Literally Dead Read online

  Literally Dead

  A Pepper Brooks Cozy Mystery

  Eryn Scott

  Kristopherson Press

  Copyright © 2017 by Eryn Scott

  Published by Kristopherson Press

  All rights reserved.

  www.erynwrites.com

  [email protected]

  Facebook: @erynscottauthor

  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.

  Cover by Paper and Sage Designs

  Created with Vellum

  For Mrs. Ferguson:

  champion of literature, connoisseur of comedy, master of rebel lipstick shades.

  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

  Also by Eryn Scott

  About the Author

  1

  “To be an English major or not to be an English major? That is the question.”

  My Boston Terrier barked as I recited my version of the first lines of Hamlet’s soliloquy. I held her face as she panted up at me from the couch of my tiny college-apartment living room.

  In addition to looking at my dog, I was looking at a metaphorical crossroads. And while mine had decidedly less bloody possible outcomes, it felt just as heavy as I’m sure Hamlet’s had to him.

  “Well? What do you think I should do?” I asked, staring into her brown eyes, waiting for — well, anything, really. I certainly didn’t have a clear answer.

  “You must be desperate if you’re asking the dog.” My roommate, Liv, walked into the room, rolling her eyes in my direction.

  I sighed and flopped myself onto the couch next to the dog.

  “Dogs have instincts about stuff like this. You never know. She might already know what my future holds.”

  “Ugh. You need to stop reading so much Shakespeare. It’s making you dramatic and a little morbid,” she said.

  “What? Is not!”

  “Pepper, in line at Bittersweet this morning, you said if someone took the last sesame bagel you might drown yourself in Campus Creek.”

  I pressed my lips together.

  Liv continued. “And you said you were visited by the ghost of your old dog, Buttons, who told you to go to the pound, even though I saw the flyer for half-priced adoptions sitting on the counter last weekend.”

  Well, I had to give her those.

  “Getting Hamburger was a great decision regardless of how it came to me.”

  Liv scoffed. “Yeah, the many talks we’ve had lately about you getting a dog must’ve had nothing to do with it, huh?” She raised her eyebrows as she watched me. “And you’re seriously sticking with that name?”

  I scooped Hamburger into my lap defensively and said, “I have to. Brooklyn picked it.”

  “I guess it’s better the dog than the baby,” Liv said.

  Giggling at the memory, I nodded. I had stopped by my sister’s house on the way home from the animal shelter that weekend. When I’d arrived, she and my niece, Brooklyn, were having a heated discussion (well, as heated as a discussion with a three-year-old can get) about how Brooklyn thought it her right as the older sister to name her new baby brother.

  My sister had rested her hands on her eight-months-pregnant belly and sighed (a gesture for help if I’d ever seen one). So I told Brooklyn her mom and dad already had a name picked for her baby brother, but she could name my new dog instead. Wasn’t that more fun anyway? The gratitude in my sister’s tired eyes and the brightness in my niece’s made the sacrifice well worth it.

  “And when did you find out ‘Hamburger’ was the name Brooklyn was set on? Before or after your selfless act?”

  I scrunched my nose slightly. “Erm — definitely after, but I feel like Hammy could be a nickname for Hamlet just as well as Hamburger.”

  Liv crossed the living room and scratched Hamburger’s head. The dog snorted and wagged her bottom. Liv knelt down so she was face to face with Hammy.

  “If naming a dog after a Shakespearian character doesn’t convince your owner she’s silly for doubting her major, I don’t know what will.”

  She sent me a pointed look as she stood up. Envy shot through me as I watched her slick her long blond hair back into a tight power-pony, completing her awesome business-lady facade. If either of us was in the right major, it was her. She was so good at what she did (the guys in her business classes called her the bull because she never backed down) and she already had job offers rolling in for when we graduated next year.

  Not only did she love the business world, it was a career that would all-but guarantee she would be living comfortably in a posh Seattle apartment within a year. Me? I was already strapped for cash and a post graduation life armed with only an English degree seemed even more bleak.

  “Besides,” Liv turned back toward me, “English is in your blood.”

  My eyes dropped to the floor, along with my stomach. It had almost been a year since my father had died, but talking about him still made me cringe with pain as much as it had the day I’d learned about his heart attack. He had been an English professor here at Northern Washington University and everyone had always assumed I would follow in his footsteps.

  “Yeah, that’s part of the problem,” I said under my breath.

  Liv muttered in complaint at my statement, knowing my theory about how the only reason I’d chosen my major was because I was still mourning the loss of my father. But I maintain that I’d been fragile, deciding with my heart instead of my mind.

  Honestly, I would’ve changed majors months ago if it hadn’t been for Dr. Ferguson, my mentor. Aside from being one of the coolest ladies I’d ever met, Sharon Ferguson was a brilliant professor who made you believe literature could change the world. The only issue was as world changing as literature could be, I was beginning to doubt its pocket filling, bacon bringing abilities.

  Liv headed for the door. “Hey, I’ve gotta go, but let’s continue this never-ending conversation after I have my mock interview class and you go to that lecture thing, K?”

  I scoffed, put Hammy on the couch, and then stood up. “Lecture thing? How dare you reduce my —”

  She waved her hand toward me. “Okay, okay. Your big-shot-from-Oxford lecture thing.”

  “How’d you know he’s from Oxford?” I asked, sure I hadn’t mentioned it to her.

  “You’re not the only English nerd I know.” She winked at me. “My friend, Gina, is in Evilsworth’s American Lit. this quarter,” Liv said, using my nickname for my most hated professor of all time. Professor Evensworth’s mission in life was to break young, hopeful students until they realized they would never be as knowledgeable as him. He taught American Literature exclusively, as he claimed everything else was crap.

  “Gina said he spent a whole period ripping on this Dr. Campbell and the fact he’d wasted his career studying Shakespeare,” Liv continued. “He told them to skip the lecture at first, but changed his mind by the end of class and decided to give them extra credit if they could write up a detailed essay outlining the flaws in his logic.” She shot me a pointed look. “You English people are so intense.”

 
I rolled my eyes. He hadn’t said anything of the sort during our class yesterday, but I wouldn’t put it past him. “Evilsworth is just jealous. Dr. Campbell’s going to be great. Did you know he and Fergie were university mates at Oxford?” I let my eyes slip to my watch. “Speaking of the lecture, I’ve got to go help Fergie get everything set up. I’ll walk with you to campus.”

  I gave Hammy one last pat on the head. She plopped herself into a heap on top of her chewy bone.

  The air was crisp and wonderful as we stepped outside and headed down the street toward NWU. It was a surprisingly sunny evening for fall, but the sun was already setting and I knew it would be dark in a matter of hours.

  I looked around at the streets I’d known since I was a little girl, when my dreams of college were limited to wearing small NWU sweatshirts and riding my bike past the tall, stately buildings. Growing up in a university town had been quite the dichotomy. During the school year, the town was bustling with students, but during the summer, when the majority of them went back to their homes, our town took a deep breath and closed its eyes in the silence, if only for a few months. It was during those summers when it felt like the town grew closer. There was an intense bonding that happened when you were part of the “townies.”

  My gaze traveled down the street to my favorite second-hand clothing shop. I’d always been a thrifty shopper (never quite growing out of one of my rebellious teenage phases where I’d done my best to separate myself from my parents’ wealth and success), but lately my frugal ways had been coming in handy.

  Liv craned her neck and said, “Looks like there’s a new rack outside.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she turned to me. “Do you think they’re having a sale?”

  Meeting Liv had only fueled my thrift shopping habit. She was a pro at getting the best deals to add to her you-wouldn’t-know-it-was-second-hand wardrobe. I’d taken her into Second Pantses her first week in town and she’d been in love.

  “Ugh. I can’t look.” I averted my eyes to the sidewalk in front of us. “It’s too tempting. The only reason I should be setting foot in that store is to bring in a box for consignment.”

  Liv grunted. “Or you could ask your mom for money.”

  I pointed a finger at her and narrowed my eyes. “Don’t you even. She understands my need to pay for as much as I can, said she admires it, even.” I didn’t add how my mom being away on a two week trip to the east coast also had a little to do with it. I wasn’t about to interrupt her business trip with my money problems.

  “Well as long as it works for both of you,” Liv said, shaking her head. Her dad was some big shot banking guy in Seattle and she’d gladly accepted his money when he wanted to fully support her in school.

  Because my dad had worked at the university, I’d gotten a pretty big tuition break already, so it was the least I could do to pay for the rest myself. Growing up with a prominent professor as a dad and a powerful lawyer (not to mention an appointee to the university board of regents twice in a row) as a mom, had its perks. After twenty-one years, however, I couldn’t tell you what I’d actually accomplished on my own and what had happened because of my family. I was an adult now and I wanted to see what I could do without my family’s influence. Hence the selling of my stuff to pay for my living expenses and college.

  While Liv didn’t seem to share my qualms about taking family money, she had her own family baggage (her dad treated her like the son he never had, even going so far as to try to slip the name Oliver on her birth certificate instead of Olivia), so I didn’t take her teasing too personally, knowing I wasn’t the only one with weird family hang ups.

  We maneuvered our way through a steady stream of other university students who were undoubtedly heading toward the student center for dinner.

  “See you later,” I said as the business building came into view.

  Liv waved and then disappeared inside. I kept going further into campus. The walkways buzzed with students, but besides waving at a few familiar faces, I didn’t stop to talk or lounge on the grass. I was cutting it pretty close if I wanted to help Fergie before the lecture.

  Passing by my favorite garden in the center of campus, a shiver raced up my spine as I watched someone break off from the crowd near the student center and walk in my direction. Nathan Newton, or Naked Newt, as my sister and her friends always called him in high school (because of his propensity for streaking and his slightly sticky-looking skin texture), was by far the creepiest guy in Pine Crest.

  I skirted closer to the English building.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against odd people. Heck, I was one of them myself. I mean, I had spent most of childhood convinced I was Nancy Drew’s auburn haired sister (and definitely should’ve been her sidekick instead of stupid Bess). I seriously even carried around a magnifying glass for the better part of three years. So unusual, I got.

  Naked Newt was a different story. He was something like eleven feet tall, looked liked a washed out old oil painting of a frustrated British general, and his pale lips were always pursed as if he was holding an invisible toothpick between them.

  He had a penchant for wording everything in a way which would make even Edgar Allen Poe’s skin crawl. His brown irises were so dark, he appeared to have black eyes. The way he stared people down made you feel like he was trying to steal your soul.

  My stomach churned as I watched Newt turn onto the path which would meet up with the one I was on.

  Why was he even on campus anyway? Newt didn’t go to school at NWU. Sure, he still lived with his odd grandma, Louise, but their house was on the other side of town.

  I pulled my face into what I hoped was a smile (but was probably more like a grimace) as Newt approached.

  “Good evening, Pepper,” he said in that weird tone of his. He’d always had a slight British accent, even though he’d spent his whole life here in Washington and his grandma was like, Romanian or something.

  “Hey, New — er — Nate.”

  “The air has a lovely iron quality this evening, does it not?” His nostrils flared and his lips pursed even tighter, making the lines deepen in the moist-looking skin around his mouth. “Like a hint of blood riding on the breeze.”

  I frowned. Iron? Blood? Seriously? And Liv thought I was being morbid. I suppressed a full body shudder and faked a laugh. “Haha! Totally!” Then I skirted past him and fast walked the rest of the way to the English building.

  But even as the heavy glass doors closed behind me, I could feel his dark eyes watching me.

  2

  “Gross, gross, gross.” I rounded the corner into the first hallway and then danced about for a minute to get rid of the shivers.

  Closing my eyes, I breathed in slow and steady, taking comfort in the familiar smell of the old building. The dusty smell of classic books permeated the halls.

  That smell was my father. It was my childhood spent reading in the mustard-colored armchair which sat in the corner of his office, the spiky ferns ticking my feet as they hung over the arm rest. And based on my current major, that smell was my future.

  The smile pulling across my face belied yet another reason I had yet to change my major. When I was here, studying literature, talking to my peers and professors, in the thick of it, I loved it. Only when I strayed from the English building did the fears about my future begin to crop up and multiply.

  My pulse relaxed. There may not be a whole lot of money in English, but there sure was an abundance of nostalgia.

  Checking my watch, I realized how late I was running. I made my way back into the main foyer and took the corner toward the lecture hall at a bit of a reckless pace.

  “Ooof! Oh dear!” The shrill, overly dramatized voice of Dr. Ferguson rang out as I smashed into her.

  My arms flailed as I tried to find the wall to steady myself.

  “Omigosh, I’m so sorry, Fergie!” I said as I finally untangled myself from my professor and readjusted my messenger bag.

  “Pepper, what on earth is
the great rush?” Her voice rose with each word and she swiped her hair back into place. Dr. Ferguson’s wispy gray hair did little to cover her scalp, even in the combover she always fashioned it into.

  “Sorry, I was on my way to help you. You needed some students to show up early, right?”

  It was only then I realized she wasn’t alone. A frail young woman stepped out from behind my teacher.

  Dr. Ferguson straightened and pushed her shoulders back. “Oh, well — yes — as a matter of fact, yes I do. Thank you, Pepper.”

  From the redness splotching her cheeks to the shiftiness in her eyes, Fergie seemed downright flustered. This wasn’t a regular look for her. Sure, the woman was disorganized and dramatic, but she was a literary genius, a leader in a profession built by old white men created to celebrate other old white men’s writing.

  “What can I help with?” I asked.

  “Yes, well —” She pressed her bright red lips together (the woman often applied her lipstick so liberally it ventured over her lip line in wobbly patches). “I’m taking Stephanie, here —” Fergie glanced behind her, then spun around to locate the small woman as if she were a toddler she couldn’t seem to keep in her sights.

  And while only slightly bigger than a child, the willowy woman looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her blond hair was pulled back into a smart, low bun and her eyes were the lightest shade of blue I’d ever seen, blinking back at me from behind long mascara free lashes. A blue, cotton button-up shirt hung off her diminutive shoulders, almost down to her black legging clad knees, but I had a sneaking suspicion on anyone normal sized it would hit just below the waist.

  “Oh Stephanie! Good, there you are!” Fergie said, halting in her spin then looking back to me. “Pepper, this is Dr. Campbell’s daughter, Stephanie.”

  “Step-daughter.” The words came out in a soft British-accented monotone. Other than the slight movement her light pink lips made, I wouldn’t have been able to tell they came from her. She smiled, seemingly embarrassed.