Redstonesf 16, p.1
Grave Deception : A Maisie Doss Mystery, page 1
GRAVE DECEPTION
MAISIE DOSS MYSTERY
BOOK 3
TONYA KAPPES
CONTENTS
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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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author’s Note
Books By Tonya
About Tonya
TONYA KAPPES
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1
Nearly barfing from the scent of Wes Dalton’s cologne, a mix of cedar and something spicy, I rolled down the window and peeled the back of my thighs from the sweat between them and the leather seats.
Wes’s face was a mix of frustration and concern as he gripped the steering wheel.
“Maisie”—Wes's voice was strained—”I need to know about those letters. Why didn't you tell me about Earl?”
“I’ll tell you about Earl.” The bitter taste of just saying the jerk’s name made my mouth water. “He beat Dixie Rae Gibbons so bad she lost her baby. Then he up and disappeared when he got the chance after she told him she filed them papers against him. That’s what I can tell you about Earl.”
The hum of the car’s engine filled the air as we sped down the quiet streets of Newport, Kentucky. I glanced at him, and his jaw was tight and his eyes focused. He had called me out, needing to talk about the letters he’d found after illegally letting himself into my apartment.
The letters were threatening to me and Dixie. Stating they knew what we’d done to Earl. Dixie Rae wasn’t just a best friend, she was blood. And where I come from, there ain’t nothin’ more precious than blood no matter what went on.
Dixie had shot him and called me. I did what needed to be done. Granted, it was to toss him in the back of Dixie’s car and take him down to the beach area on the Ohio River, on what I called the good side of the river, the Kentucky side. We disposed of his body, but apparently the man had nine lives.
Or I could blame it on the fact that Dixie Rae and I had not done our due diligence and made sure Earl was dead.
Looking back on it, I wasn’t so sure Dixie wanted to kill Earl. More like scare him so much he’d never want to mess with her again.
Wes’s voice was low and serious when he spoke, each word weighed down with concern.
“Maisie, you need to be honest with me. This could jeopardize your position as a CI for the department. It could hurt you,” he said, his gaze locking onto mine. “Earl is demanding a trial.”
“Let him,” I said, knowing I’d put him in prison after I’d loosely tied him to an illegal art ring, which he didn’t have any part in, but I was smart enough to have entwined him with the ring and planted enough evidence that there was no way a jury would set him free. “Maybe they’ll give him longer for abusing Dixie and killing her baby.”
I opened my mouth to say something else, but before I could utter a word, his police radio crackled to life.
“All units, all units, we have a 10-80 in progress, suspect fleeing westbound on Monmouth Street. Requesting immediate backup. All units, respond.”
Wes's eyes widened, and without hesitation, he flicked on the siren and lights on the unmarked car. The car lurched forward, throwing me back into my seat. The thrill of the chase was instantaneous, adrenaline surging through my veins.
The siren blared, a piercing wail that echoed through the narrow streets. The reflection of red and blue lights flashed in the shop windows as we zoomed past, the colors blending into a dizzying blur. We weaved in and out of traffic, Wes's expert driving keeping us just inches away from disaster. Each swerve and turn sent my heart racing.
“Hang on!” Wes shouted over the noise, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.
I could feel the car's tires screeching against the pavement as we rounded a sharp corner. The buildings seemed to close in around us, their brick façades a blur in my peripheral vision. The roar of the engine was deafening, mingling with the sounds of honking horns and the wail of the siren.
I gripped the door handle, my heart pounding in sync with the siren. The city lights streaked past in a dizzying array of neon and headlights. We weaved in and out of traffic, Wes's focus unyielding as he maneuvered the car with precision.
“Faster,” I urged, the adrenaline surging through my veins.
We sped past pedestrians who barely had time to jump out of the way, their faces a mix of surprise and fear.
The air was thick with the smell of burning rubber and the metallic tang of fear. My pulse pounded in my ears, matching the frantic beat of the chase.
“He's heading for the bridge!” Wes yelled, his eyes locked on the fleeing suspect's car up ahead.
I watched as the suspect's car swerved wildly, narrowly missing a parked delivery truck. The suspect was desperate, willing to risk everything to escape. Wes floored the accelerator, the force pinning me against the seat as we closed the gap.
Just as we reached the bridge, the suspect's car veered sharply to the right and fishtailed, losing control before slamming into a row of parked cars. Metal crunched, and glass shattered, the sound reverberating through the afternoon. Wes brought our car to a screeching halt, and the suspect, a lanky figure in dark clothes, rolled across our hood before scrambling to his feet.
“Stay here!” Wes ordered, but I was already moving.
Wes jumped out of the car, gun drawn, shouting for the suspect to stop, and I slipped out the passenger side, moving quickly to the corner of the block. My heart was in my throat, but my hands were steady as I drew my gun, aiming at the suspect.
The air was alive, and the street was chaos.
Backup cars came squealing from all directions, their tires screeching as they pulled to a stop. The suspect looked around, panic in his eyes, but he never saw me. He took one more step before I called out.
“Freeze! Drop the weapon!” My voice was firm, unwavering.
The suspect turned, his eyes widening as he saw me standing there, gun aimed directly at him. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The only sounds were the distant wail of sirens and the heavy thud of my own heartbeat.
The suspect hesitated, his eyes darting around for an escape. I took a step closer, my grip on the gun steady.
“Unless you want to end up face down in the morgue, I suggest you do as you're told.” I stared down the sleek steel of the gun. “Trust me, I have no problem putting you there.”
He hesitated again, and that was all Wes needed.
He tackled the suspect to the ground, wrestling the weapon from his grasp. Within seconds, the backup officers were on him, cuffs snapping around his wrists.
I lowered my gun, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Wes looked up at me, a mixture of relief and pride in his eyes.
“Put the gun away,” he demanded.
Both of us knew it was better for him to appear as though he’d apprehended the suspect by drawing his gun and not me.
I nodded, feeling the adrenaline start to ebb away. The thrill of the chase might be over, but the questions about Earl and those letters still loomed large.
“Thanks, buddy,” I said to the perp with a grin, knowing what he’d done had really taken the heat off of why I was in Wes’s car.
The letters.
“You can go on back to the car,” Wes instructed me.
Now, I wasn’t one to be told what to do, but I was smart enough to know when to listen. Wes’s tone left no room for argument, and besides, I had no desire to stick around and risk the attention of the other officers.
I slipped back into the shadows, blending in with the small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. The flashing lights painted everything in a mix of red and blue. I moved quickly but casually, keeping my head down and my movements smooth. It was second nature to me, a skill honed from years of needing to be invisible when it mattered most.
The officers were too busy securing the perp and dealing with the chaos to notice me. I skirted around the edge of the crowd, using the noise and confusion to my advantage. My heart was still pounding, but I focused on staying calm and controlled. The last thing I needed was to draw any unwanted attention.
I reached the car and slipped inside, the leather seat still warm from before. The siren’s blare and the chatter of police radios filled the air outside, but inside the car, it was eerily quiet. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
Glancing around, I noticed some papers sticking out from the shut glove box. Curiosity got the better of me, and I carefully opened it. Inside, a stack of notes came into view—not Wes’s, but the ones Earl had been anonymously sending to me and Dixie. My stomach tig
Hesitating for a moment, I looked out the windows to ensure no one was watching. The officers were still busy with the perp, their attention far from me. I quickly took the notes, folded them, and slipped them into the waistband of my jeans, hiding them under my tank top. The papers felt cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the adrenaline still coursing through me.
A hard knock on the passenger window jolted me out of my thoughts.
My heart skipped a beat. Sergeant Wilkes was standing there, his face a mask of stern authority. He gestured for me to roll down the window.
I complied, lowering the window with shaky hands. “Sergeant Wilkes,” I greeted him, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Doss.” He called me by my last name, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing with Wes? You shouldn't be here. There’s no CI case for you.”
My mind raced, searching for an explanation. “I... I was just...”
Before I could finish, Officer Brime approached, his familiar presence a surprising relief.
He had been my last marshal on the previous CI case.
“Maisie,” he called out, a friendly grin on his face. “So, are you taking our new case?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yes. Yes, I am,” I lied and looked between him and the Sergeant.
Wilkes raised an eyebrow, looking between Brime and me.
“I wasn't aware a CI was assigned to your case.” Wilkes obviously knew about the case Brime was referring to, leaving me in the dark, but I was good at the long game of pretending.
Brime chuckled, clapping Wilkes on the shoulder. “Just came down the pipeline, Sergeant. Guess they didn't loop you in yet. Doss, here, is perfect for it.” They exchanged my name as if I was nothing more than a piece of their puzzle, disposable to get to their man.
Wilkes studied me for a moment longer before nodding. “Alright then. Just make sure everything is by the book,” he stated, knowing this was a very hard request to make of me.
“Of course,” I replied, forcing a confident smile.
Lying.
Again.
Wilkes walked away, leaving me alone with Brime. He leaned in closer, his expression serious. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I breathed, relief flooding through me. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem,” he said with a wink. “But it looks like you just signed up again. I’ll be in touch.”
I nodded, watching as he walked away.
My life was a web of secrets, lies, and deception.
I slipped out of the car, the papers hidden under my shirt, and headed across the street. My mind raced with thoughts of the notes and what Wes could possibly want with them. The adrenaline from the chase had yet to fade completely, making each step feel more urgent.
I had to get to Dixie. I knew she was at her shop, Dixie’s Threads in Fort Thomas, and it would be a haul to get there on foot.
I knew once Wes saw I’d bolted, he’d be scouring the streets to find me.
And I knew he’d go to Dixie’s Threads when he couldn’t.
Slipping into Carabello Coffee Company on Monmouth Street, I knew he’d never believe I’d pay this much for a coffee, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans enveloped me as I approached the counter.
“Hi, I’ll have a... um, caramel macchiato with extra foam,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
The barista nodded, scribbling my order on a cup before turning to make the drink.
The place was bustling, a perfect cover. I wandered over to the window, where there was a bar to sit and look out while I waited for them to make my coffee.
I stared out at how the sun beat down relentlessly on the blacktop, causing the surface to shimmer and waver, while I tried to figure out my next move.
The intense heat radiated upward, creating a mirage-like effect that made the road appear to ripple and dance. It looked as if the pavement was melting, blurring the edges of the street and distorting the view ahead, making it seem like waves of water were flowing across the asphalt.
I pulled out my phone, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention, and dialed Boone’s number.
It rang twice before he picked up. “Maisie, what’s up?”
I could hear the familiar sounds of our family mechanic shop in the background—the whirring of the air compressor, the clanking of metal tools, and the rhythmic hum of the machine that removed nuts and bolts from tires.
As strange as it sounded, Boone’s background noise brought a sense of comfort despite the chaotic situation I found myself in.
“I need your help, Boone. Can you come get me? I’m at Carabello Coffee on Monmouth,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“What's going on?” His tone shifted, so he’d sensed the urgency.
“I’ll explain when you get here. Just hurry, and we need to dispose of some papers.”
There was a pause.
“Got it. On my way.” He never said goodbye.
The line simply went dead.
2
“Did you take care of it?” I asked Boone and slipped him an empty glass from behind the bar.
And while I was at it, I got me one too.
Mama was the regular bartender at the Camp Springs Tavern, but tonight she’d called in, leaving Willa in a bind. Mama called me to see if I could help out, and I’d do anything for Willa. Especially now since she had leased me the apartment above the tavern for much less than what she could’ve gotten.
“Mm-hmm.” Boone hummed and slipped a jar of clear from the inside of his jacket pocket, nonchalantly pouring us a little shot of the family’s homemade moonshine.
We clinked glasses and downed the shots, the familiar burn warming me from the inside out.
Boone leaned in closer, his voice low. “Used the papers to keep the still hot,” he said, the underlying meaning clear. The letters were gone, burnt up and never to be seen again.
A smile tugged at my lips, a mix of relief and satisfaction. Boone always had a way of getting things done.
The door to the tavern opened, and I caught a glimpse of Brime walking in. My heart skipped a beat, but I quickly masked my surprise with a casual demeanor, wiping down the bar and preparing for whatever came next.
Brime's eyes scanned the room before landing on me, when he gave a small nod of acknowledgment. I returned the nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. Boone noticed the exchange and gave me a questioning look, but I simply shook my head slightly, signaling that I would handle it.
“Another round?” Boone asked, lifting the jar again.
“Maybe later,” I replied, my eyes still on Brime as he made his way through the tavern and took a left down the short hallway to either the small stone room that once was a natural cold cellar or the stone room in the back where there was a pool table.
“I’ll be right back.” I put a hand on Cassie’s arm and moved behind her, only planning on leaving the bar for a few minutes to talk to Brime.
I walked down the hall and found Brime standing in the pool table room with a stick in his hand.
The stone room was cozy, its walls lined with aged wood and old signs that gave it a rustic charm. The lighting was dim, with hanging lamps giving an inviting glow. The clinking of pool balls and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air, blending with the lively bluegrass music playing outside.
A band was set up on the patio, their melodies drifting through the open windows and mingling with the laughter and chatter of patrons enjoying the night.
I could feel the bass reverberating through the floor, adding a heartbeat to the atmosphere of the tavern. The musicians were lost in their music, the lead singer's voice carrying tales of heartache and hope.
It was the kind of night that felt timeless, a moment suspended, but I could tell it was all about to change and I was probably never going to really forget tonight or even let it blend into another usual night in the fabric of my life.
Brime walked up to me with a casual smile, a pool stick in his grip, and he handed it over. I took it, understanding the unspoken message. This was a cover, a way for him to blend in while giving me the lowdown on my next CI case.
“Fancy a game?” he asked, his tone light and friendly.
