It's Murder, My Son (A Mac Faraday Mystery)

It’s Murder, My Son

A Mac Faraday Mystery

By

Lauren Carr

It’s Murder, My Son

By Lauren Carr

All Rights Reserved © 2011 by Lauren Carr

Kindle Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

For Information Call: 304-285-8205

or E-mail: [email protected]

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

With Love,

To Jack,

My King of the Beasts

Prologue

Deep Creek Lake in Spencer, Maryland

The sitcom was senseless. That didn’t matter. Katrina was too tense to handle anything with depth. The hot bath and martini had failed to soothe her nerves. She ran the water until steam filled the master bathroom.

The weather channel had predicted that the severe winter storm would hit around midnight and continue through the next day. Spotting storm clouds on the horizon, Katrina anticipated waking to white-out conditions. Buried in a thick white blanket would be her last memory of Deep Creek Lake.

After a long soak in the tub, Katrina slipped into her red silk bathrobe and combed out her long black hair. Tenderly, she rubbed the most expensive anti-aging moisturizer over each inch of her olive flesh.

Her beauty had earned her millions. That made it worth preserving at all costs.

Time for a third martini before bed. She wondered if she would hear from her husband before she fell asleep. He had told her that he would be working late in the city.

Like I don’t know what you’ve been working late on. Go ahead. Get snowed in with Rachel for Valentine’s Day. Enjoy it while you can.

After completing her nightly beauty routine, she returned downstairs to the home theater where she got sucked into a verbal exchange between a husband and wife about their teenage son’s sexy girlfriend.

A noise outside made her jump out of the recliner.

She glanced at the clock.

Almost nine. Could Chad have decided to come out when I mentioned my appointment with the divorce lawyer? Maybe he does love my money more than he loves Rachel.

She listened. Nothing except the wind signaling the blizzard’s approach.

Maybe I should call David? No. It wouldn’t look good if Chad found him here. He’s already suspicious.

The German shepherd began scratching at the back door.    

Not again, you damn dog! When you aren’t wanting out or in, you’re digging up the back yard.

With a groan, she pulled herself out of the recliner and let the dog out onto the patio. As long as she was up, she poured herself another martini and admired her reflection in the mirror behind the bar before returning to her seat for another sitcom.

Her mind sucked in by the television, Katrina was unprepared to fight when her killer attacked and pinned her down by her throat.

“Did you really think I was going to let you leave?” she heard through the roar in her ears while gasping her last breath.

Chapter One

Three Months Later

The Valentine’s Day blizzard that had paralyzed the East Coast for almost a week was only a memory when Mac Faraday drove between the stone pillars marking the entrance to Spencer Manor.

In the heart of Maryland, the cedar and stone home rested at the end of the most expensive piece of real estate on Deep Creek Lake. The peninsula housed a half-dozen lake houses that grew in size and grandeur along the stretch of Spencer Court. The road ended at the stone pillars marking the multi-million dollar estate that had been the birthplace and home of the late Robin Spencer, one of the world’s most famous authors.

While packing up his handful of belongings in his two-bedroom, third-floor walk-up in Georgetown, Mac Faraday envisioned his arrival into high society:

He would pull up to the front door of Spencer Manor in his red Dodge Viper. Then, the front doors would open and Ed Willingham, the senior partner of Willingham and Associates, would welcome him into his new home. Ed was the first attorney Mac liked. He sensed it had something to do with Ed working for him.

Everything happened as Mac had envisioned until Ed opened the front door and released a hundred pounds of fur and teeth that shot like a bullet aimed at the man in the roadster.

“No! Come back here! Stay!” the lawyer seemed to beg the German shepherd, which landed in the front passenger seat of Mac’s convertible in a single bound.

Mac felt the beast’s hot breath on his cheek while they spilled into the stone driveway. He shoved against the canine straddling his chest to keep him from ripping his throat open.

In a flash, his thoughts raced back to the event that had brought him to this moment.

Mac’s twenty-year marriage had ended with the single pound of a judge’s gavel. Even though his wife had left him for another man, the judge had awarded their home and everything of value to her. Mac had received the credit card debt that she had racked up after tossing him out of their home. After the hearing, Mac had made an appointment to meet with his lawyer to arrange for the next legal proceeding: bankruptcy.

Ed Willingham had cornered Mac on his way out of the courtroom. Assuming that the silver-haired gentleman had been sent by his now ex-wife’s lover to deliver another round of legal torture, Mac Faraday had escaped and hurried away.

After jogging three city blocks in Washington, DC traffic, Mac had felt sorry for the sweaty little man chasing after him. When he had turned around to face him, Mac had noticed that this lawyer wore the expression of a child bursting to tell his secret, which would change his life forever.

The teenage girl who had given him up for adoption forty-five years earlier had grown up to become Robin Spencer. Upon her death weeks earlier, America’s Queen of Mystery had left her vast fortune to her illegitimate son, an underpaid homicide detective named Mac Faraday. 

Nobody had told him that a man-eating dog was part of that inheritance.

A high-pitched whistle broke through his screaming and the shepherd’s barking.

The canine froze.

“Gnarly, get off him!” Mac heard yelled in a feminine, but firm, tone.

The German shepherd paused.

“Yes, I’m talking to you.” She seemed to respond to the dog’s nonverbal question.

As if weighing his options, Gnarly glared down at his quarry.

Through his fear, Mac noticed that the dog’s brown face was trimmed in silver. His fingers dug into Gnarly’s thick golden mane. He would have thought Gnarly was a beautiful animal if he wasn’t trying to mutilate him.

“Mac is your new master,” the woman back on the porch told the dog. “What have I told you about biting the hand that feeds you?”

The dog uttered a noise that sounded like “Humph!” before climbing off Mac’s chest and disappearing around the front of the roadster.

Sighing with relief, Mac pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Keeping as far from the beast as possible, Ed Willingham rushed around the rear of the car to help him climb to his feet. “Mac, I am so sorry. I never expected Gnarly to react like that. Your mother always called him a pussy cat.”

“That was no pussy cat.” Mac clutched his chest where Gnarly’s paws had threatened to crush his ribs. He glanced around for the woman who had saved his life. “Who called him off me?”

“That’s Archie.” Ed led him by the elbow up the porch steps and into the foyer of the manor. “She comes with the house.”

“What do you mean she comes with the house?” Before Ed could explain, Mac sucked in a deep breath when the reality of what he had come into struck him with full force.

The front foyer of Spencer Manor stretched up two stories to the cathedral ceiling paneled in cedar. Granite slabs made up the floors throughout the home, including the three steps that led down to the dining room which opened up onto the deck overlooking the lake. Colorful afghans were draped across leather furniture in the living room, which was twice the size of the one in the home Mac’s ex-wife had won from him thirty days earlier. Stone fireplaces commanded every room. Every window and door provided a view of Deep Creek Lake.

The scent of leather and cedar seemed to wrap around him like a soft blanket welcoming its lost son home.

Candid photographs of people Mac didn’t know and memorabilia dating back generations littered the mantles, walls, and end tables. He wondered what connection these things had in his and his grown son’s and daughter’s roots.

Outside on the deck, a petite woman with shortly-cropped blond hair set a table for lunch. Even though the season had yet to shake the chill from winter, her skin was golden from the sun. Ankle bracelets jeweled her bare feet. Her white shorts and short-sleeved top contrasted with the jeans and jacket Mac wore for protection against the cool breezes that swept in off the lake.

“Archie was Robin’s editor and assistant. She’s lived in the guest cottage for years,” Edward explained. “She receives a check every month from a trust fund Robin left her; plus, she gets to live in the guest cottage for as long as she wants.” He clarified, “She’s been taking care of the estate and Robin’s dog, Gnarly. He’s now yours. Good luck with that character.”

“He’s going to need it,” Mac muttered about the German shepherd following at Archie’s heels. With food on the scene, the dog seemed to have forgotten about him.

Inside the living room, Mac stopped before a life-sized portrait hanging over the stone fireplace. The image was that of a man, dressed in stylishly casual clothes, sitting in a wingbacked leather chair. Gray touched the temples of his auburn hair. His facial features included chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw. His blue eyes seemed to jump out of the painting. A German shepherd sat at attention by his side.

The resemblance between Mac and the man in the painting was striking.

“That’s not you,” Ed told him. “Robin had that portrait done over fifteen years ago. It’s her vision of Mickey Forsythe, the detective in most of her books, and Diablo, his dog.” He added, “Uncanny resemblance, huh?”

Mac felt a chill go down his spine. “Weird.”