clear, sunny, sandal-wearing days. Then, when you’d taken half your summer clothes out of the attic storage to stick in your closet, it snowed and ruined your garden.

  She sighed again and rounded the corner of the house and paused to enjoy the tulip tree blooming pink and white in the side yard. Andrew’s tree. It had been the inspiration for the article she’d written on ‘Trees That Flower in the Spring.’ The lovely little tree was the last thing she and Andrew had planted together. He’d chosen it as a surprise for her because she loved pink. They’d thought they would have the rest of their lives together to watch it grow.

  Years ago Andrew had bought a lot in Riverhaven because long ago the whole area had belonged to her family. He’d teased her that he’d requested Norfolk for the final duty station of his naval career so that he could bring her home. He’d been so pleased to have surprised her with the lot in Riverhaven and had said it was the least he could do after dragging her all over the world.

  Planning the house had been heavenly. They’d even made it wheelchair friendly. “Because,” Andrew’d said, “we’re going to grow old right here, holding hands from our wheelchairs.”

  Looking away from the tree to blink back sudden tears, Samantha noticed a plant stake askew in the flower bed against the low brick wall that separated her property from what had been the Stoddards’s. Stepping carefully and with easy familiarity where she knew no tender plant lurked just under the rich loam, she worked her way back to where, in a few more months, her delphiniums would soar regally skyward. She could already see them in her mind’s eye.

  Placing a hand on the top of the four-foot wall to steady herself, she leaned down and reset the stake, taking great care to place it exactly as it had been. An instant later she shot bolt upright, as a firm, dirt-smeared masculine hand gripped her own.

  Rags began barking fiercely.

  A deep grunt came from the Stoddards’s side of the wall, and a perfectly strange man reared up, scowling. Almost nose to nose they stared at each other.

  Samantha was the first to recover. Yanking her hand out from under the stranger’s, she stepped back away from the wall—right into the delphinium stake.

  She heard the sharp crack as it broke off. “Damn,” she said distinctly.

  The man on the other side of the wall frowned. “Good morning to you, too. Where the hell’s the traditional plate of cookies?”

  Samantha took refuge in her Southern manners. “Oh, I do apologize! I was thinking about having to replace a support stake for one of my delphiniums without damaging its crown. The stake broke off as I stepped back, you see.” She smiled suddenly, a warm, sunny smile that should have disarmed him.

  It didn’t.

  He pushed his old khaki fishing hat back on his head. “Why do you want to stake ‘em, anyway, when they’re here in the shelter of this wall? It’s just an old habit.”

  “Why?” She tilted her head, thinking. “That’s a good question. The new strains of Delphiniums do have stronger stalks. I suppose I stake them because everyone I know always has.”

  He gave a disgusted snort. “I suppose if they all jumped off a bridge you’d be right behind ‘em?” He started to turn away.

  Her laughter brought him back around. “That’s exactly what my mother used to say.” She frowned slightly. “Come to think of it, I always said it to my children, too.” She cocked her head, considering. “What dreadful creatures of habit we are.”

  On the other side of the wall, the stranger was considering, too. He gave Samantha his undivided attention. The woman had caught his interest. She could laugh at herself. Rare, he mused. Far cry from the female Chamberlain neighbor whose house backed up to hers. Now there was an old dreadnought if he’d ever seen one. This one was different, for sure. He looked her over critically. Had a little meat on her bones, but not chubby. Not like the lanky dreadnought. That one was as flat as a pancake—all angles and topped with a face like a hatchet.

  Of course, he didn’t consider himself any judge of women. Not the decent sort, anyway. Over twenty years in the Corps taught a Marine a lot, but that certainly wasn’t part of Basic. He was afraid that this was a nice little woman.

  Blast it! He felt his hopes for peace draining away. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was an attractive woman for a neighbor. Long ago he’d discovered that the attractive ones were usually looking for a husband. Give him a sloppy, comfortable woman every time. They weren’t looking around for a permanent escort . . . or a meal ticket.

  He was sick and tired of being chased by everything in skirts. Born rich and grown handsome, he’d been pursued by females for as long as he could remember. His choice of a career in uniform hadn’t seemed to have diminished his desirability in the eyes of the opposite sex, either. He’d been avidly hunted by ‘em
from the cradle.

  Now that he was retired, he had absolutely no intention of getting involved. He’d paid his dues in a stormy and unsatisfactory marriage when he was young, and he wasn’t about to subscribe again!

  Damn the woman! Why did this neighbor have to be a pretty little thing, with her soft halo of light brown hair and her wide blue eyes? He gave another snort of disgust, this one was aimed at himself. He shook his head. The pretty ones were by far the worst.

  Maybe he’d luck out and she’d be married. Worth being rude to find out. “You walk that dog every day, or does your husband do it sometimes?” Pretty safe question he figured.

  Samantha’s brows drew together. This stranger was getting personal and they hadn’t even introduced themselves yet. “I am a widow,” she informed him in her frostiest voice. If there was one thing she could do without, it was some strange man who clearly thought he was God’s gift to women asking her personal questions.

  Wishing he’d evaporate, and knowing he wouldn’t, she didn’t even try to smile pleasantly as she offered her hand. “I’m Samantha Masters, how do you do?”

  He wiped his own hand down his khakis and took hers. “Colonel John Francis McLain, USMC!” Then, with a reluctance that bordered on pain, he added “Retired.”

  “Welcome to the neighborhood, Colonel.” With a reluctance that equaled his, she added, “You must let me know if there is anything I can do to help you.”

  So here it came. McLain fought to keep a grimace from his face. It was the old familiar pattern. He’d had it all his life. Cookies. Dinner invitations. The works. How the devil was he to get his book written if he had to fight an evasive action against attack from this quarter? Why the deuce couldn’t women just leave him the blazes alone?

  Samantha turned to go and picked her way carefully out of the flower bed, thinking, There! I’ve done my duty to the new arrival. The ancient and sacred law of Virginia Hospitality has been upheld. She firmly ignored the calm inner voice that gently chastened her for not actually providing food—or even wanting to.