Starr Tree Farm Read online

  Starr Tree Farm

  Ellen Parker

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Ellen M. Parker

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7158-9

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7158-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7159-7

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7159-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  To John and Jason:

  Excellent young men who have encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Also Available

  Acknowledgments

  Many people deserve thanks for making this story take form. I’d especially like to mention the members of Missouri Romance Writers of America. They have provided education, inspiration, and constructive criticism when needed.

  Special thanks for research goes out to Randy Evans and Jason Jacobs for sharing their time and expertise on growing Christmas trees. To Glen Abel, a lifelong friend, who showed great patience and answered a variety of questions.

  Chapter One

  “Three … two … one. Happy New Year!”

  Laura Tanner raised her plastic goblet toward the center of the circle and forced a smile. The church bell — only fifty feet above the basement room — sounded distant chiming in the new day, the new year, and her new life in Crystal Springs, Wisconsin. Her plans to move here sparkled at the sight of people who would soon be friends and neighbors.

  Across the circle a strong male voice began to sing. Within a phrase the entire group of forty joined in “Auld Lang Syne.” Her lips moved but no sound came out. She flicked her gaze to the right, skipped over the woman she’d been visiting with a minute before midnight, and continued on to her aunt and two uncles. They appeared interested in the singing and each other. Good for them. She eased out of the circle and didn’t stop until she bumped against one of the long tables at the edge of the church basement.

  One year. One complete cycle with three hundred sixty five nightmares that defied tea, warm milk, white noise, and physical exercise to the point of exhaustion.

  Twelve months without Scott’s companionship, laughter, and yes, lovemaking. Tears threatened and she blinked them back.

  We met on New Year’s Eve. Married the next time the date rolled around. She tipped her face toward the square ceiling tiles and tried to hang on to the six wonderful nights when the world threw a party and they could pretend it was all for them.

  Her hand flattened across her chest, found the familiar jewelry lump under her sweater, and stilled. I’ll find justice for you, Scott. I’ll fulfill the plans we started. She traced the shape of the rings against her skin, and for the first time in a year, failed to recall his casual smile. Her shoulders wanted to sag under the cloak of depression and grief the date wrapped around her.

  She stared at the tip of her practical pumps and listened to the voices now raised in a familiar ballad.

  “To a better year?” Contact with another glass sent ripples across the two drinks.

  Black loafers and a rich male voice registered first. She steadied her glass with both hands and raised her gaze up to hazel eyes above a scarred cheek. A better year. “I can drink to that.”

  “Can you smile, Laura Starr Tanner?”

  She swallowed the question of how he knew her name down with a sip of sparkling grape juice. People didn’t have secrets in Crystal Springs. Every person she’d spoken with this evening identified her as the widowed niece, come to stay on the tree farm for a couple of weeks. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  He set his glass on the table and presented his hand in one continuous move. “Brad. Bradley Asher.”

  She touched his hand and felt controlled power complete the handshake. For a blink she lost concentration on tonight’s introductions. Only after he separated their fingers did she sort out names from past and present. “Are you related to the Ashers on Robert’s Ridge?”

  “My parents live half a mile from the tree farm.”

  She studied his face a moment longer. Unwelcome heat climbed out of her sweater’s oversized collar and up the back of her neck. Big Ears Brad all grown up? Memories of an awkward boy willing to do anything for attention rushed in. He still lives here? The idea collided with the usual pattern of young people leaving the farms and tiny village to find better opportunity. “Oh.”

  “The local boy returned home after wandering in the desert.” The entire lower portion of his face broke into a grin.

  “You’ve changed.” She pressed her lips tight and closed her eyes. I deserve to turn red for that statement. Of course he’d changed. They’d been fifteen the final summer she’d spent on the tree farm. The girl she’d been during those long ago vacations now resided deep under other experiences of the last sixteen years.

  “Belated condolences on … ”

  “Thank you.” Her words escaped with more sharp edges than she intended. This private anniversary of horror had her nerves balanced on a precipice. Familiar hurts already filled new surroundings. She reached for a little control and spoke again. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Would you believe I’m tired?”

  His smile lingered in a smaller size. “I’m looking forward to our appointment tomorrow.”

  “On the holiday?”

  “It’s past midnight.”

  “One point for you.” She dragged her gaze off his face and down to her trembling hand. “Are you B.W. Asher of Rolling Hills Realty?”

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  She didn’t try to stop her lips from curving into their own smile. The emails they’d exchanged during recent weeks had been concise and professional. Standing within an arm’s length of him, she couldn’t ignore a trace of the mischievous boy in his alert eyes. Did he plan a surprise with his identity from the beginning? “I’ll bring lots of questions to the café.”

  “See you at zero nine-thirty.”

  By the time she looked toward the church kitchen and back, he was walking away. She watched his perfect posture and realized he’d given military time. Well, she’d promised him questions.

  “Laura,” Aunt Sharon called for her attention.

  “Are we going?” Laura noticed the partygoers now clustered near the coat rack and entrance. “I don’t want to rush you.”

  “We’re
going to let someone else turn out the lights. You had a long drive and we’ve a busy day planned.”

  Leave it to Aunt Sharon to understate leaving on the first real vacation in several years as a “busy day.” Tomorrow — no, make that later this morning — Uncle Roger would finish orienting her to the farm chores. And then her aunt and uncle would begin a drive to Arizona for a warmth-and-sunshine break. “I’ll get my coat.”

  A minute later she slipped into her white, quilted parka and glanced to the center of the room.

  Brad stood talking to two other men, released a laugh, and moved his left arm.

  A hook glinted where his hand should be.

  • • •

  One hour after sunrise on New Year’s morning, Brad Asher drove Robert’s Ridge Road to Crystal Springs. This route led him past Starr Tree Farm. If he were lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of Laura at her temporary home.

  He tapped the horn, a common local greeting, as he approached the buildings. Both garage doors gaped open and Roger’s silver sedan sat outside with the trunk open. A flash of red from within the shadowed garage interior hinted at Laura’s auto. The only living creatures within sight were the two farm dogs loitering near the car in a good imitation of guard duty.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, summer girl.” He pressed the accelerator and hurried away as his words faded in the cab.

  Half a mile down the road he eased off the gas. Thick, black smoke rose from a burning barrel. Oil in that fire. His right hand tightened on the steering wheel. His left shoulder scars rippled along the edges at the hint of open flame. It wasn’t until he glimpsed Myles Wilcox, the renter and local insurance agent, tending the fire from the upwind side that he exhaled relief and stretched his thumb across the wheel to beep a greeting.

  Ten minutes later, Brad turned left off the federal highway onto quiet village streets. Look at the familiar with fresh eyes each time. Daryl Frieberg’s mantra for an effective investigator returned to nudge him into new awareness as he followed Back Street to the far end of Crystal Springs. A right turn at the Care Center and another onto Front a block later put him on the only other long street in town. By the time he parked next to the office entrance, he’d almost completed a tour of the tiny village. The building in front of his truck proclaimed “Springs Press” but the newspaper and custom print shop closed two decades ago. All that remained of that business was worn black letters on the windows and the scent of ink deep within wooden floors and furnishings.

  He unlocked a black door with “Frieberg Investigations,” a phone number, and web address stenciled on a single pane of frosted glass. He caught sight of Mr. Frieberg and spoke before his entire body cleared the threshold. “Morning, boss.”

  Daryl Frieberg, Laura’s uncle and retired US Secret Service Agent turned private investigator, nodded and continued to move papers around in an open folder. “You look well after your trip and a late night.”

  “Not so late,” Brad set the dead bolt before crossing the small public space to the counter. “The airplanes kept to their schedule. I arrived back in time to check out the church party during your final singing session.”

  “Tell me about your trip to California.”

  “A few more flights and I’ll have figured out how much extra time to allow in the security line for this.” He lifted the stainless steel end of his prosthesis above the counter. “Several long, good, gab sessions with Army buddies. We’re all civilians now. I’m still not quite used to that idea.”

  “Give it a few more years.” Daryl closed the folder and reached for another. “Did you get an interview with Gary Browne’s sister?”

  “Yesterday morning.” He settled a backpack on the counter and unzipped the smallest pouch. As the one, only, and new employee, Brad busied himself following orders from Daryl. He hadn’t asked many questions about this particular investigation until his boss approached him a few days before his San Francisco trip.

  The Browne case stood apart from regular clients as Daryl’s personal family business. Mr. Browne continued as the senior business partner in a niche food manufacturing and distribution firm in St. Louis. Scott Tanner, the minority owner, had been killed with his business partner’s gun. Mr. Browne’s firm alibi and lack of solid evidence stymied the police. But Daryl insisted on digging for a few answers on his own, including getting a character assessment from Browne’s sister.

  Brad kept his own questions about the case to himself. Laura, his childhood crush, was involved as the widow of a murdered man. He pulled a small voice recorder from his bag. “She believed my cover story about an article highlighting various Fisher House locations. Mary — Browne’s sister — led me on a personal tour of the Palo Alto facility.”

  “Impression?”

  “All positive. Then again, I already had a high opinion of the organization. The value of a little family nearby during military medical rehab hits close to my heart. Catch.”

  “Never know when your journalism degree will come in handy in this business.” Daryl snatched the recorder before it landed.

  “Whole idea of serious writing stays on the mental shelf marked ‘later.’ My mind is busy enough keeping the rules and regulations for this job and part-time real estate sales.”

  “And here I thought you were the restless type who needed at least six different items on the agenda to feel useful.”

  “You’ve been talking to my sister again.”

  “Coffee every morning she has the café open.” Daryl picked up the folders and led them into the back room. Computers hummed soft and file cabinets lined two walls of the private area. “Any traffic on the way in?”

  “Minimal.” Brad shrugged one shoulder and rejected any mention of the preparations at the tree farm. Daryl likely knew his sister and brother-in-law’s departure time. “Only movement I noticed on the town streets this morning was a cat strolling toward the garbage can behind Jack’s. Harter’s sign said ‘Open’ but the lone car was parked in the employee spot.”

  “No surprise there. I expect it’ll be noon or after before our fair village gets active today.”

  “Browne’s sister confirmed the gun was an inheritance from their paternal grandfather. She visited St. Louis in September and met the new partner, Christopher Lapp. You’ll find her words neutral and carefully chosen. Her face reflected general distaste anytime his name came up in the interview. I’d say his combination of custom tailored suit and bad teeth made a strong impression.”

  Daryl laughed one syllable before speaking. “Makes me suspicious how my sisters would assess a few of my former co-workers. You?”

  “I learned to ignore my sisters early. The age difference worked well to my advantage. They moved away before I collected many colorful characters as friends.”

  “Any of your friends happen to own revolvers used in a murder?”

  Brad shook his head. They were back to that again. Ownership of the murder weapon pretty well summed up where the official police investigation into the death of Scott Tanner stalled. An overwhelmed Metropolitan St. Louis Police Department classified it as “inactive,” but that didn’t hinder Daryl’s careful inquiries. The crumbs of information that fell in Brad’s direction told him Daryl worked on finding as much background as possible on the new business partner and dissecting the corporate financial records.

  Brad studied the sure motions as Daryl extracted the recorder chip and set to making a copy. First, second, and maybe even third impressions of his boss conjured up words like quiet, private, and withdrawn. Still, watching him now, he wondered how many other discouraged people Daryl managed to help over a deep ditch or two of life. He had been one of the first outside his immediate family to forget pity and treat him as a young man with remaining potential.

  Brad knew he owed the man an enormous debt. A lifetime didn’t seem long enough to begin to repay it. Honest and ope
n would be the only way to approach the situation foremost in his mind the last few hours. “I introduced myself to Laura at the party.”

  “You be careful around her. She’s fragile after losing Scott.”

  “Tomorrow morning I’ll be wearing my real estate hat and showing her rentals in town.” Beautiful. Elegant. Sad. Don’t have fragile on my list. Brad glanced at the man who usually cloaked his emotions and noticed “protective uncle” showing in his faded blue eyes. “Mother taught me to be a gentleman.”

  Chapter Two

  Laura smiled as she stepped across the threshold of The Sunrise Café. The sleigh bell jingled on a short leather strap to announce her entrance like it had marked them all of her life. Wonder if that strap ever wears out. She scanned the public space looking for Brad and comparing the scene to a decade ago. The wide chrome trim on the counter and six stools still matched the Norman Rockwell print between the windows. Two fans hung down from a white pressed tin ceiling to stir coffee, bacon, and maple syrup scents into rich, warm air.

  A sleek computer cash register decorated with credit card logos plus a green and gold “Go Cougars” sticker popped the time warp. No longer did she imagine a young Laura holding her Grandmother’s hand during a summer visit. Change arrived in Crystal Springs at a walk rather than the exhausting dash of the city, but it still came.

  She spotted Brad, waved a greeting, and approached the last booth in the row along the Spruce Street windows. Morning sunlight filtered in through the mini-blind slats behind him. It brought memories of the boy, but no halo effect. He’s changed and grown into a man. It’s time to behave like an adult, sensible woman.

  “Good morning, Laura. Prompt like the rest of your family, I see.”

  She pulled her gaze away from his burgundy turtleneck, inviting smile, and military haircut to glance at the decades old Orange Crush clock above the kitchen pass through. “Five minutes early if that’s right.”

  “It is. How’s farming?” His grin widened and bubbled over to his eyes.