Aaron Paul Lazar [Lazar - The Liar’s Gallery

The Liars Gallery

A Gus LeGarde Mystery

Aaron Paul Lazar

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Aaron Paul Lazar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

First Edition, July, 2014

Cover art by Kellie Dennis, of Book Covers By Design

Published in the United States of America.

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Devils Lake

Bittersweet Hollow, book 1

Two years ago, Portia Lamont disappeared from a small town in Vermont, devastating her parents and sister, who spent every waking hour searching for her. When she suddenly shows up on their horse farm in a stolen truck with a little mutt on her lap, they want to know what happened. Was she taken? Or did she run away?

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2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book Review Awards

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Reviews

Youre about to dive into The Liars Gallery , book 7 in the LeGarde Mystery series. If you enjoy it, I hope youll consider leaving a review on Amazon. It doesnt have to be long or fancyjust a few lines about what you liked best or how the book made you feel is perfectly fine.

Authors really do read the reviews and love to hear what their readers think and feel about the characters, the story, or the writing. Its validating, especially if you enjoy what we work so hard to produce!

Thanks in advance for taking a few minutes to write a review ;o)

- Aaron Paul Lazar

Dedication

To Emma Mabel Fletcher, a pioneering woman who founded a school for black children in the South before civil rights for blacks were recognized and who later established a home for wayward girls in New Hampshire. In those days, young women were ostracized by their families and communities for becoming pregnant. Emma Fletcher was a sterling woman of great compassion who was also my wifes great, great, aunt. Although Emma in this book is fictional, her character was inspired by stories my mother-in-law told us. Thanks and much love, Bobbi!

Chapter 1

Id been riding my horse on the trail for half an hour when a looping grapevine nearly strangled me. I hauled back on the reins, trying to untangle myself, then called back to my daughter. Watch out, Freddie.

Okay, Dad. But remember, youve gotta pay attention. Laughing, she parroted the same phrase Id preached to her as a child. She guided Maggie around the swinging vine and urged her into a trot.

Hanging onto the pommel, my grandson Johnny squealed with pleasure. Go fast! he screeched. Freddie wrapped one arm tight around his middle.

I smiled at Johnny. Not too fast, buddy.

My words were drowned out by a small plane roaring overhead.

Freddie glanced up. Whoa! Isnt he flying a little low?

The planenow clearly visible ahead of usspewed smoke and rocked from side to side.

A shiver of alarm ran up my spine. Looks like hes in trouble. I spurred Diablo into a trot.

We jogged in the same direction as the plane, watching it dip even lower in the sky.

Johnny seemed oblivious to the potential danger. Plane! He screamed the word at least a dozen times, taking one hand off the saddle and pointing to the sky. Plane!

At three and a half, anything that went vroom was an immediate intoxicant. He wore the same black velvet hunt cap that had been his mothers when she was a girl. It was a little too big for him and it kept falling over his eyes. Id have to adjust it for him later.

Plane! he screamed again.

Freddie shushed him and moved Maggie closer to Diablo, shouting to be heard over the whine of the aircraft. Dad? Is it going down?

Afraid so. I watched the plane disappear over the tree line, in the direction of the Glassbrooks wheat field, waiting for the crash. When it didnt happen, I pulled to a stop and listened. The plane still droned and sputtered with an erratic rhythm.

Seconds later, it wheeled in a circle overhead, trailing more thick smoke, then circled back toward the wheat field.

Come on, I said, urging Diablo into a canter.

We loped side by side beneath the canopy of maple and beech trees.

When the plane turned back again, its belly nearly touching the tops of the trees, we tightened the reins and stopped the horses. A yellow cloud of dust rose as the horses dug in their hooves. Maggies ears flattened. She snorted and backed up fast.

Freddie shouted, Whoa! and tightened her grip on Johnny.

Diablo twisted, turned, and tried to bolt. I leapt to the ground and hung onto the reins of both animals, skidding after my mount until he finally stopped. He danced in a half-circle, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket.

Whoa, boy. Settle down.

I exchanged a worried glance with my daughter and returned Maggies reins to her. She slid to the ground and looped the reins with one arm, helping Johnny down with the other.

A sudden screech preceded a loud crash. In the distance, a thick column of smoke billowed toward the clouds.

I swung back onto Diablos back. Im heading over there.

Dad? Freddies face grew pale. Are you sure you should

Call 911. I urged the gelding into a gallop in the direction of the accident.

Diablo thrust his nose forward, churning along the trail at full speed. I leaned forward like a jockey, my hands halfway up his neck. Gripping his sides, I plastered myself to him to avoid decapitation from sagging branches. For three minutes that seemed like an eternity, we thundered toward the site. When I spotted it through the tree line, I diverted my horse from the trail, down a narrow path, and into a field thick with stalks of wheat stubble.

The yellow aircraft had come to a stop at the far end of the field, close to the wooded perimeter. Tipped on its side, smoke poured from the nose, rolling skyward in an angry plume.

Diablos ears flattened, but he continued as if he sensed the need for speed. I steered him onto a tractor trail on the outside border of the field and urged him forward. Come on, boy.