Number 1 with a bullet, p.1
Number 1 with a Bullet, page 1
Table of Contents
THE TAHOE MYSTERIES
Number 1 with a Bullet
Dedication
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Postscript
Books by Vikki Kestell
The Tahoe Mysteries
Laynie Portland
A Prairie Heritage
Girls from the Mountain
Nanostealth
About the Author
Number 1 with a Bullet
©2024 Vikki Kestell
All Rights Reserved
Faith-Filled Fiction™
http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/
http://www.vikkikestell.com/
THE TAHOE MYSTERIES
Number 1 with a Bullet
by Vikki Kestell
Available in Print and eBook Format
EVERY SHERLOCK NEEDS his Watson, every Hercule Poirot his Captain Hastings. Who else could tell their stories that we might share in their adventures?
Meet Simon Fletcher, recently retired Marine, at present the facilities and security manager for Lake Tahoe’s exclusive Bright Star Summer RV Residence. Enter Miss BD Finch, who shortly embroils Simon Fletcher in mystery, mayhem, and . . . murder.
Life at Bright Star takes several left-hand turns when the diminutive and enigmatic Miss Finch, driving a restored classic panel wagon and towing a seventeen-foot travel trailer, attempts to check in. Indeed, it seems that Miss Finch herself, in addition to her nonexclusive and somewhat unusual “rig,” is never what people expect. Those around her generally find themselves knocked off-kilter, including and especially those she’s scrutinizing—because although our delightfully unpredictable Miss Finch has many talents, she is also an investigator. The private kind.
And when Miss Finch arrives on the south shore of Lake Tahoe for a summer of rest and recuperation? To put it bluntly, her R&R does not go as planned. Rather, “things” go oddly awry. Dangerously awry.
Prepare yourself for . . . The Tahoe Mysteries.
Book 1: Number 1 with a Bullet
Book 2: Be Quick or Be Dead, 2025
Book 3: Death on the Big Blue, 2026
Murder by Accident, A Miss Finch Prequel, 2025
Dedication
“This is dedicated to the One I love.”
Acknowledgements
All my thanks, appreciation, and love
to my esteemed teammates,
Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann
continually demonstrating that they are
—BEST IN CLASS—
Scripture Quotations
THE HOLY BIBLE,
NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV®
Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®
Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Cover Design
Vikki Kestell
To My Readers
This book is a work of fiction,
what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.
To God be the glory.
Chapter 1
Bright Star Summer RV Residence,
South End of Lake Tahoe
Wednesday Prior to Memorial Day, May 21
SIMON FLETCHER TURNED right off the paved road and drove his pickup around to the back side of the refurbished log cabin that served as his employer’s office. He parked, then strode to the front side of the cabin, stepped out onto the road and faced the park’s entrance, just beyond the office. He pressed the button on the remote in his pocket and watched Bright Star’s bronze gates slide apart.
With chin tucked and arms folded across his chest, Bright Star’s Facilities and Security Manager glared through the open entrance with the intensity of a Marine drill instructor inspecting a ragged row of raw recruits at oh four thirty in the dark a.m.—which was exactly how Simon viewed his Bright Star responsibilities: His purpose was to shape, shine, mold, cajole, or pummel the pieces and parts of Bright Star residing under his purview until each one exceeded his expectations.
Barely topping five feet nine but wide and muscled across the chest, Simon was a rock of a man, a machine unacquainted with the word “quit.” From his strong physical presence to a “get it done” work ethic, Simon’s every action oozed purpose. No detail escaped him, nor did he tolerate much in the way of nonsense.
Simon’s fellow Marine MPs had laughingly referred to him as the Corps’ human armored fighting vehicle. They’d nod sagely, and in the same way they might say, “We need an M1 Abrams to bust through that concrete barrier,” they would shout, “This drunken brawl requires our resident tank: Call in the Fletcher!”
They weren’t far off the mark. Simon Fletcher was, more often than not, inclined to roll over or through any impediment foolish enough to plant itself between him and his objective.
Feeling a familiar anger rising, he sniffed and reminded himself, The Corps is in your rearview mirror, Fletcher. All twenty years of it. Nothing for you there, so stop looking back.
A snide voice replied, Once a Marine, always a Marine, Fletch. Semper fi.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Whatever.
Simon had prided himself on his accomplishments in the Corps, but now two years out from his discharge, he no longer thought of himself as anything special. Near the end of his second year of civilian life, he considered himself an average guy with sandy hair, light brown eyes, and bland features capped by a nose that had been broken twice, set once.
At forty-eight years of age, he had nothing to show for his years in the Corps—no career, wife, kids, or living relations. As far as Simon was concerned, the family he’d chosen and poured his life’s blood into had turned its back on him.
His years in the Marines aside, in this last year he had become a valued worker and a steady, faithful partner to Joe and Holly Mitchell, Bright Star’s owners. He was helpful and friendly with people, too—with the exception of the aforementioned “foolish impediment” type. And rarely did friend or acquaintance of any length call him by his given name, Simon. Sooner or later, everyone fell into using his last name, Fletcher, or its shortened version, “Fletch.”
Backlit by the early morning sun, Simon stood before Bright Star’s open gate and mentally gauged the park’s readiness to receive its first residents. Residents who would begin arriving midday tomorrow.
He tried to put himself in their shoes: If I were an incoming guest, what would catch my eye as I arrived?
The gate itself was as beautiful as it was imposing, a splendid work of hardened steel and metal sculpture. Custom-designed and built for the park, the gate featured Bright Star’s bronzed logo. Holly Mitchell generally kept the gate open during the day while she staffed the office but closed and locked outside of office hours. The automated gate retracted when residents entered their personal code on the gate’s keypad. A Bright Star employee could also open or close the gate by pressing a button inside the office or on a remote such as the one Simon held.
Of course, Holly had requested certain features to protect the privacy of Bright Star’s residents. To satisfy her, Simon had posted prominent signage several yards before the gate. In flowing gold letters, the sign declared,
BRIGHT STAR
SUMMER RV RESIDENCE
PRIVATE PROPERTY
Visitors Must Check In at Office
Simon thought Holly had exhibited a bit of paranoia when she insisted Bright Star’s gate be “extra strong so our residents feel safe,” but she wrote the checks. After Simon finished his work with the fabricators, the installed gate could withstand the impact of a half-ton pickup truck—as could the tall steel fence set in concrete extending twenty-five feet from the gate on both sides, the fence’s two ends vanishing into forest shrubbery.
Holly had actually lobbied for fencing the entire park, but her husband, Joe, had put his foot down.
“We’re trying to give our guests a piece of the great outdoors, Hol,” Joe had protested, “not a prison cell. Besides, we can’t afford such an expense.”
Joe’s reaction didn’t keep Holly from assigning Simon the task of installing a four-camera video surveillance system to capture video of the road leading up to Bright Star’s gate. Over Bright Star’s private road, from where it joined the main road, stood an arched sign displaying Bright Star’s bronzed logo and smaller words declaring, “Office Ahead.” Simon had mounted the first camera there, capturing images of all vehicles that turned in. He located the second and third cameras along the half-mile stretch of road leading to the office, and a final camera at the gate. A monitor on the office counter displayed the video feed, cycling through the four camera views every few seconds.
The gate and cameras couldn’t guarantee the residents’ security, but they went a long way toward projecting the perception of privacy.
< br /> Speaking of privacy . . .
Simon walked through the open entrance. A broad swath of freshly laid and striped asphalt scribed a graceful, elongated circuit from the gate, through the park’s forest and past all the RV sites, and returning to the gate. Simon knew every twist and turn of that wide, one-way loop like the back of his own hand, just like he knew every inch of Bright Star’s thirty acres. He’d spent the last nine months hard at work alongside Joe and Holly, helping them bring their dream of a unique summer RV park to birth.
“One ritzy, glorified campground,” he muttered under his breath.
The park was much more, although Simon wouldn’t admit it to just anyone. Fact was, he was proud of Bright Star and its unique flavor.
Twenty-four pristine RV sites poked their long double driveways into the park’s perimeter loop like so many spokes on a very out-of-round wheel. Each RV site, in addition to being set far back from the road, was shaded by a canopy of tall pines and endowed with a full RV hookup (including cable and internet), a sizeable patch of perfectly edged grass, and a tidy paved patio area complete with firepit, picnic table, and chilled drinking water dispenser. Every site’s driveway also provided a level pad for its resident’s RV and ample parking for the resident’s vehicles. The kicker? Forty feet or more of natural mountain verdure separated the sites one from another, effectively achieving the impression of peaceful mountain solitude for the occupants of each site.
Simon shifted his internal gaze. Yes, the RV sites were impressive, and pictures of the various sites on Bright Star’s website had done them justice. Still, it was the architectural renderings of the large “island” built up in the center of the park that clinched the deal for most prospective residents.
The island’s tapered promontory jutted toward the park entrance, commanding the attention of all comers—as it was designed to do. Four ascending tiers climbed the promontory and were crowned with banks of concealed water jets. From those jets, sprays of water leapt, twirled, and pirouetted in mesmerizing cadence to soft music, while hidden lights infused the spurts and feathery showers with intense color.
Or at least they did in the fountain designer’s colorful animation.
Simon smiled to himself. Can’t wait to see them in action again.
The promontory with its terraces of gamboling water dancers was the taste that tantalized, the crooked finger that beckoned visitors into the park and onward toward the island’s further attractions . . . and said further attractions did not disappoint.
Next, the island showcased a splendid though modest-sized swimming complex. The complex’s main pool, closest to the dancing water feature, had a large three-to-five-foot-deep section dedicated to family fun. The deck on one side sported two water slides. On the far end of the family pool was a twelve-foot “deep end” reserved for a single spring board and two diving platforms of varying heights.
Residents could also enjoy an adult-only lap pool with three warmed swim lanes, each forty feet in length. A six-foot wall separated the family pool from the swim lanes, reducing the noise coming from the family pools for those wanting to enjoy a more sedate swim time.
Within the swimming complex’s main enclosure, residents and their guests would also find two hot tubs, three lounging areas, a half dozen shaded patio tables, and two exquisitely appointed restrooms for showering and changing into or out of swim wear.
Lastly, the complex boasted a zero-to-ten-inch-deep wading and spray pool for toddlers, complete with tiny water slide, close parental seating, and its own restrooms. The kiddie section sat within a separate enclosure, unattached to the rest of the swimming complex, for safety reasons.
Aside from the dancing water feature, the swimming complex was Bright Star’s definitive jewel and leading attraction.
“But wait! There’s more,” Simon snickered.
Down the island from those appealing amenities, atop a picture-perfect lawn, awaited a barbecue zone, furnished with gas grills and shaded picnic tables for the residents’ pleasure. Farther across the grass was an inviting group firepit encircled by log seating. On the grass beyond the firepit stood a volleyball slash badminton net, and beyond the net, a fenced pickleball court.
A large cabin at the farthest end of the island served as an indoor rec facility. One side of the rec facility was dedicated to group events and included a community kitchen and dining room. The other half of the building was split between a small gym equipped with weights, cardio machines, mats for stretching, and a game room stocked with board games, puzzles, and video game consoles. A low structure off to the side of the rec facility bore the sign, “Bright Star Resident Laundry Facility.”
The amenities on the island were interconnected by broad paths of local stone and mortar. Simon and his boss, Joe, had painstakingly laid every foot of those paths. Given that the majority of their clientele were likely to be retirees, Simon and Joe had made certain the surfaces of the paths were flat and smooth with nary a single trip hazard, while solar lighting along the paths ensured easy navigation after dark.
Simon nodded to himself. The park’s features and facilities had that “brand-new” sparkle to them because they were, in fact, brand-new. Furthermore, every aspect of the park shouted “select,” “private,” and “discriminating”—which was the whole point.
Bright Star was the only Tahoe RV park to bill itself as a summer residence. One did not stay overnight at Bright Star or check in one week and check out the next. No, in this RV park, guests paid handsomely (and in advance) to call Bright Star their home away from home for the entire season, Memorial Day weekend through Labor Day.
Twenty-three candidates had flocked to Bright Star’s website and each shelled out thirty-six grand, the equivalent of twelve thousand dollars a month, to spend the summer at Bright Star. The last berth to be booked at Bright Star—a worry that had plagued Holly—had finally been filled just two weeks ago.
“And we’re almost ready for them,” Simon murmured, “although it’s a mighty big ‘almost.’”
Half of Simon’s job as Bright Star’s facilities and security manager was to maintain the island and its amenities in its “brand-new” state. With the exception of one essential element, all features were up and operational, inspected, approved, and certified where required. But the “one essential element,” the single impediment facing Simon before Bright Star’s grand opening?
“The swimming complex’s blasted water pump,” he growled.
Simon needed the pump that fed and cycled water to the dancing water feature and the several pools, and he needed it today.
The original pump, a large and complex piece of hardware, electronics, and accompanying software, ordered six months in advance, had functioned perfectly.
Until it didn’t.
The fountains had danced and twirled to Holly, Joe, and Simon’s shared delight. But an hour into the pump’s trial performance, it failed and died.
Simon’s call to Bright Star’s Vegas supplier—after he had recited the pump’s serial number to the supplier and he had checked the manufacturer’s website—revealed that Bright Star’s pump was subject to a national recall. The problem was a fabricating defect resulting in faulty chips on the pump’s motherboard. Worse, the recall had depleted the manufacturer’s warehouse of that model, meaning Bright Star’s pump was now out of stock.
As it turned out, thanks be to God, their supplier had an extra pump of the desired model on their shelves. Joe had reeled Holly down from the office ceiling, and the freight company had delivered Bright Star’s replacement pump two weeks ago.
Except . . .
Except the crated pump had arrived looking like it had fallen off the truck somewhere between Vegas and Tahoe, bounced down the highway, endured a glancing encounter with a semi, and cartwheeled onto the shoulder . . . where it was scraped off the road, returned to the truck, and delivered to Bright Star with a smarmy smile and an affable but disingenuous “sign here, please.”
As Simon recalled the delivery guy’s false warmth, a scowl traversed his weathered face, a scowl that could have melted the bronzed Bright Star logo right off the entrance gate. Simon clenched his teeth. He wasn’t a cursing kind of guy, but after twenty years in the Corps, he’d become acquainted with every swear word known to the English language, along with a smattering of Spanish ones. He may not have uttered those curse words aloud; nonetheless, his personal convictions didn’t keep those words from popping into his head during trying situations where they’d pound on the door of his mind, hoping to wear him down, trying to make their way into the open air.
