Broken Heart Attack

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1March weather in Wharton County, Pennsylvania was as unpredictable as a cutting jeer from Nana D. Although bound to happen, the actual impact boasted an infinite range unlike any missile I'd ever seen launched. There might be a blizzard worthy of a Christmas snow globe furiously shaken by an over-eager child, or spring could test its feverish desire to burst through the frozen soil with an unparalleled zest for life. While thunder rolled above me in a murky gray sky, I read my nana's latest message for the third time, wondering if she realized the extent to which she could confuse people and make them want to cry—all in a single, random meandering text.

Nana D: Can't stand these old whiners. Save me. You better not be late. Did you get a haircut yet? I've seen more attractive farm animals than you lately. Sometimes I can't believe we're related. Made you a special dessert. Why didn't you talk me out of this stupid race? I'm proud of you for coming back home. What's an emoji again? I need to find us both dates. Do I swipe right or left if I'm interested in a man? Hurry. Hugs and kisses.

Since we enjoyed torturing one another in a loving yet competitive way, I ignored my grandmother's craziness, hoping it'd lead to a conniption fit in front of her friends. That wind-up Energizer bunny desperately needed a case of extra-strength Valium while I craved the warmer, drier weather as my drug of choice. Instead, I stared depressingly at an over-stuffed storm cloud threatening to torture us again. We'd already suffered through a nasty four-day bout of torrential rain that made everything feel like soggy bread. And in case it wasn't obvious, no one liked soggy bread. Truthfully, my entire week had felt like soggy bread mischievously sprinkled with a side of unrelenting and peculiar death.

Fresh off accepting a new job as a professor at Braxton and unravelling my first murder case, I was hopeful for some relaxation. Unfortunately, everything morphed into swiss cheese with holes the size of the Grand Canyon. No, I wasn't a police detective or private investigator. I got lucky solving the murder of two colleagues before our county's crabby sheriff finally nabbed the misguided culprit, yet that wasn't the most scandalous thing about my recent return home after a decade's absence.

When I told my in-laws that I was leaving Los Angeles and moving back to Pennsylvania, I learned through ordinary conversation that my supposedly dead wife, Francesca, wasn't really dead. Nearly two-and-a-half years ago, her family had led me to believe she'd perished in a car accident when a drunk driver plowed through a red light at a dangerous intersection. No longer true! 'Alive today, gone tomorrow. Hey, I'm back again. The afterlife wasn't too fun, so I changed my mind about dying. Just not for me!' Maybe things happened like that in the menacing world of my in-laws, The Castigliano Family, but definitely not in mine.

Francesca's parents had staged the car accident after someone tried to kill my wife as revenge for a multitude of mob faux pas. My in-laws sat at the helm of a ruthless LA crime syndicate, and somehow Francesca—who never told me anything about this aspect of her life while she was alive—had gotten caught up in their web of deception. The only way for them to protect Francesca and our young daughter, Emma, was to fake Francesca's death.

My emotions had been incredibly erratic and raw for the last five days since learning the truth. I couldn't tell anyone except my sister, Eleanor, who'd been present when Francesca showed up. And just as easily as my no-longer-dead-wife had materialized, she vanished again under the dark iron curtain that was the protection of her parents. Was there a handbook for dealing with a wife who'd come back from the grave? Had a cult performing some maddening initiation rite kidnapped and brainwashed me? Seriously, what did I do in the past to be saddled with the mother of all gut punches? Sadly, I had no answers, but as far as priorities went, my presence was imminently required elsewhere for a different kind of brutal torture.

I was driving to visit my almost seventy-five-year-old grandmother, Nana D—known to everyone else as Seraphina Danby—who'd declared her intent to run for Mayor of Wharton County in a surprise press conference earlier that week. Five-foot-tall, less than a hundred pounds wet—mostly from her wild, henna-rinsed red hair taking up half her height—and full of boat loads more sarcasm than me, Nana D was preparing for her first major campaign activity. I'd promised to organize all her old, whiny volunteers for the mayoral race, since none of them knew where to begin.

Although a proper tea would be served at Nana D's, I popped into The Big Beanery, Braxton's charming and crowded South Campus student café, and ordered an extra-strong, extra-tall, salted caramel mocha to go. I drooled at the pastry counter despite knowing Nana D had baked something delicious I'd undoubtedly consume everything like a pig from a trough. I scanned the room, searching for any of my students who might've been hanging out with their friends or reviewing class materials in study group, but I only saw one person I recognized who was not a student by any means.

Why was Dean Terry on campus on a quiet Saturday? While waiting for my overly complex coffee and assuming she sat by herself, I moseyed over to the table to brighten her day. That's the kinda guy I was. Although I was a mere three inches shy of a full six feet, my colleague tipped the other side of the scale and unwisely kept her hair extremely short. Built like a quarterback who'd recently eaten way too much salt, the dean had been using her thick, towering presence to intimidate students for twenty-five years at Braxton. Once you got beyond the surface, she was truly a pussycat.

After getting used to the idea of being colleagues, I refrained from calling her Dean Terry and addressed her by her first name. With a smile, I said, “Good afternoon, Fern. Don't you ever take a break?” She'd almost been awarded the coveted presidency of our well-regarded institution last week. The Board of Trustees had surprisingly gone with someone else and instead offered her a leading role on the committee that would convert Braxton from a college into a university over the next two years. She was disappointed, but once we reconnected and realized we could make a vast difference together, Fern quickly got on board with the decision.

“Kellan, so nice to see you. I'm meeting my son for brunch. He's stepped outside to fix an issue with the school's King Lear production.” Fern's tone had more verve than I was ready to handle at that time of day. Although I'd always known her academic and disciplinarian side, I'd recently connected with the dean on a more personal level, finding we had a lot in common. Between our mutual love of black-and-white films and traveling cross-country by train, we were destined to develop a stronger friendship. Where was that love when she'd raked me over the coals for something my frat had done while I was a student ten years ago?

As far as I recalled, Fern only had one son who'd graduated high school with me. Instead of going directly to college, he'd moved to New York City to become an actor before returning three years later to obtain his bachelor's degree. “How is Arthur? I haven't seen him in years.” I pushed away wavy, unruly dirty-blond hair from my three-day unshaven face. Nana D had astutely remarked I was overdue for a haircut, but since I hadn't been to a barber in Wharton County in a decade, I had no idea where to go. Eleanor had tried to convince me to let her trim it, but that would never happen. A steady grip with a pair of scissors and erring on the side of caution were not her strong points.

“Arthur's directing Braxton's play this semester. Unfortunately, it means he's working for a tyrant, but he's dealt with far worse on Broadway, I'm sure.” Fern shrugged, then offered me a seat. My mouth watered over the gooey cinnamon roll sitting on her plate inches away from my nimble fingers.

“No, I shouldn't. I have to be somewhere but thought I'd say hello.” I prepared to leave while Arthur returned from his phone call and stormed up to the table.

Hints of a ferocious dog came to mind when his alarming expression and cold, dark pupils centered on his unsuspecting mother. “That woman is a miserable old cow, Mom. I don't know how you cope working with her every day,” Arthur snarled. He was tall with round and puffy features like his mother but instead of a gray pixie-cut, thinning, sandy-colored hair was combed over in a failed attempt to hide what was inevitably going to happen relatively soon. Although he was thirty-two like me, early crow's feet and cavernous lines had already dominated his face. “Oh, wait… Kellan Ayrwick, is that you?”

I nodded. “I can only imagine you're speaking about my wonderful boss, Myriam Castle. I'd appreciate any tips you might have for dealing with that venomous barracuda!” It'd spilled from my lips before I could stop my verbal diarrhea. Myriam was one of my least favorite people. Ever. I'd barely known her for three weeks, but every interaction left me bristled and inflicted with a rash the size of Texas. Between her nasty, chirpy tone and inciting way of quoting Shakespeare, it often felt like a nails-on-chalkboard episode of Twilight Zone or a sinister case of Candid Camera. I waited for someone wearing a demon mask to jump out and yell surprise, but sadly, it never happened. I would've popped that charlatan right in the schnoz for messing with me.

“If only.” Arthur sat forcefully on the chair, wiping wet hands across his jeans. He'd regrettably gotten caught in the deluge without an umbrella. “Run. That's all I can say when it comes to that—”

“Now, Arthur. We all know she can be difficult, but let's not say something you'll regret.” Fern patted her son's forearm. “Remember, this is your opportunity to get into directing and away from acting. Isn't that what you said you wanted?” Fern fretted like a mother hen trying to calm her little chick. I'd rarely seen this side of her, but she handled her son with aplomb and tact.

“I know, Mom. Myriam's squashed the entire opening scene we'd been rehearsing for days. Now I have to reblock the stage before tomorrow's dress rehearsal.” He grunted and took an aggressive bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich. His canine teeth resembled a ravenous vampire's fangs.

Arthur answered an incoming call from someone named Dana on his cell phone. Since he and Fern were busy and my coffee grew colder on the counter, I excused myself to leave. I pretended not to hear Fern gasp when Arthur told Dana he also wanted to kill some woman for what she'd said at the previous night's rehearsal. I felt bad for Arthur, who'd have to work with the corrosive woman, or she'd make his life miserable.

When Myriam had become the new chairperson of our department, I suddenly took direction from her since I was teaching a full course load on broadcasting writing, television production, and history of film. We'd held our first supervisory meeting this week where she'd made things exorbitantly clear—once my father officially retired as the president of Braxton College in the coming days, I no longer had anyone to protect me. I might've been granted a one-year contract, but Myriam articulately clarified the new president—her wife, Ursula Power—could override it.

I grabbed my coffee and took off for Nana D's. She owned and operated Danby Landing, an organic orchard and farm in the southernmost section of Wharton County. At one point in the county's history, it had the largest acreage of any homestead, but Nana D had sold off a sizeable chunk after my grandpop passed away. As I turned onto the dirt path leading to her farmhouse, I quarantined thoughts of my back-from-the-dead wife and loony boss and focused on the next irrational mess I had to deal with.