I'm back writing again after being sick for two weeks. Hope you're enjoying the novel so far. Full disclosure: This is the first novel I have not outlined and fleshed out characters before starting. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the characters tell the story.
Is it perfect? Far from it. I'm still a little rusty from not writing for years, but I love creative writing and crime stories, so if you guys keep reading it, I will keep writing it!
This novel has about 60 more pages before I wrap it up, and then I will start on the second one - this time, Patrice will be in an exotic place when the crime(s) take place, and I will change from the present to the past, as it gives me more artistic license with the characters. (this one was a test) The new novel will be Begonias & Belladonna: A Patrice Summers Mystery. Begonias loves warm and humid climates, so join Patrice and me in none other than Greece for the next novel!
Thank you to those who have stuck it out and subscribed to my newsletter. I'm always open to feedback and suggestions.
Okay, back to the story ...
The following day, we head to Salt Lake City. The weather is a bit gloomy, with a chill in the air. Snow might be on the horizon – Northern Utah does that whole snow-in-May thing and warm Decembers. I was hoping for some sunshine, but it doesn't seem likely.
Brock pulls up to the Marriot Hotel entrance. It's starting to drizzle, but thankfully, there's an underground parking lot to dodge the rain. Finding a spot is a breeze since it's not exactly peak season. I snap a quick pic of the parking area – gotta outsmart the forgetful parking struggle that comes with age. Brock's more of a wander-around-looking-for-the-car type; I prefer a foolproof strategy.
Brock hauls out the luggage, wheels it to the door, and I trail behind. The automatic doors whoosh open, and a blast of warmth hits my face. Maroon flooring clashes with crème-colored walls as we stroll down the hallway under fancy tear-drop chandeliers. Our room's on the third floor, offering a sweet view of the mountains to the east.
At the guest desk, a friendly host greets us. She has a long, slicked-back, low ponytail of blonde hair and sports a black blouse and a dark green skirt that matches her eyes. Looks about 30-ish.
"Enjoy your stay," she says, handing over our key cards.
"Thanks, we will," I respond, while Brock just nods. I'm usually the one who interacts with hosts; Brock is all about getting to the room.
We ride the elevator to the third floor, find our room, and Brock swipes the card, opening the door. It's nothing fancy, but it's got two king-size beds with peach comforters and beach scenes framed above them. A large TV sits across from the beds.
I head to the bathroom, eyeing the inviting jetted tub for later. "Where do we want to go first?" Brock yells.
"Well, museums, lunch, Temple Square, and maybe some shopping at City Creek?" I suggest. Salt Lake, settled by pioneers in 1847, has a rich history centered around Temple Square and City Creek. The story is one of faith and tragedy.
"Oh hey, I also want to head up the canyon if there’s not too much snow," Brock adds.
"Sure thing. We've got all day. It's only 10:30," I check my watch. Ready to go Brock enters the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair.
"Okay, I'm ready," he says. I touch up my hair and lipstick, and we leave the hotel. The cooler air hits me, and we walk a bit before visiting the history museum.
I love soaking in history, studying each piece, while Brock opts for a quicker tour, glued to his phone towards the end. "Hungry?" I ask when we reconvene.
"Yeah. Let’s grab some food. Johnny Rockets is only a few blocks from here at City Creek. Should we go there?" Brock suggests.
"Sounds good to me." As we step outside, rain pours. I open my umbrella, and Brock pulls up his hood. We dash to Johnny's, a place we've frequented in the past few years. It's our go-to lunch spot in Salt Lake and Brock’s when working in the city – evidenced by the friendly workers saying hi to him.
When seated, I dive into a juicy Cheddar Bacon Burger and strawberry lemonade. Johnny's, with its 50s throwback vibe, is packed. Somewhat like Daniel’s in Grantsville, however, the décor of Johnny’s is colorful and in your face. Half the walls are a bright peach and halfway down is painted with dark brown stripes intermingled with a light peach. The flooring looks like confetti – no joke – and the booths are crimson red leather, with a white V shape in the middle. The tables are white.
A large bar at the back of the restaurant features a stainless-steel counter that wraps all around, with a silver backsplash that travels up to the ceiling. Silver lights that look like small rockets shine down on diners. Old-time red stools stand under the counter to complete the look.
You can’t step into a Johnny Rockets and not feel like a kid again. The place was loud, with college kids being the loudest. The University of Utah isn’t too far from here, and this is a popular place to hang out. Brock had told me.
Post-lunch, we explore Temple Square, declining an invitation to learn more about the LDS faith from a few nice missionaries who introduced themselves as Sister Carrington from London and Sister Langston from Montana. It wasn’t that we weren’t religious, but Brock said he had his own relationship with God and didn’t need organized religion, especially since so much wrong has been done in the name of religion. Since I’m a Christian but don’t belong to any sect, I took on his religious perspective as well. Still, it’s nice to see the architecture and culture of the LDS faith and what they went through to become a worldwide religion.
Back at the hotel around 5:00, I'm exhausted. We decide to rest before dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, for which I've made a 7:00 reservation. The rain has stopped, and the sun had come out when we walked into the hotel.
As I relax, my phone buzzes. It's Gray. My heart picks up a bit. "Hey Gray, what’s up?" I answer, pretending it's just a casual chat.
"Hi, Trice, how’s Salt Lake?" he greets. Maybe he is just calling to chat. "It’s nice, a little rainy today. Walked around a bunch and heading to dinner in a while."
"Good," came the initial response, followed by a pause and a hefty sigh, which wasn't exactly a positive indicator.
"Gray, something's up, right?" I query, my tone casual yet tinged with concern.
"Yeah, well, there's been a bit of a situation. A dead body was found about an hour ago," Gray revealed.
"What?" My disbelief was palpable.
"On your property," he adds. My eyes widen, and I shoot up, color draining from my face.
"What?" I repeat, urgency creeping into my voice. "How, when, where?" I need answers, pronto. Brock, engrossed in TV, hits pause and turns to me.
"Trice, spill. What's happening?" he asks. I shush him.
"This morning, an hour after you left. In the backyard. Lopez was waiting for Hercules to finish his business when she heard him suddenly barking like crazy. She went out to see why, and that’s when she saw the body. Hercules kept sniffing, and she had to grapple with him, getting him away. The body was found next to your shed. Trice, he was shot,” Gray explains.
“Shot?” I echo back.
"Shot?" Brock's eyes widen. "Who got shot?" He almost grabs the phone from me.
"Hold on, Gray. Let me catch Brock up." I relay Gray's update to Brock, who has the same questions as I did. "I don't know, but he was shot."
"Can I see the phone?" Brock gestures for it.
I yank it back, "No, just hang on."
"Okay, Gray, putting you on speaker so Brock's in the loop." I activate the speaker icon and put the phone between us. "Go ahead."
"Well, as I was saying, Lopez found a dead body in your backyard. Male, recently deceased. Identified as Demitri Ballinger. Any bells ringing?" Gray inquires. Brock and I exchange puzzled looks. I shrug; he shakes his head.
"No clue," I admit, wracking my brain to place the name.
"He's not local; he's from New York," Gray continues. My heart races.
"Connected to Jeff? He's the only one in the mix living there," I speculate.
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Gray confirms.
"But Jeff's in prison," Brock points out.
"True, but he can still communicate. Maybe he knew about the shed and drugs and sent Demitri to get them," I suggest, acknowledging the wildness of the idea.
"Possible, but how does Jeff know unless..." Brock starts.
"His wife knew," I interject, like I knew all along but didn’t want to believe it.
"Could be, but why rat out Troy?" Brock questions.
"If she knew, maybe she got Demitri to grab the drugs. Jeff's in prison, money's tight, no job, lawyer fees, living in New York on one income—it adds up," Gray theorizes.
"That's what I was thinking. That woman never liked us. Maybe she even spiked our coffee with arsenic, not Jeff. He confessed to protect her," I say, my excitement rising thinking back to that nightmarish day, the poisoning, being tied up, the little girl untying us, escaping, twisting my ankle.
I shiver.
"You might be onto something. Revenge, framing Jeff, she gets the drugs, sells them, and makes money. Seen stranger things," Gray adds.
"So, she sends a goon to our house, knowing that's where the drugs are. But what's weird is that Demitri gets shot shortly before we leave. Who knew he was there? Did a neighbor hear, investigate, and shoot him in our backyard?" Brock ponders aloud.
"That's the big question. I need to quiz the neighbors. Unfortunately, guys, your trip's cut short. We need you back to answer questions. Protocol," Gray informs us, a necessary but unwelcome reality.
"Can we at least return in the morning? We're beat," I plead, stifling a yawn. I know Gray is correct, but I’m not ready to come back home and deal with yet another murder, another dead body, and one that is on our property – just yet.
"Yeah, tomorrow works. But hustle back. We'll question the neighbors tonight. Text when you're in town," Gray instructs.
"Thanks, Gray. Can't believe this isn't over yet." I push end and sit there. A sickening thought crosses my mind.
Would Melanie put a hit on us?
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