No Way Home
Praise for the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
“I loved Burned Bridges. The action starts off with a bang and never lets up. Zoe’s on the case, and she’s a heroine you’ll root for through the mystery’s twists and turns—strong and bold, but vulnerable and relatable. I adore her, and you will, too.”
– Lisa Scottoline,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Betrayed
“New York has McBain, Boston has Parker, now Vance Township, PA (“pop. 5000. Please Drive Carefully.”) has Annette Dashofy, and her rural world is just as vivid and compelling as their city noir.”
– John Lawton,
Author of the Inspector Troy Series
“I’ve been awestruck by Annette Dashofy’s storytelling for years. Look out world, you’re going to love Zoe Chambers.”
– Donnell Ann Bell,
Bestselling Author of Deadly Recall
“An easy, intriguing read, partially because the townfolks’ lives are so scandalously intertwined, but also because author Dashofy has taken pains to create a palette of unforgettable characters.”
– Mystery Scene Magazine
“Dashofy has done it again. Bridges Burned opens with a home erupting in flames. The explosion inflames simmering animosities and ignites a smoldering love that has been held in check too long. A thoroughly engaging read that will take you away.”
– Deborah Coonts,
Author of Lucky Catch
“Dashofy takes small town politics and long simmering feuds, adds colorful characters, and brings it to a boil in a welcome new series.”
– Hallie Ephron,
Author of There Was an Old Woman
“A vivid country setting, characters so real you’d know them if they walked through your door, and a long-buried secret that bursts from its grave to wreak havoc in a small community—Lost Legacy has it all.”
– Sandra Parshall,
Author of the Agatha Award-Winning Rachel Goddard Mysteries
“A big-time talent spins a wonderful small-town mystery! Annette Dashofy skillfully weaves secrets from the past into a surprising, engaging, and entertaining page turner.”
– Hank Phillippi Ryan,
Mary Higgins Clark, Agatha and Anthony Award-Winning Author
“Discerning mystery readers will appreciate Dashofy’s expert details and gripping storytelling. Zoe Chambers is an authentic character who will entertain us for a long time.”
– Nancy Martin,
Author of the Blackbird Sister Mysteries
“A terrific first mystery, with just the right blend of action, emotion and edge. I couldn’t put it down. The characters are well drawn and believable…It’s all great news for readers.
– Mary Jane Maffini,
Author of The Dead Don’t Get Out Much
“Intriguing, with as many twists and turns as the Pennsylvania countryside it’s set in.”
– CJ Lyons,
New York Times Bestselling Author of Last Light
“Dashofy has created a charmer of a protagonist in Zoe Cambers. She’s smart, she’s sexy, she’s vulnerably romantic, and she’s one hell of a paramedic on the job.”
– Kathleen George,
Edgar-Nominated Author of the Richard Christie Series
Books in the Zoe Chambers Mystery Series
by Annette Dashofy
CIRCLE OF INFLUENCE (#1)
LOST LEGACY (#2)
BRIDGES BURNED (#3)
WITH A VENGEANCE (#4)
NO WAY HOME (#5)
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Copyright
NO WAY HOME
A Zoe Chambers Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | March 2017
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2017 by Annette Dashofy
Cover art by Stephanie Chontos
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-177-4
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-178-1
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-179-8
Hardcover Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-180-4
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Leta Burns
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This fish-out-of-water story had me venturing as far from my comfort zone as it took Zoe and Pete out of theirs. Not only was I writing about a fictionalized version of Pennsylvania where I call home, I also took my characters to a part of the country that I love, but with which I am not all that familiar. In addition, I decided to use (mostly) real locations in the New Mexico half of the story. I fictionalized many of the businesses, however some of them—including the radio station, KNDN—are absolutely real. (If you’re ever out there, tune in! It’s fascinating!)
Since I wanted to be as accurate as possible in portraying northwest New Mexico and southwest Colorado, I made a number of “research trips” out there. This wasn’t enough, however, and I have to give a huge shout of thanks to my best friend—and Aztec resident—Leta Burns. She not only drove me around out there and drew maps for me, but she answered my questions once I returned home and tried to remember where places were. On top of that, the character of Billy Yellowhorse is her brainchild. He would not exist were it not for Leta.
I also want to thank Sgt. Kevin Burns (Leta’s son) of the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office for showing me all the cool places to hide bodies and for answering my endless questions about police procedure. This book was born out of the stories he shared with me while driving me around the canyons and bluffs of New Mexico.
And thanks to Chris Herndon for all her help with my pathology questions. Without her, I wouldn’t know what Zoe sees and experiences in her investigations.
I apologize for any mistakes or creative license with regards to police or medical procedure for the sake of story and pace. Inaccuracies can be blamed on me and me alone.
As always, I owe more than I can ever repay to my fellow members of Pennwriters and the Pittsburgh Chapter of Sisters in Crime. I need to give a special shout out to one Pennwriter in particular, Heather Desuta, who designs my business cards, bookmarks, and social media banners. Thank you!
Thanks once again to Ramona Long for her morning “sprint” thread on Facebook. I honestly would never make a deadline without her and my writing champion friends.
I have been blessed with the best critique group ever. Thank you to Jeff Boarts, Tamara Girardi, and Mary Sutton who tear my work to bits and then help me put it back together again.
Thank you, Anne Slates, for your always sharp eye when it comes time to proofread my words. I’m a horrible proofreader. She’s the best.
Which brings me to the fabulous gang at Henery Press. I am so grateful for the day we found each other. Th
is year has been an emotionally draining one for me, and I deeply appreciate your support and understanding through it all. To my editorial team: Kendel Flaum, Erin George, and Rachel Jackson; my cover artist extraordinaire, Stephanie Chontos; and the head Rooster at the Hen House, Art Molinares, THANK YOU.
Last, but not least, to my husband and biggest supporter, Ray Dashofy, thanks. I love you more than words can say.
One
On the heels of three solid weeks of cold rain, dark clouds, and mid-November chill, the gift of sunshine and a promised high temperature of near sixty—on a Sunday, no less—brought horse owners out to the Kroll farm in droves.
Zoe Chambers muscled the girth a little tighter to compensate for Windstar’s tendency to puff up during the saddling process, as well as for the gelding’s wooly growth of winter coat.
“His eyes are bugging out,” fifteen-year-old Allison Bassi said with a grin.
Zoe glanced at her best friend’s daughter, pleased to spot the twinkle in the girl’s eye. Even if she was being a smartass. “Yeah, right. And two minutes down the trail when he exhales, I’ll be hitting the ground because my saddle’s loose.” She tapped her sternum. “It would not do for the resident paramedic to get dumped and break an arm.”
Allison slipped a bridle over the head of her borrowed mount and laughed. “Aunt Zoe, I’ve seen your saddle slide sideways and you still manage to stay on top.”
True, but it wasn’t a trick Zoe cared to attempt today. She looked toward the far end of the barn’s indoor arena where nearly a dozen riders either stood next to or sat on their horses just inside the massive doors. “We’re holding things up. You ready?”
“Yep.” Allison gathered her reins and gave a hop, catching her stirrup with her left boot and swinging up in one lithe movement.
Show-off.
Zoe unclipped the lead rope and used the more traditional method to climb aboard her gelding. “Let’s go.”
As Allison and Zoe rode past the stalls edging the indoor arena, a white Appaloosa with a smattering of black spots gave a raucous whinny, pacing tight circles in its confined space.
“What’s got him in such a snit?” Allison asked.
Zoe pointed to the next stall, which stood empty. “His stable buddy’s gone. Dale must have taken Cisco out for an early ride.” The idea of her star boarder out there alone made her uneasy, but before she had a chance to give it more thought, a young man wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat loped over to them, reining in his mount.
“Hey, Zoe. Allison,” he said with a polite nod at each of them.
“Hi, Noah.” Allison gave him a quick wave. “Aunt Zoe, I’m gonna go talk to the twins.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.” As the teen rode away, Zoe turned to the rider in front of her. “You and Comanche seem to be getting along.”
“Thanks for letting me use one of your schooling horses again.” Noah Tucker gave her an eager grin. “Have you had any luck finding one for sale?”
“Sorry. I have feelers out, but so far the only horses I’ve come across are either too crazy or too quiet for you.”
He patted his mount’s neck and chuckled. “‘Crazy’ might be fun. This ol’ boy is a bit too tame for my blood.”
“Blood is what worries me with crazy though. My blood. You wouldn’t be the only one handling any horse you board here.”
“I hear ya. Well, I appreciate you helping me look.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I think we’re holding up the ride.”
Zoe urged her gelding forward. “Yep. Let’s go.”
Behind her, the Appaloosa with abandonment issues pawed at his stall door, the loud wham wham wham echoing through the barn.
“Speaking of crazy. Think he’ll be okay?” Noah asked.
“He’ll settle down once we get out of here.” At least Zoe hoped he would. The last thing she wanted was a lame horse or a damaged stall.
As if in response, the Appaloosa let loose a roof-rattling whinny.
Noah raised an eyebrow at Zoe. “You’re sure about that?”
Zoe half turned in her saddle, watching the horse toss his head in frustration. She reached for her phone, tucked into her fleece’s pocket. “Maybe I better call Dale’s wife and let her know her horse is raising a fuss.”
From the front of the group, one of the girls let out a shout. “Do you hear that?”
A murmur of comments rippled through the riders until someone else pointed and yelled, “Look!”
Zoe spotted the horse in the distance at the same time she heard it whinny. The Appaloosa answered from his stall.
“Isn’t that Cisco?” Noah asked.
As the horse galloped toward them, its unmistakable splotches of white and sorrel became clear. “Yes, it is,” Zoe said. Her vision of a carefree day evaporated when she realized the Paint’s saddle was empty.
As Vance Township’s Chief of Police, Pete Adams attempted to take weekends off. “Attempted” being the keyword. However, his small department, which consisted of himself, two other full-time officers, and four part-timers, plus his weekdays-only secretary, didn’t offer him the luxury of ignoring his phone. As he stood over the body sprawled on a filthy bedspread, he wished he hadn’t answered it this time.
The girl was young. Very young. Eighteen max, if he was any judge. Drug use, however, aged her. Blond hair framed a gaunt face that at one time had been beautiful. A pinkish froth coated her lips and nose. At least she was fully clothed.
Officer Nate Williamson snapped photos of the girl and the rest of the room in what they had thought was an abandoned mobile home set back off the road, behind an also-abandoned farmhouse. “Looks like this has been party central for a while,” Nate said, his voice flat. He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like it too.”
Pete managed a grunt.
Drugs, up until now, hadn’t been a major problem in this rural community. It wasn’t that no one used. But kids tended to travel the twelve miles to Brunswick, Monongahela’s county seat, or thirty miles to Pittsburgh to get their fixes. Looking at the assorted paraphernalia scattered around the room, Pete knew that was no longer the case. “Who called this in?”
Nate changed a setting on the camera. “Not sure. It came through EOC.”
Pete made a note to check with the Emergency Operations Center.
The front door of the trailer rattled. “Hello?” a familiar voice called. County Coroner Franklin Marshall.
“Back here,” Pete replied.
The floor vibrated with Marshall’s footsteps. He appeared in the doorway, evidence collection case in hand. He nodded at Pete before grimly scanning the scene. “This is the sixth OD in the last month. The third one to require my services.”
Pete grunted again. “The first in Vance Township.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been fortunate.” Marshall stepped closer to the body, careful to avoid a couple of syringes lying on the stained carpet.
Fortunate? Pete preferred to believe his diligence, keeping in close touch with families in crisis, and visits to the elementary and high schools had been doing some good. Keeping the wolves at bay. Right now, failure stared him in the face, the girl’s body evidence he’d only been kidding himself.
Nate stepped back, holding up the digital camera. “I’m done.”
“Thanks.” Marshall moved next to the girl. “Any idea who she is?”
“Shannon Vincenti.” Pete tugged on a pair of black latex gloves. “There’s no ID, but I recognize her. Parents own a little grocery in Elm Creek.” A nice, hardworking couple. Pete dreaded all death notifications, but he most hated telling someone their child had died.
Marshall shook his head. “Today is going to be the worst day of their lives.”
While the coroner began his preliminary exam of the body, Pete bent over the nightstand. “Did you photograph all this?”
“Yes, sir,” Nate said.
Half-full monster-sized fast food cups of pop sat amidst empty stamp bags, spoons, and cotton. Heroin. Pete had seen plenty of this stuff during his days with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police. He’d only had to deal with it a handful of times in the eight years he’d been in Vance Township. But there were a few items on the nightstand that set his nerves on high alert. A glass tube wrapped with duct tape, small chunks of a copper pot scrubber, and crumpled pieces of plastic—the corners cut from baggies—were scattered on top of the other stuff.
Pete met Nate’s gaze. The officer’s jaw was set. Pete aimed a gloved finger at the bedside table.
Nate gave a minuscule nod. “Meth. Never seen it around here before.”
Marshall made a tsk noise. Pete turned to find the coroner examining the girl’s arms. “Some old track marks here,” he said before gently resting the arm back on the bed. He moved to her bare feet and spread her toes. “Fresh ones here.”
Pete cringed. The idea of getting a flu shot was bad enough. But injecting yourself between your toes? “What do think she ODed on? Heroin or meth?”
“We won’t know that until we get the tox screen.” Marshall shook his head. “If I never see another young person die from this junk, it would be too soon.”
Pete agreed. But with meth putting in an appearance in southwestern Pennsylvania, he feared Shannon Vincenti wouldn’t be the last.
After Dale Springfield’s Paint galloped up to the barn sans his rider, Zoe called for a change of plans. She ordered everyone to partner up, making sure at least one member of each pair had a cell phone on them. Each team took a different route, covering all the various trails in and out of the farm. Certainly Dale would stick to whatever trail he’d been on as he walked back.