Your Eight O'clock is Dead Read online

  Your Eight O’clock is Dead

  River City Mysteries - Book 1

  Kat Jorgensen

  Copyright © 2020 by Kat Jorgensen

  * * *

  Cover Design by Stunning Book Covers

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are derived from the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, or occurrences, Any resemblances are purely coincidental.

  Join my mailing list

  To be the first to know about new releases, contests, and giveaways, please join the Kat Jorgensen Newsletter.

  Your email will never be shared with anyone and you will not receive spam.

  Subscribe here www.katjorgensenauthor.com

  For the big three in my life: Mama, Daddy and Jorgie.

  Contents

  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

  Excerpt from Your Time is Up

  Also by Kat Jorgensen

  Before You Go

  Acknowledgments

  About Kat Jorgensen

  Chapter 1

  My life was in the crapper.

  Twenty-five, recently divorced and—at my parents' insistence because it's so convenient for all concerned—living with my widowed grandfather and his cranky cat. I barely recognized who I was anymore. No longer Rebecca Davis, socially prominent wife of up and coming attorney about town, Jack Davis, I was just plain old Becca Reynolds, all-around screw-up. No, it's not me feeling sorry for myself. I seem to have earned the reputation. My current challenge was trying to hang on to my latest job as office support for a two-member psychiatric group, Daley & Palmer. A job I desperately needed.

  Daley & Palmer consisted of, you guessed it, Dr. Dick Daley and Dr. Marcy Palmer. For a Type A shrink, Dr. Palmer was pretty nice. Dr. Daley was not. Apparently having an army officer for a father instilled a strong sense of punctuality in the good doctor and since punctuality seemed to be a major problem of mine, it's been a bit of a sticking point. In the five months that I'd worked for D & P, I'd been late more times than even I'd like to count. And here I was hurrying, late again.

  Yesterday I'd promised Dr. Daley that I'd make every effort to be on time this morning. And I'd meant it when I said it. Really, I did.

  But I'd overslept.

  Again. No time for breakfast at home, I popped into the building's sandwich shop and scooped up my sausage and egg breakfast bun in its greasy white wrapper, placed it inside my leather briefcase that held nothing but a few old People magazines that I'd borrowed from work, and hurried toward Suite 109 – the offices of Daley & Palmer.

  Double-timing it down the hallway toward the suite at the end of the first-floor corridor, my stomach tightened and my shoulders tensed. Already today I'd been the recipient of Lecture 405 (Eat a Healthy Diet or Die Not Trying), a heartfelt plea for proper nutrition from my granddad. I sure as heck didn't need a psychiatrist launching into me on the prudence of punctuality. Or worse, the evils of unemployment.

  As I approached the suite, I let out a sigh of relief. The door to the office was shut. That meant no one was here yet. For once, the gods were smiling on me. I slipped my key into the lock, turned and met no resistance. That was strange. The door was unlocked. Juggling my keys, purse, and briefcase full of food, I entered the suite with caution.

  As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I'd worried for nothing. The lights were on, and I could make out the legs of our first patient, Robert O'Malley.

  He sat in the high-backed Queen Anne chair, the one that faced away from the rest of the waiting room and looked out the wall of windows onto the woods behind the building.

  I put my things down on the desk. Since I was so new and still on double-secret probation with Dr. Dick—that's Dr. Daley to his patients, and a total Dr. Dick toward me—I'd taken a piece of masking tape and written "Becca Reynolds" on it and stuck it over the generic Receptionist nameplate.

  I breathed easier knowing that Dr. Dick had arrived early and was holed up in his office either making callbacks or whatever else he did in there alone.

  Hopping to it, I set about making the reception area receptive.

  "Morning, Mr. O'Malley.

  Looks like it's going to be a nice day."

  I liked to chat with the patients while I went about my office tasks. It made the day go faster, and it seemed to cheer our patients to be treated like real people by someone around here. Clients, I reminded myself. They were clients, not patients. I'd received that correction from both therapists more times than I'd like to count.

  With my luck, I'd get it right on the last day of my employment.

  I try hard to be positive, but sometimes that was truly difficult because here's the thing. I suck at just about everything I try.

  Marriage. Daughterhood. Granddaughterhood. Life.

  But you know how God always gives everyone one thing they good at, well, my one thing is this amazing talent of getting along with people—my ex and Dr. Dick being two serious exceptions.

  Granddad always claimed I attracted people because I was sprinkled with fairy dust as a child. Yeah, right. Whatever.

  One thing I knew for sure.

  Granddad sees right through fairy dust.

  And Dr. Dick must be allergic to it.

  "I'll have some music going in a second or two. Dr. Daley should have switched on the radio or popped in a CD when he came in. Guess he was in his usual rush." Or maybe it conflicted with that damn, screeching opera he liked to listen to.

  I made my way from my desk to the small room off the reception area that doubled as our supply closet and flicked the switch on the radio. The office filled with the soft tones of Richmond, Virginia's easy listening station. On my way out of the utility room, I pocketed something that had fallen on the floor and poured myself some bottled water, one of the few perks I'd discovered since starting work here.

  "Mr. O'Malley, would you like some water?" I waited for his reply. When he didn't answer me, I shrugged and made my way across the thick pile carpet.

  Both doctors had cautioned me that their clients would have days where they didn't want to communicate. I guess this was Mr. O'Malley's turn. By now, I knew not to take it personally.

  My stomach growled, and I checked my watch. Five after the hour. The doctor should be out any minute to get his patient. After they retreated into his inner office, I could enjoy my breakfast in peace. My stomach rumbled again, much louder th
an before.

  "Sorry about that, Mr. O'Malley. I overslept this morning. No time to eat. Then my grandfather started in on how important it is to eat properly, and by the time I got out of the house, I was late. The doctors are going to have my butt if I don't pick up the messages from the service."

  I slid my growing colder-by-the-minute breakfast into the center desk drawer. No sense in giving the doctor early morning ammunition to launch into an attack on not eating at one's desk.

  My stomach roared, causing my face to flush. Just one bite. That's all it would take to calm the hunger pangs. But I couldn't risk it. I shut the desk drawer and the heavenly smell of bacon and eggs was but a memory. At least I hoped that was all that remained behind. Dr. Dick had a bloodhound's nose.

  "I'm sure Dr. Daley will be with you momentarily," I said filling the awkward silence and holding up my end of the conversation. "I'm just going to check for messages."

  I picked up the phone and tapped in the number for the night service from memory. Pen poised over paper, I was ready. The phone rang several times on the other end. Everyone must be calling for messages all at once.

  Out of habit, I drummed my pen against the desk before I realized how annoying that must be for Mr. O'Malley.

  Feeling rude and wanting to make amends, I rolled my chair back and angled it around to make my apologies.

  "Sorry about the pen thing, Mr. O'Malley. It's an old habit that started when I would get nervous in English class. You know how it is when you can answer a question in two words but—hey—it's English class and the teacher wants you to create an entire essay out of a yes or no. I just hate that, don't you?"

  Still no response. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Now that I really looked at him from this angle I could see that his head was sort of slumped forward. If it had been my grandfather he'd be snoring so loud the windows would be rattling. Maybe Mr. O'Malley wasn't a snorer. Yeah, that must be it. There wasn't any other explanation. Nope.

  Couldn't be any other reason why he'd be all folded over like that. Okay, there was, but I was not going there. No way.

  "Mr. O'Malley?"

  For some reason the unease I'd felt when I'd first arrived at the office returned. Even though the mere thought made me want to scream like a girl—which granted, I was—maybe I needed to consider other possibilities for the dead silence. I tried to see if his chest was moving without being too obvious about it.

  Slipping out of my chair, I tiptoed closer.

  "Are you awake?" I whispered.

  I'm not quite sure why I was whispering.

  Any minute now the doctor would come out and wake him, anyway.

  I worked up the nerve to approach from behind. Taking a deep breath, I poked him. His head lolled against the left wing of the chair. "Oh no. Oh no. OH. NO!"

  I wasn't whispering anymore.

  I was more or less screaming at that point and definitely freaking out. On some level, I knew I should check for a pulse but I was fairly certain that wasn't necessary. Plus, there was the small matter of the letter opener sticking out of his chest.

  No matter how you looked at it, that pretty much meant dead. And—gross!—I'd touched him.

  "OHMYGOD!"

  "Miss Reynolds!"

  The sound of Dr. Daley's voice snapped me out of my hysteria. I whipped around to face him which inadvertently blocked the view of the chair and Mr. O'Malley.

  "Inside voice, Miss Reynolds.

  Inside voice. Remember, we talked about that yesterday. I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new position here, but unlike your previous job, we go for understatement, for tranquility. And that means you need to use your inside voice. Are we clear?"

  I nodded my head like a bobble doll, my mind numb.

  Dr. Daley smiled that puckered smile of his that made me think he had a serious issue with constipation.

  His gaze settled on the clock above the entrance. He double-checked the time against the gold Rolex on his wrist. "Eight after the hour. Where is my client? I hope he isn't going to be a no show."

  I shook my head no slowly.

  "You've seen him. Is he down the hall in the restroom?"

  Again, I shook my head no, apparently rendered mute by the presence of a corpse.

  Dr. Daley appeared exasperated with me. "Miss Reynolds, I really don't have time to play charades with you. Either you've seen my eight o'clock or you haven't. Which is it?"

  And with that, I stepped aside and, like Vanna White pointing out a new letter that she'd turned over on Wheel of Fortune, I gestured to Mr. O'Malley.

  "Your eight o'clock is dead."

  Dr. Daley rushed past me and checked his patient for a pulse. I stood silently behind him knowing it was no use. He turned to me, his face contorted in anger. "What have you done?" he accused.

  "What have I done? Are you nuts? I didn't kill him. He was like that when I got here."

  His dark eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. "And you've been here how long? Ten, fifteen minutes? And you saw no need to alert anyone?"

  "I thought he was having a bad day."

  "Miss Reynolds, that is enough. Quite enough. You have a unique sense of humor, but now is hardly the time."

  "I'm telling you the truth. I talked to him, and he didn't answer me. You told me that some people need their quiet time. I thought he was, you know, having his."

  "Let me get this straight. As you went about your duties, you never once noticed that my patient was dead!" His voice rose alarmingly on the last word, and he broke his own rule by calling his client a patient.

  Now, who wasn't using their inside voice?

  I pushed a wayward strand of my short blonde hair behind my ear. "I was busy. He was quiet. Besides, isn't that your letter opener sticking out of his …."

  Simultaneously, we both leaned forward. I pointed to right above the newspaper in the patient's lap, the one covered in blood.

  The handle of an instrument protruding from Robert O'Malley's midsection bore the initials DED – Dick Edward Daley.

  Well, that couldn't be good.

  Chapter 2

  "What's going on in here?"

  Dr. Daley and I both directed our attention to the doorway. There stood R. J. Ryder, C.P.A, and occupant of the suite across the hall.

  Every time I saw Ryder it struck me all over again just how much he didn't look like the stereotypical accountant. Dressed for success in a black Armani double-breasted suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie, Ryder filled not only the doorway but also the suit to perfection. His shaved head and striking blue eyes added an edge to his appearance, one he didn't need.

  He was simply a man I had a hard time ignoring on the best of days. And today certainly wasn't one of those.

  I cleared my throat and finally found my voice. "That was me you heard. Sorry if I bothered you." I moved toward Ryder leaving Dr. Daley with our dead patient.

  Ryder strode into the suite.

  At over six foot three, he stood a good seven inches taller than me. He also appeared larger than life and had a serious "yum" factor going.

  "So everything's okay?" he asked, suspicion clouding his voice. He peered over the top of me, and I did this stupid little dance that looked like I needed to go to the little girls' room instead of the blocking action it was meant to be.

  "Everything is fine," I lied.

  Let me just add that I've never been good at lying. Never.

  Today was no exception. My face and voice must have betrayed me big time, because, without another word, Ryder lifted me like I weighed less than the 125 pounds the scale normally registered, and set me down several inches to the side out of his way and proceeded to where Dr. Daley stood.

  "What's going on here, Dick?"

  He said "Dick" the way I thought it.

  I hurried to stand between the doctor and Ryder as if my physical presence would somehow make this whole ugly crime scene disappear. Ryder glared at me like I annoyed him, which come to think of it, I probably did.

/>   "I can explain," I said as the knots tightened in my stomach and my palms sweated unmercifully.

  Ryder peered over me at the psychiatrist and waited for him to speak. I didn't like being ignored and tried to fill the void. "If you'd just let me explain…."

  Ryder took another step forward as I took one back. The heel of my shoe came down hard on Dr. Daley's instep.

  Daley yelped in pain.

  "Miss Reynolds, haven't you done enough for one day?"

  "It wasn't my fault," I said louder than I'd intended and turned in time to watch Dr. Daley hop on one foot in full retreat toward the door to his private office. He placed his hand at shoulder's height on the doorframe and put his head down on his arm.

  A defeated man if ever I saw one.

  "Who's the dead guy?" Ryder asked dispassionately.

  I faced Ryder again. In my haste to make things right with Dr. Daley, I'd momentarily forgotten him. Not a smart thing to do. He'd discovered our corpse and was crouching in front of the dead man studying him.

  "Dead guy?" I tried to pretend I didn't know what he was talking about. By his expression, I could tell that lame tactic wasn't going to fly.

  "Yeah, the dead guy. You know, the one with the letter opener as a fashion accessory."

  "I didn't do it." It was all I could think to say.

  Ryder stood up and wrapped his large hands around my upper arms. "No one said you did, Becca." He jerked his head toward Dr. Daley as if to ask me if the doctor was the culprit.