Troublemaker Read online

  The mailbox was set far enough off the pavement and the shoulder was wide enough that other vehicles had plenty of room to get past. And if anyone didn’t like it—well, tough shit; she was the chief of police, and even though she lived in the county instead of inside town limits, no one in the sheriff’s department was going to hassle her over something as mundane as how she collected her mail. She didn’t get a whole lot of perks with the job, but she’d gladly use the ones she did.

  She put the transmission in park and got out, tugging hard on the door of the battered mailbox because it was slightly warped from being attacked by a couple of teenagers with a baseball bat. She pulled out the usual assortment of sales papers, flyers, a bill or two, and one thick oversized envelope that didn’t have a return address. Huh. Bo eyed the envelope, examining the postage—just the right amount, a post-office sticker rather than extra stamps—and the location and date. It had been mailed three days before from New York City.

  Double huh. She didn’t know anyone in New York City—or state, for that matter.

  Common sense told her a mail bomb would come in a box, not an envelope, even if she had any reason to be wary of a mail bomb, which she didn’t. Hamrickville wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime, or of anything else.

  She flipped the envelope over and looked at the back. Blank. The envelope was a heavy cream-colored paper, about the size for a largish birthday card. And it was definitely addressed to her, using her formal name of Isabeau instead of just Bo.

  It wasn’t her birthday. Nowhere close.

  A pickup truck blew past with a toot-toot of the horn and a wave: Sam Higgins, school bus driver. She returned the wave, then curiosity got the better of her and she put the rest of the mail on the Jeep’s hood so she could open the envelope.

  The card she extracted did indeed say Happy Birthday. In full, it said Happy Birthday to a Wonderful Sister. What the hell? She had a couple of half-brothers and/or -sisters whom she’d never met; she considered herself an only and liked it that way. It had to be a case of mistaken identity, but how many Isabeau Marans could there be? There was only one in Hamrickville, West Virginia, that was for certain.

  She opened the card. Glued to the interior was a small photograph of someone she definitely recognized, because a shit turd was always recognizable as what he was even though it had been years since she’d seen him and with luck it would be many more, as in the-rest-of-her-life more.

  Underneath the photo was written, “Hope you enjoy the present I sent. Take good care of it.” There was no signature, but she didn’t need one.

  “You didn’t send me a present, you asshole!” she snarled at the photo. Even if he had, she’d have burned it.

  As soon as she had that thought, a small yellowish flame flashed across the card. She yelped and dropped it; the whole thing turned black and dissipated into thin ash before she could even stomp on it. She stomped anyway, just for good measure. Just thinking about her asshole former stepbrother could make her temper flash almost like whatever chemical he’d used to treat the card. If that thing had dropped into her lap she could have been incinerated too—not that he’d have cared. He’d always thought crap like this was funny.

  She didn’t know why she’d been so abandoned by good fortune that he’d get in contact with her now, after all these years—if a flash-burning card could be called “contact”—but he’d succeeded in putting her in a foul mood. She was so angry she stomped the ashes another couple of times.

  Breathing hard, she looked down at the ashes. If she could have gotten her hands on him, she’d have tried to strangle him. He’d always had that effect on her. She’d had the same effect on him. It had been mutual hate at first sight when her mother had married his father, but thank God the union hadn’t lasted very long. If it had, she had no doubt that either she or Axel would now be in prison for murder. Well, that was the past, even if the jerk had for some ungodly reason thought sending her a booby-trapped birthday card was funny. How in hell had he known where she was, anyway? It wasn’t as if they’d kept in touch.

  She grabbed the remainder of the mail and slammed into the Jeep. Tricks immediately sensed the change in her and gave her a quick, sympathetic lick on the hand as Bo refastened her seat belt. “Everything’s fine,” she said, rubbing behind Tricks’s left ear. And it was. The jerk’s lunatic card had made her mad, but it was just a card and she’d already indulged in a mini–temper tantrum. That was enough; he didn’t deserve the effort of more.

  After checking for traffic—none—she pulled across the road to her driveway, which cut through a stretch of woods, curving up and away from the road; the house was a half mile away, perched on the flat top of a small rise and hidden from view from the road. She had no close neighbors; the nearest house was a mile back down the road toward town. The isolation of her home wasn’t ideal, but she hadn’t had any other option so she dealt with it. At least she had plenty of room for Tricks to romp and play, and that wasn’t a small thing.

  It was a pleasant drive; she’d become accustomed to it and even enjoyed a sense of homecoming now. For a few years she’d resented having to live here, resented the havoc the housing crash had caused in her life and her plans, but after a while she’d become more philosophical about it. She had her own share of blame in the state of affairs, after all. If she’d taken others’ advice, she wouldn’t have been landed in the predicament of sinking all her funds in a house and then having the buyer walk away, leaving her broke with a house she didn’t want and couldn’t sell.

  That house she hadn’t wanted was now home. She was comfortable there, even though hands-down she would have preferred a condo in a city. The lemons-to-lemonade theory had given her friends, a surprising sense of belonging, and Tricks. She glanced at the dog and had to smile at the expression of bliss on the furry face. Tricks loved riding anywhere, but she knew she was going home; she recognized the routine with the mailbox, and the drive. Home meant comfort and familiarity and all her toys, as well as a late-afternoon romp and then supper.

  Bo rounded the last curve, and the house came into view. An unfamiliar vehicle, a new-looking black Chevy Tahoe, was sitting in the driveway. She stopped the Jeep, then had a horrifying thought: My God, what if Axel had come to visit and that nasty surprise card was his way of announcing himself? She narrowed her eyes; if it was Axel, he could leave the same way he got here, and the sooner the better. He wasn’t welcome in her home.

  But it wasn’t Axel who slowly exited the SUV. A quick look was all she needed to know this was a stranger, a tall man with somewhat shaggy dark hair. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the pistol Jesse had insisted she get. Beside her, Tricks’s attention was riveted on the stranger, and she gave an excited “Woof!” She was leaning against her harness, eager to exit the Jeep. ln her world, strangers were someone new to play with her.

  Bo’s world wasn’t as optimistic. She didn’t turn off the ignition, in case she needed to get away fast; instead she lowered the window and called out, “May I help you?” The words were courteous; the tone was the one Jesse had taught her to use, louder than a woman would normally speak, and more authoritative.

  The man put his arm on top of the SUV. “Are you Isabeau Maran?”

  “I am.” The fact that he knew her name didn’t mean she was any less cautious. Besides, he looked like a ghoul, with a dead-white face and sunken eyes ringed with dark circles.

  He wiped a hand across his face. “My name is Morgan Yancy. Your stepbrother sent me to you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I DON’T HAVE A STEPBROTHER,” SHE SAID FLATLY, COMPLETELY unappeased by the obvious conclusion that this man was the “present” Axel had sent. She didn’t know what he’d meant by that and didn’t care. She wasn’t having anything to do with Axel or his present—not that this guy looked like any kind of present other than a gag gift, and she wasn’t laughing.

  “Axel MacNamara,” he clarified. His voice sounded funny, kind of thin and breathle