Regan Harris Box Set Read online

  Regan Harris Romantic Mystery Series Books 1-3

  Regan Harris Romantic Mystery Series

  Kelly Wood

  Published by Kelly Wood, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  REGAN HARRIS ROMANTIC MYSTERY SERIES BOOKS 1-3

  First edition. April 17, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Kelly Wood.

  Written by Kelly Wood.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Regan Harris Romantic Mystery Series Books 1-3

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  To the Readers . . .

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I pushed through the crowd, using the large backpack swung over my shoulder to give me more room. My heart beat against my chest as I neared the police tape holding back the onlookers. I searched the faces of the men and women who hustled in and out of the restaurant looking for a familiar face.

  “What happened?” I asked the man next to me, worry straining my voice. I felt the anxiety in me building. Worry for my friends clouded my judgement. I wanted to rip the police tape down and barrel inside to make sure they were okay.

  “Probably another jumper. This building is cursed.” The man turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

  I relaxed a little at his words. He was probably right. Marina Towers, in downtown Chicago, was notorious for people jumping to their deaths. Sadly, it happened multiple times each year. It wouldn’t be the first time the restaurant had opened late because of it.

  The crowd around me thinned as the gawkers moved on with their days. I saw the two homeless people who lived on the bridge move back to their home. The men with their hand-tailored suits of armor bumped into me as they continued to slay their corporate dragons. Whatever happened inside must be big for the locals to stop and dither. Chicagoans saw police barriers on a daily basis. Jumpers into the river, the aftermath of drive-by shootings, fights, and robberies were the norm when living in a large city. Worry creeped in again. What would make locals stop and look? Murder? Arson? Terrorist attack?

  Pure restraint kept me from ripping down the police tape and running through the building. Tears threatened to spill over. I wanted my friends. I needed my friends. I wanted them to console me and tell me it would be okay. The number of cops running around inside and outside of the restaurant mocked my hopes and dreams. My spidey-sense told me I would be lying to my friends about what would or would not be okay, instead of the other way around. I realized my selfishness at the moment, but, hey, who’s perfect?

  Nervous laughter escaped me as I wondered, relieving some of my tension. Clearly the building hadn’t burned down. I pushed my way through the remaining stragglers to the edge of the building, swung down my bag and settled in for the wait. Eventually, someone I knew would wander over and fill me in. I refused to let worry overcome me.

  I used the building as a backrest and my backpack as an armrest. Cops moved in and out of the building like worker ants, intent on their one job. The constant shuffling had a lulling effect. I fought to stay awake now. After hearing those words, I had practically run to the airport and jumped a plane here. My tight-knit group of friends the only comfort I could think of. I flew to Chicago, fidgeting the whole time, willing the plane to move faster. Fly harder. The last of the adrenaline from scurrying home wore off, and exhaustion replaced it. I covered my yawn with the back of my hand and watched the activity.

  I used to think the scariest
words were, “We need to talk.” I’ve changed my mind. I’d gladly take those four little words over, “I want to marry you.” Those five little words brought a skip to my heartbeat and a tremor to my hands. Now, thanks to those five little words, here I was, Regan Harris. Single. Alone. Definitely annoyed. And now worried.

  Patrick O’Kelly’s was my first job after dropping out of college. Well, depending on how you looked at it, either it was my first job of many, or my first and only real job. My mother would vote for the latter.

  At twenty-eight years old, technically homeless, and self-employed, I’m not much to write home about. To a blue-collar family, where collecting a weekly paycheck was the meaning of life, self-employed equaled jobless. It was just one more black mark against me on my Mom’s ever-growing list. For income, I wrote articles on travel and hotel accommodations. It was a win-win. I got to travel on someone else’s dime and got paid to write about it, which I really would do for free. It wasn’t all honey and sunshine, though. Sometimes, the paid gigs were few and far between, leaving me at the mercy of my boyfriend’s generosity.

  Ex. Ex-boyfriend.

  Ouch.

  I had some money stashed aside in savings. It gave me a little buffer before I would have to find some steady income. Like a job. Ugh. My shoulders bumped the building from my shudder. I’d never been good at the ‘norm.’ Working in a cubicle without any personality sounded just as bad to me as standing in the same place working on a factory line. I appreciated people who enjoyed those things, but they weren’t for me. I would get bored and start a coup with the other office workers for better Muzak. I’d get fired before I even had time to decorate my desk. I could always go back to bartending. Fewer hours, more money. I just didn’t like the late nights and coming home stinking of sweat, booze and smoke. But, the worst is always having to pretend to be nice to people. Now that was exhausting.

  We’d see, no need to plan yet.

  Along with exhaustion, hunger had resurfaced. Since my plan of O’Kelly’s food was squashed, I dug out a bag of mixed nuts, minus peanuts. I tempted fate with my peanut allergy. There weren’t any peanuts in the bag, but many nut products were processed in the same factory leading to cross-contact. Just another rule that I didn’t follow. Although with only one expired epinephrine injector in my bag, I was pushing the line rather hard today.

  I finished my nuts and discreetly added a layer of deodorant. Judging by the looks from passersby, I was well past ripe. I desperately needed a shower. My last one consisted of lukewarm water in what Central America referred to as a “suicide shower.” A heating element was attached to the showerhead without the use of any ground wires. Any contact sent a shock through your skull. With my height of five feet nine inches, I felt the shock more than most since the showers were designed for women much smaller than me.

  I saw Peter, the current owner of Patrick O’Kelly’s, exit the building with another man. Peter’s eyes were red and swollen. His shoulders were slumped down and his head hung as he looked at his companion. Peter’s personality was normally larger than life. It filled a room. His natural charisma drawing people to him. None of that showed now. He looked beaten, broken.

  The other man did all of the talking while Peter listened. I couldn’t see the face of the man he was talking to, but he had curly dark hair and a fitted dark suit. My gut said a cop, but the suit looked a little too stylish for that to be true. Maybe an insurance agent? Friend? Peter’s posture was uptight, stressed. It was not comfortable and relaxed like it would be with a friend. I’d guess this guy was a stranger, just a well-dressed one.

  Peter looked tired to me. The dark smudges under his eyes stood out against his pale skin. It could be from the events that took place in the restaurant or from a late night. One never knew about him. He had one arm wrapped around his waist like he was trying to hold himself together. His other arm was against his chest, his chin in his hand, holding his head up. I could see the weight of the world on his shoulders. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but I kept my rear planted on the sidewalk.

  I’d always been a runner. Not just because I tried to get three miles in every day, but because I didn’t like confrontation. If I didn’t know what move to make next, I bailed. I didn’t know how to pay for college? Dropped out. Needed a change from city life? I grabbed a backpack and took off. Started feeling restless? Just get on a bus for a new adventure. But, for the first time in my life, I was experiencing a downside to that trait. The key to running was moving toward a better situation. Sitting on a sidewalk with all of my belongings, smelly, hungry and alone, staring at my favorite place in Chicago surrounded by police tape was not a better situation.

  Moving around nonstop made you appreciate coming home again. Seeing new places was exciting, but coming home was comforting. Like wrapping yourself in an old blanket. Only my blanket was moth-ridden and holey at the moment.

  Peter shook the hand of Blue Suit, who moved quickly back inside. I intended to give Peter a moment to collect himself before thrusting into the foray, but he turned toward me against the wall. He stared down at the ground, looking right at me, but didn’t acknowledge me. Peter was expecting me to visit next week. Not only was I early, but I was also down a man. I knew he wasn’t seeing me, though. He was looking at me, but not at me. I was starting to confuse myself. Peter started to turn away so I scooted over on my butt, too lazy to stand, then reached over and grabbed his calf to get his attention.

  “Hey, good lookin’, you know where a gal can get a drink around here?” I squeezed his leg. Peter looked down, his eyes cleared, finally seeing me right in front of him. Sheesh.

  “How about a bottle instead?” He reached his hand out and pulled me up. Peter wrapped me in a bear hug, holding the embrace. I rested my head on his shoulder until he was ready to release me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Surprise. I’m early.” Peter let go, holding me an arm's length away to look at me.

  “You look terrible.” I laughed. Count on Peter to tell me the God’s honest truth. “Do you still have your key?”

  “Yes. In my bag.”

  “Go home, then. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “What’s happened?” I asked searching his face for answers.

  “Anya—remember her? —I found her this morning in the office. Dead.” Peter shuddered, and tears welled in his eyes. I hugged him again.

  “I’m sorry, Peter. Is everyone else okay? What can I do?” My condolences felt inadequate but what else could I say?

  “Now. Go home. I’ll be around later when I can escape.” Peter gave me one last squeeze before releasing me.

  “You making a run for it?” I joked at him, hoping for even a hint of a smile. Peter ignored my question, posing one of his own.

  “Is it terrible that I can’t help but think how this will be good for business?” Peter asked.

  “Well, from the owner’s perspective, no. And from the owner’s perspective, yes,” I answered.

  “You never could give a straight answer. You should’ve gone to law school after all.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “What do you think happened?”

  “We don’t know anything, yet. It wasn’t a robbery. The deposit from yesterday was left sitting on the desk, and the safe wasn’t opened.” Peter shored himself up. “Go home. I’ll be along.”

  The worry over Peter nagged me for the whole cab ride to his house. I let myself into the Wrigleyville condo building and trudged up the three flights of stairs. My backpack weighed heavily on me. But not as heavy as my heartache. I dropped my bag and made myself a sandwich.

  Peter hadn’t asked me where Gray was and why he wasn’t with me. I didn’t know if he intuitively knew I wasn’t ready to talk about it, or if he was just consumed with thoughts of what happened to Anya. I thought if I had found a friend covered in blood and dead in my business, it would be the only thing going through my mind.

  I walked through the condo, randomly touching knick-knacks th
at brought back memories of past vacations or plays we’d seen, even a shell from the beach. Instead of lifting my spirits they reminded me of what was happening at the pub when I saw an old photo of Peter and his family in front of it.

  Peter’s parents, Patrick and Anais Kelly, opened Patrick O’Kelly’s before Peter and his sister were born. The pub was the heart of the family. Peter took it over after their father passed away. Peter’s sister married and moved down south, leaving it solely to Peter.

  I loved O’Kelly’s. I worked there for years behind the bar and managing the office. The pub was a unique mix of regulars and tourists, a rarity in Chicago where so many restaurants were one or the another. Located in the Marina Tower West’s basement, it gave the pub a unique setting with a covered patio overlooking the Chicago River.

  I put down the photograph of O’Kelly’s, polished off the remainder of my sandwich in one bite, grabbed my bag, and headed up to my room. I opened the closet door and pushed Gray’s clothes to the side, I didn’t want to see them. Peter let us keep a small wardrobe here so we wouldn’t have to live out of our bags when visiting. It was nice to have more than four outfits to choose from. I chose a simple black-and-white sundress and threw it on the bed before heading to the shower.

  I sent Jax, my best friend, a text earlier asking if she had time for dinner tonight. I wanted to get out of Peter’s way and let him process everything that had happened. I pulled my hair up into a messy bun. I was just lazy. My hair was long, dark brown with red undertones, and just wavy enough to be frizzy if not dried and flat ironed. Who had that kind of time every day? My hair was like a horse's mane, and it took forever to blow dry. Plus, sometimes on the train here, people had been known to sniff my hair when it was down. It could be a little creepy.

  After giving myself a once-over and a nod of approval, I grabbed my purse and headed down the stairs. I found Peter and his mother in the kitchen sharing a glass of whiskey. I hugged Anais and kissed her cheek. She patted my cheek in response, giving me a small smile.

  "How ya doing?" I asked, setting my purse on the island next to the whiskey bottle. I waved Peter off when he started to pour a glass for me.

  "Anyone I can and the easy ones twice," Peter replied.

  “It’s ‘how are you doing,’ dear,” Anais said. Her posture was so perfect; I swore she put a board under her dress to keep her back straight. Compared to Peter’s slouched stance leaning against the countertop with both hands splayed, she looked straighter than usual.