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CRACKS BENEATH THE SURFACE
A Jhonni Laurent Mystery Book 2
BY MARY ANN MILLER

BLURB

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CHAPTER ONE

“On your mark. Get set. Go!” 

Sheriff Jhonni Laurent dropped her arm and stepped back as a hundred and fifty screaming elementary school kids raced across the soccer field in search of hidden Easter eggs. The turnout for the annual egg hunt sponsored by the sheriff’s department had grown every year since Laurent had become sheriff. 

She and all her deputies were up that morning before dawn to transform Webster Park into a giant Easter event. Ages one and two were roped off under the oak trees where parents could hold the basket as toddlers bent over to pick up an egg and put it into the basket without doing a face plant into the wet grass. 

Children, ages three, four, and five crowded into the area around the band shell and the playground equipment as parents sat on picnic tables, shouting encouragement to the kids while chatting with friends and neighbors.

Her favorite was the group of kids ages six through ten. Mid-April was always wet, the grass slippery, and the kids knew to wear grubby clothes. Laurent watched as a younger boy’s feet slipped out from under him and he plopped on his bottom. He grinned up at his big sister as she stopped to help him up before running to join her friends. 

Public works had cut the grass in the park on Friday afternoon before Easter, and Laurent breathed in the lingering scent. As the last group of children finished their search for eggs, she strolled to a nearby picnic table to join Lisa DuVal, the owner of Big Al’s Diner.

 Lisa had donated and prepared twelve hundred hard-boiled eggs this year. On the two Saturdays prior to Easter Sunday, Laurent, her deputies, and anyone over the age of eleven was invited to color eggs at the diner between lunch and dinner. Originally, any age was welcome to help decorate the eggs, but when one seven-year-old boy drank the vinegar, water, and dye solution and then threw up, she’d raised the age. Yesterday, groups of boys and girls along with a few moms were dropped off at Big Al’s to dye eggs. For some families, it had become a tradition. 

“Great job, Sheriff,” Lisa said. “Jake, my oldest grandson, was boasting this morning about how this was his last year with the ‘little’ kids. Next year, he gets to color the eggs for his brother and younger cousins. In a few years, he’ll be helping me boil and dye them, and after that, he’ll be working at the diner. Where does the time go?” The cheerful, chubby diner owner shook her curly brown hair. 

“I can’t believe this is my twentieth year in Field’s Crossing with the sheriff’s department,” Laurent said as she eased a hip onto the picnic table, one foot resting on the ground. She’d dressed too warmly for the day and the back of her shirt was damp. She picked up her long black braid and held it away from her neck. 

Field’s Crossing was the largest town in the rural farming area of north central Indiana. The small community was made up of residents who lived in town and farmers who kept watch on the mid-April weather. When the spring rain slowed, tractors would dot the countryside and the smell of freshly turned dirt would linger in the air. 

“I thought your daughter might come today,” Lisa said. “What does she do for a living?” 

“She teaches high school calculus and plays violin in the Indianapolis Symphonic Orchestra. We’re having dinner tomorrow night.” Laurent shoved her hand in her pocket and hunched her shoulders. 

Thirty years ago, she had given up her daughter for adoption. A month ago, her daughter asked to meet. Laurent’s first reaction had been to ignore the request but changed her mind after the death of Stephanie Gattison, an eighteen-year-old local high school senior. 

During the capture of Stephanie’s killer, Laurent was shot in the shoulder and still had not fully recovered. During the murder investigation, she had been embroiled in a bitter re-election campaign and was sure that the discovery of an illegitimate daughter would hand the election to her opponent, Deputy Mike Greene. On the contrary, she won. Whatever Laurent had expected from the residents of the quad-counties, it hadn’t been acceptance. 

“What are you doing for Easter?” Laurent asked.

“Heading to Aubrey’s as soon as the kids find their eggs,” Lisa said. “I tried to get the family to turn today into a picnic, but you know Aubrey. Gotta be able to boast about making Easter dinner—and at the same time—complain about it.” 

“I hear ya. We’ll be finished cleaning up by one o’clock, and then I’m having dinner with Starr and a few friends. Have a great day with your family.” 

Laurent picked up a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the picnic table manned by Deputy Bill Poulter and strolled among the participants. The Easter egg hunt was winding down and happy, muddy families trooped to the parking lot. Laurent waved to Starr Walters as her best friend exited Webster Park, sixties music blaring. 

Laurent walked through the parking lot, admiring eggs in baskets as children lifted their treasures to show her. She stopped at Aubrey Holmes’ car to chat with Lisa’s grandson, Jake. “Your grandma tells me this is your last year to hunt Easter eggs. Next year, you’re helping to decorate them.” 

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” Jake said. “Grandma says when I start high school, I can work at Big Al’s—learning how to make sandwiches and stuff like that. I already know some.” 

“What’s your favorite sandwich?” 

“Peanut butter and bananas. Sometimes I add potato chips on top.” 

“I don’t think that’s on your grandma’s menu,” Laurent said. 

“It should be. Me and my friends eat it, like, every day,” Jake said, glancing toward the Ford Explorer that had pulled alongside them. “Here’s Dad.”

 “Hope you got all the mud off!” Doug Holmes snapped. “Good. Get in the back. Justin’s in your mom’s car. Your little brother decided to splash in that mud puddle near the edge of the woods with his buddies. Your mom’s pissed.” He pointed a finger at Laurent. “Next year, Sheriff, if you see a big puddle, rope it off. One of Justin’s friends decided to wash his hair with mud. Thank God we remembered to bring the camping blankets. Justin’s sitting on those in the back seat of Aubrey’s car.” 

Laurent raised her eyebrows. Doug’s in a bad mood. “I’ll remember that. Enjoy the rest of the day.” 

* * *

“Jhonni. Have you seen Lisa recently? Aubrey called me looking for her mom,” Starr Walters said as soon as Laurent answered the call. Starr worked for the village of Field’s Crossing as an accountant and had also been injured in the previous month’s murder investigation. The killer had pushed her down a flight of concrete steps at the village hall, injuring Starr’s neck and breaking her wrist. 

“Nope. I’m still at Webster Park. I talked to Lisa earlier in the day, but the parking lot’s empty. We’re about to close the gate. Why do you ask?” Laurent wasn’t surprised Aubrey had called Starr. Laurent’s personal cell phone number was known only to a handful of people. When she was off duty, she valued her privacy. 

“Aubrey’s been trying to reach Lisa for the last hour, but Lisa’s not picking up, and Aubrey’s mad as a wet hen. She says Easter dinner was at one o’clock and it’s ruined and it’s all her mom’s fault.” 

“Think those two will ever get along?” Laurent asked.

 “You and Randi get along better than Lisa and Aubrey, but you two haven’t got any history built up. That counts for something.” 

“True,” Laurent admitted. “Would you call Aubrey back and tell her I’ll swing by the diner to check on Lisa on my way to your house? Sorry about the call.” 

“No worries. You know Aubrey. She thinks she’s the cat’s meow. Her mom donates the eggs, so you, the sheriff, can track her down and tell her to call her daughter. Like you’ve got nothing else to do today. I hate Aubrey’s entitlement attitude. On the other hand, how many dozen eggs did Lisa donate and dye this year?” 

“One hundred dozen,” Laurent said. “When we started, Lisa cooked ten dozen eggs. Five years later, we’ve got at least a hundred and fifty kids hunting Easter eggs. I offered to pay for them, but she hung up on me. I think I offended her.” 

“Jhonni, that’s eight eggs for each kid. You need to limit the number of eggs one kid can take home,” Starr said. 

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll be at your house after I stop by Big Al’s. Did you forget anything? Do I need to swing by 7-Eleven?” 

“Sour cream.” 

Laurent tapped the end button and slid her cell phone into her pant leg pocket. She flagged down Dak Aikens, her favorite deputy from across the parking lot. 

The bald Black officer jogged over to her. “Everyone’s gone,” he reported. “Caleb’s emptied all the garbage cans and picked up the sawhorses, and I’ve pulled up all the markers and tape. We’re ready to close.” 

“I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for taking the sixteen-hour shift. Holiday pay plus overtime pay. You’re making more than me today.” 

“And someday, I’ll have your job.” Dak grinned at her. “Not for another twenty years, I hope.” 

“Damn straight.” Laurent waved and slid behind the wheel of the black police SUV. Turning south on Field Street, she headed toward Big Al’s Diner. She’d stop at the convenience store for Starr’s sour cream after she found Lisa.

* * *

 Laurent parked in the front lot of Big Al’s Diner and walked to the door. Twisting the doorknob, she found it locked. As she peered through the window, she noted the blinds were closed and no light shone from the rear of the diner. She strolled along the side of the building, passing a row of arbor vitae that surrounded the dumpster and continued to the circular driveway in the rear of the diner. She paused and glanced at the parked catering vans, rear doors facing the back of the diner. 

Laurent sniffed. Wet grass, damp pavement, and something else. Eggs. Hard-boiled eggs. A few must have broken during the day. She headed to the back door and turned the knob. Unlocked. 

“Lisa?” Laurent flicked on the light and saw no one. Wandering down the hallway, she glanced in the tiny office. Empty. Same with the employee break room. Dining room, food prep area, and walk-in cooler, all empty. Where was the owner of Big Al’s Diner? Laurent re-traced her steps and stopped at the back door, her gaze taking in the green garbage dumpster, the glistening circular blacktop drive, the two white catering vans. 

“Shit.” Laurent bolted toward the farthest van and yanked open the driver’s door. Lisa DuVal’s head rested on the steering wheel, face turned toward the window, her ear pressed against the spoke, eyes closed. Her right arm hung down, the fingers dangling mid-air. Her left arm lay in her lap. Laurent poked Lisa’s shoulder. “Lisa?” No response. Quickly, Laurent reached across Lisa, her fingers searching for the release button on the seat belt. 

Click.

Lisa’s body tilted away from Laurent, and she grabbed Lisa’s left arm, holding her in the middle of the seat. Glancing down, Laurent found the buttons to adjust the driver’s seat. With one hand, she pushed the button moving the seat back while cupping the back of Lisa’s head. She gently lowed Lisa’s head against the head rest and pressed two fingers on the carotid artery. Nothing. 

She touched the radio on her shoulder. “Dispatch. Send an ambulance to the rear entrance of Big Al’s Diner. Circular drive off Delaney Street. Advise female patient, unconscious, no heartbeat, approximate age fifty-five. Beginning CPR.” 

“Ten-four.”

Laurent slid one arm behind Lisa’s lower back and nestled the unconscious woman’s shoulder into her shoulder. Lisa’s head dropped forward and her brown curly hair tickled Laurent’s nose. Sliding the other arm under Lisa’s knees, Laurent tugged the body out from behind the steering wheel. She took three steps back and bent over, settling Lisa’s butt on the ground. That’s gonna hurt.

She gently lowered Lisa’s upper body to the pavement and slid one hand under Lisa’s neck, tilted her mouth, and breathed two quick breaths. In the distance, a siren cut through the air. 

Locating the sternum through the long sleeve t-shirt, Laurent placed the heel of one hand on top of the other, interlaced her fingers, and began CPR. One, two, three . . . What the hell? Laurent glanced down. Blood gushed from Lisa’s left side, soaking Laurent’s pants. She leaned back on her heels and stared at the woman on the ground. 

Lisa lay dead at her knees.

About Author Mary Ann Miller…

Mary Ann Miller currently lives in Florida with her husband, where she is working on the third novel in the Sheriff Jhonni Laurent series. She received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Northern Illinois University and earned a paralegal certificate with Roosevelt University. Miller is a member of MWA, ITW, and Sisters in Crime and when not writing, can be found reading poolside or hosting family and friends fleeing the cold winters of the north.

Links to Mary Ann’s websites, blogs, books, #ad etc.:

Amazon

https://www.amazon.com/Cracks-Beneath-Surface-Laurent-Mystery/dp/1608095398

Website: https://maryannmillerauthor.com/

Contact: https://maryannmillerauthor.com/contact/

or maryann@maryannmillerauthor.com

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Thanks, Mary Ann, for sharing your book with us!

Don’t miss the chance to read this book!