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  Praise for In Harm’s Way

  “In Harm’s Way, EJ Kindred’s debut novel, is a terrific read you won’t want to put down. Nice pacing with funny, nostalgic, tragic scenes, twists and surprises. Very well done. The cast of characters is somewhat large, but I had no trouble keeping track of who was who, and I cared about what happened to them. In particular, I loved the realism of the average, every day people, the settings, and the jobs portrayed. The conflict was well-written between Downton Abbey upper crust nasty and Americana rural life with working people who care about each other. Highly recommended.”

  ~Sue Hardesty, author of the Loni Wagner Mystery Series

  “There’s nothing I like better than a mystery/thriller where the characters are in a serious situation and still have a funny way of observing the world. EJ Kindred strikes just the right balance. Annie Velasquez is in the middle of a big muddle, but she retains her sense of humor. And I loved her Harley-riding gramma! This was such a good read, and I look forward to more in book two in this sleuth’s world.”

  ~Jessie Chandler, author of the Shay O’Hanlon Caper Series

  In Harm’s Way

  Book One

  The Annie Velasquez Mystery Series

  EJ Kindred

  Launch Point Press

  Portland, Oregon

  A Launch Point Press Trade Paperback Original

  In Harm’s Way is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Internet references contained in this work are current at the time of publication, but Launch Point Press cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained in any respect.

  Copyright © 2019 by EJ Kindred

  “It Couldn’t Be Done” by Edgar Albert Guest

  © 1917, 1919 collected in The Path to Home

  Used legally from the Public Domain

  All other rights reserved. Launch Point Press supports copyright which enables creativity, free speech, and fairness. Thank you for buying the authorized version of this book and for following copyright laws by not using or reproducing any part of this book in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Launch Point Press, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. Your cooperation and respect supports authors and allows Launch Point Press to continue to publish the books you want to read.

  E-Book: 978-1-63304-217-9

  ISBN: 978-1-63304-205-6

  FIRST EDITION

  First Printing: 2019

  Cover: Jove Belle

  Formatting: Patty Schramm

  Published by:

  Launch Point Press

  Portland, Oregon

  www.LaunchPointPress.com

  Author’s Note

  Like many Oregonians, I value our connection with the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Toussaint Charbonneau was a member of the expedition as a guide and translator, but is perhaps better known as Sacagawea’s husband. An unincorporated community south of Portland is named in his honor.

  In appreciation for Oregon history and just because I like it, I decided to use his name for the small town in which most of this story takes place; however, I decided to place the town of Charbonneau in this book in the low mountains west of Portland.

  I hope sticklers for Oregon geography will permit me this small transgression.

  To all aspiring writers, I offer this poem first published in 1917 by Edgar Albert Guest (1881 - 1959):

  It Couldn’t Be Done

  Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

  But, he with a chuckle replied,

  That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one

  Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

  So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

  On his face. If he worried he hid it.

  He started to sing as he tackled the thing

  That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

  Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;

  At least no one has ever done it,”

  But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

  And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

  With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

  Without any doubting or quiddit,

  He started to sing as he tackled the thing

  That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

  There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

  There are thousands to prophesy failure;

  There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

  The dangers that wait to assail you.

  But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,

  Just take off your coat and go to it;

  Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

  That “couldn’t be done,” and you’ll do it.

  Acknowledgments

  This novel would never have seen the light of day without the encouragement, prompting, and occasional application of a cattle prod from many people.

  To Lori L. Lake, thank you for the “this shit got real” moment you gave me by offering to publish In Harm’s Way. You might have put your reputation in harm’s way by doing that, but if so, you have only yourself to blame.

  To Luca Hart, for her unrelenting support and being willing to let me know when I’ve wandered off into a ditch somewhere, and then giving me a hand back up.

  To Jessie Chandler and MB Panichi, for your invaluable help brainstorming when all I had was the kernel of an idea and a few hundred words. Many of your ideas are here.

  To Lee Lynch, for making me finally hand the draft off to Lori instead of picking at it endlessly.

  To the Portland Lesbian Writers Group, for constant support and just being there as a sounding board.

  And to Terri Valentine, who believed in me long ago. I’m sorry we’ve lost touch.

  EJ Kindred

  April 2019

  For the most part, the act of writing takes place in solitude, but the art of writing requires a community to give it meaning. A writer might derive a sense of accomplishment from the act of creation, but without readers, writing is a voice in a void.

  This book is dedicated to readers. Without you, this book would have no reason to exist.

  Chapter One

  “Annie Velasquez, I distinctly remember kicking you out of here.”

  Startled, I turned to find myself face to face with my employer, Doctor Carlton Wentworth, who was grinning widely at having surprised me.

  “Or am I mistaken?” He tried to give me a stern glare, but the glee in his eyes ruined the effect.

  “Of course not. I’m on my way. I came to wish Mo a happy Thanksgiving since I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  Mo was the live-in chef for the doctor and his fourth wife, Elise. She seemed as surprised as I was at the doctor’s sudden appearance.

  “Are you keeping her from making my midnight snack?” He lifted one eyebrow in mock severity in the direction of the chef.

  “No, doc,” Mo said. “I’ve got you covered. There’s the small matter of tonight’s party and Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, but you don’t have to worry. I have my priorities in order.”

  “I should hope so,” he said with a laugh. “And you, young lady, get your butt out of here. The house is fine. Amscray, vamoose, beat it, hit the road. Go home and enjoy your own holiday. I don’t want to see your face until Monday.”

  “If you need help—”

  He held up a hand. “The house will not fall apart if you’re not here for a few days. Relax and enjoy your time off. You work hard every day and des
erve time for yourself. I hear it’s good for your health or some such. I’m a doctor. I know these things.” In a low voice, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the missus.”

  With that, he was gone.

  “Young lady?” I said. “Nobody’s called me that since my Grandma Natalie caught me sneaking a smoke when I was fourteen.”

  “From what you’ve told me about your grandmother, I’ll bet you never picked up another cigarette.”

  “Never even thought about it.”

  The Wentworths’ kitchen was a wonder of stainless steel and maple butcher blocks, almost industrial in feel after the excessive luxury of the rest of the house, and I loved it. I leaned one hip against the counter and watched Mo put the finishing touches on a platter of exquisitely designed hors d’oeuvres or, as she preferred to call them, fussy little bits.

  “Midnight snack?” I asked.

  “Well, see, he doesn’t like to make waves on the home front, so at dinner he eats the microscopic portions Elise demands I serve, because it’s elegant, don’t you know.” She waved a dismissive hand. “By halfway through the evening, the poor man is starving. I fix him a plate, nothing fancy, a sandwich or something he can heat in the microwave, and something sweet, and I stash it in the walk-in.”

  “And she doesn’t find it?”

  “Oh, heaven forfend that she’d step foot into the kitchen, much less go poking around where there’s actual food. A calorie might stick to her skinny butt, and then there’d be hell to pay.” Mo shook her head at our employer’s foibles. “Besides, I think the doc gets a kick sneaking around in the dark like a kid raiding the cookie jar.”

  “Anything I can to do help?”

  “No, but thanks for asking.” Mo put the hors d’oeuvres into the walk-in refrigerator, closed the big door behind her, and stretched her back. “Everything I can do ahead of time is done. Tonight they invited only six people for dinner, but tomorrow, I think half the population of Oregon will be here. I’ll be glad to have the weekend off after tomorrow. It’s been nuts lately with all of these holiday parties.”

  “And to think,” I said, feigning innocence, “it’s only another four weeks until Christmas.” I caught the damp kitchen towel Mo threw at me and tossed it back to her.

  “Keep it up and I won’t make you a mocha for the ride home,” Mo warned, but despite her words, she filled my insulated bottle with steaming coffee and made sure the cap was tight. The aroma alone warmed me.

  “You love me too much to send me out into the cold dark night without sustenance.”

  Mo grew still for a moment, and I instantly regretted what I’d said. Mo and I met when I started working as a housekeeper for the Wentworths a month after I moved to Charbonneau. She insisted on being called Mo, joking that her mother should be charged with child abuse for naming her Maureen. I was immediately drawn to her quick wit and intelligence, but her red hair, worn short and spiky, and a galaxy of freckles didn’t hurt, either.

  We’d had an immediate attraction, but after four dates, I told her I couldn’t continue. When she asked why, I had no answer for her. The real reason would have pretty much guaranteed that she’d want nothing to do with me, and I couldn’t bear the thought. We’d somehow still managed to be friends, though some days the connection was fragile. And here I’d gone and put my big foot in it.

  “Except for one little detail,” Mo said, either ignoring what I’d said or choosing not to respond, “it’s neither cold nor dark. Now get out of here before she sees you leaving early.” She slid an insulated bag along the polished counter top toward me, and I caught it.

  Outside, I put the bag into my bicycle basket and nestled the bottle holding my precious mocha into the holder attached to the bike frame. I walked the bike through the gate to the road. Late November weather could be cool and blustery, but rain had held off for the day. I stood over my bike while I put on my helmet and gloves, breathing in the late fall air with its aromas of damp leaves and evergreens.

  The best part of my day was often the ride to and from the Wentworths’ home. Almost ten miles from my little apartment in Charbonneau, their property sat alongside a two-lane paved road that meandered through old growth forest and past a few other stately homes on large swaths of acreage.

  I relished the freedom of riding my bike, of moving along the road under my own power, just the bike, the road, and me. I loved the quiet swish of the narrow tires on the pavement, the clicking of the rear hub in the brief moments when I coasted, and the kerchunk of the chain when I changed gears. Cresting the steeper hills gave me a sense of accomplishment and descending on the other side made me whoop with delight. The songs of birds and the rustle of the breeze through the trees were my music. I called hello to horses and cows in their pastures as I rode by and waved to them if they lifted their heads from the grass to gaze in my direction.

  My favorite sight was an old barn, gray and paintless, leaning with the weight of years. I liked to think about the people who built it, liked to think about their sense of accomplishment and pride of ownership in a time long past, when having such a structure meant shelter for their animals and perhaps a storehouse for their food. I’d never know who those people were, but they’d left a sense of their presence behind.

  Forty-five minutes later, I collected the day’s mail, added it to the bike basket next to the insulated dinner bag Mo’d given me, and rolled my bike into my tiny apartment.

  “Shadow, where are you?”

  I dropped the mail onto the kitchen table as my fluffy black cat came to a sliding stop near my feet. I picked him up and hugged him, briefly ignoring his struggles to get free. I filled his food dish and made sure he had fresh water.

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  I open the insulated bag Mo had given me to find half a roasted chicken, steamed broccoli, and mashed sweet potatoes liberally laced with butter. Seeing the food made me again regret what I’d said earlier. No matter what, she always looked out for me.

  As I ate, I sorted through the mail until I came to an envelope with a return address that made me put my fork down with a thud. Wilson and Wyatt, Attorneys at Law.

  “Hell and damnation, now what?”

  I stared at the address for a long moment before dropping the unopened envelope onto the table. Whatever it was could damn well wait.

  “Shadow, old man, want a bite?”

  The cat jumped up to the table top to accept a morsel of chicken and sat on the offending letter.

  “Yeah, that’s how I feel about it, too.”

  I’d almost finished eating, sharing bits with Shadow, when my phone buzzed. Seeing Sharon’s name on the caller ID lifted my spirits.

  “Hey, chickie.” She always sounded upbeat and tended to take me with her. “How’s things?”

  “Not too bad. I got home early today. Shadow’s been mooching my dinner, so I’m having my usual wild time in great metropolitan Charbonneau.”

  “How’d you escape? I thought Number Four would make you stay to serve dinner again.”

  The current Mrs. Wentworth was the doctor’s fourth wife. The joke was that he changed wives so often it was easier to number them than to learn their names.

  “Mo told me they’re having a smaller party than usual tonight, and the doctor wants everything done family style. You know, big bowls of stuff on the table and roast on a platter to pass around. The house was ready, so he sent us cleaning folks home early.”

  “I’ll bet that toasted her buttons,” Sharon said, laughing. “You know how she loves to play lady of the manor. I’d pay good money to see her passing the gravy boat while trying to remain above it all. Hey, got any plans for tomorrow?”

  My plans for Thanksgiving included a frozen turkey pot pie and watching football on the telly with Shadow. And ignoring the Wilson and Wyatt envelope.

  “No, why?”

  “Do you know Ada and Hal Brownlee?”

  “The names sound familiar, but I don’t think I’ve met them.”
<
br />   “Yeah, in a town this size, you hear everyone’s name sooner or later. Here’s the thing. Ada had hip surgery recently, so she’s in a wheelchair while she recovers. Hal’s a great guy, but he’s the typical mid-century man, which means he’s totally useless in the kitchen. I want to surprise her tomorrow with a good home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. Hal’s on board. He was happy to be a co-conspirator once I told him his reward was turkey and dressing. What do you say?” She paused for a moment. “Please say yes. I’ve already been to the store, which I have to tell you is no fun at all the day before Thanksgiving. They’re great folks. You’ll love them.”

  How could I refuse? “Sure, it sounds like fun. Certainly more fun than watching football with my cat.”

  And opening that damn envelope.

  The next morning, Sharon and I carried four heavy grocery bags up the front steps of a tidy Craftsman-style bungalow. Before we could ring the bell, the door opened to reveal a short stocky woman with blue eyes, a head full of sparkling white hair, and a questioning expression on her face. She leaned on a cane held in her right hand.

  “Sharon, honey, what’s all of this? And who’s your friend?”

  “Let me put this down somewhere,” Sharon said, hefting her two bags, “and all will be revealed.”

  Ada took a careful step back to let us enter and closed the door behind us.

  “Ada May Brownlee,” a gruff male voice emanated from inside the house, “what the hell are you doing? Get back in your chair. Doc Wentworth will have your hide.”