A
half tank up the mountains from L.A., Big Bear winters are isolating for
heiress Bayliss Jones. Circled by the
same cult that murdered her parents fifteen years before, death awaits her
around every corner. Her shirttail relative and trustee of her estate, Sheriff
Byron McGill, never agreed with local hearsay that made her a suspect. Air
crackles between two people who clash, but the spoiled princess needs his
help. Besides hers, the life of a young
man, her secret baby, hangs in the balance.
There’s no time for error.
Review
from Storytellers’ Soiree:
Bayliss Jones, cleared (from) killing her parents, is still shunned by the tight mountain community. Todd,
her ex-fiancée, and his love interest, cult-head Hilary Fleisher, create a
ghost so that Bayliss will turn Jones Mountain over to the cult. Complicating
matters, Byron McGill, a police detective, is entrusted by Jones' grandfather
with her entire property. When Hilary and Todd give up on "nicer
ways" they come after Bayliss heavily armed. Byron protects her, but
the evil pair escapes the police during an earthquake.
As they get to know each
other, Bayliss and Byron discover a fierce attraction.
Bayliss's fifteen-year-old
son, whom she put up for adoption at birth, has become a member of this cult.
Can Bayliss and Byron together defeat Todd and Hilary, save Avery from the
cult, and come back for more of each other?
Deeds of Deceit is a thrilling, must-read page-turner set in the frosty confines of Big Bear Lake.
Deeds of Deceit is a thrilling, must-read page-turner set in the frosty confines of Big Bear Lake.
Check out the cool book trailer:
Excerpt from Chapter One:
Big
Bear, California hadn’t changed much during Byron McGill’s lifetime of
thirty-three years. The huge lake
remained in pristine condition, surrounded by giant granite spires, waterfalls,
blue skies, and clean air. He admired
how the lake looked when distinct seasons reflected on its surface. Crazy beautiful, nearly magical, there were
the flowering buds of spring, the green shades of summer, and the gold-red
spectrum of dogwoods, redbuds, and maples amidst evergreens, but his favorite
season was about to begin, when snowy mountains glistened against a deep blue
sky. His piece of heaven had continuity,
but when it came to people, solidarity wasn’t always achieved. The misery of his shirttail relatives, the
fathomlessly rich Jones family, began with a mistimed pregnancy.
A
teenager at the time, Bayliss Jones had given birth to a baby boy. Without consulting Bayliss, her mother,
Byron’s third cousin Susanna, had arranged for the baby’s adoption. Hours after a bitter argument, her parents,
the prettiest woman in town and her affluent black father, former quarterback
at USC, were murdered.
Upstanding
folk pointed their fingers at Bayliss and believed her lumber tycoon
grandfather had paid off the right people to shield his only grandchild. Just two years older than her, Byron and
Bayliss had experienced the same place but from different angles. Money wasn’t everything. Loyalty was, but he didn’t have to like her
bad temper and snobbish attitude.
Thoughts
of her beckoned him to glance upward toward Jones Peak. Transportation to her massive lodge was about
to become more difficult. Bayliss,
required to live there until her thirtieth birthday, would win freedom in
another week. Maybe she’d become a snowbird and move south. In any event, the birthday girl would receive
the entire mountain with the lodge and two million in index funds. He let out a sigh of relief knowing his
involvement would end. They’d both been
stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Her
grandfather, unable to face running Big Bear Lumber after the death of his son,
had sold and invested in the funds but hadn’t foreseen the balloon-pricking
recession. Byron looked forward to not watching expenditures eat away at the
principal. Soon, besides choosing where to live, Bayliss faced another kind of
freedom; her divorce from Todd Jones was scheduled for the last court day of
the year. Byron wondered if Bayliss knew
Jones lived openly with another woman.
Perhaps that was why the louse, who’d made Bayliss pregnant as a teen,
hadn’t contested the prenuptial agreement.
Having
been named trustee since his ripe age of twenty-one, Byron regretted proving
reliability. In short, he’d been caught
being honest too many times when Bayliss’s grandfather, Lanyard Jones,
discovered the opposite to be true with his lawyer. Had his son Woodruff been alive, he would be
running the lumber company, and this arrangement wouldn’t have happened.
Woodruff,
when alive, brought the enterprise to new heights with log homes dotting Big
Bear and Lake Arrowhead. As the lower
section of Mount Jones and other areas had become barren of trees as it filled
with luxurious log homes, young pinions were planted. Now with reforestation entirely reversed,
one monster log-mansion after another was blocked by big trees and high
gates. Today was the fifteenth
anniversary of the grisly Jones crime scene that had adorned California’s front
pages. Dubbed the “Eight Thousand Foot Murder”,
reporters had camped out around Mount Jones for months.
When victims are arranged with deliberate care and posed
to appear alive, their last moments are agonizing. Becoming a
police detective allowed him access into the cold case, but his failure to
solve it frayed his temper. No one felt
his lack of ability the way he did. He
pushed against his hunches all the time.
Digging past
rock bottom, he’d come upon activities of tree huggers. Nothing pointed directly at her parents’
murder, but he’d noted other eco-crimes that year. One cult-like group won notoriety about
living in forests, eating roots and shoots, and foraging for wild mushrooms.
They also committed vicious acts; loggers in the northern Sierra Nevada had
become blinded and had lost limbs due to tree spikes. Nearby, some residential projects had been
turned to charcoal, but none of the victims were murdered with hands similarly
posed: Here is the church, and here is the steeple. Open it up and see all the people. Byron imagined their pre-death taunting.
Publicly
scorned Bayliss had never rebuilt her reputation. At times Byron had felt sorry
for her and the troubles she faced except that she still treated him as if he
were an insect. Every chance she got, she used her wits to smash him flat. While Halfpence, as he’d continued to call
her, had been adorable with her coppery tight curls and every color she wore
looked radiant against her mocha skin, she was never popular. Even before the tragedy, her expression
revealed her “Get out of my way, I’m coming through” attitude.
Driving
his new hardtop Jeep Rubicon through downtown, he admired Big Bear Village
festooned in holiday splendor. Santa
and Mrs. Claus appeared to be busy with tots today. Even a single guy like himself had a sense of
Christmas spirit. He’d already given
himself a present, the red Jeep, and he’d mounted a fake moosehead on the front
grill. The grog festival had come and gone, but the tour of lights was in full
swing. Listening to the weather, he heard snow was predicted. He swung onto Pine Knott Avenue toward the
big blue kiss, Big Bear Lake that only froze at the edges, wanting to check on
his parents who lived over their store.
His
mom decorated McGill’s Skipjack Bait and Supply with multicolored lights around
windows. This year the abundance of
lights on the twenty-foot Jeffery Pine was weighing down boughs. Their shop would have been hopping earlier in
the day. Winter anglers went after
illusive brown trout at Deep Creek and Bear Creek and stopped for artificial
lures, fishing licenses, and other supplies. The bait shop and gas station
arrangement remained the same. Because
fishing from boats slowed in winter, the gas pump on the dock that extended out
back was shut down, but his mother had adorned it with a wreath.
He
squeezed the jeep between white lines and dropped three quarters into the
meter, more than enough for a half hour.
For any cop, getting slapped with a parking ticket led to teasing, but
as the chief, it’d be worse. Large
snowflakes blew against his face, and he noticed the sky was going gray. Ducking his head against the cold breeze, he
raced up the steps. The stencil on the
double-glass door, Skipjack Bait, had
been repainted around edges. Obviously,
his dad had no plans to retire.
Otherwise the thrifty mountaineer would consider new lettering
frivolous.
Opening the
door to the minnow tank, he whiffed the fresh fish scent destined to tempt
perch. On the opposite wall, he felt a
stab of sadness as he gazed at the photo taken by the Grizzly News of Lanyard Jones,
Bayliss’s grandfather, decked out in tweeds and holding a string of trout. As an eight-year-old tournament winner, Byron
remembered going along with the kindly black millionaire to teach him about
depths and why crankbait was the most productive lure. You can
fish it on top, everywhere in between and all the way to the bottom.
It
wasn’t long before his college-aged, third cousin Susanna snared Woodruff, the
elder’s reluctant fishing buddy.
Eventually Byron replaced him, and the Jones and McGill families hung
out on a regular basis. When Susanna and
Woody’s daughter, Bayliss, hit her teens, her
“Oh shit, I’m wasted” and other iffy behavior got her into all kinds of
trouble.
All
too well, Byron remembered the day of her parents’ murder. Their housekeeper, terrified by her
discovery, stumbled from the log mansion on Mount Jones. Outside around noon, waiting to go fishing
with her grandfather, Byron heard the maid’s cries and called 911 since the
housekeeper had contended they were alive.
Within minutes, the idyllic piney mountain was swarming with
police. A helicopter thundered overhead,
and the housekeeper led the officers through the two-story great room to the
kitchen. Sneaking in behind them,
Susanna and Woody sat lifeless against a wall, mouths gagged, and bound with
duct tape, wrists and hands were wrapped in an odd church-steeple
position. Here's the church, and here's
the steeple. Open the door and see all the people. Here's the parson going
upstairs, and here he is saying his prayers.
Because Susanna had
taught him the popular nursery rhyme with hand positions, he’d pondered the
congregation at the Community Church on the Lake; random faces had a way of
floating into his memory. Both
had suffered gunshot wounds from a medium-caliber gun at the base of their
skulls, execution style. Even at close
range, they would not have died instantaneously.
Arriving
downstairs, Bayliss became the only person of interest. The housekeeper gave reports of a big fight
that morning between Susanna and teenage Bayliss, unwed mother of a week-old
baby boy, after adoptive parents picked him up.
Police tested her hands for gunpowder, and then questioned her into the
night. Finding no evidence to hold her,
they released her to her grandfather. Murder and stares, there
are many ways to die.
Her
grandparents, Lanyard and Dorthea, arranged Bayliss’s visits with a
psychiatrist when her grieving took a macabre turn. To this day Bryon kept her continuing
envisions of her mother’s ghost private.
After her parents’ assassination, townsfolk and even her grandparents
had expected her to drop out of school.
She didn’t. Whatever she’d
started, she’d seen it through. She’d
soldiered on and fulfilled many other clichés. Presently commuting to CU
Riverside, she was closing in on a doctorate in psychology. Her hobby was photography, something that
suited the pain-in-the-ass outsider.
“Mom,
Dad,” he said. Behind the counter, his parents looked up. Coming closer, he saw they were arranging
various types of crankbait, some with a bill which acted as a cover for the
hook. His dad smiled and walked
around.
“Hello,
Son. Just got a shipment. Supposedly, these hooks hold their
sharpness.” His dad’s overalls were pale at the knees, but the sole owner of
Skipjack had managed to buy out other relatives.
“New
on the market?” Byron asked and bent to inspect. “Nice, hooks with a split
ring.”
“Son,
like all hooks, nothing lasts forever.
They need to be changed out if defective. I remember how you used to add Mudbugs.”
“Sure,
kept me from losing fish when they jump and try to throw the bait.” Byron chuckled, hoping to go after bass
tomorrow, the start of his two week vacation.
When you go after something, bait
it with a disguise but something that grabs attention.
His
mom jumped with a girlish squeal and rushed for him. You’d think he hadn’t visited in months. She stepped gracefully in sheepskin Uggs,
wearing a red sweatshirt with snowflake appliqués. Somehow he managed to get his arms around
both of them, a feat even for a big guy.
His parents were socially benign but if you asked them, they knew
everything about everyone who lived between highways thirty-eight and eighteen,
but they didn’t know who’d adopted Bayliss’s baby. He did but never spoke of the closed adoption
that landed her baby in the arms of Larry and Melissa Creswell of Lake
Arrowhead, now long divorced. Their son
Dennis was in his second year at UCLA.
Keeping track of everything-about-Bayliss was important.
“You’re
not going up the mountain tomorrow morning, are you?” his mom scolded. “You’ll
meet the storm head-on.”
His
dad, Dunigan McGill, who knew weather by smelling the air, raised his eyebrows
in protest. “Weather won’t turn nasty until tomorrow night, Mary Beth. Still, we’d love to have Bayliss visit.”
Mary
Beth held a stern gaze on Byron. “If and
when the storm hits, ask her. Rules are rules, but I never for the life of me
could understand why Lanyard laid down the law that Bayliss had to live up
there alone.”
“He
needed to protect her from the town.”
Byron knew the order sounded outrageous, but the looks folks gave her
were on the evil side.
A
smile curved Dunigan’s lips. “That scheme didn’t protect her from marrying Todd Jones, the
hardly-working set designer. He’s with
some green enthusiast, what’s her name, Holly Fisher?”
“Hilary Fleisher heads up Get Megawatts.” Byron guessed Don Juan’s interest in the
crass woman was more opportunistic than personal.
Mary Beth shrugged. “Whatever that means, get megawatts.”
Dunigan added, “Her group hopes to
fund a windmill farm, Hon, for generating electricity.”
It was also a front organization
for a cult, Byron knew, but they hadn’t done anything illegal. Kids joined when their egos were stroked,
believing their talents were absolutely necessary to improve society. That was how Hilary recruited them, but
unlike them, she was high in the hierarchical structure. Eventually, all cults abuse general members.
Besides the work they do for little or no pay, they serve politically. Since recruits
are forced to attend political rallies, moneyed people, swayed by their
enthusiasm, invested in Get Megawatts. Byron said, “A windmill farm won’t come to
fruition. Hundred-foot pines block the
wind, making turbines non-viable.”
Glancing at the wall, he straightened a fishing kayak leaning slightly
sideways.
“Gonna be law suits.” Agitated,
Dunigan began a tirade, sympathizing with investors who wouldn’t see a return
on their money, but Mary Beth lacked interest.
“Ask Bayliss
down, Byron,” she snapped, marching toward a crate packed with Ready-2-Fish
kits. Glaring at him, she reached down
and individually hung kits on a child-level pegboard. ‘We have a guest bedroom upstairs, you know. I’ll tidy it up.”
“That
won’t be necessary.” Halfpence expected him to drive up the second Saturday of
every month, transfer her monthly allowance and pay maintenance expenses
including Mighty Maids, their tasks clearly stipulated in Lanyard Senior’s
will. A pair arrived weekly to clean the two-story entry. Bayliss took care of areas she used-- the kitchen,
the greenhouse with indoor lap pool, and her upstairs bedroom with attached
bath. With seven other bedrooms and
baths closed off, the maids dusted through the main floor billiard room,
theatre, gym, and temperature-controlled wine storage. In three hours, they were in and out. He’d tried to hire a live-in housekeeper, but
the word was out; Mount Jones was haunted. An unusual number of people complained of
malfunction of cameras, believing a spirit siphoned off energy from battery-run
devices. Nonsensical ballyhoo, he
thought, and ground his teeth, reflecting on his last conversation with
Bayliss. Her mother’s supposed ghost had
returned, and like a restless murmur, he’d need to argue it away with logic.
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Deeds of Deceit AMAZON buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Deeds-Deceit-Kathleen-Rowland-ebook/dp/B006DK1BVS
Thank you, Suz, for featuring DEEDS OF DECEIT today!
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