The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon Read online

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  The Clancy Evans Mystery Series

  One Lost Soul More

  Mercy Killing

  The Peace Haven Murders

  Revenge

  Desperate Measures

  The Outcast In Grey

  Out Jumps Jack Death

  The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

  A Clancy Evans mystery

  M. Glenn Graves

  The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon: A Clancy Evans Mystery

  M. Glenn Graves

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2017 M. Glenn Graves

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Cover design by City Lights Press

  Contents

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  Acknowledgments

  Untitled

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  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

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  Get Your FREE eBook!

  About the Author

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  To Cindy, with the greatest of love

  Acknowledgments

  There is essentially no way in which a story can be told in any type of “book” format without the writer being helped along the way. That means, of course, that I am greatly indebted to Wolfpack Publishers, specifically my bold and courageous editor, Mike Bray, and his outstanding staff who takes my manuscript and work their magic turning it into the eBook format. Prior to this wonder-working accomplishment, I want to thank LinDa Campbell for reading through and noting all her grammar concerns, and her pointed suggestions for making it read better. I confess that she likes commas more than I do. Finally, I want to thank Cindy for her reading, re-reading, editing, and re-editing multiple times in this writing process. Without these friends and associates, I could not write the stories I love to write.

  Glenn Graves

  Mars Hill, North Carolina

  “Hey diddle diddle!

  The cat and the fiddle,

  The cow jumped over the moon.

  The little dog laughed

  To see such sport,

  And the dish ran away with the spoon.”

  – Mother Goose

  “Things are not untrue

  just because they never happened.”

  – Dennis Hamley, Hare’s Choice (1988)

  Prologue

  She moved along the trail as if she had a purpose, perhaps a destination. Nothing was in her mind as to a specific place or a time she had to be somewhere. Her singular thought was to just keep moving along the path she knew so well. Now and then she would pause as if listening for sounds following her. The hesitation was only a momentary thing; she had to get away. That was her driving force. Far, far away.

  She could simply not be caught … again.

  Her mission was to save herself. The trail, which meandered through a familiar section called Shelton Laurel, was the world she knew and loved. Her hope was that this secluded space, this massive arena of trees and shrubs and bushes and wildflowers and abundant wildlife, would hide her from the predator, the disgusting predator.

  A storm was coming, that she knew. Her life in these wilds had taught her much about the weather and its patterns. A storm was coming. She paused to listen once again. How ironic, she thought. A storm was coming and a storm was moving. She smiled for no one except herself.

  She heard nothing except the wondrous sounds of the world around her. How comforting. How peaceful. Something in her longed for some more time to enjoy the ambience. Too costly to stay. She moved away.

  Another ten minutes of hard hiking with no thoughts about her predicament. She had that ability. She could segment her situation by sheer determination and focus upon the immediate. That she had learned through her years of hiking … years of hiking, despite her young age.

  She stopped again, abruptly this time. Through the clearing of the wild landscape above her, she watched as the clouds darkened. It seemed that they had stopped moving and had decided to settle on the area exactly where she was. There was no movement at the treetops. Nature was fast becoming something she would have to endure. She had been here before. She felt no threat from nature. The natural world of her mountainous environs was home, had always been home. Her place of refuge. Solace. It was her life here in the mountains.

  She began to run. Running might help take her mind off what was happening. The brewing storm dampened her spirit despite her rapid movement away from what she perceived to be a prison of power.

  How ironic, she thought as she moved swiftly along, … a storm approaching me, of all people.

  It was more than fitting that her world of choice was this majestic section of the Blue Ridge Mountains called Shelton Laurel. She had been named after it, in a sense. Her father had insisted that she be called Laurel Shelton. The irony of her present situation had more to do with her mother’s contribution to her complete name. She was Laurel Storm Shelton. Perhaps her mother had sufficient intuition to know or to realize that her little girl had the capacity to create storms – winds of discord, winds of disturbance, winds which brought change to all of those around her.

  Her mother had often told her of the fact that she chose Storm in that naming process years ago. That was probably the reason that this stormy young lady chose to be called Laurel instead of Storm. She was, indeed, her father’s daughter, even now with his long absence.

  A storm was coming on the trail behind her even as she moved swiftly away from her mother’s so-called man. A boyfriend, of sorts. Laurel hated her mother’s man; of that she was certain. From the beginning, she questioned her mother’s judgment. Sometimes the heart has stirrings not altogether rational. Laurel had not yet experienced any of that, but what she did know from her experience of being around the man was that this fellow’s demeanor, perhaps his essence, and yes, what she determined to be his character, had that flavor which frightened her, and for good reason. Limited experience was still a good teacher if one paid attention to it.

  While she no longer played games of
pretend, she knew pretentiousness when it reared its face no matter who might be hiding behind it. Laurel was not very old, but old enough to perceive something unhealthy. Besides that, she loved her mother as much as she hated the man. This latter truth created the dilemma for her. She was running away from two people – one she hated and one she loved.

  Hate is such an ugly word, she thought to herself as she slowed her pace now that the trail had a steeper incline. Breathing heavily, she trudged up the mountain. Another hour and she would reach the well-known AT. Then she would have to decide. Always more decisions.

  Her young but strong legs were beginning to ache, so she stopped to rest on a tree fall just off the trail. The former stately oak had not made it through the last winter. A few green leaves had found a way to survive the tree’s death, but most of it was gone. Likely it was the result of lightning, with the added encouragement of a strong wind that had caused the massive tree’s demise. As she rested, she noticed a small section of the tree trunk that had rotted from natural causes. The weakened section no doubt had contributed to its collapse. All it takes for something to break is an internal weakness. Then, when some outside force comes along and pushes too hard, the result can be a great fall. She recalled a nursery rhyme from earlier in her life. The truth of the fall entered her consciousness, and the fact that no one could put this massive oak back to its original position again. Nursery rhymes may be for little children, but adults can learn from them as well. She wondered if this was happening to her, her situation, her world, her life. Was she falling, about to fall, about to be left in pieces?

  It was time to move again. Stop thinking and move quickly. Instead of jogging, she walked as fast as she could manage. She was refreshed. Her young body rejuvenated in short order after a quick sip of water from her canteen and the short respite. Her leg muscles responded kindly to this new pace and style. The aching thighs subsided.

  She climbed the mountain as the storm brewed. Darkness was present both inside and outside of her. Controlling her fear was the main thing. That was always the case, the fight, the drive. It was what her father had taught her. Everyone is afraid of something. Learn to manage what you fear. Stay calm. As long as you stay calm, you can think. Thinking can save your life. She rehearsed what she could remember from her father’s teachings. He had been gone from her life for five years. The thought of his absence made her sad. But there were no tears, just some latent loneliness.

  Another long climb and she needed another break. She swung the backpack to the ground and sat down on a rock this time. A few more minutes and she would be on the AT. She immediately recognized her surroundings. She drank a few sips of water, which refreshed her. Rummaging around in the backpack, she found one of the several granola bars that she had taken from Beth’s kitchen. It tasted both sweet and salty. She needed quick energy.

  Gone from the house close to three hours, she knew by now someone would be suspicious. Someone would be asking questions. Of course, no one knew that she had left, no one knew that she had come this way, no one would even miss her until, well … maybe now.

  She had no reason to believe that they might come looking for her, but she wasn’t taking chances on that possibility. A fool’s thinking would be to assume that she had gotten away without a hitch. Better to plan on someone following. Better to plan that someone might actually come this way after her. They might get lucky. Better to think that they were on the trail than otherwise. She could last longer that way.

  A few minutes passed and she was refreshed. Back on the trail once more. It was now a short distance to the AT. Her energy was renewed. Her leg muscles were willing to go at it hard once again. She was invigorated with the idea of freedom. The AT was so close she ran the last few yards through the naturally cleared section of the mountain. Nature had come through with some vengeance in some distant past and had left a wide-open space amid the majestic forest. The actual trail had disappeared along with the trees and bushes. She always wondered if some hikers would reach this section, give up, travel no further, and turn around, heading back the way they had come. Some would, she had reasoned often. Especially those who didn’t have maps or knowledge informing them that the AT was close at hand. Or maybe they were too tired from climbing the Shelton Laurel portion and decided they had enough for the time being.

  The partial clearing offered up to her a mountaintop field of sparse, young saplings with full leaves, still blooming rhododendron, and some summer-tall grasses. The sight provided her with ethereal euphoria.

  The upside of the disappearing trail was that it provided an advantage for her from her predator. He lived in the mountains, but he did not know the mountains. She could easily lose him now that she was here, so close to the Appalachian Trail just ahead. It was all directional instinct and knowing where one was in the forest now that there was no longer an obvious path to follow. The advantage was hers.

  She stopped when she reached the AT. Time to decide. To the left, she would be heading towards the town of Madison, the county seat, and back in the direction of her mother’s house. To the right, Tennessee and Virginia loomed large on her horizon.

  Laurel turned right and walked at a faster clip since the trail was now level for the most part. At least it was not an uphill climb as she had endured for the last two hours. She began to feel safer. Strong feelings of relief came over her as she moved along the familiar path heading northward. The unknown ahead of her was not nearly as fearful as the situation behind.

  She stopped quickly and felt her shorts’ pocket for the cell phone. It was still there. She took it out to see if she had any reception along the AT’s ridge. One bar. She decided to wait and check again later.

  It was still warm, but the temperature had dropped a few degrees since she had left home. The cloud cover helped to create the cooler breezes. It was still early, and she knew she could make good time if the weather held. She doubted that the weather would hold. It had been a wet spring, and now that summer had arrived, nothing much had changed. The rains continued to fall every week.

  She climbed a little hill and turned a sharp corner around some large boulders that had forced the early trailblazers to go around the outcroppings. Laurel Shelton stopped unexpectedly. Two men were approaching her. Her instincts told her that they were not regular hikers – no backpacks, regular footwear, and cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Not the manner of seasoned hikers.

  They stopped. One of them pointed at her. One of them began to run toward her, the other followed a few seconds later. By this time, Laurel had already decided that she was in trouble and had turned quickly. She was running at top speed in less than five seconds.

  There was no way the two men could have caught her except for the natural occurrence of a main root of a nearby tree that crossed the trail. She was not looking down in her desperate get away. The root was high enough to create the obstacle that her attackers needed. The speed with which she was moving became a detriment instead of an asset. She landed spread-eagle with her hands sliding along some sharp rocks, scraping them as she slid along the path head-first. She felt the pain before she saw the blood.

  She had no time to take inventory. She tried to jump to her feet and escape. Her right ankle was slightly twisted from the way in which she had encountered the root; running was now out of the question. By the time she got to her feet and limped two or three steps, the pain was too much.

  Laurel eased her injured body onto a small rock and waited for the two men who finally arrived. Despite the anger she had with herself, she remained calm during this present crisis.

  Chapter 1

  By the time I reached my apartment in Norfolk, I was sick of rain. It had been raining the whole week I had been with my mother in Clancyville, Virginia. That means I was sequestered, locked for six straight days inside the house I used to call home. I was a veritable prisoner inside that house with my mother. I don’t walk in the rain. I don’t drive in the rain, unless I must. I don’t like to d
o much of anything in the rain. I was a prisoner in my childhood home with my quasi-adversarial mother.

  On the seventh day, I had to escape so I wouldn’t shoot her. Sam and I left early this morning. My excuse was a pressing case. I told her I had to get back to Norfolk to begin my work for this desperate person in great need.

  The desperate person was me. The great need was the restoration of my sanity after six soggy days with my mother. Sam, the wonder dog, was sleeping later and later each day because he simply did not enjoy the conversations which ensued from the moment we awakened until time for bed.

  It was not the vacation I had envisioned. There was no respite.

  Actually, I do have a case which is pending. A guy named Sal Sampson believes that his wife, Zelda Lola Sampson, is cheating on him. If you knew Sal, you would know why Zelda might be cheating. If you knew Zelda, you would definitely suspect that she was cheating, and you would know why. Technically, I didn’t lie about the case. I fudged on the pressing part. It wasn’t pressing at all. As far as I was concerned, it was a forgone conclusion that Zelda was two-timing Sal. The only real thing pressing on me was my need to finish my surveillance of the alleged affair, document it, make my report to Sal, and get my compensation. It was ugly work, but at least I would get paid.