Asking For Trouble - Millie Criswell Mills & Boon M&B

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      The ancient dwelling, though up to fire code, would go up like a tinderbox if those cartons ignited. She made a mental note to discard them as soon as she could make the arrangements.

      Grabbing a jar of damson plum jam off the shelf, she dusted it on the leg of her jeans, calling out to the dog, but he refused to come. “Buster, Buster, where are you?” She didn’t intend to spend one more minute than necessary in the bowels of the Ordinary. “Let’s go, boy. I’ve got a treat for you.” But still the dog refused to heed the command.

      Cursing softly beneath her breath, Beth moved cautiously toward the other end of the cellar, directing the shaft of light to reveal an old wooden work-table. There, resting on top was a small metal camp shovel. She searched her memory, finally remembering where she had seen the tool before. It had been the day her aunts had been arrested for shoplifting from Herb Meyer’s Hardware Store.

      On a whim Aunt Ivy had secreted the shovel beneath her coat to see if she could get away with stealing it. She hadn’t. And it had taken all of Beth’s persuasive powers and a promise to buy all of her gardening implements from Meyer’s Hardware, even though they were twice as expensive as Builder’s World, before the man agreed to drop the charges.

      Guiding the beam of light to her right, she discovered Buster frantically clawing the earthen floor. “Stop that, you naughty dog!” Concerned the inquisitive pooch might accidentally expose and damage some old water pipes—a repair she could hardly afford—she moved closer to investigate.

      “What’re you doing, Buster? I told you we have to leave. Now!” Flashing the light on the dog’s find, she gasped when she saw what looked to be a large, dirt-encrusted bone and stared in openmouthed horror as Buster’s digging produced more skeletal remains. She inched closer, unable to take her eyes off the ghastly discovery.

      “We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely.”

      Her aunts’ emphatic insistence that Beth avoid the cellar came flooding back and she started to get a really bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. It might have been the four scones slathered with strawberry jam that she’d eaten that morning, but she didn’t think so. She clasped her churning stomach, feeling as if she was going to throw up or faint—she couldn’t decide which—and inhaled deeply.

      Why had her aunts advised her to avoid the cellar?

      It was pitch-black. The flashlight, waving up and down because her hand shook so badly, didn’t shed much light or meaning as to what exactly she was looking at. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t want to believe what she was looking at. She grasped it tightly with both hands to steady it, and herself.

      What were those bones doing in her cellar? And who had put them there?

      Her aunts were the only ones who ever ventured into the bowels of the Two Sisters Ordinary on a regular basis. They were fond of canning applesauce, putting up jams and jellies, and they stored the canned goods in the cellar, where the temperature was cooler.

      “Iris is trying to raise the dead.”

      “Lyle McMurtry.” Beth whispered the name, then shook her head. The possibility was just too ridiculous to consider.

      Or was it?

      CHAPTER TWO

      BETH CONTINUED to gape at the bones, and what she was thinking was…well, unthinkable.

      Iris and Ivy had been acting stranger than usual of late, if that was possible. The old ladies had a reputation for eccentric behavior, and for being a bit off their rockers. She couldn’t deny that they were both somewhat addled.

      Shivers of foreboding tripped down her spine as she tried to decide what to do about the bones. After a few moments, Beth came to a decision: They had to be reburied. If anyone else found them, it would reflect very badly on her aunts.

      But what if they’re guilty?

      What if Iris had done away with Lyle McMurtry and then had enlisted the aid of her sister to bury the poor guy in the cellar, as everyone suspected? As hideous as that thought was, it had to be considered.

      If she reburied the bones, she’d be an accessory after the fact. Hiding evidence was a crime, not to mention immoral. But what other choice did she have? The old ladies were already suspects. Sheriff Murdock had made no secret that he thought they were responsible for McMurtry’s disappearance. And she was responsible for them. They’d always been there for her; she couldn’t abandon them now.

      Picking up the camp shovel, she set to her task, vowing to get to the bottom of the mystery, and knowing that until she did, the bones would have to remain hidden. It might not be the wisest decision, but it was the best one she could come up with at the moment.

      Beth knew she should go to the sheriff and report her find. But how could she? The whole scenario sounded crazy. And a reinvestigation into a fifty-year-old matter could jeopardize the lives of her aunts. Innocent people were convicted every day of crimes they didn’t commit.

      As nutty as the old women were, she loved them dearly and had to protect them, which is why she couldn’t go to Iris and Ivy with her suspicions. It would hurt them tremendously.

      But what if they’re guilty?

      She couldn’t think about that now.

      The officer from the bank was due to arrive at any moment. Once Mr. Pickens completed his inspection of the inn she would sit down and think long and hard about what she was going to do. But she wouldn’t mention them to anyone. If Mr. Pickens found out about the bones, she could kiss her loan goodbye.

      The wind whipped a spindly pine branch against the narrow dirt-covered window and Beth nearly jumped out of her skin. But no wonder she was nervous. She had a pile of buried bones in her cellar and a couple of loony aunts who were looking pretty guilty of a fifty-year-old crime.

      Feeling chilled to the bone—poor choice of words—Beth proceeded with her task. A few moments later, a glimmer beneath the worktable caught her attention. Dropping the shovel, she moved toward it, kicking the dirt with the toe of her shoe until the object was revealed.

      The gold locket was tarnished and appeared very old. She picked it up and, using her thumbnail as a wedge, attempted to pry it open. The lid finally popped to disclose two small black-and-white photographs. One was unmistakably her aunt Iris, looking young, radiant and happier than she’d ever seen her. The other was of a handsome, smiling man Beth assumed was Lyle McMurtry.

      She stared at the locket in disbelief, shaking her head at the full import of what she’d just discovered—another piece of incriminating evidence.

      Was this proof positive that her aunts were somehow involved? The locket was obviously her aunt Iris’s, and now here it was at the scene of the crime, if a crime had actually been committed.

      Not only was she hideously lacking Lara Croft’s chutzpah, she apparently had little of Nancy Drew’s flair for mystery, either.

      Dropping the piece of antique jewelry into the front pocket of her jeans, she got down on her hands and knees and began clawing the earth in the same fashion the dog had minutes before. She was filled with apprehension and dread, worrying and wondering what other items she would find that might shed light on what had occurred in this basement so long ago.

      At first, her search came up empty and she breathed a sigh of relief. But then, just as she was about to give up, she spotted something white. Yanking hard to free it, she discovered a piece of old linenlike material. There appeared to be splotches of dark brown covering it. Blood? She swallowed hard. Paint? She prayed fervently, unwilling to take the chance it wasn’t connected.

      Beth gathered up the remaining pieces of material, which looked to be part of a man’s shirt, and placed them in the ground with the bones. She had just dropped the last shovel of dirt onto the makeshift grave when the doorbell chimed.

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