A Fortune to Die For (White Oak - Mafia Series Book 1)

Book 1 of the White Oak-Mafia Series

A Fortune to Die For

by

Liza O’Connor

Megan Clarke had a good life until she wins the Mega Times Lottery and discovers the prize comes with a curse. Worse than the many money-hungry suitors, a serial killer has her in his sight. She changes her name and moves to Iowa with plans to buy their last major forest of white oaks and turn it into a State Park. Unfortunately, the Lottery Curse doesn't stop at state lines and someone there wants her dead, as well. Good thing a disturbingly handsome law officer is just as determined to keep her alive.

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We are much nicer.

All characters in this book come from the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, titles or professions. They are not based on or inspired by any known individual and any resemblance to a person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Long ago when colonists of the New World got their first printing press, it was evidently a piece of crap. To make the wooden blocks fit better, the operator of the printing press decided all fragile punctuation (periods and commas) would remain within the tall dialogue tags for ease of printing. And thus began the U.S. illogical punctuation rule. Convenience ruled over logic. I understand.

 What I don't understand is why, in the digital world, we cling to this archaic illogical rule instead of returning to the logical British rule that decides the location of dialogue tags by where it logically resides.

 I'm happy to say, some U.S. e-publishers are returning to the British rule of logic in this matter, and so shall I. Here forth, logical dialogue punctuation will be willfully and purposefully used in my novels. It's not a mistake or ignorance on my part. It's a rebellion against illogical rules of the past. I encourage all authors and publishers to overthrow silly habits of the past.

Megan Clarke set the package on her kitchen counter with great care. “It’s probably nothing,” she chided herself. Opening a letter that came in the same mail delivery, she changed her mind as she read another threat to kill her. She hurried to the phone and hit her speed dial for the local cops. Her hands shook despite her mental self-assurances that everything was okay.

A female voice answered the phone. “Danville Police.”

Recognizing Margaret’s voice, she replied, “Hi, this is Megan. Is Sergeant Adams around?”

“No, he’s on vacation. You get another death threat?”

“Yeah, but there’s also a package. I know it’s stupid, but I’m afraid to open it.”

A heavy sigh sounded over the phone. “I swear, all your troubles since you won the lottery has made me afraid to even play scratch-offs. Hold on.”

Megan pushed her blond hair behind her ears. The craziest part about her winning the Mega Times Lottery was she
never
played games of chanc
e—
thought it a great waste of money. She had already become a millionaire by her own efforts. Why did she want to be richer? She had more than enough.

Then one day, while in a New York shop buying lunch, her friend, Terry, a bona fide lottery junkie, had insisted she buy a ticket. “It only cost a dollar. Stop being a miser!” Not wishing to argue, she passed the clerk a dollar. “Just give me a random number,” she instructed the fellow, then frowned as her friend filled out ten cards. “You do realize if I win, you have to take the money,” Megan warned.

Terry stared at her with rounded eyes. “No way! You can’t give away your good luck. If you win it, you have to keep it. Otherwise, you and the recipient will have bad luck the rest of your lives.”

Megan sighed. So when the stupid ticket turned out to be the only winning number for a $987-million-dollar pot, all the bad luck stayed with her alone. Honestly, she wouldn’t wish her “new” life on a dog, nevertheless her best friend.

Since she was a financial expert, she took the $463 million upfront and invested half of it, planning to donate the other half to charities. Only problem was, whenever she delved into various charities, she didn’t like the way they used their money, so thus far, she’d only managed to give away a few million.

“Miss Clarke, I’m Detective Steve Williams,” a pleasant voice came over the phone. “How may I help you?”

“I received a package today. It has a name and address I don’t recognize.”

Complete silence answered her.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m just a little confused. Marge said you had a letter threatening your life.”

“Yes. I have one of those, too. It doesn’t have a return address. Nor is it signed. But the letter and the package came in the same post.”

“So you think the package may be from the sender of the death threat?”

“This one or one of the hundred other angry letters I’ve received.”

“Mind if I stop by and take a look?”

Mind?
Why did he think she was calling? If only Sergeant Adams were there. “I’d greatly appreciate it.”

After setting down the phone, she walked to the dining room bay window, watching for Detective Williams to arrive. He would probably want to see all the death threats she’d received since winning the lottery.

Megan hurried to her office and pulled out the cardboard box beneath her daybed. Damn thing was almost full. Two feet of hate. What the hell was wrong with people? If only every one of these assholes could win a lottery and have
their
lives ruined.

Her life had been successful and happy before the Mega disaster. She’d had a job she loved, friends, and money enough to buy whatever she needed. And like most people, she had thought the general population was good and kind.

Everything good in her life had disappeared the moment her name was published as the Mega Times Millionaire.

The letters requesting and demanding money came first. When those went unanswered, the death threats began. Then her friends at work turned against her, and her job became impossible. With pressure from her boss, she resigned. Losing her personal friends was slower, but they gradually pulled away from her, saying she’d changed.

Hell, who wouldn’t change when you discover the world is full of con artists and psychos? And who wouldn’t turn hard when every single charity you investigated turned out to be more concerned about their executive salaries and benefits than their recipients?

Now she understood why Bill Gates struggled to find places where he could make a difference. Sticky fingers and duplicity riddled the field.

A chime sounded, letting her know someone had driven up her driveway. She set the box of death threats on the kitchen counter and hurried through two steel doors before arriving at the side entrance. Punching in the code to her alarm panel, she opened her first line of defense and stared at a tall, dark-haired, muscular policeman waiting on the other side of the bulletproof glass.

His blue eyes and square jaw seemed more appropriate for a TV cop than a real one.

She spoke through the voice unit beside the door. “May I see your identification?”

Her request caused a faint smile to reach his lips as he pulled out a plastic case and pressed it against the glass so she could compare his handsome picture to his gorgeous face.

She opened the door. The moment he was in, she closed and reinstated the alarm. Then she led him through her safe room. When they reached the kitchen, she pointed to the slender package. “This is what worries me.”

He reached for the letter beside the package and read it. “Well, I can see why this would panic you.”

“The letter isn’t my concern. I get those almost every day.” She pointed to the box. “This is new.” When he remained focused on her container of past death threats, she explained, “Sergeant Adams told me to keep them. Pretty soon I’ll have to start a new box.”

No hint of a smile now. Detective Williams lifted the first letter in the stack, read it, lifted the second, and did the same.

Megan realized it was going to be a while before he’d refocus on the package. “Can I get you something to drink? Green Tea with lemon grass?” He looked health conscious. Actually, he reminded her of a movie star with a crew cut.

“Sounds good.” He grinned, then glanced around. “Any place I can sit and read these?”

“Seriously? There’s got to be over two hundred letters in there.”

“I know. Which is why I’d prefer to do this sitting down.”

“Okay, but if this package blows up on a timer, I’m going to be grumpy when I reach the afterlife.”

He chuckled at her warning, set down the letter he was reading, and picked up the package. “If I open this in the next room, will you be safe from blasts?”

“The room is steel-lined, so I think so. But wouldn’t you rather have some sort of robot handle the matter?”

His adorable grin returned. “Oddly, we don’t have one of those.”

“I could buy you one… You could just take the package somewhere safe and leave it unopened until the robot arrives. I have no problem donating the money to get you guys a bomb robot, given this probably won’t be the last time I need one.”

He studied her a long moment before replying. “You know how I got to be a detective so early in life?”

She almost replied that good-looking people lived a charmed life and received promotions more often than less attractive people, but realized he wouldn’t appreciate her observation. So she behaved and answered, “No.”

“I’ve very good instincts. For example, before you replied, you were thinking something…something I wouldn’t like, so you wisely kept it to yourself.”

Her face burned. Busted! “And your instincts tell you the package is safe?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then take it in the other room and open it.”

Despite his confidence in his instincts, Megan remained on pins and needles for the excruciatingly long half-hour that crawled by as she waited for Detective Williams to return.

Or blow up.

Finally, she could stand it no more and opened the door. Peeking inside, she huffed at the sight of him sitting on the couch staring at pictures.

She stepped forward but stopped before getting close enough to see what was in the stack of photos. “Is it body parts?” One of her threat letters had said they’d send her body parts of dead lottery winners if she didn’t send them twenty million.

He smiled at her. “No. They are pictures of trees and creeks. There’s a letter as well.”

“Is it saying there are body parts in the woods?”

He set the pictures down. “Why don’t you read the non-threatening letter? And I’ll go retrieve the threatening letters and read those.”

“It’s going to take you forever.”

He tilted his head. “Hours. Is your offer of green tea still good?”

“Of course. Would you like some turkey chili with it? It’s healthy.”

He rose and smiled. “Green tea will do.”

After returning to the kitchen, she poured two green teas while he snared the box of hate. “Sorry I called you out for nothing.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at the collection of angry correspondence in his arms. “This isn’t nothing. Is Sergeant Adams aware of how many death threats you’ve received?”

She grimaced. “He just told me to keep them. He never asked for a count. But he probably didn’t realize there was a whole box full. The last time he came, I only had a half dozen or so. I guess all those letters begging for money I don’t answer are pissing people off.”

He headed back to the steel-enclosed safety room she had added to her house, and she followed behind with their drinks. She placed his on the coffee table, grabbed up her non-threatening letter, and settled in her recliner.

“Why don’t you hire someone to handle your mail?” the detective asked.

“I had someone, but they quit a few months ago. They said they couldn’t deal with so much ugliness.”

His forehead wrinkled again as he focused on one of the letters. “Mind if I sort these?”

“You may do anything but read them aloud. Once was enough for me.” She then focused on the letter he had labeled non-threatening.

Dear Miss Clarke.

I recently read an article about you in Hiker’s Guide that claimed you are an avid supporter in the protection of forests in New Jersey. I strongly feel the same need to preserve forests for our future generations. I am attaching pictures of my 200,000 acres of woodland close to St. Donatus, Iowa. I am hoping you can help me protect these woods from developers. I’m an old woman and my time is coming to an end. Attached are directions to my house. If you are willing to save these woods, I’ll sell the land to you at below market value. But do it soon, or it’ll be too late. My relatives are impatiently waiting for me to die so they can sell it to developers.

Helen Campbell.

What would she do with land in Iowa?
Tossing the letter in the bamboo trash basket, she picked up the pictures. God, who knew a real forest still existed in Iowa? Hadn’t the state cut down its trees two hundred years ago to make cultivated farmland? Evidently not here. This land was gorgeous!

Extracting the letter from the trash, along with the directions to Helen’s home, Megan placed it on the coffee table. Noticing the detective’s glass was empty, she rose to get him a refill. “Sure you wouldn’t like lunch?”

He grimaced. “I am going to be here for a few more hours, so if you don’t mind…”

“I’ll bring you lunch.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” He smiled at her warmly.

There had been a time when she would have believed such an inviting smile meant he was interested in her. However, since she became Miss Mega Times Millionaire, the probabilities were extremely high his interest was in her money.

Every single Mr. Wonderful she’d met, dated, and fallen in love with had been desperate to marry her until she mentioned the word “prenup”.

Discussing her prenup on first dates scared off a few, but most were confident once she fell in love with them, they could change her mind. When she held firm, they’d disappear, most without even saying goodbye.

At this point, she’d given up on finding love. Dating had been hard enough when she was a secret millionaire of her own making. Once she won the damn lottery four years ago, the chances of finding real love dropped to zero. Her thoughts returned to the fellow sorting death threats in her safe room. What would a drop-dead gorgeous cop want with her anyway? Overly tall, thirty-something women who wore no makeup and didn’t have a dress to their name weren’t what men fantasized about.

Now, thoroughly depressed, she hurried to the kitchen to heat up the chili she’d made yesterday. Her thoughts had returned to the futility of love when she stepped back and pressed into a warm body.

“That looks…” Steve fell silent, evidently suffering a loss of words to describe her chili.

Laughter erupted from her chest. The cold meal did look pretty horrible. “Once heated, it will look and taste better.”