The Deadly Betrayed Read online

  The Deadly Betrayed

  Tori Carlin Mysteries, Volume 2

  Mara Kalyn

  Published by Mara Kalyn, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE DEADLY BETRAYED

  First edition. February 26, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 Mara Kalyn.

  ISBN: 978-1393712572

  Written by Mara Kalyn.

  Also by Mara Kalyn

  Tori Carlin Mysteries

  The Deadly Betrayed (Coming Soon)

  The Deadly Judas

  Standalone

  Alexa's Inheritance

  Watch for more at Mara Kalyn’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Mara Kalyn

  THE DEADLY BETRAYED

  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

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  Further Reading: The Deadly Judas

  Also By Mara Kalyn

  About the Author

  THE DEADLY BETRAYED

  TORI IS TERRIFIED SHE’S drowning. A cold current snakes around her body. Panicked, she grabs a branch to keep from being dragged under. Blinking lake water from her eyes, she makes out a woman’s arm. She screams, hoping her friend on the shore can help, and thrashes in the water until her feet touch bottom. Slipping again, fighting the current, she spits out a mouthful of water and screams again.

  Tori Carlin has just stumbled over her second dead body in less than a year. Last time she interfered with their murder investigation, her nephew Sasha Hamel and his senior work partner Theo Vincent barely saved her from legal prosecution. Has she learned her lesson? Or will she open herself to another obstruction charge? While Tori is interviewed as a witness by the handsome Theo, he makes it clear her attraction to him is reciprocal. As tempting a distraction as he is, Tori doesn’t let it deter her from setting herself up as a bullseye for a killer.

  Chapter 1

  Fran

  FRAN GIRARD TOUCHED a flame to the wicks of five white votive candles that floated in a crystal bowl and switched off the overhead light. A stack of Tarot cards stood in the center of a square of white cloth. She closed her eyes, and focussed on the subject of her inquiry. When she opened them, she gazed at the stack, watching shadows flicker on the top card. Her hand rested on the deck, heart pounding, fingers trembling. She inhaled deeply.

  Fran murmured, – guide me to true revelation –. Today the tarot would confirm what she knew in her heard was writ. She shuffled the deck, drew the first card, lay it face down, and whispered, behind me, before me, my wish come true. After the all the cards were pulled, she turned them over, one by one.

  Lovers; reversed, challenges in relationships. Devil; obsession with desire, dormant divine energy, potential harm. Tower; destruction; must rebuild and start over. Discouraged, she tapped red fingertips on the Fool, who blithely danced at the edge of a precipice he didn’t know was there, poised to plummet into the unknown.

  Fran scrutinized the layout. There were too many swords. The knight sent a warning. Nine; despair. The Death card, not always signifying a physical death; but always death of the past; the need to let go, to restructure, rebuild.

  Why? Haven’t I already suffered enough? I’ve done the rebuilding. Where is the two of cups that foretells a joyous union? And the ten of cups, that promises my long-awaited peace and domestic harmony. Where is my King of Hearts, who will fulfil my wish?

  Fighting tears, trembling fingers pressed to her lips, she grieved the glowing future swallowed by this gloomy prediction. No, the cards were off this evening. The spirits couldn’t ignore her desire for a happy home and a family with the man she loved. What about tomorrow’s picnic? In her daydreams, he begged her to run away with him, grateful to be free of bondage to his dumpy old wife. It was Fran who had put a name to the disability that had plagued him since childhood; she deserved his gratitude.

  Helene doesn’t love him like I do. Tomorrow he’ll tell me he’s leaving her, cards be damned. We’ll move to another town, buy a house, have kids. Ned will be a wonderful dad to our children. Helene is way past her best before date. Too old to have kids. She’d neglect the kids the same way she neglected him. Besides, the stupid bakery is her kid. Candlelight played over the sharp angles of the young woman’s face, deepened the hollows under her cheekbones, and drained color from her thin lips. Fran closed her eyes and leaned against the chair back. I’d never neglect that gorgeous hunk of man. I know neglect firsthand and I wouldn’t inflict it on man or child. Destiny brought me to Simonville and Ned, so I can live the rest of my life with the man of my dreams.

  Fingers pressed against her eyelids to stop the tears, Fran hugged herself and rocked back and forth. Ned will choose me. I feel it. He’ll have no choice. Fran wiped her cheeks, scooped up the treasonous cards, and slipped them back into their black velvet pouch. She dipped her fingers into the water, tipped the votive candles into the water to snuff out the flames, and padded to the living room. Scooping up her red laptop, she crossed to the recliner. She flipped it open and clicked on the folder Phoenix 2013. When she’d left her past behind, and came here to Simonville, she too had risen from the ashes of her old life.

  She’d burned the hand-written journals she’d kept since adolescence in a surreptitious fire on a rocky bank of the Saint Lawrence. It seemed appropriate, since she’d decided to start over, to purge the crushing unhappiness of her youth and young adulthood by fire. She’d watched, without regret, charred flakes swirl upward within wispy gray smoke, into an overcast sky. Any possessions that didn’t fit into two big suitcases had been sold or given away, except for a small box of photos and mementos.

  I am a phoenix, reborn when I came here and found Ned. She clicked on the first entry, dated Wednesday, September 2, 2013. That day, she’d sat cross legged on the floor, documenting every thought and emotion as she waited for new furniture and appliances to arrive. Scrolling past pages detailing the purchase of a car, the first day of work at the Auberge Bon Repos, and her first glimpse of Ned Philips when he delivered the bakery order. When their gazes locked, she’d known immediately he was her soul mate, because the world dissolved as they stared at one another. The first sexual encounter; what he did, what she did, what they did together. Such a beautiful love story. Fran wanted it to last forever.

  Her lips thinned and hardened as she tapped in the details of today’s Tarot reading. It didn’t matter what the Tarot said, anyway. She was in charge of her own future, and she decreed it would be a happy one. She logged the results of the Tarot spread and closed the laptop. It was time for the preliminary prep for her picnic with Ned tomorrow. Hairy bits to shave, a fresh manicure and pedicure and the sexy new red lace bustier and matching thong to try on. She ran her hands over her breasts. They’d grown fuller over the last month. All the more to puff up in the bra cups and drive Ned crazy.

  The gauzy white dress she’d bought earlier today was meant to be worn over a slip dress, but Fran had other ideas. It was opaque, allowing a tantalizing red glow of undergarments and paler bare skin to show through. The weather channel had promised the start of an exceptionally warm Indian Summer that would continue into the following week. Tomorrow’s picnic was probably the last one they’d enjoy this year, but it was the most important one. After they made love, she would issue the ultimatum. Choose. Fran Girard would not play second fiddle forever, especially now.

  Chapter 2

  Tori

  FRAN GIRARD SMOOTHED her pale green dress over generous curves, combed slender red-tipped fingers through a mane of auburn hair, tossing it back for good measure. She topped six feet in three-inch black patent leather heels. Crouching slightly, she found a free spot between loaves of pumpernickel and Italian bread to examine her reflection in the mirror behind them, then adjusted the bodice of her dress to better display an ample cleavage. At rest, the corners of her thin lips curved up into an all-knowing half-smile.

  A slight young man side-eyed the tall redhead alternately with the pastries in the display counter. He hiked up the waist of his droopy jeans, adjusted the hood of a shapeless sweatshirt over his forehead, and stroked the sparse fringe on his upper lip.

  “Madame Girard, the special order is ready.” The counter clerk placed a large box on the counter, interrupting Fran’s dismissive glance at the young man.

  “Merci, Melanie.” Fran took the box and raised her chin, looking down at Melanie. “I suppose the regular order will be delivered before lunch?” Fran rose to full height, dwarfing the young man. He glanced at her from under his eyebrows, and then returned his gaze to the display counter.

  “I guess. He’s leaving in a few minutes. Hey, is it true a famous rock group is staying at the Auberge?” Melanie held her breath, waiting for the answer she wanted to hear.

  “Yeah. The terrace and the big dining room is closed to the public. Chef was in such a snit about the short notice and refused to close the whole Auberge for th
em. He said the small dining room stays open for our current guests and hang the big shots.”

  “Will you see them?” Melanie’s voice rose an octave.

  “No, they’re leaving the day after the concert. I might get a glimpse, though.” A slender hand flipped a strand of hair from her cheek.

  “Well, I guess that group is too important to hang out with regular people. I heard they’re not even going to show their faces in the village. Hello, goodbye – thanks for the money in our bank account.” Melanie handed Fran the bill along with a sullen stare.

  Fran grimaced, shrugged, and tucked the invoice into a large leather tote.

  “Well, thanks. Chef is waiting for this.” Fran tapped the box, “but I want to check the regular order before it goes out. Where is it?”

  “On the van by now. Ned leaves on his run soon.” Fran spun on her heel and headed to the door. “I almost forgot. Helene fixed up a box for you.” Melanie called after her. Fran drifted back to the counter.

  “What’s this?”

  “A selection of some of your favorites. Helene Gagnon, mid-forties, plump, gray-streaked brown messy bun encased in a hairnet, stepped through the doorway from the kitchen. She scraped dough encrusted hands over the belly of her chef’s apron. Compared to Fran’s manufactured image, this woman’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes gave her a natural, wholesome prettiness.

  “Thanks, Helene. In honor of what?”

  Helene’s full lips thinned, as if it hurt to smile.

  “A thank-you for the Auberge’s patronage.”

  Fran tapped the box. “Chef’s not big on goodies. I’ll enjoy these, thanks.” She opened the door and walked into the glare from the sunny street.

  Tori Carlin and Annie Marchand, waiting behind the redhead, made mental notes of the conversation and their undercurrents for discussion later, over pastry and coffee.

  They placed their orders, and Melanie collected coffee, cream, one chocolate and one blond brownie for their tray.

  “Caramel sauce on your brownies?” Melanie held a small ladle over a stainless-steel pot.

  “Oh, yeah.” Tori and Annie said in unison. Melanie grinned and gave the brownies a generous drizzle.

  “There you go, ladies. Sugar’s on the tables. That’ll be twelve-fifty, please.”

  Annie paid, while Tori looked around for a choice spot. There were no customers other than herself and Annie. The man with the sagging jeans had unglued himself from the pastry display and sauntered out after Fran. Tori wondered if he’d been working up his courage to speak to the redhead while pretending an interest in baked goods? Was he blind to the fact that a woman like Fran would not reject him gently?

  Tori chose a table by the window where they had a good view of the street and passersby.

  Tori leaned across and whispered to her bestie, “Boy, was I tempted to give those droopy drawers a good yank.”

  “You’d get sued.” Annie whispered back. “And I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”

  “Reminds me of saggy diapers. It’s sloppy, and an invitation to embarrassment at best.” Tori threw her head back and sniffed the air. “It smells so good in here. If I could package this heady aroma of chocolate, butter, and caramel, I’d call it ‘Scent of Paradise’ and make a fortune. Even drug addicts would forsake their heroin and cocaine, and alcoholics their booze for my ‘Scent of Paradise’.”

  Annie snorted, “I hate to disappoint, but it’s been done. Bathroom fresheners, candles, room deodorizers, and so on.”

  “Dream killer.” Tori flashed her friend a cheerful grin and took a bite of the decadent pastry on the little paper plate, business ventures, and droopy jeans forgotten. Sweet goodness like this contributed in no small way to a never-ending battle to shrink her waistband size. In fact, yearning for a small waist, thin body, and hair magically restored to its former brown color was equivalent to unearthing unicorns. At fifty-two years old, she’d concluded svelte was a word in the dictionary that didn’t apply to her.

  Annie, spinning in a pastry orbit of her own, roused enough will power to speak. “Helene’s Bakery is the best in the county.” She pressed the flat side of the fork against the plate, capturing caramel covered crumbs.

  “It’s changed since I was last here. I like the fresh look. The place looks maniacally cheery.”

  “Helene renovated last fall. Ernie used to say ‘Decor doesn’t change the quality of the product’, but Helene argued that customers wanted a cheery place to enjoy a quick break with coffee and pastry.

  “How is the old boy these days?”

  “He works here part time now.” Annie chuckled. “I suppose Helene has a soft spot for him because he was her employer and her mentor.” Annie paused and tipped her chin toward the counter.

  “Interesting bit of gossip. That statuesque redhead was Fran Girard, the manager at the Auberge.” Annie lowered her voice. “The rumor mill says Ned and Fran are cavorting behind Helene’s back. Very possible the wife has heard. And yet, there is gifting.”

  “No kidding?” Tori cocked an eyebrow. “Not bosom buddies with so much in common? The wholesome chubby baker and the tall model-perfect younger woman who desire the same man? So cliché.” Tori patted her pockets, and peered under the table.

  “Darn. Forgot my purse in the car. May I have your keys?”

  “No worries. My treat.”

  “Thanks, but I need my stomach meds after this bit of excess.”

  The moment Tori stepped outside, hellfire heat shimmered up from concrete and asphalt. She hurried into the cooler air of the shadow of the building. Indian summer was meant to be a pleasant, warm interlude before icy rains, wind and snow storms arrived; not this scorching heat left over from July. Momentarily blinded by the sudden change in intensity of light, she blinked and squinted at the remote. As she pressed the unlock button, a streak of pale green flashed in the window. Holy Mother. Has the car blown up? She stepped back, heart pumping, adrenaline burning in her chest.

  As her vision adjusted to the shade, she realized the flash had been a reflection. Twisting around, what she saw made her dive inside the car and peep furtively out of the window.

  The redhead hung on a tall muscular man like a bizarre ornament. The couple exchanged frenzied kisses and caresses, oblivious to their surroundings.

  “Oh my. If that’s Helene’s husband, the rumors aren’t wrong.” Tori scooped up her purse, stole away from the car and trotted back to the front door of the bakery.

  * * * *

  HIS BACK PRESSED HARD against the hot brick wall, head thrust forward to see around the corner of the building, the man from the bakery watched the couple. The whore snaked her arms around a husky, good-looking man’s waist and devoured his mouth. The watcher’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists. Jaw rigid, he snarled, “You’ll pay home wrecking bitch.”

  Chapter 3

  Fran

  CHIN RESTING ON AN elegant fist, gaze fixed on the multicolored leaves swirling past her office window, Fran sulked. A strong breeze corralled drifting yellow and orange foliage into a funnel and twirled off out of sight.

  Never mind the depressing Tarot cards. This afternoon, she’d be with Ned, and they’d plan their new life together. Her heart beat faster at the thought. She crossed the room to the full-length mirror on the closet door and inspected her image. Lush auburn hair, a beige cotton sweater that showed off the line of breast and hip. Skinny black jeans paired with the same three-inch heels she’d worn yesterday to impress Ned. She smiled, remembering how he’d stroked her long legs, so unlike the stumps that held up his wife’s portly body. Lips parted in a smile of satisfaction, she imagined Helene in the hot bakery, working her lard off while Ned sampled Fran’s delights. Sighing, she glanced at the clock. If she printed the menu list and gave it to Chef now, he might let her leave earlier. She snatched the list from the printer and headed for the kitchen.

  “Hey Chef. I brought next week’s menus and ingredients for your approval. I’ll order the supplies as soon as you sign off.