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  A Parting Shot

  With her wedding just around the corner, Kickboxing Crusader Allie Cobb decides it’s time to hang up her sleuthing cap for good. But when an affable local cop on the verge of retirement is shot dead at the town’s Fourth of July picnic, Allie can’t help but reconsider her decision. And with everyone at the festivities a potential witness, the police have their hands full and are more than happy to accept Allie’s help.

  Certain that the murder has its roots in one of the policeman’s old arrests, Allie begins digging into his past and discovers a surprising history of clashes with regional drug dealers and a local gambling ring. But then her investigation unearths a more alarming possibility that hits much closer to home, and Allie will have to bend a few rules to break the case and bring down a killer . . .

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Parting Shot

  J. C. Kenney

  Copyright © 2022 by J. C. Kenney

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-954717-84-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  With A Parting Shot being Allie’s last ride, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank some folks who made the Allie Cobb Mysteries happen. First off, huge thanks to my wonderful agent, Dawn Dowdle, who threw down the challenge to turn an idea of mine into the first Allie Cobb adventure. I also can’t thank my editor, Bill Harris, enough, who gave Allie and the Rushing Creek gang a second life and three more adventures. And most of all, I want to thank you, dear reader, for spending you time with Allie, Ursi, Sloane, and everyone else from Rushing Creek. You rock!

  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

  Books by J. C. Kenney

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  An old proverb says all good things must come to an end. And so it was with my part-time career investigating murders. It was time to set the case notebooks, lockpicks, and sleuthing aside.

  It would be inaccurate to say that I looked back on my time spent investigating murders with fondness. In all honesty, it had been emotionally exhausting as well as hazardous to my health. The decisions to insert myself into the middle of five separate murder cases hadn’t been made lightly. They’d been made because I wanted to make sure justice was done.

  When friends and family members of the victims asked for my help, I couldn’t turn my back on them. Not in their greatest times of need.

  So, instead of categorizing my efforts as an amateur sleuth as a good thing, I’d prefer to think of it like Granny Weatherwax in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld fantasy novels. Simply doing what needed to be done. And good things came out of those efforts. Murderers were put behind bars. The community was able to return to a state of normalcy. Grieving families received answers, sometimes after decades of waiting.

  I’d played my part in making my town of Rushing Creek, Indiana, a safer place. It was time to step away from that part of my life, though.

  I was getting married in two weeks. That meant my decisions would no longer be only about me, Allie Cobb, owner of the Cobb Literary Agency. They would also be about Brent Richardson, the kindest, funniest, and most supportive man I’d ever met.

  If I survived until my wedding day.

  Between my bestie Sloane’s plans for my bachelorette party, my brother Luke’s plans for Brent’s bachelor party, and all the other wedding plans to be finalized, there were moments when I wanted to grab my fiancé by the hand, jump in his truck, and elope. His dog Sammy and my cat Ursi would be perfect wedding attendants.

  Of that I had no doubt.

  Alas, as I was continually finding out, even though I was the bride-to-be, countless things were out of my hands. Brent’s updated passport still hadn’t arrived. Without it, our Caribbean cruise honeymoon wasn’t going to happen. My mom and the florist couldn’t agree which flowers to use at the ceremony.

  And then there was the weather. We were getting married at the Winchester-Cobb Memorial Park gazebo. Every time I looked at the forecast, I shook my head and asked Ursi why I thought getting married out of doors in July was a good idea.

  All in all, not an ideal situation for someone who liked order in her life.

  Which was why, as I finished off a banana and blueberry smoothie, I reminded myself to take things one day at a time. Let go of things out of my control. Everything was going to be fine.

  “Time for me to head out, girl.” I placed my cup in the dishwasher as Ursi gobbled up the last of the kitty treats I’d given her. Today was going to be a welcome distraction from the stress of the buildup to the wedding. It was July Fourth and Rushing Creek was having its annual Independence Day Festival at Memorial Park.

  The festival was a great time if one wasn’t a cat. I loved every minute of it, but between the heat, the crowds, and the noise, it wasn’t a place for my fur baby. It was also a long day. By the time the fireworks show ended and we headed for home, it would be eleven o’clock.

  Thus, the larger-than-normal number of treats for Ursi. It was a way to salve my guilt from having so much fun without her. Then again, a day spent in climate-controlled comfort with unlimited opportunities to nap meant she wasn’t exactly getting a raw deal.

  I picked up my tortoiseshell baby and snuggled with her until she let out an annoyed mrrw. That was the signal she was ready to be put down. After kissing her head twice, I placed her on the middle couch cushion. In typical feline fashion, she leapt to the cushion to the right, where she settled down.

  “Thank you for not jumping off the couch, my queen.” I laughed when she gave me a long, unblinking look that seemed to say, “Whatever. You may go, Mom.”

  Having been dismissed, I got a water bottle out of the fridge and grabbed my bike helmet. As I
was strapping it on, my phone’s ringtone went off.

  “Sloanie Balonie, what is up this fine Independence Day?”

  “The sky, of course, duh.” My bestie let out a laugh. It was full of joy and reminded me how lucky I was to have her in my life. “So, hey, your dude Brent and I got us a prime spot here in the park. We’re halfway between the Memory Oak and the main shelter. Perfect for enjoying the festivities.”

  “Fabulous. I’m heading out now. Be there in a few.”

  “Don’t forget the paper plates and napkins.” Over the past few weeks, Sloane had relieved me of many of my mundane, everyday chores. That included organizing the annual Cobb Family Independence Day picnic. She said it was her way of making sure I enjoyed the time leading up to the Big Day.

  Whatever her motivation, I couldn’t be more appreciative. I did have a lot on my mind. Getting married took a lot of planning. “They’ll be in my saddle bags, along with the plasticware. And a full bottle of bug spray.”

  We ended the call and I headed out the door of my apartment, blowing Ursi a kiss as I made my exit. Before leaving the building, I made a detour to the third floor to check in with my friend Calypso.

  I gave her door three quick knocks. Calypso was expecting me, so the wait wasn’t a long one.

  “What’s up, Boss?” She gestured for me to come in. “Just need to put the green beans in a travel container.”

  One could have heard my jaw hit the floor when I laid eyes on her. My young assistant normally dressed in black from head to toe. And used a lot of black eyeliner. And colored her hair jet black.

  Today, however, her hair was a shocking shade of fluorescent red. Her shorts were navy blue. Even though her tank top was splashed with the raised fist logo of hard rock band Rage Against the Machine, the rest of it was white.

  “Great hair. And if I may say so, you look like a living, breathing rendition of the American flag.”

  Her serving spoon stopped in midair, halfway between the cooking pot and a plastic container. She turned toward me and narrowed her eyes. The good old prickly Calypso was alive and well.

  “Proceed with caution, oh wise literary agent. I’m proud of my citizenship, but the choice of this top was not by accident. Most people won’t get the message. For once I’m probably being too subtle. Those that do get it are my kind of people.”

  “Taking on the patriarchy on Independence Day. Expressing your First Amendment right to dissent. Am I on the right track?” I took over putting the green beans in the container. Calypso had something on her mind and this way she could get if off her chest.

  “Totally.” She grabbed a lid for the container. “Last night, at the Pub, some middle-aged dude started hitting on me. When I didn’t respond to his satisfaction, he threw a few insults my way and left me a penny for a tip. And this was for a dinner and drinks with his buddy. I waited on them for ninety minutes. The bill was almost a hundred bucks.”

  I grimaced. In general, the residents of Rushing Creek were decent folks. We depended on each other to keep our little tourist town vibrant and tried to take care of our own. That meant treating those in the service sector, especially those on the front lines, with respect while tipping reasonably.

  Unfortunately, not all of the tourists were on the same page. I’d heard too many stories to count from my sister Rachel, who owned the Rushing Creek Pub, about customers from out of town, especially men, who treated her frontline staff like trash.

  It made my blood boil.

  “Some people are the worst. And they’re everywhere. Here, New York, anyplace where someone wants to think they have power over someone else. I could tell you some stories from my time in the City—”

  “I know.” Calypso let out a long sigh. “But why do people have to be jerks? I know I’m as cuddly as a cactus, but I never act like a tosser for the fun of it.”

  “Deep down, they’re insecure. Like the Emerson quote, ‘Be curious, not judgmental.’ People should spend more time getting to know each other instead of making snap calls that someone is lesser because of how they look or what they do.”

  “Do you really think it’s that simple?” Calypso’s eyes got misty.

  “Not always, but sometimes, yes. Which is why it’s so important to have a support system. Folks you can lean on when things are lousy. Like now.” I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Today’s going to be a good day with people who care about you. We’ll eat, laugh, and have a great time. My mom will be there. Maybe you could talk to her. She’s the best listener I know.”

  Calypso took a deep breath and then straightened her top. “Maybe I’ll do that. She told me she’s looking forward to seeing the new hair color. She said she’s thinking about adding some color to her own hair.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “No way. She better not mess with her hair. Rachel and I have told her thousands of times how jealous we are of her glorious silver locks.”

  “All I know is it came up when Tristain asked if he could color his hair blue for the holiday.”

  A shudder ran through me from the top of my head to the bottoms of my toes. “My nephew is going to be the death of me. He’s a terrible influence on his grandmother.”

  “You mean he keeps her young,” Calypso said and laughed. It was an encouraging change from her earlier dark mood. “He reminds me a lot of you, actually. Curious. And kind of bossy. Theresa’s a lot more like her mom. Competitive and organized. It amazes me that a set of twins could be so different in the personality department.”

  My twin niece and nephew were becoming more and more fascinating. At almost eight years old, their individual personalities were revealing themselves more every day. They weren’t my babies anymore. It was an exciting thought. A frightening one, too.

  Where had the time gone.

  “I’ll buy the curious part. The bossy part, I reject on all grounds. Now, come on. We need to get to the park.” I winked. If Calypso was going to call me bossy, I might as well play the part.

  Calypso waited for me to load my paper products into one of my saddle bags. Then she placed the green beans in the other, wrapping the container with a beach towel to make sure it stayed upright during the ten-minute ride to the park.

  “Ready?” I asked as I buckled the chin strap of my bike helmet into place.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Today was Calypso’s first trip on her brand-new bike. Her beater car’s engine had blown up a few months ago. Without the money to pay for repairs, she had the vehicle hauled to the junk yard. After weeks of indecision, she finally spent fifty bucks on a mountain bike my brother Luke hadn’t ridden in ages.

  The first thing she did was paint the frame matte black. The second was to plaster it with stickers from punk bands.

  Much to her surprise, Calypso found she enjoyed rolling around town on two wheels. It got her to her job at the Pub faster than on two feet. When she worked the late shift, wheeling home felt safer than walking, too. The bike was too big for her five-five frame, though. A week ago, she’d purchased a brand-new set of wheels online.

  She’d spent the week assembling it. This would be the first time she’d be seen on it. Oh, yeah, the rig was candy apple red. A very unlike-Calypso hue.

  Until she got the new hair color.

  I wanted to call her the Girl on Fire but kept the comment to myself. Instead, I remained content with the thought that Calypso Bosley, my proud goth girl, was getting comfortable enough with her surroundings, and herself, to add color to her persona. Right on time for the most explosive holiday of the year.

  Oh, boy. Was it ever.

  Chapter Two

  Rushing Creek’s Memorial Park is a hub of activity pretty much every day of the year. Even during the dead of winter, folks run, walk their dogs, and if there’s enough snow, have epic snowball fights there.

  During the summer, the level of activity turned up to eleven. On Independence Day, it was off the scale.

  We pedaled at a casual
pace to soak in our surroundings. Every business on the Boulevard, the town’s main drag, was festooned in red, white, and blue bunting. American flags hung from lampposts at every intersection. They flapped in the breeze, a reminder that even though it would be a hot day, the wind would keep the humidity at bay.

  The more pleasant conditions should also make for a better-behaved crowd. At least, that was the hope.

  The moment we turned from the Boulevard onto T.C. Steele Memorial Way, a wall of sound greeted us. Despite the fact that the park was a half mile away, a tune performed by a brass band rose above the buzz of activity. It was only eleven o’clock, on a Sunday. A lot of folks were still in church. Yet Rushing Creek’s annual Fourth Fest was already in full swing.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” I glanced at Calypso as we rolled to a stop at a cross street two blocks from our destination.

  While she enjoyed her job at the Pub, at least when the customers treated her like a human being, she wasn’t a fan of crowds. She preferred listening to music and hanging out with a small group of friends at Hilltop Roasters, the local coffee shop.

  “Actually, yes, believe it or not.” She smiled. “One of my girlfriends is doing a poetry reading at the coffee shop’s tent at noon. It’s her first time doing a public reading. I want to be there for her.”

  “How cool.” I appreciated poetry. The creativity and discipline it took to create something that connected with people through the written word was something to celebrate. “Will you be doing any reading?”

  “No way. My journal entries aren’t exactly poetic in nature. Besides, the content would be a little dark for this crowd.”

  “Fair enough. Someday, though.”

  Calypso had started journaling as a way to express her feelings about her parents. Most of her entries were angry, defiant, and reflective of a life spent with adults who didn’t understand her. And never really tried to.