Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Read online

  Murder on Russian Hill

  A Peyton Brooks’ Mystery

  Volume 3

  ML Hamilton

  Cover Art by Karri Klawiter

  www.artbykarri.com

  Murder on Russian Hill

  © 2012 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First print

  All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  As always, I dedicate this novel to my editing team. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for everything you do.

  I also dedicate this novel to my work family, who so generously embraced Peyton and her adventures. Thank you, my fellow educators!

  “The worst crime is faking it.”

  -- Kurt Cobain

  CHAPTER 1

  I was so nervous, I couldn’t sit still. I straightened the pens on the blotter again, then turned the recorder so it lined up with the edge of the desk. I’m not OCD, but when I’m nervous I like my ducks and pens in a row.

  Who wouldn’t be nervous, meeting a famous rock star? I wiped my hands against my skirt. I didn’t want my palms to be sweaty when we shook. The knock on the door was so quiet, I almost didn’t hear it over the pounding of my heart.

  I hurried across the living room, reaching up to smooth down my hair and straighten my blouse. My heels made a sharp tattoo on the wooden floor of the foyer as I crossed to the door. Okay, slow down, I told myself. You don’t want to scare him away with your excitement. Be professional.

  Without bothering to look through the peephole, I pulled the door open. He was turned, looking down the street, so my first view was of his profile and what a profile. He wore dark glasses, but he couldn’t hide the high cheekbones or the way his hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back. He turned and reached up, removing his sunglasses. He wore a dark brown leather jacket and a pair of black jeans. Beneath the jacket, his white shirt gaped at the throat and showed a bronze expanse of chest. A silver necklace with a bear on it lay between the lines of his pecs and an earring peeked out of the fall of his hair.

  His eyes were large, like black velvet, heavily ringed with lashes. His lips were full, but entirely masculine and those cheekbones cut sharp angles in his face, dropping down to a smooth-shaved, strong chin. The man was beautiful. There was no denying it.

  I forced a smile and thrust out my hand. “I’m so glad to meet you,” I said. My voice sounded strained, pitched way too high.

  He smiled, showing even white teeth, and took my hand. His grip was firm and I felt the press of a ring against my palm. I looked down and saw a silver band with etchings that looked like feathers encircling it on his middle finger.

  “Jolene Grey?” he asked. He had a smoky, sexy voice that rumbled from deep inside his chest. It was a voice I had listened to in the quiet of my room as a teenager, dreaming fantasies that would never be.

  “One and the same.” I reluctantly released him and stepped back. “Please come in.” As he passed me, I looked out at the street. A Jeep Cherokee was parked in front of my house, but he seemed to be alone. That surprised me. Didn’t rock stars usually have a huge entourage following them at all times? “No assistant?”

  He turned, sliding one of the ears on the sunglasses into the neck of his shirt. “No, no assistant. Just me.”

  I’m tall for a woman, five ten in heels, and standing in the foyer with him, I looked him directly in the eye. He wore a pair of beaten up brown boots, the heels rundown. I knew it was a fashion statement. A man like him could buy the finest pair of alligator boots if he wanted.

  “Please, come in.” I motioned into the living room. When I decided to become a writer, I’d turned it into an office. I liked the open space and I especially liked the view of the street the bay windows afforded me. I had to admit it. I was a voyeur. Other people’s lives had fascinated me from the time I was a child.

  He entered the room, looking around. I had to brush by him to get to my desk. He smelled clean, leather and musky, all male. I drew a deep breath and blinked, trying to gain control of my raging hormones.

  “Please, have a seat,” I said, motioning to the armchair before my desk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  He removed his jacket, placing it on the back of the chair. The tails of his white shirt were out, hanging around his hips. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying well-muscled, bronze forearms, and a leather-band wrapped around each wrist, held by a metal buckle.

  “Water, please,” he said, sinking into the chair.

  I hurried into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator, grabbing the decanter and reaching for a glass on the drain-board. “I’m so glad you found time to meet with me.” I poured the water and replaced the decanter, carrying the glass back to him. I placed it on a coaster in front of him, resisting the impulse to straighten it.

  He was staring at the recorder, but looked up when I sank into my own chair. For the first time, his expression looked tense. “I’m still not sure about this,” he said.

  I folded my arms on the blotter, wanting to appear unthreatening. “I’ll only write what you want me to write. I’m not interested in representing you in a way you don’t want. This isn’t an unauthorized biography. I only want to write what you tell me, nothing more. If you say you don’t want something in the book, it doesn’t go.”

  He nodded, but he was chewing on his lower lip. I got a strong feeling he might bolt if I wasn’t careful, so I kept my mouth shut and let him work through whatever he was feeling. “My therapist thinks this is a good idea, but…” His eyes lifted and he gave me the ghost of a smile. Damn, the man exuded a potent sexuality. “…I think she needs a shrink herself.”

  I laughed and I could see his shoulders lower a little. “Why don’t I tell you what I plan and then we’ll just talk?”

  He looked at the recorder again. “I’m not sure about being taped.”

  I grabbed the recorder and shoved it in the desk drawer. “It’s gone.”

  He gave me an amused smile. “If you’re going to be that accommodating, I’m not sure how I’ll refuse.”

  I picked up a pen and twirled it in my fingers, anything to control the nervous flutter in my belly. I wanted to be professional, not some giddy fan. He was used to giddy fans, I wanted him to see me as a confidant, as someone he could share his secrets with, someone he could trust.

  “So I thought we’d write it from first person, as if you were telling the story yourself…”

  “No.”

  I sat back, dropping the pen. The word was so forceful, so unyielding. His expression had gone hard. “I’m sorry?”

  He looked down and shook his head a few times as if he was trying to control himself. He reached for the leather band on his left arm and twisted it. “If this is going to work, we have to keep it clinical. It has to be third person. I don’t want it to be me telling it. I want it to be you.”

  I caught a glimpse of the wide, jagged scar beneath the band and eased forward in my chair. “As I said, we’ll do this your way. However you want to do it.”

  He stopped twisting the band and canted a look up at me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to go all dark on you. I want to do this, but it’s…hard.”

  I rose and circled the desk, going to the credenza in front of the bay window. I pushed the on-button for the MP3 player and the low strains of cl
assical music filtered into the air. Turning back around, I saw him relax against the back of the chair, his shoulders lowering a bit more. Nothing like music to soothe, I thought as I went back to my chair.

  “We’ll only go for as long as you want. We can stop at any time. I don’t have a deadline, so I’m willing to take as long as we need for this.” Besides, I couldn’t complain about the view.

  He reached for his water. His hand shook, but I pretended not to notice as he took a sip and replaced it. Running a finger through the condensation on the glass, he nodded. “Okay, let’s do this. Where do you want to start?”

  I picked up my pen again. “Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me your very first memory, the very first one that is clear to you.”

  His look became introspective as he traced another drop of water. “My first memory is of the reservation and meeting my step-father for the first time,” he said. “I was almost five.”

  * * *

  The boy flattened himself on the round river rocks, feeling the shifting of them against his belly. He crossed his arms and rested his head on the back of his hand, peering at the praying mantis ambling along, headed for the manzanita and safety. The tiny creature tilted its head and peered out of enormous eyes, its forearms held before it as if it were praying like the white people did in their churches.

  He wanted to pick it up and place it on the branch of the tree, but Marshall Youngblood said everyone had their own journey to make and it was wrong to interfere. He wasn’t sure he completely understood what that meant, but he guessed it probably had something to do with the praying mantis needing to make the journey over the river rocks on his own.

  “Joshua!” His mother’s voice floated to him over the roar of the river pounding down through the canyon.

  He ignored it for a moment, but then he remembered Marshall also said he needed to mind his mother better. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward her voice, stumbling on the rocks and dodging the manzanita branches reaching out to tug at his clothes. He already had a tear in the knee of his jeans. His mother would be upset when she saw it.

  He rounded an oak and saw her, standing on the parking lot along the river, her hands cupped to her mouth. When she saw him, she lowered her hands and braced them on her hips. He slowed to a walk and climbed the short embankment to her, scrubbing a fist under his nose to chase away an annoying fly.

  She gave him a stern look and released a sigh. “Tell me you weren’t by the river.”

  He swatted at the fly again. “I wasn’t by the river.”

  She tightened her lips against her teeth. He knew that look. “Are you lying?”

  “You said to tell you I wasn’t by the river, so I did.”

  “But you were?”

  “I was.”

  “You tore your jeans.” She pointed needlessly at the hole.

  He looked down, pretending he didn’t already know they were torn. “Sorry.”

  She hunkered down in front of him, the plain skirt of her dress belling around her. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she stared hard into his face. “You know it scares me when you wander off, don’t you?”

  He nodded, studying her face the way he’d studied the mantis. She had large, velvet eyes and a nice mouth, when it wasn’t drawn into a frown. Her black hair lay thick and lush on her shoulders. She didn’t wear makeup like the other women he saw, always looking freshly scrubbed and simple. He liked simple. He didn’t like women who wore jewelry or curled hair that was meant to be straight.

  She rubbed at his cheek. He took it because he felt bad, but usually he would shake it off. Marshall Youngblood said he had to take care of his mom, not the other way around, because he was the man of the house now.

  “You’re filthy, but we don’t have time to go home and take a bath.”

  “Why?” Not that he wanted a bath.

  “The doctors are here today, giving shots, and you need yours.”

  He backed away from her. “Shots?”

  “Yes, you had them as a baby, but you’re starting school this year. You need a booster.”

  “You said shots, not a booster.”

  She smiled, reaching out to take his hand. “Right. A booster is a shot.”

  Marshall Youngblood hadn’t given him any advice about this.

  “Don’t be afraid. It isn’t anything to worry about.”

  “Who’s afraid?”

  “Good,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s go.” She tugged on his hand until he was forced up beside her. They walked to the road and crossed, then angled onto the trail that would take them to the meeting house.

  He trotted along behind her, until they came to the end of the trail, where it left the oaks and dropped down into the parking lot of the meeting house. The parking lot was filled with beaten up pick-up trucks and Jeeps. People milled about, climbing out of the cars, or meeting up on the asphalt, dragging their kids along behind them.

  Joshua saw a couple of the boys from his street. They usually played soccer in an empty field. Today their black hair was damp and slicked back, their clothing stiff with creases.

  He glanced up at his mother. She sighed and shook her head, tsking about his own ruined clothes

  April Youngblood stood in the doorway of the meeting house, holding it open for the people to pass through. She smiled at Joshua and his mother as they arrived. She was one of the women who insisted on curling her hair. She had a round face and deep set eyes, and she always gave Joshua chocolate chip cookies after his lessons at the meeting house with her husband.

  Marshall Youngblood was Chairman of the tribe and he taught classes to all the young tribal members so that they would know the history of the Patwin people. Most of it meant nothing to his students, but sometimes he gave bits of advice that actually stuck. The promise of homemade cookies to his best students didn’t hurt, although Joshua had to admit he didn’t remember ever seeing anyone go without one.

  “How are you, Mary?” said April brightly.

  “Very well, and you.”

  “Splendid.” She focused her attention on Joshua. “I’m happy to see you, young man. You’ll be starting school this year.”

  He mumbled a yes, ma’am, but his attention was captured by the activity inside the building. There were many tables set up around the main meeting room with white people standing beside them. A long line snaked around the left side of the building and an elder stood at the front of it, pointing out tables that were empty. The next person in the line would walk over to the table, where the white person would talk to him, then write something on a clipboard. Eventually, they would motion for the person to roll up his sleeve. After that, Joshua wasn’t sure what happened, but the person would walk away, rubbing his arm and the next person would take his place.

  He tugged on his mother’s hand. He didn’t want to be in that room. He didn’t want to go up to the white people at the tables.

  Mary didn’t release him; in fact, she placed her free hand in the small of his back and propelled him into the room, calling a goodbye to April over her shoulder. She forced Joshua into the line and curled her fingers around his shoulders. He couldn’t get away if he tried.

  He watched as a girl about his age was led to a table. The white person hunkered down before her and talked to her. Finally, she reached for a cotton ball as the mother rolled up the girl’s sleeve. After rubbing the cotton on her shoulder, the white person reached for a long object with a pointed tip. She placed it against the girl’s arm and the girl burst into tears. The tears grew into a wail.

  Joshua bit his lip and fought against an overwhelming urge to run. He didn’t want to be here. It was hot and stuffy in the meeting room and it smelled funny. A moment later, he was distracted by a boy a few people in front of them. The boy was younger than he was, peering out from between his father’s legs. He looked back at Joshua and stuck out his tongue.

  Joshua blinked in surprise and glanced up at his mother, but she wasn’t paying any attention. Le
aning to the left, Joshua studied the father. The man was facing forward, so Joshua couldn’t see his face, but his black hair lay on his shoulders and a turquoise wristband encircled his wrist.

  Holding onto his father’s jeans, the boy leaned around him and stuck his tongue out again. Joshua’s eyes widened. This boy was asking for a beating from his father.

  The line moved forward. The father simply placed a large hand on the boy’s head and propelled him forward as well.

  When the boy popped around again, he had a huge smile on his face. The father reached down and grabbed him under the arms. Now he was going to get it.

  But rather than smack him like he deserved, he picked him up and held him in his arms. The boy looked back over his father’s shoulder and stuck his tongue out again, but Joshua simply looked away. Something about seeing the boy in the man’s arms made his stomach ache.

  When he looked back up again, they had reached the elder. He smiled at Joshua and patted his head. “How are you, little man?” he said, then pointed behind him to an open table.

  Joshua’s mother tightened her grip on his shoulder and pushed him toward the table. “Thank you,” she said.

  A white man in a white coat sat on a little stool by the table. He had yellow hair and almost pink skin. A smattering of freckles created a line over the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones. He smiled at Joshua’s mother, then lowered the smile to Joshua. His teeth were enormous, his features blunt.

  Joshua pressed back against his mother’s legs.

  “I’m Doctor Connor,” he said, holding out his hand to his mother.

  She took it, her own hand disappearing inside the man’s. Joshua pressed back harder. The man had the largest hands he’d ever seen, long fingers, huge palms, with a smattering of freckles across the back.

  He released Joshua’s mother and held out his hand to Joshua. There was no way Joshua was putting his own small fingers in that grip. That didn’t deter the man. He reached for Joshua’s hand and shook it a few times.