BOOK EXCERPT: Brenda Chapman’s Fatal Harvest means murder

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Ottawa crime fiction author Brenda Chapman has published more than 20 novels. She wrote the acclaimed Stonechild and Rouleau police procedural series, the Anna Sweet mystery novellas, and the Jennifer Bannon mysteries for middle grade. Her work has been shortlisted for several awards, including four Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence. Part of the Citizen’s summer book excerpt series.

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Fatal Harvest is the third book in Brenda Chapman’s Hunter and Tate mystery series, featuring true crime podcaster Ella Tate and Detective Liam Hunter. The story travels to Ashton in the farthest reaches of the Ottawa region where Matt Clark, 11, is staying with his mother’s friends in their farmhouse for the summer. Matt has been told to stay off social media and keep his head down, but unbeknownst to him, somebody has been posting photos online with his name and whereabouts. Deadly trouble soon finds its way to this isolated, rural community:

Matt slid off his bike, wondering who had come visiting on a Saturday. Something didn’t feel right. It had to be a stranger, if they’d entered by the front door. Everyone else knew to go around the back, push open the screen door, and step directly into the kitchen where a pot of coffee always sat warming on the stovetop with fresh baking on the counter to go with it. Devina hadn’t mentioned that she and Stu were expecting company before he set off with his fishing pole soon after sunrise. He’d been in a hurry to leave, his friend Jimmy leaning on his bike handlebars at the bottom of the driveway as Matt waved goodbye to Devina. Strangers rarely found their way to this place in the country; most who dropped by were neighbours, and they always parked at the top of the laneway nearer to the front door.

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He set his fishing rod and the small cooler containing three perch and a rock bass on the grass while he squatted next to the row of sumacs and pondered what to do. The last of the mosquitoes swarming in the dusk landed on his arms, and he absentmindedly swatted them away while he thought. Devina had told him to be back before dark, and he’d cut it close. He hated to worry her. He rose from his crouch and stared toward the house as the front door swung all the way open and someone stood for a moment in what was left of the waning light, a dark shadow that Matt only caught a glimpse of before he ducked down behind the bushes. From his hiding place, he heard the person clatter down the front steps and the crunch of gravel as they hurried across the yard. A door opened and slammed shut, and an engine revved a few seconds later.

Matt crouched farther into the bushes and pulled his bike closer as the sound of the vehicle drew nearer. He tucked his head and stayed in place until the engine sped past. He glanced up in time to watch the red taillights reach the end of the lane and turn right onto the highway in the direction of Ashton. He watched a moment longer to be sure the driver wasn’t coming back before standing and gathering up the rod and cooler. He wasn’t sure what instinct had made him hide and felt foolish immediately afterward. Stu would swat him on the side of the head and laugh when he told him. Devina would say that he was right to listen to his instincts.

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He wheeled his bike around to the side of the house and rested it against the water barrel. The back-porch light was off as well, and he fumbled with the doorknob before stepping inside the hallway. Devina had asked Stu to put the outdoor lights on motion sensors, but he hadn’t gotten around to it. Seemed the more Devina nagged at Stu to do something, the longer he took to do the chore. He was stubborn that way, almost like he was pushing her to see how long before she got upset. Any time Matt had been late before, she’d always made sure to have the yard well lit. He was surprised she’d forgotten this time as dusk crept in and swallowed up the light.

The kitchen was in darkness, but a yellowish glow spilled into the hallway from the living room. Devina and Stu usually watched television in the evenings, but he couldn’t hear it and figured the visitor had broken their routine. He set the cooler on the counter and padded on stocking feet across the kitchen floor, stopping in the doorway to listen.

“Devina?” he called, hesitant to interrupt if she and Stu were talking about something important. “Sorry I’m late, but I got four fish.” He took a step and paused. Why hadn’t she answered? Were they planning the birthday surprise they’d been hinting at all week? “Turning twelve is a big deal,” she’d said only that morning as she forced him to eat a bowl of cereal before he set out. “We need to make Tuesday’s celebration one for the history books.”

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Had the man dropped off a present? Could it be the puppy he’d been asking for? He’d never believed he’d be allowed to have one, and his heart leapt at the thought of a rescue dog. Now that would be a gift to remember. He was smiling as he stepped into the living room, and later he’d think of it as the final moment of happiness — the last second before he saw Devina and Stu lying still on the floor with their eyes open and blood soaked through their shirts … He could tell by their empty expressions and stillness that they were gone. He had to force himself not to rush over and wrap his arms around them and tuck his head into their necks. He wanted to beg them to come back to him but stayed where he was. Any closer and he’d be stepping in their blood. He knew that would be a mistake.

A lamp was turned on beside the couch, and Stu was on his back next to the window, in front of the ledge of geraniums and African violets that Devina called her babies. Stu liked to tease her about all the attention she showered on them instead of him, but Matt counted three times when he’d showed up with a new pot of blooms for her collection after driving to town. Devina was some distance away at the entrance to the dining room, lying on her back with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Her right hand rested on the shaft of a rifle. It looked like Stu’s gun that he kept in an umbrella holder in the back hallway. It was always unloaded, and the ammo was in an unlocked box screwed into the wall above the stand. “Not exactly legal, but if I’m going to have half a chance at killing off the wildlife predators, I can’t be searching around for a key.” Even now, Matt could hear Stu’s gruff voice in his head. Matt wiped his eyes and tried to swallow the sobs that filled his throat. He stood there as the minutes ticked past, rooted in place, unable to process what he was seeing.

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Devina’s grandfather clock struck the hour, jolting Matt out of his trance. He moaned and stared wildly around the room. There was no time to grieve or do something he couldn’t take back. This house was no longer a safe place to be. He took gulping breaths to calm himself and cast one long, last look at the two people he’d come to love and would never see again before turning to run down the hallway, stopping to slip into his sneakers. He left the light off and entered his bedroom directly off the kitchen, a storage space Devina had converted for his use. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he crossed the floor, bending to yank out the pack that he kept wedged in the gap between the dresser and his bed. His wallet and few possessions from before he’d arrived almost four months ago were already inside. Devina had left laundry folded on his dresser earlier that day, and he stuffed the clothes into his half-filled backpack. His hands trembled as he slid the buckles into their slots before slinging the satchel onto his back. Grief overwhelmed him for a moment, and he dropped into a crouch and covered his eyes. A sob ripped up from his throat, and he fought to hold it in.

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Forcing himself to his feet, he started walking toward the bedroom door, wondering if he should chance finding Stu or Devina’s cell phone to call the police, when the sound of tires on gravel froze him in place. As he stood trembling, a car door slammed, and a few seconds later a single set of footsteps trod up the front steps. Whoever it was paused for a moment, likely listening for noises carrying through the night air, before they knocked lightly and the door creaked open. Had the person returned for him? If it were a neighbour or friend, surely they’d have used the back door. They’d have called out.

Matt turned and searched for a hiding place in the shadows. He’d be cornered in here, nowhere safe that the person wouldn’t easily find him. He’d be spotted if he moved into the hallway to exit by the back door. His mother’s face rose through the panic, and he imagined her next to him, encouraging him to get away. He could almost hear her voice in the room: Matty, you know what to do. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The footsteps stopped at the entrance to the living room, and Matt forced himself to shake off the paralyzing fear. He slowly backed away while keeping his eyes focused on the half-closed bedroom door.

Fatal Harvest, the third in the Hunter and Tate mystery series, is available at Ottawa-area bookstores, or through amazon.ca

Other book excerpts to-date in our summer series on Ottawa authors:

• Mark Bourrie’s Crosses in the Sky a sober portrait of cultures colliding

• Amy Tector’s HONOR THE DEAD a ‘joy ride’ of murder and mayhem

• Denise Chong’s Out of Darkness is a tale of abuse — and deep courage

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