Authors: Laura Harner
Honey House
Honey House
A KC Carmichael Novel
Laura Harner
Honey House is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents 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.
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Harner
Cover photography purchased from 123RF Stock Photography
Cover Art by Laura Harner
Edited by Jae Ashley
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Hot Corner Press
ISBN: 978-1-937252-01-4
Second Edition
Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Contact the publisher for further information: [email protected]
Dedication
To Virgie and Diane, for always believing in me. Words are not enough.
Acknowledgement of Trademarks
Botox:
Allergan, Inc.
iPod:
Apple, Inc.
Macallan:
Macallan Distillers Limited
Corona:
Cerveceria Modelo, S.A. de C.V
El Tesoro:
Jim Beam Brands Co.
Velcro:
Velcro Industries B.V.
Colt (22 caliber firearm):
New Colt Holding Corporation
Tahoe:
General Motors LLC
Pulitzer Prize:
The Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts
Contents
Former con artist Katherine “KC” Carmichael inherits the Honey House, a Bed and Breakfast located in the tiny town of Juniper Springs, AZ, a hot bed of the paranormal tourism industry. It doesn't take her long to discover that both the town and the House are keeping secrets.
Although the town entices thrill-seekers with special photo-safaris to take advantage of the rumors of werewolves, KC realizes something doesn’t add up when the local sheriff throws her in jail for breaking the town’s full moon curfew. She soon discovers werewolves and witches are real, and she wonders what other fairy tales might be waiting to come to life.
With multiple murders and men to distract her, KC needs to discover her own hidden magick in order to survive.
Chapter One
My name is Katherine Carmichael and I don’t do breakfast. Fact was, I might just have rolled in for the night by the time most people are up and heading to work. The idea of owning a bed and breakfast was ridiculous. Of course, since I didn’t own anything, the whole idea was even more absurd. There had to be a catch. I looked at the note once more, as if I hadn’t already memorized it.
KC,
My attorney has taken care of the legalities, and I have taken care of the rest. The Honey House is waiting for you. It’s time you know what you really are.
Good luck, dear.
There was a hastily added postscript:
P.S. Don’t try to change the name. The House won’t like it.
I folded the note and slipped it into the side pocket of my purse, then climbed out of the limousine. The door of the long stretch barely closed before the machine glided smoothly away leaving me standing outside the Honey House Bed and Breakfast. I took the keys and slowly walked up the pathway, through a sandstone and wood beam archway, and across a wide porch. I looked over my shoulder as I slipped the key into the lock, half-expecting to be arrested for breaking and entering. The knob turned easily, and I walked through the doorway into a stunning foyer worthy of Southwest Showplaces magazine. Maybe the circumstances were leaving me feeling a little fanciful, but I could swear I felt the house settle around me. That was disturbing.
I appreciated the effect. Setting atmosphere is the first step in running a successful con. I should know… I’ve been running cons for years. Apparently, the old lady who wrote the note was running a doozy of a scam, because she’d gone to a lot of trouble to set this whole thing up. Whatever this whole thing was.
“Hello,” I called out to the empty house.
“Over here,” whispered a voice from deep in the shadows.
I grinned. Yep, a most excellent con. Joanne, the woman behind this particular show, was a former client. I’d thought she’d been one of the happy ones. I’d met her a few months ago in the middle of my most recent gig, working on a cruise ship as a fortuneteller. Okay, I suppose it’s technically not a con, because officially, I’m part of the onboard entertainment. I receive a salary, meals, and a miniscule cabin as compensation for my work. My customers are free to tip me, and that turns a low paying job into a very good living. I travel back and forth to Mexico on the three to five day cruises that depart from Long Beach.
When I’d stepped off the ship this morning, Joanne’s ‘lawyer’ had been waiting for me. He’d told me I’d inherited a bed and breakfast in Juniper Springs, a small community outside Sedona, Arizona. That had nearly sent me into a fit of giggles. Everyone knew Juniper Springs was as genuine as professional wrestling.
“The New Age Mecca?” I’d choked out, my voice full of sarcasm.
The painfully thin young lawyer had stiffened. “Many people claim to have experienced spiritual or metaphysical events, however, I assure you I have never personally witnessed anything unusual.”
He was good. I could almost believe he was straight out of law school, instead of a fellow con artist. Of course, he wasn’t as good as I was, but I’d played along.
“Okay, lawyer-boy, what’s the plan?”
“The limousine is waiting to take us to the airport,” he’d said.
I’d looped my arm through his. “Let’s go. I’m up for an adventure.”
That had been hours, one private plane, and two limo rides ago. Now I was about to discover what this was all about. I suspected Joanne wanted me to work for her at the B and B. The Honey House was perfectly located in the heart of the paranormal tourism country; it would be a boon to have a pet psychic on staff. She must have just recently bought the place, because although it was architecturally stunning, it looked and felt unused. Based on the size of the show she was putting on to lure me here, the job must be worth a lot of money. I was impressed.
“In here,” the voice whispered again, apparently impatient at my hesitation.
This was really cool and more than a little creepy. I passed through the entryway and down two steps into an open seating area, with cream-colored plastered walls and a high, open beam ceiling. Large terra cotta tiles lined the floor, interspersed every few feet with small, brightly colored ceramic tiles that brought the flavor of Mexico into the spacious room. I scanned the area looking for Joanne.
I found her in front of the massive stone fireplace, lying face down in a pool of blood.
“Joanne!” Completely forgetting this was all part of the act, I raced to the crumpled body on the floor. Despite my thudding heart and nearly overwhelming instinct to run, I felt for a pulse and my fingers came away from her neck sticky with congealed blood.
Certain details were like a stake to my heart. Body, bloody knife, ex-convict. Then I remembered this was all supposed to be a con.
Suddenly, this wasn’t very funny. I spun around, looking for the source of the voice that had lured me in here. The room appeared empty. The front door opened then closed with sharp click of the latch. Heavy footfalls came slowly toward me. I only had seconds before I would be discovered alone with a dead body and blood on my hands. Shit!
“Miss Carmichael?” a man’s voice boomed out.
Looking down at the body, I felt uncertain as hell. This was too real to be a con. I could smell the coppery odor of the blood. I was way out of my league.
A tall figure in a uniform stepped from the shadows of the entryway. A cop. Double shit.
“There you are. I promised Malcolm I would walk through the building when you got here to make sure everything was okay, but I was delayed. Sorry ‘bout that. Name’s MacQuinnlan.” His deep, gravelly voice spoke of whisky or smoke, or both.
“I didn’t—”
I trailed off, not wanting to admit to anything in front of a cop, not even my innocence.
He took off his cowboy hat and looked at me strangely. His hair was sun-streaked brown and his eyes were some kind of weird light color. His crisp khaki uniform shirt topped comfortably faded blue jeans, and he wore the obligatory cowboy boots of the area. Boy, did he take up a lot of space in the room. More space than even his six-foot, plus-something frame demanded. He wasn’t that much older than my twenty-four years, but something in those weird eyes felt ancient. They were cop eyes.
Which brought me back to Joanna’s dead body. I looked down, nauseated at the sight and smell of all the blood. Would he believe I didn’t have anything to do with the body if I threw up on the evidence? Nah, probably not. On the other hand, he must not be the brightest bulb in the box if he was stuck out here in the sticks. He hadn’t even noticed the dead body between us on the floor. Yeah, not too bright.
“Look, Officer—”
“It’s Sheriff,” he interrupted.
“Okay, Sheriff. I know what this might look like,” I swept my hand out, gesturing to Joanne without looking at her, “but I swear I didn’t do anything.”
He reached me in two giant strides and took my outstretched arm. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but let’s go. I don’t have all night. I’ll walk through each room, make sure none of the local kids or anyone else snuck in here while the place’s been vacant.”
I looked down in horror to see if he’d actually stepped on Joanne’s body or just in the blood. There was nothing there.