Deadly Ripples, page 1
Acclaim for Penny Goetjen
The Woman Underwater
“A vivid and poignant story of a woman haunted by an unsolved mystery from her past… I gulped it down in a single day.”
—Megan Collins, author of The Family Plot and Thicker Than Water
“A gripping mystery with an engaging cast of characters, lots of unexpected twists, and enticing hints of the paranormal.”
—Emily Arsenault, author of When All the Girls are Sleeping and The Last Thing I Told You
“An absorbing, dreamy, water imagery-infused mystery.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Empty Chair ~ Murder in the Caribbean
“Penny Goetjen uses the idyllic setting and island culture so effectively, the reader is tempted to savor ocean views from The Empty Chair, but don’t pause too long—danger is never too far away.”
—Kathryn Orzech, Author of Asylum and Premonition of Terror
Over the Edge ~ Murder Returns to the Caribbean
“. . . a well scripted murder mystery with deceptive characters and an unpredictable path.”
—Suzy Approved Book Reviews
Murder on the Precipice
“ . . . completely transportive, plenty of thrills, with a warm cast of characters that adds a lot of heart to this story.”
—Megan Collins, Author of The Winter Sister, Behind the Red Door, and The Family Plot
“Penny Goetjen has that rare ability to quickly capture the reader’s attention and keep their interest from scene to glorious scene. There is elegance in her writings. She is a gifted storyteller and never disappoints.”
—Martin Herman, Author of The Will James Mysteries
Murder Beyond the Precipice
“Goetjen is a competent writer who keeps things moving along, throwing in hints of the preternatural that add to the overall ambiance . . . worth a read.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Hard to put this book down. The twists and turns and intrigue never stop. . . . A must-read for murder mystery fans.”
—Readers’ Favorite
Murder Returns to the Precipice
“A richly textured mystery that’s both charmingly atmospheric and cunningly staged. Be forewarned . . . this story will lull you in with its seeming tranquility only to sweep you away in the undercurrent. Take a deep breath and surrender yourself fully. Penny Goetjen is a mighty force!”
—John Valeri, Criminal Element
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
Author Bio
Book Club Questions for DEADLY RIPPLES
Other Titles by
Penny Goetjen
The Woman Underwater
Olivia Benning Mystery Series
The Empty Chair ~ Murder in the Caribbean
Over the Edge ~ Murder Returns to the Caribbean
Elizabeth Pennington Mystery Series
Murder on the Precipice
Murder Beyond the Precipice
Murder Returns to the Precipice
Copyright © 2024 Penny Goetjen | pennygoetjen.com
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in
a review.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and names are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to a real person, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For information about this title or to order other books and/or electronic media, contact the publisher:
Secret Harbor Press, LLC
www.SecretHarborPress.com
secretharborpress@gmail.com
Cover and interior design by The Book Cover Whisperer: OpenBookDesign.biz
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Provided by Cassidy Cataloguing Services, Inc.)
Names: Goetjen, Penny, author. Title: Deadly ripples / Penny Goetjen. Description: First edition. | [Charleston, South Carolina] : Secret Harbor Press, [2024] Identifiers: ISBN: 978-0-9976235-2-9 (paperback) | 978-0-9976235-5-0 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Authors--Fiction. | Uncles--Death--Fiction. | Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | Inheritance and succession--Fiction. | Mothers and daughters--Fiction. | Missing persons-- Fiction. | Charleston (S.C.)--Fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | FICTION / Crime. | FICTION / Sagas. Classification: LCC: PS3607.O3356 D43 2024 | DDC: 813/.6--dc23
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024910896
978-0-9976235-5-0 eBook
978-0-9976235-2-9 Paperback
978-0-9976235-8-1 Audiobook
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
For my brother Kevin, whose generous heart, infectious smile,
and comforting hugs will never be forgotten.
Prologue
With the convertible top folded neatly and tucked away in its slot over the trunk, the night air tossed his hair about and buffeted his face. The engine purred smoothly, shifting seamlessly on command.
Headlights had been bobbing in the rearview mirror for the last mile or so. At a distance. Not changing lanes. Not turning off. Just far enough back to avoid scrutiny. At that hour they were the only two vehicles on the road—save for the occasional flash of white light in the oncoming lane—the road that led to the bridge. Once on it, there would be no exits, no way off the two-and-a-half-mile expanse.
A second set of headlights appeared in the mirror, next to the first. Four white lights suddenly bearing down, growing larger. Getting closer. He could hear the souped-up engines. The car in the left lane zipped past with a roar he could feel in his chest. Just as the headlights of the other car splashed onto the rearview mirror, it sped around, nearly clipping his bumper, chasing the first car. Right behind were two more who screamed by, and the four crisscrossed up the road, disappearing over the crest.
His palms, tingly from the close encounter, made the steering wheel slippery. The street racers, now well out of sight, had startled him more than they should have. But two new headlights bobbed in the mirror. They were a good distance behind but seemed to be closing.
What had he been thinking, taking the car out so late? He needed to get back without wrapping the classic Austin Healey and himself around a light pole.
As the cable-laden towers came into sight, he pressed the accelerator, and the front tires crossed onto the Ravenel Bridge. There was no turning back. The peppy engine responded easily as if content to be challenged beyond the usual stop-and-go city driving.
His pursuer sped forward and closed the gap between them until the bumpers were so close, the headlights were no longer in the rearview mirror.
As he tightened his fingers on the wheel to switch lanes, away from the edge of the bridge, he felt the impact and his body lurched. It was suddenly eerily quiet—until a second impact and then darkness filled in around him.
Chapter One
The grand elm tree in the far corner of the backyard had always been my refuge from the family, particularly my mother, at least for a short while. But somewhere along the way she’d figured it out after I’d been gone for an extended period and would suddenly be standing at the base of the sturdy trunk, yelling up at me.
It was usually something like, “For God’s sake, Kathryn, what are you doing up there?” or, “Get down out of that damn tree.” And once, “Ladies don’t climb trees. Certainly not at your age. And certainly not in skirts.”
But this time it was, “Kathryn, your uncle h
I’ll never forget the jolt in my chest. As the air rushed from my lungs, my foot slipped, and I had to grab onto a secondary branch to keep from falling, although the thought of throwing myself off the broad arm I was balanced on sashayed through my mind, I’d have to admit. Tempting though that was, I wasn’t going to give my mother the satisfaction.
Tucking the notepad and pencil I was clutching into the wide pocket of my gingham tiered midi skirt, I scooted up into the branches, not out of sight of my mother—even the tiniest of green leaf buds hadn’t begun to burst from the branches—but farther away. Always the messenger of bad news and seemingly with a twisted sort of pleasure in the delivery.
My uncle . . . my kindred spirit. Gone? How could it be? The universe was beyond cruel.
“I’m sure you’re upset. You may want to up your med dosage.” That was my mother’s attempt at compassion. The silence that followed allowed the recently arrived wrens to chirp their lyrical song that suddenly seemed out of place. “It was a shock to us too.”
I knew my mother had felt nothing at hearing the news—nothing but a sense of relief her husband’s younger brother, who she considered to be the family failure and an annoying influence on her impressionable middle child, was finally out of the picture and less able to influence.
“All right . . . well, I’ll leave you to it.” That was it. She’d come to deliver the news, and she’d done it. She could return to whatever it was Rose Cogswell Moore—or Posh, as she preferred to be called—spent her days doing.
Chapter Two
As luggage bobbed along the conveyor belt, my eyes slipped out of focus. It had barely been a two-hour flight from Boston, so it wasn’t the travel that had zapped my energy. The mental whiplash from the past few weeks had me struggling to wrap my head around the news my beloved uncle was gone. And he’d left his Charleston home to me. But why? Why not my father—his brother?
Don’t get me wrong. I was beyond flattered—more like flummoxed—but it didn’t seem to make sense.
As I tried to refocus on the bags chugging by on the belt—had mine gone by already?—a familiar pain stabbed between my eyes until my vision blurred, and it felt as though the edges of my mind were sizzling.
“Oh no,” I whispered to no one, grabbing for something to hang on to. I hated when it happened in public.
“Are you okay?” A short but stout, salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman offered his concern. I looked in horror at my hand clutching the rough tweed fabric on his upper arm.
“Sorry,” was all I could manage, releasing my grasp and pushing past him.
Scanning baggage claim for a place to sit, I dashed for a row of small white bistro tables along the front windows, aiming to plop into the nearest available chair, stumbling as I went, catching my toe on someone’s suitcase. I didn’t make it. I went down hard, landing on my side with my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, followed by my head. At that point, all I could do was close my eyes, willing the episode to pass without a lengthy vision. I heard a shriek and then could feel people gathering around me.
“What happened?”
“Is she all right?”
“Someone call 911.”
I couldn’t spit out the words, Please don’t. I’ll be okay.
“She’s having a seizure. She’s as white as a ghost.”
I’m pale because I’m from New England, and we’re coming out of nine months of winter.
Give me a minute wouldn’t form on my tongue. Instead I uttered unintelligible sputterings and grunts while I fought with the images in my head. Per usual, they won.
This time I sensed I was in a vehicle. It was moving, but I couldn’t tell if I was the driver or a passenger. It was dark, but uplights illuminated cables from a tall tower ahead. It wasn’t clear what the structure was. Where it was located and the time frame I was viewing it in weren’t coming to either. They rarely did.
My head felt detached from my body, yet I pushed through the vision, trying to discern what I was seeing. At this point I was all in. I could sense the crowd around me, but it felt as though they were watching the images along with me. But what was I supposed to be seeing? Did I need to keep moving through to the towers, or was there something there I needed to notice? It was quiet like the middle of the night, and I had the feeling of being alone. There didn’t seem to be any other cars nearby. Suddenly things shifted and I was falling. My stomach lurched upward. It was difficult to breathe. Just when I thought I would run out of air, a voice penetrated the dark and I snatched a breath.
“Girl, you all right?” Her voice boomed, and the crowd seemed to take a step back to make room. Something wrapped around my forearm, constricting the blood flow. As my splotchy vision began to clear, I could make out bulging eyes and hair sticking out of her head like she’d overdone it with gel that morning. I didn’t notice the blue tips until her face came into focus. Shiny from the heat outside. Dark, beyond what a month in the sun would look like. She yanked my arm like a tight end righting a quarterback after a humiliating sack. “You best be getting up. The floor of a public place is nowhere for you to be lying on. It’s filthy. People walking all over it and all. Dragging luggage and whatnot across it. That same luggage gets dragged through public bathrooms. Yuck.”
I was on my feet but teetering. Two bear claws steadied my shoulders. “You’re Miss Moore, right?” she said in a hushed tone, but the words blared in my ear, and then she turned her attention to the gawkers, waving them away. “Go on now. There’s nothing to see here. Go on.”
How did she know who I was? Before I could ask, she tried again. “Right? Kathryn Moore?”
I struggled to gather myself. “How . . . how did you know . . . and who are you?”
“Well now. Forgive my atrocious manners. My mother would be plum embarrassed at me. I’m with Levinson & Levinson. I’m here to pick you up.”
“Great . . . that’s great. Thank you. I thought I’d have to grab a rental and figure out how to get downtown.”
“No. I got you, girl. That’s my job today.” It sounded like she mumbled a few words after that, but I let it go. I was grateful for the ride and a connection in Charleston.
Offering me a water bottle, she said, “Here, looks like you might need this.”
Deciding it was preferable for her to think I was simply dehydrated than for her to know what had actually transpired, I accepted the water and unscrewed the top, sensing the crowd I’d inadvertently gathered was finally dispersing. Nothing more to watch. Spectacle over. The wacko tourist had come around.
“How did you know it was me?” I tried again. My city girl instincts kicked in. Was she really who she said she was? One couldn’t be too cautious when she first got to town. Even though my driver was female, she was no slouch. In fact, she could be described as sturdy, solid, or even a bit masculine. And tall. Most guys would think twice before messing with her.
“Your mother described you to a tee.”
The nearby baggage carousel lurched to life again, prompting us to wander over to where my flight’s bags were riding the belt. I hadn’t noticed it had halted for a moment. I was too busy causing a scene.
“Really. What did she say?” I could hear my mother describing me as rather plain, kind of frumpy, with dark rimmed thick glasses, which were simply easier to wear than fussing with contacts, unremarkable brown hair—finger combed and pulled back into a pony, flats that had been scuffed into submission, and a long dark print skirt that didn’t quite cover them. And a notebook sticking part way out of the pocket with a pencil or pen attached somewhere on it. Lord knows what she keeps in it. Nope, my mother wouldn’t have held anything back.
She opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it.
