The Fear Hunter

  The Fear Hunter

  Book One of the Agatha Bright Mysteries

  elise sax

  The Fear Hunter (Agatha Bright Mysteries– Book 1) is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Elise Sax

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1079170719

  Published in the United States by 13 Lakes Publishing

  Cover design: Elizabeth Mackey

  Edited by: NovelNeeds.com

  Formatted by: Jesse Kimmel-Freeman

  Printed in the United States of America

  elisesax.com

  elisesax@gmail.com

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  @theelisesax

  Also by Elise Sax

  Matchmaker Mysteries Series

  Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda

  Road to Matchmaker

  An Affair to Dismember

  Citizen Pain

  The Wizards of Saws

  Field of Screams

  From Fear to Eternity

  West Side Gory

  Scareplane

  It Happened One Fright

  The Big Kill

  It’s a Wonderful Knife

  Ship of Ghouls

  Matchmaker Mysteries The Complete Series

  Goodnight Mysteries Series

  Die Noon

  Doom with a View

  Jurassic Dark

  Coal Miner’s Slaughter

  Wuthering Frights

  Goodnight Mysteries The Complete Series

  Agatha Bright Mysteries Series

  The Fear Hunter

  Some Like It Shot

  Operation Billionaire Trilogy

  How to Marry a Billionaire

  How to Marry Another Billionaire

  How to Marry the Last Billionaire on Earth

  Operation Billionaire Trilogy

  Five Wishes Series

  Going Down

  Man Candy

  Hot Wired

  Just Sacked

  Wicked Ride

  Five Wishes Series

  Three More Wishes Series

  Blown Away

  Inn & Out

  Quick Bang

  Three More Wishes Series

  Standalone Books

  Forever Now

  Bounty

  Switched

  Also by Elise Sax

  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

  Also by Elise Sax

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Oh look, another glorious morning. Makes me sick!”

  –Winifred Sanderson, “Hocus Pocus”

  The day Felicia White went missing, I was unhappily oblivious. In fact, I was drowning in my unwanted new life, so it was impossible for me to notice much of anything.

  For the past two weeks, I had been running the family’s business, which was a bookstore soup shop. (Or a soup shop bookstore, whichever way you wanted to think of it.) My Auntie Prudence had died two weeks and one day ago under suspicious circumstances, and I had been thrust into the role of her replacement.

  It was a bad fit. I wasn’t a reader, and I didn’t know how to cook.

  I was also most definitely not a morning person. I had run the lighthouse—a nighttime activity—for so many years that I had practically turned into Dracula. But now the alarm rang at 3:30 in the morning, and I had to drag myself up and get to work.

  “This can’t be happening,” I moaned, slapping at the alarm to shut it up. The house was dark, and I turned on the gaslight by my bed. The blue flame lit up the shadows in the corners of my large bedroom. My aunts didn’t trust electricity, so we had never updated the house attached to the lighthouse from gas.

  I waited for the sounds of mysterious bumps in the night or the hint of ghostly apparitions, but our Victorian house seemed like it was sleeping in this morning.

  “Lucky,” I complained, envious. I didn’t think I could ever become a morning person. It just wasn’t in my DNA. I yawned and padded my way barefoot to the bathroom down the hall. I turned on the tap in the sink and washed my face with cold water. I combed my long black hair with my fingers and lavender oil and tamed it into a thick braid that hung down my back to my waist. I took my nightgown off and slipped on a long flowy baby-blue dress and belted it with a golden cord.

  “Damn it. I forgot,” I said out loud and took the dress off again. Since I was now working in public and not alone in the house all the time with my aunts, I had been informed that I had to wear a bra. I took the white bra that I had bought at JCPenney off the hook on the bathroom door and hooked myself into it.

  “Why do women do this to themselves?” I asked my reflection in the mirror. I leaned forward and squinted, looking deeper into the corners of the mirror. There was nothing there but the reflection of the white wall behind me and two towel racks. “Fine. I don’t need you, anyway,” I told the empty room.

  Once I was dressed and my breasts were secure, I walked downstairs. I gathered my purse off the hook by the front door and slipped into leather flip-flops with purple tassels that I had left there the night before.

  “There you are,” Auntie Ida said, making me jump slightly in surprise. She was already dressed in her overalls, and her hair was tied up in a bandana, like she was Rosie the Riveter. She handed me a large basket. “I made a double batch of muffins and croissants for the morning crowd, just in case you can’t get it moving in time.”

  I took the heavy basket from her. “It’s a soup shop. Why do we serve breakfast?”

  Auntie Ida shrugged. “Folks got used to Prudence’s homemade breads with their soups and then they wanted them in the morning, too. And once they had the breads, they needed coffee and tea to go with it.”

  “Ugh, coffee,” I complained. “It’s like a religion with these people. They want me to make pictures with cream in their cups. The next person who asks for a damned cream picture in their coffee, I’m going curdle their cream and give them the runs for three days.”

  Yes, I had a bad attitude, but getting drafted and forced to change my whole life had given me a bad attitude. I had been perfectly nice when I had been left to my own devices running the lighthouse.

  “You can’t do that,” Auntie Ida said, chewing on her lower lip.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t,” I said. The Bright family had to be careful about stuff like that. Historically, when we got in trouble, we got in trouble big time. Trouble had cost my mother her life when I was only just born, and my aunts had been warning me against trouble ever since.

  I kissed Auntie Ida on the forehead, and she opened the door for me. “Be careful of the wind. It’s changing,” she warned.

  “It already changed,” I muttered under my breath, thinking of Auntie Prudence.

  “The changes aren’t done yet.”

  “What’s next?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at her. Auntie Ida had a sense for bad things, whereas I lived in the dark for most everything.

  “Something big.”

  I walked down the steep hill from the house toward Sea Breeze Avenue. This road was private and not well kep
t, mainly because we didn’t normally welcome guests, so we liked to keep the road difficult to navigate.

  And it was definitely difficult to navigate. Unlit, I was careful to lift my feet high when I walked so that I wouldn’t trip over the large, mismatched cobblestones that had been set wide apart at irregular intervals.

  Down below me, the town of Sea Breeze, California, was dark. It was that awkward time between night and day when the streetlights weren’t on. There wasn’t a sign of a car or any movement at all. In the near distance, I could hear the waves crashing on shore, and I breathed the scent of the salt air in deep.

  Ah, that’s better, I thought. This is what I like the best, the sea air and solitude. I was not exactly a people person. It wasn’t that I was anti-social. It was just that I wasn’t used to being around folks very much.

  Making it down the hill, I turned right onto Sea Breeze Avenue toward the shop. Auntie Prudence had opened the shop here in Sea Breeze before Sea Breeze was even a town. We had moved here to the border of Mexico to find sanctuary all those years ago. Auntie Ida, Auntie Prudence, Auntie Tilly, and I lived in the Victorian house that was attached to the lighthouse, which we had built overlooking Sea Breeze. Auntie Prudence had insisted on opening the shop and making actual money.

  It had worked. I ran the lighthouse, Auntie Ida did her experiments, Auntie Tilly wandered away and didn’t come back, and Auntie Prudence worked at the shop. So, Auntie Ida, Auntie Prudence, and I had fallen into a content life together.

  But that was then. This was now.

  I paused a moment and fought the urge to turn around and return to the house. I had gotten the same urge every day since Auntie Prudence died and I started running her shop.

  Dread.

  There was nothing worse than dread.

  It was worse than fear. At least I thought it was worse. I had never been afraid of anything, so I didn’t know for sure.

  I closed my eyes, and in a moment of lunacy, I sent a prayer to the heavens that I would be scared of something. Something big.

  If I got a big scare, I could forget about dread, I figured. And boredom.

  And soup.

  Soup was very hard to make. It seemed simple, but there was nothing simple about it.

  I opened my eyes and gave a little shout in surprise. Down the street, a blue glow was moving from side to side.

  Like the Blue Fairy, I thought. But fairies didn’t exist.

  As I walked, I kept an eye on the blue glow. By the time that I walked a block, it had turned toward the beach and vanished. By the time that I walked the second block and arrived at the shop, there was still no sign of it.

  The soup shop was in a large one-story building, with three-story-high ceilings. It was made of mahogany and looked out of place among the squat buildings in the seaside town. Two of the shop’s regulars, Irving and Doris Lansing, were waiting by the front door for me.

  “Oh, good. There you are. Prudence was always open by now,” Doris said.

  I put the basket down and fished the shop’s skeleton key out of my purse. “My alarm didn’t go off,” I lied, not wanting to tell them about my dread.

  “What’s that you brought?” Irving asked, taking a gander at the basket on the ground. “It smells like the day I won the winning touchdown in college. Best day of my life.”

  “My aunt made some baked goods for the breakfast crowd,” I said.

  “That’s us. We’re the breakfast crowd,” Doris said, as if she was thrilled to be the breakfast crowd.

  I opened the door and was greeted by a musty cloud. It was the quintessential smell of old buildings. “Give me a second to light the lights,” I said.

  “Let me. Prudence showed me how to do it years ago,” Irving said and marched into the shop. Doris followed him, and I was right behind her.

  There were six assorted tables in the center of the shop and twenty-five rows of bookshelves to the right when you walked inside. Behind the stacks were another three tables, and they had been dubbed the stacks tables. To the left were four fireplaces of different sizes and depths. There was a cauldron in each.

  Four soups of the day. Leave it to Auntie Prudence to be an overachiever.

  At the far wall was a little kitchen that was open to the customers and a cash register from 1890 on a butcher block counter.

  The ceilings were crisscrossed with thick, mahogany beams. Just like the house, there were no shortage of shadows in the corners when Irving lit up the gas lights.

  I put the basket on the counter next to the cash register and my purse down behind it. I wrapped a white apron around me and filled the large coffeepot with coffee grounds and water.

  Look what an old prospector gave me! Auntie Prudence had told me years and years before, showing me the ugly pot. It had been used to make coffee outside over countless fires during countless cattle runs, and she had been thrilled that it was now hers. She had taken great care with it, and it didn’t have a spot of rust. Somehow, the old pot made delicious coffee, and it made twenty cups of it at a time, which was a blessing.

  Irving and Doris took a seat in the center of the shop, and I set their table with cutlery and plates.

  “I’m not a misogynist, Doris. I just hate women,” Irving was telling Doris, as I put his plate down in front of him.

  “That’s what misogynist means,” Doris insisted.

  “No, it doesn’t. You’re mixing up misogynist with racist,” Irving said, spitting as he spoke.

  “Racist is when you hate people who aren’t white,” Doris insisted.

  “That’s ridiculous. Todd is my best friend, and he has Crohn’s disease. His face is as red as a beet. So I can’t be racist,” Irving said, spitting more.

  Doris slapped her forehead and shook her head. “Not Crohn’s disease. Rosacea. He has rosacea. That’s why he’s red. And I don’t think that counts as not being white.”

  “Well, now you’re not making any sense at all, Doris,” Irving said, deflated.

  The door opened, and Rocky Montana walked in. Since I had lived a good portion of my life locked up in the lighthouse, I didn’t know too many townspeople, but Rocky had a mobile knife sharpening business, and my family had used his services at the house on more than one occasion. Auntie Prudence used him regularly since she only owned two knives, and she cut a crapload of vegetables for her soups.

  “Hey there, Agatha,” Rocky greeted me with a salute and a smile. He was somewhere in his sixties. His face was leathered from years of a deep tan, and wrinkles crisscrossed his skin like it was a treasure map. From experience, I knew that Rocky had a hearty appetite, but the calories didn’t attach themselves to him. He was rail-thin, and his clothes hung on him like they were trying to escape.

  “I could smell your coffee from outside. I had to stop in early for a cup,” he said.

  “Sure thing. It’ll just be a minute,” I said. It had turned out that coffee was the one thing that I could make as well as Auntie Prudence. The rest was hit or miss.

  Rocky waved at Irving and Doris and took a seat at the table next to them.

  “See?” Irving said to Doris, as he gestured wildly in Rocky’s direction. “I’m not a misogynist. Rocky’s browner than a shoe and just as leathery.”

  “I keep forgetting to use sunscreen,” Rocky said, touching his face.

  “Misogynist means you hate women!” Doris exclaimed, obviously exasperated.

  I fetched the coffee and poured three cups. Then, I served assorted baked goods and returned to the little kitchen. On the back wall, there was a safe behind a picture of dogs playing poker. I opened it and took out Auntie Prudence’s cookbook. The book was bound in cracked black leather, and the pages were yellow with age and stained with food. Auntie Prudence had put notes in the margins. All I had to do was follow the directions, and I would be fine, one of the notes explained.

  Since today was Wednesday, the soups of the day were carrot, spicy chicken tortilla, lentil, and “million-year soup,” which was suppos
ed to make folks live a million years, according to my aunt. I snickered. Nobody in Sea Breeze was going to live for a million years, no matter how much million-year soup they ate. I was older than dirt, and I never ate a drop.

  I looked a lot younger than my age. Folks around town told me I looked about thirty years old, but I was a lot older than that, and my aunts were a lot older than I was. Older-than-Methuselah kind of old.

  I lit large fires in the four fireplaces. Outside, the sun was starting to rise, and muted light began to filter in through the windows. Even with the front windows and the fireplaces going every day, the shop stayed cool and dark all year long.

  Through the windows, I could just make out Sea Breeze starting to come to life. Across the street, morning walkers were heading to the beach, through the small park. A couple of musclebound men were working out at the workout stations next to the doughnut shop.

  Turning back to the kitchen, I set to work on the carrot soup. The secret to this soup was the brie cheese, according to Auntie Prudence. And the butter. Gobs and gobs of butter imported from the Swiss Alps. I was halfway through chopping ten pounds of carrots when Mouse Mably walked in. Mouse worked at the shop, mostly baking bread, but she helped out in other ways as well. I thanked the universe every day for Mouse’s help. There was no way I could have handled the shop without her.

  “I’m so sorry!” she squeaked loudly, jogging through the shop toward me in the kitchen. “I broke my shoe and had to walk the rest of the way in bare feet. And then I stepped in dog poop!”

  She looked around at the diners and lowered her voice. “Dog poop,” she repeated in a whisper when she reached me. “Don’t worry. I cleaned it up.”

  Mouse was not quite four-foot-ten, and she had mousy brown hair, cut in a pixie cut. Her round eyes seemed to take up most of her face, and her lips were set in a permanent pink pout. She was wearing cutoffs and a man’s t-shirt.

  “I’ll get the bread going, pronto. Did your aunt make muffins again?” she asked, looking at Auntie Ida’s basket.

  “And croissants.”