KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!

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DEAD-HANDED
A Nut Cracker Investigation Book 3
BY KATHERINE RAMSLAND

Blurb

What do Nathaniel Hawthorne, William James, Scottish lore, and a purloined corpse have in common? Cursed land near Concord, Massachusetts, linked to Annie Hunter’s family. When Annie arrives in Concord for her wealthy grandfather’s funeral, she’s stalked by those who want her gone. The more she learns about her crooked kin, the more she wants to be anywhere else. While her PI team investigates murders linked to a cyber game, Annie races to locate a deadly relic. If she fails, people will die, and she’ll lose her only link to her missing father. To stop the impending threats, Annie turns to three brothers whose family her ancestors ruined. In this third Nut Cracker investigation, the stakes are the highest they’ve ever been.

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Prologue for Dead-Handed

The teenage girl they pulled from the pond had been the envy of her peers. The “Most Likely to Succeed” track star and honor student, Marti Fielding, had a scholarship to Yale. Everyone thought nothing could stop the blonde dynamo.

Then she went missing.

Half of Dunbury had turned out for the search. It was three days before a hiker discovered Marti’s partially submerged body in Gilly Pond. By then, her skin was mottled, her green eyes glazed, and her pert nose disfigured by worms. The determination was suicide.

A week later, I stood at the edge of this pond amid the odors of wet pine and clumped leaves. Besides some birds, the place was silent. On a map, I noted how close I was to a decrepit settlement called Dacretown. This creepy spot had a reputation for being cursed. Such places can trigger desperate acts, especially in kids.

But I don’t just accept a medical examiner’s call. Sometimes they see only the surface. Once officials decide on suicide, they rarely take more steps. I sought a bigger picture.

Marti’s autopsy report showed pond water in the lungs and no external injuries. There was no tox analysis yet to say if drugs were involved. Still, this seemed a poor spot for ending a life, and the girl had left no note. No one knew where she’d been during the hours leading up to her death. I needed to know.

“Why here?” I wondered out loud. I looked back toward the parking spot. “Where was your car? No one mentioned one in the report. You couldn’t have walked here. Did someone bring you?”

I made a mental note to ask about her mode of transportation. She’d attended an elite boarding school, so I guessed she’d had her own car.

This death was the latest of three recent incidents involving teens. A boy had jumped from a cliff, another had run at a train. The second boy survived but was in a coma. Although Marti’s demise was distinct, I saw links to the others. Same age. Some friends in common. A recent party two had attended. And all three had selected a spot near Dacretown.

Parents had begged town officials to do something to stop these incidents. They needed an expert. That’s how I got involved. Not many psychologists are suicidologists. I was one of four on the East Coast, and by chance, I’d been in the area.

Or maybe it wasn’t chance. Looking back, it seems like we were meant to cross paths. Marti was caught in a web spun by people aware of me before I knew about any of them.

I thought about the brief notes in the girl’s file. She was in a training program to improve her college potential. She’d been doing well. Her parents had no clue why she’d done this. Yet, a study buddy said Marti had been bullied and thought someone was stalking her. A girl on Marti’s pole vault team said she’d hung out with a college guy who ran a secret club.

I’d identified the club, thanks to a resourceful reporter, Rob Galloway. He’d called it the Skeleton Crew. There were membership levels, with the Bone Heads in charge. They’d built a clubhouse, the Crypt, near the border of Dacretown, a.k.a., the Dead Line.

So, there was a club, a possible stalker, three seemingly related incidents, and a wooded property with dark repute.

I donned my gloves against the chill and avoided the snow that lingered from a surprise October storm. It was mostly gone from where the rescuers had rushed to pull Marti from the water. I moved away to look elsewhere.

“Was anyone here with you?” I asked. “A friend? Perhaps an enemy?” I’ve had cases in which kids in distress invited a witness. This was an age of selfies and influencers and reckless online challenges, including for suicide. Some kids want to make a mark or simply have a social presence, even in death.

I hadn’t ventured far when I spotted an imposing chain-link fence that bore a sign, Private Property: Keep Out. I approached it. On the other side behind a long thatch of weeds, I saw a moss-covered crumbling stone wall, two feet high. This fence, I thought, had to mark the Dead Line. I was closer to Dacretown than I realized.

I felt a prickle and turned. “Hello?”

A glob of snow fell off a branch.

I walked to my left, then stopped. Something glinted in the grass. I crouched down. The item was small, easy to miss. I inched closer. A gold hoop, perhaps an earring. I pulled out my phone and took a photo. Then I looked for a rock to use as a marker. I wasn’t losing this potential piece of evidence. I saw one nearby. Replacing my right glove with a rubber one, I grabbed the rock and set it close to the item, then took a picture.

Turning toward my SUV, I counted my steps to the parking lot. There, I opened the police report to read the inventory of items found with the body. “Okay, you were wearing jeans, a black bra, black panties, a pair of socks and ankle boots, a navy shirt, a ring on your right ring finger, a round gold earring in your right ear. No mention of its mate.” I hesitated. It had been as cold that day as it was today. “Where was your jacket? Your gloves?” This didn’t add up.

I grabbed a six-inch ruler and returned to my marker. Recalling the police chief’s quick dismissal of my professional credentials, I took a photo to text to her. Send someone to Gilly Pond to collect this.

I stepped back and looked around. Four feet north of the earring, I saw a distinct boot print in a patch of mud, too large to be Marti’s. Other footprints were present but obscured. I estimated at least two people here, maybe a third. Could be lookie-loos. Could also be witnesses with important information. Could be the person who’d ripped off an earring. Placing the ruler next to the clear print, I photographed it from different angles. Then I returned to my car to wait for the cops. This place had to be sealed off and fully processed.

Yesterday, I was begging for cases. Today, I had three. I also had the mystery of my grandfather’s dying plea.

About Author Katherine Ramsland…

Links to Katherine’s websites, blogs, books, #ad etc.:

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/2uvcfa9m

Website: https://www.katherineramsland.net/

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