What she doesnt know, p.1
What She Doesn't Know, page 1
part #3 of If Only She Knew Mystery Series Series
WHAT
SHE
DOESN’T
KNOW
…will kill her
WHAT
SHE
DOESN’T
KNOW
…will kill her
IF ONLY SHE KNEW
MYSTERY SERIES
Book 3
PAMELA CRANE
Tabella House
Raleigh, North Carolina
Copyright © 2023 by Pamela Crane
Tabella House
Raleigh, NC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
www.pamelacrane.com
ISBN: 978-1-940662-37-4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-940662-30-5 (eBook)
Thank you for supporting authors and literacy by purchasing this book. Want to add more gripping reads to your library? As the author of more than a dozen award-winning and bestselling books, you can find all of Pamela Crane’s works on her website at www.pamelacrane.com.
Note to the Reader
Bloodson Bay Bulletin
Part 1
Ginger Mallowan
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part 2
Tara Christie
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part 3
Sloane Apara
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part 4
Ginger
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Author
Enjoy What You Read?
This is for all women who have ever felt too old or too young; too outspoken or too quiet; too weird or too vanilla; unpretty or shallow; boring or a pipe dreamer; cast aside or controlled:
You are never too much of you. Like a raw gem, you may be rough around the edges, covered in dirt, but you are perfect in your imperfections and more valuable than musgravite (and if you don’t know what that is, keep reading the book…).
Note to the Reader
If you’re new to the If Only She Knew Mystery Series, welcome to the town of Bloodson Bay, where the people are strange but the rising body count is even stranger. I hope you’ll stay awhile… but I’ll warn you now: it’s got a Hotel California vibe going on. Once you visit, you may never leave.
If you’re a long-term resident of this villain-filled village with more ups and downs than a pregnant woman’s mood swings, then I’m glad to see you’ve survived… so far! And boy do I have a treat for you for hanging in there.
But before we get our hands bloody—I mean dirty—I’d like to share a little background information about the characters that made this book so much fun to write.
Inspired by some extra-awesome real-life friends, Ginger Mallowan (named after Agatha Christie’s married surname), Sloane Apara, and Tara Christie (take a wild guess who she’s named after) are particularly unforgettable and special to me. You may have noticed the Agatha Christie-themed names, a tribute to my appreciation of the Queen of Crime, and if you didn’t notice that, then I have a feeling you will probably not solve the mystery in the upcoming pages, since I did pretty much just spell it out for you.
About the cast: In this book our lead character is Ginger. And she is, well, Ginger—a big-hearted Southerner who is always good for a laugh. She’s loosely based a close friend of mine who is as spunky as she is whip-smart. As a mom during the 1980s, her quirky personality comes out in her vintage wardrobe and music tastes, which I happen to appreciate. Even though her vision is failing and her bones creak more than they used to, she’s as vibrant and steadfast as a North Carolinian summer sun. And much like the sun, she always shows up.
Sloane, in particular, comes into her own in this book, as her Nigerian Deaf backstory was lovingly filled in by a friend of mine who shares many of Sloane’s experiences as a Deaf Nigerian-American immigrant. Sloane’s real-life alter-ego gave me the courage to write a character I was worried I’d misrepresent, but I’m glad I heeded her advice to include her. As my dear friend keeps reminding me, the more we try to understand the lives of others, the deeper we build our own humanity, empathy, and character.
Tara, last but not least and appointed “leader” of Tara’s Angels, took a little back seat in this book in order to let her friends shine. Because Tara knows that being a good friend means supporting one another, even if it calls us to step out of the spotlight and put our friends’ needs before our own once in a while.
What makes the town of Bloodson Bay so fun for me to live in—I mean write about, because certainly I know the difference between fiction and reality—is not just the quirky characters, but the decades I get to explore and bring to life in each book. If you’ve read the whole series so far, you probably noticed how I choose a different era for each story in the series:
The prequel If Only She Knew takes us all the way back to the 1830s, to the origins of Bloodson Bay and how it got its infamous name.
The 1980s Reagan Era are explored in book 1, Little Does She Know, where I got to relive big hair and Madonna. (Did either ever really go out of style?)
Growing up in the 1990s, I couldn’t resist bringing out the Gangsta Rap, backwards jeans, and Grunge Scene we all know and love, found in book 2, She Knows Too Much.
Where are we headed to this time in book 3? What She Doesn’t Know (will kill her) transports you back to the Disco Era of the 1970s, so I hope you’ve got your groove ready to do a little dance, make a little love, and solve a lot of murder tonight!
Bloodson Bay Bulletin
December 3, 1979
Women Bookkeepers Needed!
Exciting new careers in bookkeeping are giving thousands of lonely women like you a new outlook on life. And you don’t have to be smart to get started!
Everything is explained by experts in easy-to-understand language. We train you at home in your spare time, and your husband won’t even miss dinner. You get an automatic electric adding machine and an instant-action pocket-size electronic calculator so you don't have to worry about being good at arithmetic.
Was your shot at a career ruined by your kids? Don’t feel ill about bad luck! You are the perfect candidate. Take the next step to becoming a bookkeeper today!
I wasn’t sure what offended me more—the implication that women were bored and lonely math-illiterate idiots, or that someone felt that I in particular needed to hear this. Not that it mattered. This antiquated newspaper advertisement was not just some anti-woman propaganda from the seventies. It was an intentional, cryptic message for me… and it wasn’t the first one I had gotten, either.
“What’s it say, Ginger?”
I felt a chin rest on my shoulder and the scent of garlic invade my nose. Tara Christie—my best friend and daughter-in-law, go figure that they could be one and the same!—nudged aside my personal space as her breath warmed my ear.
I sniffed.
“Caesar salad for lunch, Tara?” I guessed, shrugging her heavy head off of my collarbone.
“How’d you know?” Tara cupped her hand over her mouth, exhaled, and smelled her breath.
“Darlin’. Your breath could peel the shell off a crawdad.”
Despite the decades of age difference between me and Tara, we went together like a deep-fryer and pickles. Only a true Southerner would appreciate that combo, which I was, through and through.
As neighbors and close friends for over sixteen years, we had test drove the conventional rules of in-law formality when Tara tried calling me Mom a few times. But after all those years as friends, the word never quite felt right for either of us, so we ditched convention and used our plain old names—Ginger and Tara. Unless Tara was taking too long to get ready for an outing, in which case I called her Little Miss Priss.
She didn’t like that nickname much.
“It’s another cryptic message,” I said, searching for the telltale underlined letters and words from the yellowed newspaper ad that I knew would drop a clue regarding my husband’s disappearance.
It wasn’t his first vanishing act either, I might add. Let me explain:
It had all started back in April, a
One would think he’d have brought flowers and chocolates (or maybe some banana puddin’) for this long overdue reunion to win a girl’s heart back, right? No, not my long-lost spouse. Instead, Rick brought a bloody, gushing abdominal wound that I had to hand stitch closed with a needle and “thread.” I used biodegradable floss, the mint-flavored kind—it’s extra painful when woven through skin. A little thank-you from me to him for all the pain he’d put me through… and forgetting to bring flowers and chocolates.
The whole flesh-sewing thing felt very Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs as I threaded the wound. Rick had been tightlipped about what had happened to him, but I was certain he’d gotten stabbed by one of his many criminal associates. He swore up and down he had finally broken free from that life of crime.
Promises, promises.
Lies, lies.
To make a long story short, I agreed to give Rick another chance at a real marriage together. The kind of relationship where a couple can rely on each other, love each other, even fight with each other… as long as we were together. I knew it was a stupid decision on my part, I might add. But he was the kryptonite to my Superman. You wouldn’t understand unless you knew him like I did.
Anyway, Rick and I had spent nearly every day together since April talking and canoodling, if you know what I mean, until he just up and disappeared again three days ago. When he never showed up for our anniversary date at Luna’s Steak and Seafood Restaurant to celebrate exactly fifty years to the day since we’d first fallen in love, I had a feeling Rick returned to the place he always went—in the wind.
If these puzzling 1970’s newspaper messages I had been getting were any indication of what happened to him, Rick hadn’t left on his own terms. Everything pointed to foul play.
“What’s the message say?” Tara probed.
She didn’t sound the least bit worried. Never one to hide how she felt, Tara hated Rick’s guts like a cat hates water, or like I hated tourists crowding our town’s beaches. But still… Tara could at least pretend to be upset, for my sake.
“Hold your horses,” I replied. “I’m still working on it.”
Like the previous newspaper clippings I had received, I pieced the mysterious message together that I suspected delivered more bad news that meant my estranged husband’s life was in dire straits… or worse.
By worse I meant dead.
The letters bounced and bobbed as I trembled. Holding the page out far enough to clear up the blurred words that the pair of cheaters in my purse could fix, I was too anxious—and prideful—to root around for them. Eventually the words came together:
your husband was k ill d you are next
“Your husband was ill. You are next,” I whispered, repeating the marked words verbatim. “Lord have mercy, Rick’s sick! And it’s contagious! Do you think whatever he has is deadly?”
“Huh?” Tara pulled the clipping from my fingers and read it. “Oh, honey, that can’t be what that says.”
Tara wrapped her arm around me as the shudders worked their way up my hands to my entire body. I didn’t know where the heebie-jeebies stopped and the age-onset tremors began.
“I told you to get your eyes checked. Why won’t you get some eyeglasses?”
“I don’t need them. I can spot a tick on a coon hound from a country mile.”
I had always prided myself on my 20/20 eagle-eye vision, the better to keep a lookout on our neighborhood. Only recently had I noticed my neighborhood watch was turning into a neighborhood squint. I hadn’t told Tara about my drugstore cheaters, lest she demand I give up my position as Head Watcher. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I made up the term and it suits me just fine, no matter how weird it sounds watching heads.
“Well, then you’d clearly see that it says…” Tara paused, silently reading the message. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Ging.”
“Why? What’s the bad news?”
Tara refused to meet my gaze as she mumbled, “Your husband was killed.”
“What the—? No, that can’t be.”
The shock of reality—that Rick was dead, gone, for good this time—grazed me but didn’t fully hit me yet. I had been so used to imagining him as a stiff countless times in the past, especially when he would empty our bank account at the bar or forget to pick our son Benson up from school while I was working… but imagining and knowing were two very different things.
“Do you think this is talking about Rick…” Tara hesitated as she caught herself speaking the unspeakable, “or do you think this is referring to Chris?” A panicked pitch lifted her voice at the thought of her husband being the intended target.
Normally my mind wouldn’t have even considered that possibility. But today wasn’t normal. In fact, quite the opposite when Chris, her husband and my son, hadn’t come home on the flight scheduled to arrive earlier this afternoon. A bomb threat, Tara found out, but the airline wouldn’t give her any other information, as it was still under investigation. And the news hadn’t reported on it yet, which meant anything could have happened.
Tara had tried calling Chris countless times, all of which went straight to voicemail. Unlike his negligent bio-dad Rick, Chris always showed up for his family. Always. No bomb threat could keep him away. At least I hoped not.
Could Chris have been killed? No, I couldn’t imagine my straight-laced, innocent son being punished for his father’s shady business dealings. It couldn’t be Chris. It had to be Rick. It just had to be.
“No, honey, don’t think like that,” I tried to sooth Tara. And myself. “There’s no way this is talking about Chris. I’m sure he’s fine. Probably throwing back rum and cokes at the airport bar.”
Which Chris never would do because he had the alcohol tolerance of a four-year-old. And I only knew about childhood alcohol tolerance because Rick had once left an open bottle of vodka out and our four-year-old Bennie had mistaken it for water. One gulp was all he needed to realize the water had gone “bad” and he never liked drinking water much since.
Tara stumbled back, tears filling her eyes. “But that’s what criminals do! They target the loved ones. They could have gotten to Chris in order to make Rick do something for them!”
To make Rick do what? There was no ransom demand, no orders, nothing. Just threats. Maybe even empty ones.
“Whoever it is, it’s probably just an intimidation tactic. I mean, these are criminals we’re dealing with. They’re professional liars. I’m sure Chris is fine. And Rick too.”
But I didn’t believe a darn in the yarn I was spinning. Because if Rick had been abducted by who I suspected was behind this, he didn’t think twice about pulling the trigger.
Part 1
Ginger Mallowan
Chapter 1
Three Days Earlier…
It would have been the perfect day, if not for how it ended. Like a scenic drive through the autumn-colored mountains, only to take one wrong turn that sent you over a cliff Thelma and Louise style. Or cozied up by a fire with a hot cup of coffee on a cold night, only to spill it on your lap and get second-degree burns. The day started with my world so perfectly whole… if only I would have sensed the earthquake rumbling before it split it in half.
My toes tingled from the cool sand as the September sun settled into the horizon behind us. Dancing to the sound of pelicans prattling, my husband held me against him as the ocean patted the beach with loving touches. For the first time in years I felt young again. Vibrant.
And exposed, as a breeze lifted the hem of my dress, sending a prickle of chills up my legs.
“It’s windier than a sack full of farts,” I commented, holding the skirt down.
