Bleeding hearts, p.1
Bleeding Hearts, page 1
Bleeding Hearts
A Declan Rosewood Mystery
Erin Lark Maples
Lodestar Literary
Copyright © 2024 by Erin Lark Maples
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transformed in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please obtain only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover designed by MiblArt.
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Coming early 2025
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Erin Lark Maples
For Jacque
Who makes everything fun
One
Declan—who’d yet to get used to the name—fanned a stack of twenties in front of his face. Their wrinkled edges, taped tears, and minute details created a faded peacock tail. He marveled at the filthy paper assigned arbitrary values by humans. Fascinating.
The man behind the counter pushed a yellow receipt toward Declan. “Mr. Rosewood? You’ll need this for pick-up.”
Declan spared a glance at the paper, scrawled words straying outside gray lines. He looked at the man whose presence he sought to forget. Yellowing teeth, absent chin, and two-day beard gave him the look of a tired beaver. Lank, greasy hair parted in the middle, curled behind too-long ears, and streaked back toward a squat neck. People came in such variety, he marveled. He leaned over the paper to read. “Pick-up?”
“You’ve got thirty days to return with the money,” the man said, shifting a wad of something across his lower jaw with his tongue. His lip bulged, and a spot of drool gathered at the corner of his mouth. A too-tight Biker Babes T-shirt stretched over his belly and fluttered above a pair of plaid pajama pants. A rack of weapons made a stark backdrop, their potential behind glass, lock, and key. “If not, it’s mine.”
Declan squinted at the man. Were these words a sign from above? He’d just parted with the third-from-the-last of his most precious belongings from his former life to this creature, a sacrifice of the highest order. Declan spared a last glance at the lute, its gilded curls flashing against the honeyed wood. He’d had many a night with that rounded back in his lap, the strings taut beneath his fingertips, not unlike his midsummer lovers. But that was before.
Before. To have a time that came ahead of this moment, there had to be an after. His after was the focus. He may return for this instrument of his past life—or he may not. Lutes would come and go, but freedom was priceless.
Declan laid the crisp receipt alongside his stack of cash, folded and pocketed the wad—pockets were a delight—and headed into the misty morning.
On the sidewalk, he quick-stepped around a flock of pigeons cooing over scattered bread crumbs. “Pardon me, noble steeds. Give Mother my love.” Declan paused in his step, looked around, then crouched down to address the birds. “On second thought, friends, better keep quiet, eh?” The birds continued to scavenge which Declan took as a sign of agreement.
Declan crossed at the corner. The street ahead pitched upward, past an old building the color of melted butter. It was a severe structure, ringed in white detail like a bygone wedding cake. Declan had yet to behold such a confection in person—he avoided the drama of weddings, especially now—but he’d seen pictures. Two lovers swearing to love each other and let none come between. A little family drama and that notion of marriage went right out the window for Declan. Forever was easy to promise to those with a brief lifeline and a lack of meddlesome relatives.
Declan paused in front of a large sign anchored in the brief front lawn. “Historical Museum…” he mused aloud. “Wonder if they have any of my family in there.”
“Are your people local, dear?”
The voice startled Declan. He turned to find a short woman with frizzy gray hair watching him with beady brown eyes. She’d popped out from behind the sign like a piece of unexpected toast.
Toast. This was on his First Day list. In preparation for his new diet, his sister made him memorize a handful of local takeout menus, so he’d understand what to eat. Avocado toast was a repeat on several leaflets. The cash in his pocket pressed against Declan’s thigh. Grocery money.
“…nigh everyone has cannery in their blood around here. My father, his father, and his before him. It was a proud tradition in the Thatcher family. Who were your people?”
Declan stared at the woman. She yammered with the tenacity of a house sparrow. More than a head shorter than Declan, silvered curls framed a round face. Wrinkles betrayed a life of sun and time. A pair of reading glasses dipped in the collar of her blouse. Zipped into a bright red raincoat, she wielded a trowel in one hand, purple gardening gloves speckled with soil. She blinked, waiting. He rejoined the discussion.
“Oh. I’m not from here. I…uh…didn’t know anyone was listening.” Declan gave the little chuckle learned from watching what his sister called reality television. He’d marveled at the self-deprecating cues people used to apologize for themselves or signal other intentions.
“I should think someone like you would be used to an audience,” she said, eyeing him from top to bottom and back.
Declan stilled. Here it comes. Throughout history, he’d bathed in attention. Craved it. Now, it was old news—a nuisance, even. When he’d asked his perpetually gloomy mother to give him a more familiar appearance to match his new surroundings, she’d scoffed, suggesting that he might as well cut her heart out on his way to the coast.
Golden boy, it was.
“It’s only that you’re a bit…bright. Wouldn’t you say?”
The glasses. While his details may be fuzzy, whatever her prescription, he would stand out. Declan looked down at his neon yellow track suit. His mother insisted he wear the monstrosity so as not to be hit by a car on day one. He’d balked, she’d insisted. In her mind, Astoria was a godless, violent bedlam on the edges of the continent instead of a sleepy town slouched against a hill. Note to self, change as soon as possible.
Declan cleared his throat. “It was a gift.”
“I see,” the woman said, her pinched expression unpacking who would gift–let alone treasure–such a present. “So then, you’re new here?”
“Yes,” Declan said, grateful for the change of subject. “Just arrived. On my way to…” He consulted his phone, a plastic device his sister assured him was a necessity. “Irving and 16th.” He pointed up the incline, proud of his new navigational skill set.
“That so?” the woman said, eyeing him. She patted at her jacket pockets and then the top of her head for the glasses, as though to examine his screen herself.
“Lovely chat,” he said, before he fell under her scrutiny. “See you around?” Declan strode off before she could get a closer look.
Three blocks up, and he gasped for breath. His hamstrings and buttocks burned from the exertion. Declan tuned into this new form he wore, its strengths and limits a continuous curiosity. His earthbound muscles struggled with stamina, aching for a rest. He would have to put them to a test, learn what humans did to maintain gladiator status.
At number 1608, Declan faced an iron arch. Two dozen brick steps curved upward to meet a wide front porch, and a short hedge edged the yard. White, peeling siding striped the house, garage, and a shed, moss sneaking in at the eaves. Three stories teetered upward from ground level. A slate gray roof formed a hat for the structures. In a small window set in the top story, a curtain fluttered.
Declan took a deep breath and unlatched the gate. It creaked in response, clattering shut behind him with finality. He bounded up the steps to the porch and knocked. Next to the door was a mailbox affixed to the wall at an angle and a wide porch swing.
The door opened into a wave of Pavarotti and baked goods. A woman with blond hair braided and wrapped across her crown in a halo wore an apron emblazoned with On a Roll. Flour dusted its navy front and her pink cheeks.
“Hello,” she said, her throaty voice betraying the source of the flush.
“I’m Declan,” he said, and rearranged his mouth into a smile that was big but not creepy. He’d spent hours in front of a mirror practicing his expressions. “Declan Rosewood.”
“Ah,” she said, still staring. Thick lashes blinked over soft gray eyes.
“Here for the ro om?”
“Oh. Yes. I mean. Oh, my. Uh…” She broke eye contact and backed into the house, making way for Declan and his backpack. “Can I help you carry anything?”
“No need. I travel light.” He followed her inside as she untied the apron from her waist, removed it, and flung the garment over a kitchen stool. Cinnamon and cardamom perfumed the air. She grabbed a lemon-shaped timer from the counter, twisted it, then clutched the ticking device as though it were a life preserver.
Unsure of where to go, Declan idled in the cheery living room. An overstuffed couch bursting with pillows crowded one corner of the room, a ghastly floral painting hanging above its bulk. A piano anchored a second corner, its bench waiting for a player. Atop the instrument sat a small, round speaker out of which music poured into the ground floor of the massive house. The final bar of “Recondita Armonia” washed over him.
“Jessica.” The woman offered her hand. “If we can start over.” She avoided his eyes, staring at a spot just over his ear. “Call me Jess, though. Everyone does.”
“Declan,” he said, and looked down at her open palm. Just try, he thought, and shook her hand. Warmth spread between them, a faint vibration palpable between their skin. There was a shock of electricity and a spark in the air.
Jess yanked her hand back in reflex. “I…I…uh…must have been the static.” Jess licked her lips and met his gaze.
Uh oh. “Must have been.” Declan faked a need to scratch the back of his neck.
Jess recovered, giving her head a brief shake. “Thank you for paying so far ahead, sight unseen.”
Declan nodded. His mother’s other parting gift—rent paid for the year. “Er…my sister picked it out. Your description was more than adequate.”
“I’ll give you a tour of my room. I mean, of the house,” Jess said. She avoided his gaze and brushed past him into the living room. “She’s an older gal, but she’s steadfast. Original wallpaper in several rooms, same with the furniture and windows. They give great night…I mean, light.”
Declan peered at the woman. Ripples of heat, sweaty palms. A quickened pulse at her throat. His new life would be complicated. Thanks, Mom. Following behind Jess, he rolled his eyes heavenward, in case his mother were watching. He broached the awkwardness with Jess. “Are you a fan of opera?”
“My grandmother taught me to love it,” she said. “This was her house. My mother would bring me to visit each Sunday. We’d make a batch of cookies and curl up with a record of the greats as the rain pattered against the windowpanes. I have her to thank for so many of my passions—music and baking are just two of them. In a way, I like to think she’s still here with me.” Her voice wavered as she regarded the worn wallpaper and furnishings. “The music takes me back, you know?”
“You loved her,” Declan said, a simple declaration. With all the uncertainty of his new life, the ability to understand the heart hadn’t wavered.
“Her and this house. It’s been in our family for ages. Feels like a family member at this point.” Jessica blinked back tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s been a week. I’m not usually so…emotional.” With the back of her thumb, she wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. “At any rate, it’s just me rattling around in here now. Renting out the apartment helps. It gets lonely, you know?”
Declan studied her. He’d seen the gamut of what love and loss did to a person. Recently, he’d felt something close to this, himself. “It’s a magnificent house, a treasure. I hope I won’t be in your way.”
“Not possible,” Jessica said, laughing through her tears. “There’s a separate entrance so you can come and go whenever you want. All night if you like.” Jess’s cheeks reddened again. “You know, if you need to borrow the oven or something. Here, I’ll show you.”
Jess snagged a key off the counter and handed it to Declan. He followed her out the back door. “Do you have a car?”
Declan shook his head. Learning public transport was a new—but intriguing—task on his to-do list. “I planned to walk, mostly. Should be a pleasant change.”
“Good for the glutes,” Jess said, then grimaced. The lemon timer dinged in her hand. She gestured to a set of stairs attached to the side of a small, two-story garage anchoring the side yard. “Head on up. Have a look around and then let me know what you think.” She hurried into the house.
Declan was alone in the yard. He assessed the rickety stairs, then climbed. The steps creaked beneath his feet, wood complaining under his weight. At the top, the key fit the lock, and he was inside.
The hush of the apartment soothed him. A place of his own. Tidy and freshly painted, the space was clean and welcoming. Jessica’s post offered a furnished studio with a view—and didn’t disappoint.
Declan toured the remainder of his space. The tiny bathroom revealed a giant shower head sticking out above a plastic curtain covered with a map of the world. In the main space, a big bed covered in a navy duvet stood against one wall, a pile of seashell-decorated pillows awaiting his slumber. In front of him, a small kitchen gave way to a brief living area. Two captain’s chairs bracketed a coffee table in front of a large picture window. On the back wall hung a painting of a massive sailing ship out at sea. Small, convenient, and all his.
Perfection.
Declan dropped his backpack on the bed and took in his view. This side faced the hill. Rows of houses marched upward like ants. The leaves of the neighbor’s oak tree brushed the glass.
A misty rain smattered the window with droplets. He remembered the woman in her red slicker, his embarrassment over his clothing. Five minutes later, he wore a pair of jeans, a black sweater, and sneakers. Dowdy professor, his sister had tutted as she watched him pack. He was comfortable, though, and camouflaged.
Outside, he debated the back door, uncertain, then rounded the house to the front. The door yawned open, and Declan went in.
Jessica flapped a dishcloth over several pans of rolls, a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “That’s not going to happen…I know you mean well, but…You aren’t listening to me. This is exactly what I—” Jessica froze, catching sight of Declan. “I’ve got to go,” she said into the speaker, and hung up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Declan said.
“You didn’t,” Jessica said. “An ex. Wants to get back together. Says he loves me, wants me to move in with him, but…it’s complicated.”
“Is that what you want?” This was Declan’s territory. His bread and butter. He could leave the work behind, but the instinctual pull ate at him no matter how far he roamed.
Jessica shook her head. “I did, once. Then things started taking off for my business and we both got busy. But a part of me…still thinks yes. It’s why I take his calls. Is that crazy?”
Declan shook his head. “Not crazy.” He ate this up, a genuine opportunity to interact. “What do you want from a relationship?”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone who will be around, not always chasing after the next shiny thing that comes along. Someone satisfied with the simple things in life. The sound of rain on the roof, the taste of a Sunday roast. I’d like a guy who’ll support my dreams, for once.”
“Then say no to anything that’s not that,” Declan said. So many people knew what they needed but allowed others to sabotage them at every turn. It takes conviction, a little bravery, and faith to get what you want.
“Thanks,” Jess said. “I’m getting back out there. Got a date next week, so we’ll see. Anyway, enough about me.” She tossed the dish towel on the counter. With a pair of tongs, she hefted a roll onto a plate and slathered it in cream cheese frosting. She handed him the plate. “A few burned,” she said, “but I salvaged most of them. Let me know what you think. Everything look all right in the apartment?”
