Loving Memories Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Imogene Nix®

  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 book is a work of fiction. Character, places and events are from the author's imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  3rd Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-922369-36-9

  This book is dedicated to any woman who’s plus-sized and ever questioned her worth. Just remember, you’re beautiful!

  Blurb

  A second chance at love could come with a killer price tag.

  Jenny Douglas has the grim task of returning her friend’s body to the man she loved.

  Steve Davies is grieving for the woman he lost while trying to care for the foster child she left behind—a little girl he has come to think of as his own.

  Jenny and Steve must work together to try to figure out who killed Cara. And if a little bit of passion gets in the way, well...it’s not the real thing...or is it?

  Content Warning: contains sexual content and mental health issues that some may find confronting

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Inheritance Of The Blood by Imogene Nix

  The Celtic Cupid Trilogy

  BioCybe by Imogene Nix

  Also by Imogene Nix

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The room was dark and the air cool. Cara’s body throbbed as the puddle of blood beneath her grew larger.

  “Why? Why did he do this?” Her voice sounded thin, and she swiped her tongue over her cracked lips. It wasn’t meant to end this way. He’d smashed the phone, and taken her cell, so she couldn’t call for help. Ensuring she wouldn’t be found alive.

  The knowledge that they’d find out the things she’d done sat in the forefront of her mind. Everything she’d achieved would fall apart once she was gone. Dammit. She’d worked so hard to plan for all the most important things and had missed this—that one person would betray her.

  She’d used this trip to Melbourne as a blind. She’d told Steve she was coming to visit Jenny. Clearly, she’d miscalculated badly. Now her plans were shattered because she hadn’t considered betrayal.

  Once she was gone, Jenny and Steve would forget her—her legacy incomplete and lost. “No. I won’t let them forget me.”

  A sound left her quaking. He might come back. Then it would be too late.

  What to do? A note. If she left them a note, maybe it would muddy things enough that they would remember her fondly. A seed of regret for past actions bloomed.

  With shaking hands, Cara dragged herself toward the bed. She knew there’d be a pen in her bag, and maybe she could find something to write on. Pulling herself up stole the breath in her body. Winded, she lay half-on, half-off the bed.

  Her body was cooling, the extremities tingling now. Her eyes sought a flash of white and found a receipt stuffed into the side of her handbag. It would work. She dragged her bag closer and reached inside. The movement hurt, and a low moan escaped her lips.

  Cara panted, her energy now melting away.

  Her fingers clutched the pen, the tiny gold one that Steve had bought her, and she started to write. Laboriously, but when it was done, she slumped to the bed. Time passed and the light in the room grew dim.

  Another sound impinged on her. Hide it. Hide the letter. No one must find it, at least not until the police come. She accepted now it was all over. She was going to die here in this dingy, little room. Alone.

  Chapter 1

  The knock at the door at seven AM while Jenny was getting ready for work startled her.

  “Hang on!” she called.

  She hurried down the hallway from the kitchen and grasped the brass handle. As she tugged the door open, she saw a policeman. She couldn’t miss the stiffness of his stance, and the marked car on the road behind him had her gut churning.

  “Miss Douglas? I’m Detective Inspector Reid. We’ve traced you via the police database as an emergency contact for Cara Stewart. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I’m all the family she has. Has something happened to Cara? Is she all right? Has she been in an accident?”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news. May I come in, please?”

  Cold seeped into her pores at his words. Her brain struggled to compute what was happening. “Uh...sure.” She led him down the hallway into the kitchen. “Please, sit down,” she said, pulling out a chair for herself.

  “Cara...she’s a close friend?”

  “We’re like sisters.” Jenny couldn’t say why, but she knew instantly. She slumped into her seat, pain searing her insides. “What happened?” she asked, her words strained.

  “She passed away sometime yesterday. The circumstances are suspicious, so we need to investigate it. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She laughed then, a snotty, wet warble. It seemed incongruous that here was a policeman, using the same terminology she always heard in the criminal investigation television shows.

  The next hour passed in a blur. Detective Inspector Reid was kind. He offered her support and promised to keep her informed of the status of the investigation. Then he made arrangements for her to take responsibility for Cara—her remains, at least—and her worldly goods.

  As Jenny left the morgue, the grim task of identifying Cara’s body completed, the detective stood outside waiting for her.

  “Miss Douglas. You’re finished?”

  The lump in her throat stopped any ability to speak, so she nodded, her hair billowing around her head, and she could see the wild, wispy tendrils in her peripheral vision.

  “Once we’re done, I can release her effects to you.”

  It all sounded so impersonal. So final. Her heart pounded, but she refused to look up, not wanting him to see the depths of her pain.

  “If you’d step in here.” He indicated to a tiny alcove that she hadn’t noticed. Her mind whirred, the miasma of grief settling over her in a heavy cloud. It was unbearable right now to even think; if she did, she would remember why she was here, in this horribly soulless place.

  “Of course.” Breathe through this, Jenny. This part will be over soon.

  The vision of Cara on the cold, metal table choked her. The scent—sickly sweet masked by heavy cleaning solutions—still remained in her nostrils. Decay and death, the vile aroma seemed to waft around her even though she was in the offices and far away from the cold rooms where they viewed the deceased. For a moment, Jenny was sure she’d vomit.

  “Take a shallow breath. I promise it will pass.” Detective Reid laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, reassuring her.

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” She ducked her head, seeking some inner strength.

  “I need you to sign for her items.” The officer pushed an official-looking document to her, and she scribbled her signature on the page.

  When Jenny raised her head, the detective lifted a clear, plastic bag. Inside were articles of clothing, the deep red tones of dried blood visible. Jenny shuddered.

 
“Is this all, Detective?”

  He shook his head. “No, there’s more. Her purse contained four hundred and fifty dollars and thirty-five cents. Credit cards, etcetera. We also have several articles of jewelry—three rings, one set of diamond earrings, a watch, and a necklace.”

  Jenny looked at him, but for some odd reason, she got the impression there was something more—something he wanted to say but couldn’t—and she wondered what it was.

  “But what else, Detective?” She hated the thickness of her voice.

  “There was one other thing. A letter.” He reached into his pocket, producing a small manila envelope.

  She reached out, her fingers brushing over the paper. Vertigo assailed, the floor undulating beneath her straining eyes. Were these the last words Cara had written? She broke the seal and slid the paper out.

  “It’s a photocopy. The original is evidence, but I thought...” His voice died away, and hot tears scalded her eyes.

  “It’s very kind of you to do this.”

  “She’d hidden it. Stuffed it down her bra, where no one would find it until she arrived in the morgue. It was clear then that she’d written it after the attack and before she died.” Jenny’s stomach lurched.

  The plane taxied to a stop, and as soon as the seatbelt light went off, Jenny stood to retrieve her bag from the overhead compartment. Here she was, back home in Brisbane. The damned anger and sadness still blocked her throat. She cleared it, rubbed her hands across her eyes, and started to work her way up the aisle toward the exit.

  As she left the plane, the attendants gave her their politely disinterested ‘we know you still have a long, sad trip ahead of you’ smiles. She trudged up the empty corridor into the airport terminal. Jenny had arranged for the funeral home to meet the plane and retrieve the coffin. It had been very hard flying from Melbourne to Brisbane knowing Cara was below her in the hold in a casket. This would be the last trip Cara ever made.

  Jenny’s carry-on bag weighed her down as she reached the baggage claim area. The intercom ran continual notices, and she scanned the bags, searching for hers and Cara’s, ignoring the happy people crowding around her. Finally, her backpack and Cara’s expensive Gucci suitcase, which Jenny had tied yellow ribbons to, came into view. She moved forward, snagging them both before retreating from the knots of carefree travelers. She dragged them to the trolleys, slipped a coin into the release, and placed the heavy bags onto it before heading toward the door.

  The intercom made a ding-dong noise again. “Paging Miss Jenny Douglas. Jenny Douglas. If you’re in the terminal, please make your way to the information desk.”

  “Oh God, what on earth’s wrong now?” She muttered the words as she turned and pushed the trolley toward the designated area.

  In front of the desk stood a gorgeous, tall, muscular man with black hair curling at his neck to caress his nape. The woman manning the desk spoke quietly, her hand patting the man’s as if soothing some deep emotion. His face was tight and drawn, as if he were enduring some hidden pain.

  Holding his hand was a tiny, young Eurasian girl. Jenny guessed her to be about five or six years old. An alarm rang in her brain.

  Was this Steve? Who was the little girl beside him, and why couldn’t she pull her gaze away from them? She clenched her fingers around the handle of the baggage cart and inhaled deeply, seeking to balance herself emotionally before stepping in his direction. The jitters that ran like a fine current of electricity through her eased somewhat. She hadn’t expected to see him. Their arrangements had been that she’d let him know when she arrived in Brisbane. His gaze tracked her as she wheeled the squeaky cart in his direction.

  Once she arrived in front of the desk, she glanced at the woman. “I’m Jenny Douglas. You paged me?”

  “Miss Douglas, I asked them to page you,” said the dark-haired man, stepping forward. “Steve...Steve Davies.” His voice carried harshness, as if he had to force the words from his throat. In his eyes, Jenny saw the grief and loss, along with the white lines of pain that flanked his lips.

  Jenny knew his name. She’d seen it written on the crumpled paper in her pocket. Her eyes stung and watered again even as she told herself sternly that any attraction she felt was wrong. He was Cara’s man. The relationship between them was clear in the letter Cara had left for her.

  “Hi, Steve.” She held out her hand, and he shook it in three firm movements. The little girl squeezed in against the big man’s side, the movement catching her attention. Jenny glanced down at the young girl who wound an arm around Steve’s leg. “Hi.”

  The girl blinked but remained silent, and Jenny quickly realized that the little girl wasn’t very trusting. That was evident by the way she gripped tighter and seemed to shrink into the man she clung to.

  Jenny looked back at the man in front of her, and the bubbly sensation, as if a million tiny bugs were flying around, started in her gut. As the feeling rose, she firmly stamped it out.

  “I, umm... Have you got transportation organized?” His eyes reflected pain, as if it were too great a burden to carry, but his spine remained stiff, cradling the child close. “The undertaker’s email said you were coming in on this flight and the... Cara...” He stopped, and she took pity on him.

  “Yes, Cara’s casket is being met by the undertaker. I was going to grab a taxi...” She stopped short as he shook his head. “Does...” She nodded to the child, wondering not for the first time if the girl was aware of what was happening.

  He inclined his head, indicating that the little girl knew about Cara. “We’ll take you. Where are you staying?”

  Jenny named her hotel, and he grimaced.

  “It’s a bit...run down.”

  She shrugged. This trip alone was a stretch financially, but she couldn’t...wouldn’t do anything less for Cara.

  He nodded, and for an instant, she wondered what he had thought when he’d first seen her, then she shook herself. He was grieving for Cara, and she was a fool. A size eighteen fool at that.

  “Can we...go?” Jenny spoke quietly. Right now she needed silence, the noise and bustle of the airport too much for her mind to process.

  Steve released the girl and held out a hand, which the child took. “Come on, Lola. Let’s take Jenny to the car, okay?”

  She waited for him to lead the way, the little girl clinging to his hand. The child hadn’t said a word, just watched Jenny through lost, empty eyes. Time and time again in her profession as a psychologist, Jenny had seen that same look from those who’d lost someone close.

  They left the terminal, making their way through the maze of concrete works to the large multi-storied car park as loud and impersonal as any other. He moved unerringly toward a new model sedan, stopped, and clicked the button on the remote control. The turn signal lamps flashed accompanied by a beep of the horn. The girl he called Lola let go of his hand and climbed into the vehicle.

  She glanced at the child, the psychologist inside her wondering what she could say to help with the pain the young girl must be feeling. But the broken woman inside her wanted to keep a distance, so she kept quiet.

  Once the bags were stowed she pushed the cart to a nearby return bay and pocketed the change, then made her way to the car and climbed in. The engine roared to life and she settled back into the comfortable leather seat, pulling on her seatbelt. He drove slowly past the bay of cars.

  The silence grew uncomfortable, and she asked quietly, “Have you known Cara for long?”

  He glanced at her then looked away. She hadn’t even known about him until the letter from Cara was placed in her hand. The knowledge that Cara was in a long-term relationship but had never told her had scored her at first. Then she’d reminded herself that they were living different and separate lives. Besides, Cara would have told her about him at some point soon. Now though, Jenny felt a determination to understand his importance in Cara’s life.

  “I met her several months ago.” His terse, arctic tone stopped her questions and ended the conv
ersation. Jenny turned away.

  How can I sort through the jumbled mess Cara left me if I can’t even get an answer from him? Her fingers sought and found the letter once more in her pocket where she had hidden it. She ran a shaking fingertip along the edges of a crease line. She didn’t need to read it again to know the contents. They were burned into her memory. She’d have to share it soon, but not yet.

  At this moment in time she wished she could forget it and the information it contained, but its existence was like picking at a scab, her mind returning to it, and the pain reminded her that she was here and this was her reality. Her mind helpfully supplied a vision of the paper, the dark smears of blood that had coated it, and the ever-present nausea rose.

  It was all too much for her to contemplate right now, and the view from the car window blurred.

  “Jenny, I’m sorry.”

  She closed her eyes at the choked sound of Steve’s voice. It seemed unfair that this big, strong man was reduced to...what? Misery? She wanted to tell him that went with the territory of dealing with someone who’d been murdered. But instead she tensed her jaw, holding in the thoughts as they drove along. It would only wound him, and they both carried enough wounds already.

  She tugged on the sleeves of her shirt, hiding the reminders of her own.

  Steve finally slowed the car and turned into a small hotel. It was ugly and dirty. Seedy with an air of desperation hanging about it. It might have been the refuse and over-filled bins, it could have been the greasy entrance or those loitering by the door, but everything together reinforced her concern. Jenny’s stomach knotted further. Why had she picked this place? Even online it had looked downtrodden. Now that she was here, it was worse. Several older cars, rusted and dented, sat in the parking lot, and the buildings around were shuttered with dirty, metal grates. She gulped her dismay.