Hello there. I’m Hardy Rye. My daughter, Prudence Rye (she only goes by Rye, if you want to keep on her good side, and I promise, you do), told me she has too much paperwork to finish up before school’s out for break to write this, and her friend Wanda Duff, who might also shed some light on the goings on around here has to write a sermon. They deputized me to do the work for them. Rye and Wanda thought this real funny since I was sheriff for many years. Luckily, after years on the police force, I’ve cultivated a Zen like patience for the women in my life.
Rye would call on bull me being “Zen” about anything important, I’m sure, but that’s most likely due to the fact that she doesn’t love living back home again. She just came back from over a decade in Austin to take care of me last year, and although she’s built herself a nice little studio apartment in the old barn out back, it puts a damper on her social life. I told her I can’t help it if her partners all seem to like my cooking so much that they end up at my place more often than hers!
I have tried to give my girl some space though. She’s sharp as a tack, and she has a good heart, and although I’d never want her to stay on my account, it’s nice having her back. I only saw her once or twice a year when she lived in Texas, and now, it’s close to every day. It would be hard for a father not to appreciate it. She and her friends keep me young.
Of course, the fact that she and Wanda keep finding people whose deaths need investigating is keeping me on my toes too. Those two sure have a knack for uncovering mysteries my replacement seems to miss. I don’t have anything against Ryan Phennen – he does the job well, but he’s got a lot on his plate, and his attitude toward Rye and Wanda sometimes leaves something to be desired. Frankly, I don’t know what Wanda sees in him. They’ve dated on and off for a few years now, and it’s an explosive combination. Wanda’s the spark, and he’s a powder keg with a mighty short fuse.
She and I have started seeing more of each other since Rye’s been so busy, and I find Wanda’s company to be a balm. Though she’s rarely relaxed, and she always has her antennae up scanning for folks who might need her help, she makes me laugh, and she loves my cooking. She’s always reading a new book. They’re not all mysteries – she seems to have a real passion for learning new things.
I used to drive Rye up a wall when she was younger, making sure she knew as much about gardening and keeping house as she did cleaning and firing a gun, rebuilding a car engine, and baking a pie. She learned everything I taught her, but she didn’t have the same drive for knowledge that Wanda does. Rye’s mother was like that too – capable, and fiercely independent. When Rye wants to know something on her own accord, she will tear down heaven and earth for the answer. She didn’t inherit my tact either, but you will not find a more passionate educator. Rye loves those students through all the ups and downs life throws at them, and I couldn’t be prouder.
She and Wanda make a formidable team. If anyone can find out who left that body back in the woods, it’s the two of them. Of course, I’m going to keep my police scanner on, because if anyone could get themselves into trouble finding out who left that body back in the woods…it’s also them.
It was only Wednesday, and Wanda already felt over-clergied for the week. All morning she’d fielded calls about adjustments to the upcoming budget to accommodate a rotating homeless shelter that wanted to use their church one month a year. Her little flock was firmly in favor of opening the facilities for fifteen unhoused people, but they wanted to do it on a shoestring budget that wasn’t realistic unless every member planned to contribute meals, toiletries, and a lot of time.
Tony, her music director, and Lisa, the church administrator, who’d been pushing Wanda for months to write more website content, both disagreed with everything she wrote about the project for the unhoused, Halloween, All Saints, Thanksgiving, and probably New Year’s if she had gone that far, though she had not. The usually cheerful staff was moody as a middle school youth group.
Wanda and Lisa’s relationship had been strained since the spring, when an investigation into a drug ring at Fair Havens Assisted Living and Rehab had put Lisa’s three-year-old within arm’s reach of a desperate gunman. Wanda didn’t blame Lisa for having a hard time bouncing back, but it made the office chillier.
Tony, one of Wanda’s dearest friends, was rarely snippy—at least not with her—and not about something so trivial. She knew he had a new boyfriend, and although she thought it was going well, maybe something had happened between them and she’d been too busy to notice and inquire. It wouldn’t be the first time. As adept as Wanda was at sorting out problems for her parishioners, she could be clueless with friends. She expected them to stay the same and give her sanity markers in her constantly changing profession.
By three thirty, she decided to take her Jack Russell, Wink, on an extended walk for a mental reset before the evening council meeting. They’d circle the high school grounds, head up the trail behind the parking lot, into the woods, on to the cross-country course, and finally home. She’d give Wink his dinner, then head back to the church with yogurt and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to inhale before what would inevitably be a long night.
As Wanda pulled up her hood to shield herself from the light November mist, she could hear the cheers of a paltry crowd. Whoever heard of Wednesday afternoon football? Wanda knew that kids seemed younger every year, but these players looked painfully small.
A yellow school bus stood against the curb with the door accordioned open. Wink saw every open door as an invitation. “Wait!” She pulled back, but it was a retractable leash.
“Come on in, little fellow.” The driver gave the dog a broad grin. ‘Come’ was one of Wink’s favorite commands, and he was up the stairs in a second, dragging Wanda to the door with his nineteen pounds of determination.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to catch her balance.
The man chuckled. “Can he have a treat?”
“Certainly, although he would happily scour the bus for dropped snacks.”
A practically German Shepherd–sized milk bone appeared, and Wink laid down right where he was and started chewing with delight, holding the biscuit between his two front paws.
“I’m sorry for barging in,” Wanda said, and reached out her hand. “Wanda Duff.”
“I’m Ben.” He looked in his early fifties, less paunchy than most commercial drivers of her acquaintance, and bald by choice.
“Is this the Middlefield Junior Varsity team playing?”
“Freshman football.”
“Oh, I thought they were . . .”
“Small? Yep, but tough. And before you start quoting statistics about concussions at me, I’ll tell you I’d rather see these boys playing in a defined freshman league than desperately pushing themselves into JV.”
She couldn’t help but smile at his passion. He must hear questions like hers often. “I love football,” Wanda said, “but it’s true that we know more about its lifelong impact on the brain than ever before.”
He nodded gravely. “Makes me glad more kids are getting into track. Fewer injuries, and it’s not as expensive for families, you know? But sports—that’s what makes a kid grow up right, knowing how to be a team, how to win and lose.”
Wanda smiled. “Do you like driving a school bus?”
“I love it. I drive Uber and airport limos before and after my shifts, but this is where my heart is. I’m probably more of a ‘dad’ here than I was with my own boys, but that’s divorce for you.”
Wanda, two-time loser, knew something about that. “Do you have a lot of trouble with bullying?
“Not on my bus.”
Wink was licking his paws with a self-satisfied tongue, and she could see him judging whether more treats were possible. “Thanks for Wink’s treat. Now we need to walk it off.”
“Have a nice day, Reverend Duff.”
She and Wink already had turned toward the tennis courts. Reverend? Was there nowhere she could hide?
Behind the school, there was a ropes course and a few climbing walls. As she headed in that direction, she could hear what sounded like a zoo, or possibly a commercial wild animal park. She craned her neck. It was the marching band. The brass was out and tuning up. The percussion was being carried across the parking lot. Wanda counted four bass drums, at least a dozen snares, several quad sets, three kettle drums, and multiple cymbals. If she took this route again, Wink might need noise-cancelling headphones.
The clarinets were drifting in—perhaps it was the instrument of choice of the perennially late. The drums had started with a cascade of intricate rhythms, though, and a steady unison crescendo of beats poured forth like a heartbeat. She could feel it coming up through the pavement. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Then it was cut off. The sudden silence was almost alarming.
Wanda shook herself and checked her hearing aids. Maybe she would turn them all the way down for the rest of the walk. She could use a break from listening to what everyone needed from her. She stroked the covers gently, recalling her splurge—autumnal colors with delicate gold vine tracing, and an amber enamel maple detail that coordinated with her gold curled-leaf earrings. When she was at her desk, they even matched her gorgeous crimson readers.
As silence descended, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
It was a liminal space, this trail through a strip of forest between the school and the back of a nursing home. As Wanda and Wink tramped over the fallen leaves, the darkness settled in rather suddenly. Autumn was a lonely time, but she came here to feel alone. Close enough to the road for most people to hear a truck cough, a car engine turn over, and the distant honking pilgrimage of geese, though for her they were whispers. Closer were the thin, sighing sounds she could imagine with her eyes—a chipmunk’s hasty flight from its wild, small fears, the crunching of the carpet of detritus beneath her own boots, and, far above, a few yellow leaves stirred by the wind, thick, brittle, castanet, ready to let go.
After the time change, the fingers of darkness would gather evening in early. She and Wink walked slowly, savoring these early October days with slanted light and chill breezes. He stopped to sniff every few steps, occasionally wrenching her arm out of the socket to scare a rabbit. Although they often came here, she was struck today by a sudden feeling that they were not alone. Probably a deer watched her, wondering which way to run, or a coyote—a danger to house cats, but not to them. Wink caught her unease and whined at her.
She scratched behind his ears. “It’s okay, Wink. Pretty soon, though, we’ll have to give this path up until April.”
Wanda shook herself like Wink coming in from rain and tried to regain the buoyancy she’d soaked up from the football players, friendly bus driver, upbeats of the practicing band, even the sudden heart-stop on the drums. No one was lurking—no one was watching.
And then she saw the hand.
It was white against a brown pack of leaves, palm open, fingers curled. Wink pulled toward it. Early Halloween prop, dropped from a backpack. Wanda took shallow breaths, glanced around, and stepped closer. Dark mound, clothes, dark . . . hair.
“Hello?” Her hand clenched around Wink’s lead, keeping him close.
She knew a young man who lived rough out here, but this wasn’t Dave. Wanda could tell that, even from the distance of a few feet.
“Hello?”
No answer. Wanda crept forward and crouched down. At the office, she had Narcan and knew how to use it, but not on an afternoon walk. No. She touched the hand.
It was cold.
Too late for Narcan if this was an overdose. Wanda’s eyes filled with tears.
And then she felt it very strongly—the presence that she had felt before. Someone watching. Her hair stood up on the back of her neck.
She stood up and backed off, fumbling for her cell phone while scattering doggie bags and tissues from her pocket.
“Nine-one-one. How may I assist you?”
Wanda’s hands were clumsy as she turned her hearing aids up so they could connect to her cell. “I’ve found a body.”
“What’s your name?”
“This is Wanda Duff. I’m walking my dog behind the high school, and I found a body. It’s so cold.” Wanda forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose. She could feel panic welling up.
The dispatcher’s voice was crisp. Wanda clung to the woman’s calm authority. “I’m sending units to you now. Stay on the line please.”
Wanda’s throat constricted as she spun in a circle. “I think somebody’s out here with me.”
Wink started to growl.
“Can you give me a more exact location?”
She could hear sirens. “Trail from the parking lot behind the school. Maybe a quarter mile in.”
“The police will be there shortly. Do not hang up.”
Wanda forced herself to kneel, to stroke Wink’s warm body. It steadied her. “Wait. I have an alarm.” She fumbled in her deep pockets, and more dog-walking paraphernalia dropped out. She finally found the little SLFORCE Personal Alarm antirape device and switched it on.
It was a deafening sound. She was sure the band director could hear her and was irritated. The dispatcher probably had permanent auditory damage. Poor Wink. But the police detail would find her more quickly. She wondered if Ben could even hear it from where he sat with his newspaper.
Wanda suddenly realized though that she felt alone for the first time since she’d headed up the trail. She said a soft prayer of release, and a blessing for this person lying on the ground, for whatever life this open hand left behind.
About the Authors
CHERIE MULL is a mom of four who has always loved making and eating good food. After graduating with a degree in biology, Cherie worked in gene sequencing and pharmaceutical research before exchanging her lab coat for an apron. She now owns a thriving baking business, creating cakes and custom treats for weddings, birthdays, and other celebrations. Cherie and her husband, Bryson—Brandon Mull’s brother—have been beta readers for the Fablehaven stories since the beginning, and she is thrilled to be a part of this new adventure.
A gripping, historical art mystery set in 1950s New York, For the Minds and Wills of Men is a story of art, love, and Cold War fear, suspicion, and betrayal.
Jeff Lanier is an award-winning author. He earned bachelor’s degrees in history and art history at The University of Texas, Austin, with a focus on the History of American Culture through Art and Literature. He has a master’s from Rice University, is a member of the American Society of Aesthetics, and currently lives in Houston with his wife and three children.
John A. Heldt is a reference librarian and the author of the critically acclaimed Northwest Passage time-travel series. The former award-winning sportswriter and newspaper editor has loved getting subjects and verbs to agree since writing book reports on baseball heroes in grade school. A graduate of the University of Oregon and the University of Iowa, he is an avid fisherman, sports fan, home brewer, and reader of thrillers and historical fiction. When not sending contemporary characters to the not-so-distant past, he weighs in on literature and life on his blog.
A longtime magazine journalist, Allie Mahoney has written for Town & Country, Time Out New York, and Cosmo. A lifelong Agatha Christie fan, her shelves are also filled with the books of P.G. Wodehouse, Dave Barry, Sophie Kinsella, and Carl Hiaasen. Additional guilty pleasures: Classic Hollywood movies, fashion, dogs, Bravo tv, BritBox, Phillies baseball, and the beach.
Jill Piscitello is a teacher, author, and an avid fan of multiple literary genres. Although she divides her reading hours among several books at a time, a lighthearted story offering an escape from the real world can always be found on her nightstand.
Award-winning novelist, Verlin Darrow is a psychotherapist who lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near the Monterey Bay in northern California. They diagnose each other as necessary.
Maren C. Tirabassi’s forty years’ experience in mainline ministry shape Wanda Duff’s professional life (but not her personality). Tirabassi is a former Poet Laureate of the city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and has published poetry and short stories in fifteen anthologies, as well as twenty nonfiction titles.
Maria Mankin, Maren’s daughter, has written five nonfiction books and a thriller, Circ (Pigeon Park Press). Rye’s dilemmas are influenced by Mankin’s ten years in education as a teacher and administrator. She holds a degree in Writing, Literature and Publishing from Emerson College.
Chris Abernathy has narrated more than 200 audiobooks and now he is writing his own stories. He has been a storyteller his entire life — around campfires at a summer camp as a counselor, on the radio for more than 30 years, as an actor with background roles on major motion pictures and TV series, as a producer of short films for social media and more. Chris is married with two sons and lives on the Gulf Coast in Alabama. He is a dual national with citizenship in the US and UK and visits family in the Scottish Highlands as often as possible.
