Deadly Curses Read online

  Table of Contents

  DEADLY CURSES

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  DEADLY CURSES

  Magnolia Valley Series

  DONNA SHIELDS

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  DEADLY CURSES

  Copyright©2015

  DONNA SHIELDS

  Cover Design by Leah Suttle

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  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 the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  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. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-729-7

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated to my one and only SIL-LY,

  Mary “Kat” Harrington who has been there through

  this crazy rollercoaster ride right alongside me,

  keeping me on an even keel most days,

  helping me immensely with Trent and Ciarra’s story,

  and continuing to help bring together

  the Magnolia Valley series.

  I couldn’t ask for a better partner-in-crime.

  Love you bunches.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, thank you to my publisher, Debby Gilbert, who continues to take a chance on me and my writing, who believes in me even when I think I’m on shaky ground with a story.

  Thank you to my editor, Cheryl Yeko. Your advice is priceless. Everything you pointed out was right on. You are a gem.

  Thank you to family and friends who continue to support me throughout every writing project. You all put up with the grumbles, the “almost done’s,” my constant blank stare at the computer screen, and not to mention the strewn, unorganized papers. You are my rock.

  I want to give a special thank you to Marcus Connors for helping me out with great advice from a detective’s perspective. Your thoughts are of the greatest value to me. If there are any “police” mistakes, they are solely mine.

  And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my loyal readers because without you all, my stories would fly in the wind with no one to enjoy them. I give you my deepest and humble gratitude.

  Prologue

  Like a wraith slipping through the mists of time, the dark haired, Haitian woman maneuvered through the halls of the hospital. Nearly invisible . . . just like Doctor John, the Voodoo High Priest in New Orleans had promised. If anyone saw her, they wouldn’t remember later on. The spell ensured the memory would be blocked. She had to be careful for the spell only lasted a few moments. A small window of time to slip in and take care of this final wretched human being.

  That’s all she needed. No one could stop her now. The last one must be cursed and made to pay for all that she had lost.

  Entering the Emergency Room through the double doors as quiet as she could, she slipped into the break room. She found a tiny closet open and entered it. She left the door open a crack, enough to see if someone came in. Not more than five minutes later, the wretched doctor appeared with a cup in hand. He poured some coffee and came close to spilling it when a nurse came rushing in.

  “Doctor, there’s a call for you on line two. It’s the oncologist you’ve been waiting for.”

  The doctor set the steaming mug down. “It’s about time.” He followed the nurse out of the room.

  The woman opened the closet door, taking care to ensure there weren’t any other people in the room. Pulling out a packet from her jacket pocket, she hurried over to the counter. When first arriving this evening, she had spotted the doctor outside talking to one of the nurses. She had gotten close enough to hear him say he was going in to get a coffee from the lounge. Good thing because she would have had to sneak around the emergency department waiting for the right time.

  The doctor’s voice carried down the hall, catching her attention. The break room door stood open. Listening in on his conversation with the nurse, the woman sprinkled the Ashes of the Dead into the cup and watched as they were absorbed by the coffee, disappearing to the bottom. She had to hurry as his voice sounded closer. She darted behind the open door . . .

  “Doctor Moore would you like for me to discharge the young man in Room three with the prescription of antibiotics?” the nurse asked.

  Trent stopped at the doorway. “No, I want to change his chart orders now that we have his records and know the underlying root of the problem. I want him started on IV Therapy and admitted for observation. Let’s add some Morphine to the IV along with his antibiotics to help him rest easier as well. Once I grab my cup of coffee, I will join you at the nurses’ station to add the change of my orders into the notes on his chart. His oncologist should be here soon.”

  Walking into the break room and over to the counter, Trent stopped, a cold chill washing over him. Visions of a black skull painted face slipped into his mind chanting unheard words and then vanished. A smell, like the incense from a funeral, reached his nose while an extreme sadness crept into his soul. And as quick as it had come, it was gone.

  What in the hell happened? Shaking his head to clear the vision which had been haunting his dreams for weeks, Trent added cream to his coffee, took the spoon lying on the counter nearby, and stirred it. Where were these nightmares and visions coming from? Grabbing the steaming cup and taking a careful sip of his coffee, he focused his mindset once again on his patients and left the room.

  That had been too close. A few more seconds, and he would have caught her.

  But, he was drinking the coffee. The powder would open his auric field. That’s all she needed. Now, she could return home and begin once again. Everything was in place waiting for her. Dr. Trent Moore was the last one.

  The Haitian woman left her hiding spot from behind the door and slipped out of the ER through a back door. For the fourth and final time she whispered, “Let the finger point the way.”

  Chapter 1

  Foul odors assaulted Dr. Trent Moore in the early morning hours. Decomposing flesh mixed with the Southern clay dirt filled his nostrils, causing him to turn away. He took a couple of steps back and covered his face with his scarf. The icy, bitter wind the weatherman predicted last night battered Trent forcing him to turn back toward his parents’ graves.

  Whoever wr
eaked havoc here had done so in a hurry, the dirt haphazardly thrown to the side. Some crazy madman harboring the creepy thrill of digging up a poor man’s grave looking for whatever held their fancy. The thought made Trent’s stomach flip.

  When Trent had asked to see his father’s corpse, the detective standing guard looked at him like he was the deranged one. Trent couldn’t help himself. To him, it was one more chance to see his father. And despite the smells floating toward him in the air, the dead man looked exactly as he had four months earlier.

  Trent glanced at the Georgia gray headstone. One of his siblings, quite possibly his sister, had visited recently. The vases on either side of the stone held fresh dandelions. His late mother’s name, Nora Madeline had been etched into the stone’s left side. Trent still struggled with her difficult passing two years earlier. The stroke had riddled her brain, and she never was the same after that. Her spirit for life just wasn’t there anymore. She had a couple more strokes afterward. Massive cerebral hemorrhaging had killed her. Her grave lay untouched.

  His father had passed away back in July. The stubborn, old man’s body gave out after his life of constant struggle as a farmer. Trent couldn’t figure out what the grave robber had wanted. Jonathan Moore had no money his entire life. Nothing of value had been placed with him when Trent and his four siblings buried him. So, why dig up his grave of all the ones in this cemetery?

  More police cars arrived, their flashing lights bouncing off the gravestones. One officer stuck stakes into the ground and roped off a boundary around the plot. Trent turned to the detectives. The female spoke in a hushed tone over her cell phone. She glanced up before turning away, her long ebony mane swishing with the movement. Trent turned to her partner. “There were no other graves in the cemetery disturbed?”

  The male detective cleared his throat and rubbed his chin covered with a five o’clock shadow. “No sir. Were there any valuables buried with your father?”

  “His wedding ring, and I can assure you the ring wasn’t worth its weight in gold, Detective . . .”

  “Detective Rick Simmons.” The man covered his face with a handkerchief and took a couple of steps back from the grave.

  Detective Simmons’ partner closed her phone, walked over and extended her hand. “I’m Detective Ciarra Pacelli. Sorry about your father’s grave. Did he have any distinguishing features?”

  Detective Simmons coughed hard twice and put more distance between him and the hole in the ground.

  “What do you mean?” Trent had a little satisfaction in watching Detective Simmons struggle with his obvious unease. Trent wasn’t having much fun either. It wasn’t every day he woke to a phone call regarding a grave robber.

  Detective Pacelli questioned, “Any fingers missing?”

  Trent swallowed back the sudden rise of bile creeping up his throat. “No. What’s this about?” He had a sneaky suspicion he wouldn’t like her answer before she spoke.

  “One is missing.”

  His head cocked to one side. “Which one?” Why the hell did he care what finger it was? Did it really matter? The cold air stung forcing him to close his eyes for a brief moment. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t pass out.

  “It is his pointer on his left hand which doesn’t make any sense. His wedding ring’s plain as day.”

  Trent opened his eyes. Detective Pacelli’s own narrowed and a sad smile crept upon her face.

  “Pacelli, I’m going to find the caretaker. Sorry, Doctor Moore.” Detective Simmons turned and headed for the front of the graveyard.

  “Excuse my partner. He’s new to the division.”

  Well, it explained the detective’s unease. “What’s the purpose of digging up my father’s corpse to take his damn finger? Who would be sick enough to take something like a body part, and for what, as a souvenir?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned toward the street. “There’s something else.”

  He needed to get away from here, away from the pungent stench, and most of all away from the pain caused by the maniac who’d desecrated his father’s final resting place . . . and his own endless guilt for not being close to his father. “How about we grab a cup of coffee?”

  Turning back to him, she frowned. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  Trent shrugged. “A warm cup of coffee is always a good idea. I know because I’m a doctor. Consider it good medical advice. Come on, one cup.”

  “Doctor Moore, I’m on duty. I don’t date, period.”

  Ouch. “Hold up, Detective. You took what I said wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. First of all, you are not my type.” He eyeballed her from the top of her silky head, passing the unmistakable swell of her breasts beneath her suede jacket, down the tight-fitting jeans and ending at the tip of her leather boots. She was beautiful, just not his usual blonde in skimpy clothing.

  He raised his gaze to meet her dark chocolate eyes, which were quite stunning. “Second, I’m freezing my ass off out here, and the smells aren’t exactly appealing. I figured we’d talk in the café across the way.”

  Her gaze followed in the direction he was pointing. She gave a slight nod before turning back to him. “All right, but just one cup.”

  Trent studied Detective Pacelli as they covered the short distance to the Sunshine Nook Café. They exited the graveyard through the large wrought iron gate and turned right, heading down Main Street. Passing the consignment store on the corner before crossing the street, Trent spotted an older woman and a small pigtailed girl inside. He slowed his walk, noticing the little girl’s eyes light up when the older woman set down a dollhouse at her feet. She jumped up and down. He couldn’t help but grin at her happiness. It reminded him of his sister Lindsay when she was a little girl.

  He turned his attention back to the woman walking a little ahead of him. He’d sized Detective Pacelli up, although it was possible he was being unfair, comparing her to the other women he’d dated. A very small list. As an emergency room doctor, he didn’t have much free time to socialize, but the women were about the same. All blondes, petite, and non-threatening, with little need for affection, like wining, dining, flowers, and love. They hadn’t wanted a commitment, at least not immediately.

  This lady was the complete opposite. She had the dark, rich complexion of an Italian with a deep southern, Louisiana accent. Her black jeans hid long slender legs, legs he knew would fit snug around him. He pictured those legs in fishnet stockings attached to a pair of black stilettos.

  Knock it off. She’s not your type.

  He wouldn’t ever consider asking her out on a date if given the chance. Her being in law enforcement meant she had to fight to get where she was. This, in turn, made her the independent type. He didn’t want emotional women either. Hell, he was happy with his platinum-haired flings. Easy come. Easy go. They went their way, and he went his.

  Except for Rachel Montgomery. It had been a while since he allowed his mind to wander to her. She’d been hell bent on commitment, wanting the perfect family, and he followed like a sick little puppy.

  Yes, his blondes were much easier to deal with.

  Despite that, Trent found himself unable to tear his eyes away from those curved swinging hips, the tight jeans enhancing each sculpted movement. Put your brain back in your skull.

  He glanced ahead of her as they crossed Main Street, noting a couple of men tying off a statue to be hoisted into a place overhead the café. A third man waited inside the crane. Trent lifted his eyes above them. Two more men huddled near the opening where a window had once been, taken out to move the statue within the brick building.

  His thoughts turned back to his father’s grave. Who would dig up an old man’s final resting place? At the time of Jonathan Moore’s passing, the bank wanted to pounce, ready to strip the farm away. The financial vultures circled and continued to this day waiting for Probate to finally settle the matter. They hadn’t counted on Gregory, Trent’s oldest brother, fighting the foreclosure tooth and nail. Gregory had every
intention of ensuring the bank never got their claws into the farm. He had financial approval and was waiting on Probate along with the bank.

  The swinging glass door of the café came close to slamming Trent in the head, but the detective caught the handle in the last couple of seconds. A gentleman rushed past them mumbling his apologies.

  “That would have hurt,” she stated, pulling the door open for him.

  For a second, her silky voice mesmerized him. “No kidding. Thank you, Detective.” Passing her, he inhaled her fresh citrus scent. Geez, get a grip on your libido already.

  “Let’s grab a booth over there.”

  This café had become Trent’s refuge over the last two years following his mother’s death. Being faithful once a week, he’d walked the short distance from the Medical Center to the cemetery plot to visit her and now, also his father. Sometimes, he wondered how stupid he must sound talking to a couple of corpses. He didn’t believe much in life after death or ghosts or the boogeyman. But, saying sorry soothed his guilt enough to get him through until the next visit.

  They sat down as a very pregnant waitress came over to take their order. Waiting for the young mom-to-be to walk away after pouring some coffee, Detective Pacelli finally spoke. “Do you know Circuit Solicitor James Baker?”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “How about our Circuit Court Judge Bryan Reynolds?”

  “I’ve heard of him, sure. What do they have to do with my father’s grave?”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he had a sneaking suspicion something real strange was going on, and what she was about to tell him would change his whole world.