The King Falls Read online

  Praise for R. J. Lee and his A Bridge to Death mysteries!

  PLAYING THE DEVIL

  “Entertaining . . . Lee does a good job rendering Southern speech patterns in the conversations between Wendy and her friend

  Merleece.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Solid small-town cozy fare.”

  —Booklist

  GRAND SLAM MURDERS

  “Lee deals a winning hand . . . An attractive protagonist, plenty of Southern charm, a long suit of colorful characters, and a plot that comes up trumps at the surprising end all bode well for future installments.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A compulsively readable series debut, dripping in Southern charm, with a clever sleuth whose bridge skills break the case.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Lee vividly captures life in a quirky Southern town ruled by a rich elite, and heightens interest with a plot that exposes past secrets and a budding romance.”

  —Booklist

  “Set in a small Mississippi town rife with stereotypical prejudices, gossip finger-pointing suspects, and an interesting mystery with an unlikely detecting team that puts their entire focus on finding out whodunit. . . . The author cleverly uses knowledge of the game of bridge to uncover what really happens—and it all leads to one heck of a jaw-dropping ending. Book two will be highly anticipated.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “A promising introduction to R. J. Lee’s Bridge to Death mystery series. I look forward to the next one.”

  —Suspense magazine

  “An impressively original and deftly crafted mystery from first page to last, Grand Slam Murders by R. J. Lee will prove to be an inherently riveting read.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Pick up a copy of Grand Slam Murders: A Bridge to Death Mystery, and find out just how delightfully devilish the game can be.”

  —The Baldwin Times

  “The book is set right here in Mississippi, which is quite appropriate since the author is one of Mississippi’s literary gems.”

  —Tupelo Daily Journal

  Books by R. J. Lee

  GRAND SLAM MURDERS

  PLAYING THE DEVIL

  COLD READING MURDER

  THE KING FALLS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The King Falls

  R.J. LEE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 by Rob Kuehnle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3150-0 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3149-4

  For my beloved Will

  CHAPTER 1

  On a cool May morning in Rosalie, Mississippi, Wendy Winchester Rierson sat across from her husband, Ross, at the kitchen table, listening to the usual “turkey-gobbling noises” the back of the refrigerator was making while she shuffled through the Saturday mail. They had just enjoyed a light breakfast of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and whole wheat toast with Rosalie muscadine jelly. While Ross was entirely preoccupied with their bills—which he stubbornly refused to pay online because of a one-time computer glitch that had annoyed him to no end—she retrieved a greeting card-sized envelope from her stack and tore it open with great relish, giving out a light gasp.

  “Well, he’s at it again,” she said, flashing the card at Ross, as if he could actually make it out in such a short interval of time.

  “Who’s at what again?” he asked her, after she had returned it to the palm of her hand. She was always doing that to him—making him guess at the gist of things that flew out of her mouth.

  “King Kohl is having another of his bridge parties,” came the reply. “This will be the third one since he joined the Bridge Bunch a couple of years ago. Plenty of booze, and a big spread for those who don’t want to play half-buzzed, and a selection of Rosalie socialites to beat the band. Of course, he’s always the center of attention.”

  Ross frowned, bringing a blush to his Nordic coloring. “Of course he is. What else would you expect from the scion of the Kohl and Son real estate firm? Their FOR SALE and SOLD signs are planted all over town, and new ones seem to sprout every day on lawns just like crabgrass. To use an internet term, their business went viral a long time ago.”

  “An understatement. Sometimes I think they founded Rosalie and divvied up all the original tracts the Spanish laid out way back when. Of course he’s not a bad bridge player. Except he’s always got an eagle eye for the ladies he invites. The guest list always tilts that way, it seems.”

  “Just as long as he doesn’t try to hit on you,” Ross said. But his tone suggested she was not to take him seriously.

  “I can handle myself,” she told him, raising her right eyebrow.

  “I know you can. All of Rosalie knows you can. You’re the best investigative reporter and crime solver this town has ever had, all rolled into one.”

  Wendy feigned being taken aback with a sideways glance. “You know Daddy would disagree with you, sweetheart. There are plenty of officers being paid to catch criminals that I couldn’t hold a candle to. I’m strictly an amateur who can’t help but meddle.”

  Ross made a face after tearing open a bill and staring at the amount that greeted him. It seemed he had forgotten how to blink. “Hmmm. The utilities keep going up and up. It’s not like we’re abusing the thermostat. But whaddaya gonna do? Summer in the Deep South is an outdoor sauna. Anyhow, I agree that you are your daddy’s daughter. Bax Winchester is the best chief of police this town’s ever had, and I think we both know you got your crime-solving genes from him.”

  Wendy brightened considerably, tossing back her shoulder-length auburn curls. “Probably.”

  “No, definitely. First, you solve the murders of the Gin Girls, who were poisoned at their own bridge luncheon; then you help figure out the murder of that horrible Brent Ogle, who was clobbered in the hot tub out at the country club; then you come up with just the right angle for the murder of Aurelia Spangler, that psychic who rented Overview on the High Bluff. You’re about ready for another murder to solve, aren’t you? You don’t want your talents to run dry, do you?”

  Wendy shudd
ered. “Don’t even say something like that, Ross. I’d like to go a decent period of time without having my love for the game of bridge connected to someone’s untimely death. Of course, I have had my share that were unrelated.”

  “I was just kidding anyway.”

  “But these things have a way of happening to me,” she continued. “You and Daddy do your part in these investigations, but why do all these breakthroughs seem to fall into my lap?”

  Ross began writing a check for the utility bill and did not look up. “Because you are gifted, my girl. You have that puzzle-solving ability that few people have. You line things up in that beautiful brain of yours, and then something clicks. Voilà! The solution that nobody thought of. Or at least not the entire solution.” Ross finished with the check, put down his pen, and finally looked up. “So when is this bridge to-do that King Kohl has invited you to gonna take place?”

  “Next Saturday.” She paused, reviewing her newspaper schedule, remembering that her editor and now her father’s second wife, Lyndell Slover, had given her the day off again. The bond between the two women had only grown stronger over the past couple of years as stepmother and daughter, and Wendy was often granted special requests regarding time off. “Remind me. Do we have anything on the calendar from your end that I’ve forgotten about?”

  He glanced briefly at the ceiling as if it had the answer for him, narrowed his eyes, and told her that he didn’t think so.

  “The invitation doesn’t say and guest, of course. So I’d have to go it alone if I decided to go.”

  He snickered. “You can always decline.”

  “I . . . know that.”

  Ross cocked his head at the hesitation. “What’s wrong? What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A premonition, perhaps?”

  She pursed her lips and shifted her weight slightly, leaning against the back of her wicker chair. “I just don’t know. Something just went up my spine. I can’t explain it, and you know I hate it when I get that feeling.”

  Ross returned to his bills and left the matter hanging. “You could try to explain it if you really wanted to.”

  “I wonder what they could have been thinking?” Wendy said at last, posing the question more to their bright, yellow, redecorated kitchen with its bell-pepper–dotted curtains than to her husband.

  “I love your lack of segues, as usual. What who could have been thinking?”

  “King’s parents. Who saddles a child with a name like King Kohl? I’m sure he’s been teased all his life by that nursery rhyme. Can’t you just hear his classmates now? Endlessly chanting it at recess and in the cafeteria when he sits down with his tray.”

  Ross looked amused. “Ah, yes. And a merry old soul was he, right? It’s been a lifetime since I’ve thought of that nursery rhyme.”

  “Actually, he does always appear to be merry enough. He’s a very handsome man—tall, with that deliberate, dark scruff that’s so popular these days, and one of those jutting chins that looks like it’s made out of rock. He does have the first signs of a receding hairline, but he obviously doesn’t let it bother him. He’s always telling jokes, mostly aimed to charm the women around him. But I found him to be a bit much. He knows he’s good-looking, and there doesn’t seem to be a modest bone in his body. He’s always on, and that’s just not for me. You are, of course.”

  “By that, I’m assuming you don’t think I’m off?”

  “You’re neither on nor off. You’re very secure in your masculinity. You know exactly who you are, and you have nothing to prove.”

  “Thanks.” Ross frowned at another bill, shaking his head. “So, are you gonna accept the invitation to this little bridge to-do or not?”

  “I’ve been thinking that it might be fun just to see what he’s up to.”

  “Does he have to be up to something? Can’t he just be being himself?”

  Wendy sat up straight and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Yes, he could be, I suppose.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean anything by my question. Just making conversation.” After a pause, he continued. “So, are you going?”

  She picked up the invitation again and studied it closely. The font was flowery and fussy, the heavy stock a shade of lavender, and it was even scented—none of that particularly masculine, in effect—something a woman might have conjured up and sent. The thought continued to occur to Wendy that she should go because King might be up to something. His bridge parties at his brick townhouse on prestigious, crepe myrtle–lined Minor Street were quite festive to date. Something kept telling her that she should attend. She would accept the invitation from King Kohl—the merry young soul.

  “I’m going,” she told Ross at last.

  His smile was wry and brief. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  * * *

  Campbell King Kohl sat at his highly polished plantation desk in his den, lost in thought. The room was too full of period furniture—antique lamps and conservative window treatments that his mother had coordinated for him—to be called a man cave, but that was its purpose, nonetheless. In fact, the entire Federal-style townhouse, flush with the sidewalk, had been decorated by her since Jackson and Ethel Kohl had bought and restored it after the business had taken off some thirty years ago; and then they had conveniently turned it over to their son a few years back and retired to the slave quarters in the backyard. They weren’t giving up much in the way of comfort and style, since the two-story, brick outbuilding had been as lavishly furnished as the main house; they were perfectly happy with the downsizing, so to speak, now that they were entering their sixties.

  Kohl had been reviewing the guest list for his upcoming bridge gathering for some time now, although he knew it would turn out to be much more than that. For one thing, the list was far shorter than the ones for the other parties he had thrown. There had been three tables of players invited to those. But then, those had been genuinely devoted to bridge and lots of drinking and socializing, and everyone had left buzzed and anticipating another gathering down the road. That would not be the case this coming Saturday.

  Of course, he had to have his parents there as the star guests—Jackson and Ethel Kohl. They had brought him into the world and had always had such high expectations of him. His father, Jackson, had shown him every angle of the real estate business since his college graduation from Ole Miss five years ago—including some hacks about cutting corners that weren’t exactly by the book. Nonetheless, they worked and brought in more business, and that was the point. Kohl and Son was more than just a corporation. It was a generational gift.

  “I want you to start taking over more and more of the business, son,” Jackson had told him more than once. “I think maybe by the time you’re thirty, I’ll be ready to take a back seat and let you run most of the show. We’ve already given you the house. Why not give you the business, too? Besides, I’ve done most of the heavy lifting. Now it’s time for you to reap the rewards for the next generation.”

  King remembered the gleam in his father’s eye every time he dredged up that sentiment. He knew how much Jackson Kohl looked up to him. Literally. What a thrill it had been for his parents when King had sprouted up past six feet as a teenager. It was the summer between his sophomore and junior years in high school, and his appetite had exploded. He ate and drank everything in sight and had been especially fond of apple juice, beef jerky, and tuna fish sandwiches made with sweet pickle. He couldn’t get enough of them all. If he knew nothing else about his father, it was that the man hated his short stature—straining at 5’4” in his best shoes with lifts. And there was that time recently when Jackson had taken King aside and given him the unwelcome revelation of a lifetime, every bit as ponderous as any he had divulged over the years at St. Mary Basilica to Father LeBlanc or another priest on the other side of the confessional.

  “I never thought I’d tell anyone this, son,” he’d said. “But for some reason, I think now is the time to tell you . . . I’ve never
really loved your mother the way everyone thinks I have. Everyone has always thought of us as the perfect couple. In many ways, we are. But that’s not the whole story.”

  King had been unable to keep the shock out of his voice and his face. “You don’t mean that, do you, Pop? And if you do, why are you telling me now? I think I could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing this.”

  “I do mean it, and I had this frightening dream the other night that time was running out.”

  King looked horrified. “You’re basing this on a dream? About what?”

  “I don’t know. I had the sense that it was just a matter of time before things changed drastically,” he had begun, but the pause he had taken next was significant, uncomfortably so for King. “But I can tell you about the rest of it, apart from the dream, that is. I did like your mother well enough. I just never loved her. I had an ulterior motive in marrying her, and you must never tell her I told you this. In fact, you must never tell anyone. You must take this to your grave.”

  That last word found its way into King’s bloodstream, chilling it at once. “Why did you put it that way?”

  “What way?”

  “The mention of death. Are you trying to tell me that you’re dying? Or Mom’s dying?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just . . . a trite expression, that’s all.”

  Even so, King knew the upcoming explanation would not be good news. “That’s all quite a buildup. Will you please get whatever it is over with?”