Page 31 of Hook, Line and Mystery

EPILOGUE

The roar of the tumbling cascade of water crashing down the side of the mountain seemed a fitting accompaniment to Daniel Monkton’s flight for his life. The demons that had plagued his psyche had become real. Described as a ‘tortured artist’ by some in the New York art scene, Daniel had retreated to Angel’s Rise to quell the monsters of his past.

Most people outgrew their fear of the monster that hides under the bed, but not Daniel. He was all too aware that such malevolence in the world was real and often took corporeal form. He ran toward the edge from which the water catapulted itself into the rocky pool below. He’d hoped as he climbed the promontory that overlooked the town that the angels that were said to rise from the mists of the pool below would be his salvation.

His hopes had been in vain. The angels had turned their backs on him, forsaking him when he needed them most.

The others had found him. He thought his flight from the big city to the small village in the far reaches of Maine would save him, but he’d been so wrong. His next masterpiece was almost finished, but they were trying to suppress his voice, his art. They feared him, and he had begun to believe he could rise up and destroy them. Instead, he now faced his own demise.

* * *

The streets of Angel’s Rise were shrouded in fog as Fiona Fowler scurried down Coach Way, what passed as the village’s main drag. Dressed in schlumpy clothes, no makeup, and with her hair in a messy bun, nothing about her appearance suggested she had written the vibrant murder scene she’d just finished in her latest wolf-shifter detective novel.

It was said that to find the small town nestled against the rocky coastline of Maine beneath the benevolent eye of Angel Falls one had to be looking for it, as it wasn’t on the way to anywhere.

Darting down the alleyway between her bookstore, Between the Lines, and one of the myriad of antique and architectural salvage stores that lined the street, the March Hare’s Warren, she stopped, looked up the steep stairs that led to her second story apartment, and sighed. Taking a long swig of the chocolatey goodness that was her triple shot, extra chocolate with chocolate shavings espresso, she reminded herself that her characters and story were waiting, as was inventory in the bookstore below.

Trudging up the stairs, Fiona had to stop to catch her breath. She really needed to get in better shape. ‘You’ll need to stop drinking me,’ mocked the delicious liquid in her mug.

Shut up.These days, while the stairs were steep and long, they at least no longer seemed insurmountable. The reader event in Kennebunkport might have been a disaster for some—Sandy Parkinson in particular—but for Fiona, it had introduced her to the three most important people in her life: the women of the Mystery Writers’ Murder Club.

Finally unlocking the door to her apartment, she looked around. She had a lot of work to do. This coming weekend she’d be hosting the second meeting of the Club. She had taken a large chunk of her savings and a week from her writing to renovate and redecorate her writer’s retreat, as she liked to call it. It would never rival Jessica Murdoch’s place, but she hoped in the not too distant future she could afford to buy one of the lakeside cottages that overlooked the falls, and offer her current living space to other writers who needed a place to create their first or next masterpiece.

Poor John Bartleby, the murder victim in her latest mystery novel. He’d been killed in the most horrific way in the most beautiful scene she could conjure. It was a good thing life didn’t imitate art.

* * *

Slade

So, Daniel Monkton was dead. That presented a plethora of problems Slade Rafferty hadn’t been prepared to take on. He’d known Daniel for years, and when he’d called the first time spouting delusional gibberish, Slade had dismissed it as drug inspired hallucinations. When Daniel had called again, he’d been far more rational. Slade became convinced that someone was trying to harm Daniel—maybe not murder him but do him harm. A call to the police in New York had done nothing to make him feel that Daniel was safe.

Slade had done the only thing he could think of: he’d gone to New York and moved Daniel out of his artist’s loft and up to Slade’s A-Frame retreat in the woods above Angel’s Rise, where Slade was convinced he’d be safe. Only that hadn’t been true at all.

When the CO of the State’s Major Crime Unit began to lay out the new cases at their weekly meeting, the hair on the back of Slade’s neck began to stand up.

“You okay?” asked Thorn Wilder, his best friend who was sitting next to him at the conference table.

“Yeah. I know the victim,” replied Slade.

“Rafferty, did I just hear you say you knew the victim?”

Slade nodded. “Yes sir. I’ve known Daniel Monkton since we were kids. Where did he die?”

“Some little hamlet known as Angel’s…”

“Rise,” Slade completed for him.

“Don’t you have a place up there?” asked Thorn.

Slade nodded. “Just outside the village, up by the falls. I have an A-Frame. Daniel had been staying there for a few months. Boss, I’d like to take lead on this.”

“You sure you want to do that? And he’s not family, just a friend?”

“Yes, I think I’m the best one to do it. He wasn’t family; in fact, he was just a friend, and not a particularly close one. I’ve just known him a long time, but to be completely honest, I took Daniel up to my place because he was certain someone was trying to kill him.”

“If you’re feeling guilty…”

“No. that isn’t it at all. I just know more about him. I can get up to speed on all of thisandI know the town and the cops.”

The chief nodded. “Slade, you’ll take point.”