Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Praise for Framed and Burning

  Publication Information

  Also by Lisa Brunette

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Next Book Excerpt

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  Praise for Framed and Burning

  “Lisa Brunette’s Framed and Burning is a brilliant, suspenseful whodunit in its own merit, full of twists and turns, pursued by a unique pair of private investigators—Cat and her grandmother Grace, in a character-as-well-as-plot-driven ride pulsating with the crisis not only in the murder investigation, but also in their own lives. What’s more, the introduction of the original practice of dreamslipping—their capability of ‘slipping’ into other people’s dreams—adds to another dimension of the novel. Far from making it semi-sci-fi or something like that, it fantastically blends the Freudian dream interpretation with the crime analysis in a new depth. The book, truly one of the kind, calls for attention of the readers devoted to the genre and in general.” — Qiu Xiaolong, Edgar Award-winning author of Shanghai Redemption, named one of The Wall Street Journal’s Best Books of 2015

  “Framed and Burning isn’t afraid to play with you and then terrify you. It’s a mystery with teeth and wounds and loss. Unforgettable, charming in the creation of the characters and world, serpentine and dark, Framed and Burning is a mystery not to be missed.” — Frances Carden, Readers Lane

  “This cozy mystery about a family of psychically gifted amateur sleuths possesses enough magic to keep you hooked from the first page until the last.” — BestThrillers.com

  “I’ve become a Lisa Brunette fan with this read.” — Sherrey Meyer, Puddletown Reviews

  “This is a fun book, much more fast-paced than a cozy, but without the gruesome and gory details of real crime mystery novels.” — Mystery Sequels

  “A savory mystery with a side of supernatural.” — Frankie Brazelton, Mudville Dames

  “Framed and Burning is the second book in the Dreamslippers series. It’s easy to follow and hard to put down, making readers who may not have read the first book race back to give it a try!” — InD’tale Magazine

  “Lisa Brunette continues to develop vibrant characters in a stunning story that will keep you reading well past your bedtime!” — On My Kindle

  “Deeply intriguing right from the start! I definitely have to get my hands on the first novel of the series!” — Book-o-Craze

  “I love a good, eccentric granny character, and Grace is in the top five granny characters I’ve encountered this year.” — Back Porchervations

  “All credit to the author for holding my interest over the busy festive season!” — Ali, the Dragon Slayer

  “It was interesting to see how the dreamslippers worked, as each one had a different method of invading and analyzing dreams. Framed and Burning is a book I recommend reading.” — Michelle Stanley, Writer Way

  “This book had me hooked right from the beginning! I love the characters!” — Pari’s Books

  “A great mystery with lots of potential killers and twists and turns.” — J. Bronder Book Reviews

  “Just when they thought the case was solved, there were more questions…” — Mel’s Shelves

  “I believe this is going to be a great series, and I can’t wait to go back to book one and learn more about Cat and Grace’s dreamslipping.” — Genuine Jenn

  All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for the use or misuse of any information contained in this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Framed and Burning

  by Lisa Brunette

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Lisa Brunette

  Cover Design: Monika Younger, www.youngerbookdesign.com

  Author Photograph: Allyson Photography

  Early Draft Copyediting: Christine M. Roman, Ph.D.

  Developmental Editing: Elisa Mader

  Line Editing: Jim Thomsen

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9862377-5-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Published by Sky Harbor Press, an imprint of Sky Harbor LLC

  P.O. Box 642

  Chehalis, WA 98532

  [email protected]

  Direct inquiries to the above address

  Author Web Site: www.catintheflock.com

  >>>Finalist for the Nancy Pearl Book Award<<<

  >>>Nominated for the RONE Award<<<

  Included in this edition of Framed and Burning:

  Book club discussion questions.

  The prologue for the next book in the Dreamslippers Series. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming editions.

  >>>Also by Lisa Brunette<<<

  The Dreamslippers Series

  Cat in the Flock

  Poetry

  Broom of Anger

  Short Stories

  Spy Boy

  Framed and Burning

  The Dreamslippers Series #2

  by Lisa Brunette

  Sky Harbor Press

  For Tino, and his son

  Prologue

  Brickell Lofts, Miami

  December 5, 2013

  10:37 p.m.

  Donnie Hines was passed out, drunk, in a corner of his studio when the flames made their way to the painting he’d just finished.

  It was a true work of art, and he knew it. Not just good, but great. He knew it even as the whiskey made his tongue thick in his mouth and his eyelids droop. A diabetic, he knew he had no business drinking that much. When he could no longer hold a paintbrush, he sat back in a metal folding chair and realized that he had finally done it. He’d captured, perfectly, the fractal shapes he’d been chasing his whole life.

  Ever since his father took him to the Cleveland Science Center when he was ten, he’d seen them in his imagination. That day a scientist showed the crowd how fractals could be found everywhere: in mountains and rivers and on seashells. The never-ending patterns that repeated themselves in an ongoing feedback loop were the most beautiful things Donnie had ever seen. For the past thirty years, he’d been trying to capture them on canvas.

  And in the end, all he needed for inspiration was a bowl of broccoli.

  Not just any ordin
ary broccoli, either. This was special. “Romanesco broccoli,” the woman at the market stall called it. Lime green, with florets spiraling into fractal shapes. He bought a bag of it, had it sitting in a bowl on an old Formica table. Mick, whose studio Donnie shared, kept threatening to cook it up for lunch. But he agreed it was special. “Froccoli,” Mick called it.

  Donnie had worked feverishly that night as a way to tamp down the loss he felt after the worst conversation of his life. Working always helped, always freed him from feelings he couldn’t sort through. But in the end, his masterpiece at last finished, the drinking won out. A bottle of whiskey, three-quarters empty, sat on the floor by the cot where he slept.

  Donnie hadn’t even signed the painting.

  But it didn’t matter. The fire that raged through the studio that night, devouring his masterpiece, knew no names and took no prisoners. The paint was still wet when it went up in a shimmer of orange, igniting the wooden two-by-four easel behind it.

  Mick’s paintings caught fire next. An angry slash of black on a field of red curled easily into charred shreds. A thick decoupage of mixed media first melted, its bits of metal and rock sliding down before the canvas disappeared in flames. One painting after another—some finished, some not—went up in flames.

  The fire leapt to a stack of framed paintings leaning against the wall like oversized dominoes, first eating their stretched cloth and then attacking their hardier wooden frames. Bottles of turpentine, paint thinner, and oil paint fed the flames, as did the men’s bottles of whiskey, wine, and gin, all of them exploding, their glass shattering.

  Donnie did not stir.

  Perhaps he was already dead.

  Or maybe he dreamed in his sleep as the fire raged, smoke pouring in behind the curtain surrounding his cot, enveloping his passed-out form and invading his lungs. Those who knew him would expect him to dream of the fractals that were his singular obsession, how they would keep repeating into infinity, so small his eye wouldn’t be able to see them.

  First his skin fried. The flames licked across the surface of his body, the top layer quickly peeling off. Then the fire attacked the thicker layer underneath, causing it to shrink and split. As it split, Donnie’s own body fat leaked out, feeding the fire as another kind of fuel.

  Maybe in his dream, he was eating the broccoli. Maybe since the florets were made of the energy of fractals, they kept repeating inside him. He could feel them spiraling through his gut. Soon he could only watch as they emerged from his belly, bursting out of the core of his body, rippling in space, turning him inside out. He was a vibrating, swirling entity of math and matter. His body dissolved.

  But as Donnie died, maybe he still existed in a larger way, his spirit flowing as part of the energy that is everything in the universe at once, the largest supernova and the smallest quark and everything in between.

  Maybe Donnie’s true masterpiece was this: He became a fractal, never ending.

  Chapter One

  Holding a sweaty gin and tonic in one hand, the napkin under the glass damp, Grace watched her granddaughter out of the corner of her eye.

  Cat had lost too much weight. The young woman’s cocktail dress seemed to hang on her. Her face lacked color, her spunk gone. It had been more than a year since Lee Stone, Cat’s childhood sweetheart, died. Grace thought the trip to Miami for Art Basel would knock her out of the Seattle doldrums. But surrounded by vibrant art and tropical sights, sounds, and smells, Cat remained sullen, uncommunicative.

  It was all Grace could do to get Cat to attend the party tonight. Her granddaughter had wanted to stay in the hotel, reading statutes and case law.

  “You’re worried about her, I can see,” said a voice at Grace’s elbow.

  She turned to find Ernesto Ruíz, an old Miami flame of hers she’d bumped into a few days ago. He’d been hovering around her ever since, trying to get her alone for a bit of the nostalgic, trade-wind-fueled romance they once enjoyed. At seventy-eight, Grace commanded as much attention from men as she had in her twenties. Even more, in fact. She was self-possessed, and she understood that this quality radiated from her, drawing men like Ernesto to her despite the wrinkles, the gray hair, the natural aging of her physique. A smart man like Ernesto knew he would find Grace a much more satisfying partner than any of the young, inexperienced, waifish artists in line for the bar.

  Ernesto cut a dashing figure, his hair perfectly trimmed, his fresh face giving off a musky aftershave scent. His impeccable suit appeared tailor-made. His shoes reflected the light of the crystal chandeliers as if they were a source of illumination themselves. Grace had to hand it to Miami men. No matter how hot the weather, they turned out as if every event were red-carpet.

  But she knew she was too distracted to take full advantage of Ernesto’s charms this time. Grace allowed his arm to nestle her waist, drawing her toward a nearby alcove. But Grace’s gaze returned over his shoulder to Cat, who was slumped against a balcony railing opposite them, a plump Miami full moon hanging overhead.

  “It is simple.” Ernesto’s speech was correct but inflected with Cuban rhythm. “She still thinks the shooting was her fault. That’s what we do. Blame ourselves for that which we cannot control.”

  The truth in Ernesto’s statement singed her. And Ernesto didn’t even know the half of it. He had no idea that Grace and her granddaughter were both dreamslippers, and that a good deal of Cat’s depression had to do with her gift. Dreamslipping was, in Grace’s estimation, a rare gift, something to cultivate and hone. But Cat regarded it as a curse and blamed it—and herself—for Lee’s death.

  Ernesto took her hand. “But she is young, my Grace.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “She will survive this. It will pass. In time.”

  “You’re right.” Grace shifted her gaze at last from Cat to Ernesto. “But it’s been a year. She needs to move on. And you know it’s never been my style to wait around for time to take care of things.”

  Ernesto laughed, revealing unnaturally white teeth. The band, which had been on a break, picked up again. “Care to dance?”

  She accepted his hand with a nod. The two slow-danced across the room, Ernesto a gentle but firm lead.

  A commotion at the entrance to the ballroom stopped them. A group of uniformed police appeared, a woman officer and two wingmen. “We’re looking for an artist,” she said, and the crowd chuckled at that.

  “Almost everyone in this room is an artist,” someone called out. “This is Art Basel. One of the biggest art shows in the world.”

  “The one we’re looking for is Mick Travers.”

  Grace felt alarm at the sound of her brother’s name. Where was Mick, anyway? She scanned the room but didn’t see him anywhere.

  Someone in the crowd near the door motioned toward Grace, and the police approached her. Grace caught Cat’s eye, and her granddaughter drifted over.

  The officer asked Grace, “You know where we can find Mick Travers? There’s been a fire at his studio.”

  The gin and tonic in Grace’s hand slipped to the floor, where it shattered, shards of glass prickling her exposed toes and ankles.

  “He-he’s supposed to be here,” she muttered, reaching out to Cat. She felt uncharacteristically wobbly in her heels, and it wasn’t just from the glass underfoot. “I’m his sister.”

  “What happened?” Cat directed her question to the police officer. And then, as if it had just dawned on her: “Was anyone hurt?”

  The look on the officer’s face caused Grace to fall further into Cat’s arms. “Oh, God…”

  “We need to talk to Mick Travers. If you two are his family, please tell us where to find him.”

  Cat pulled out her cell phone, and Grace watched as she tried to call Mick. He did not answer.

  The officer turned to her crew. “Ask around, find out if anyone’s seen him here tonight.”

  The wingmen broke formation. The officer stayed with Grace and Cat, introducing herself as Sergeant Alvarez. She asked them who they were and what they
were doing at the party.

  “The two of you are from out of town then.” She said this not as a question but as if noting its suspicious nature.

  “That’s correct, Sergeant Alvarez. We’re visiting from Seattle.”

  Alvarez shook her head. “Such a long way to come for an art show.” Grace bristled at the way she said it, as if the distance in itself suggested guilt.

  Fifteen minutes later one of the officers returned with Mick, whose eyes were watery. He swayed, obviously unable to stand straight. “We found him in the lounge downstairs, drinking. By the looks of him, he’s had more than a few.”

  “Wh-what happened? This guy says there was a fire.” Mick rubbed his chin. And then, as if it had just dawned on him: “Donnie.”

  “We need to speak to you in private.” Alvarez’s hands dropped to her belt, which supported a sidearm and nightstick.

  She led the way, with Mick following. “Is Donnie all right?”

  Alvarez took Mick by the elbow and steered him into a side room. Grace followed, and when Alvarez held up a hand as if to keep Grace out, she set her voice hard. “I’m Mick’s older sister. I should stay with him.”

  Mick looked surprised. “Oh, I’m okay by myself.”

  Grace shot her brother a reprimanding look, and he shifted gears. “Uh, yeah, Pris should be there. She’s a PI. She gets this police stuff.”

  Grace ignored Mick’s use of her birth name and spotted Cat. She slung an arm around her granddaughter. “This is my partner. And she’s Mick’s great-niece.”

  “A family of PIs,” said Alvarez. “That’s all we need.” Her voice softened. “This is a shock, I realize. So I suppose you can be present. But please, don’t interrupt. We need to talk to Mr. Travers now.”