Wrong Turn

by Mary Mantle

  Wrong Turn

  A Tatiana Johnson Mystery

  Mary Mantle

  Copyright © 2020 by Mary Mantle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Life of Substitute

  2. Piano Lesson

  3. Dinner and Hannah

  4. The Adventure Begins

  5. Jose the Car Expert

  6. Cedar Cove Real Estate

  7. Home Life

  8. Scott Carter, PI

  9. Cedar Cove Heights Adventure

  10. Crash

  11. Visit Luda

  12. Second Visit to Jose

  13. Sally Hollister

  14. What happened to Hannah

  15. Scott Carter Follow-Up

  16. Cop Cars and Faith

  17. Cove Mental Health

  18. Visit Chief Smith

  19. Confronting Sally

  20. Dinner with Tanner

  21. Library

  22. Confronting the Killer

  23. Destroyed Footage

  24. Out to Glenda's house

  25. Glenda’s Hostage

  26. Final Battle

  27. Back Home

  Prologue

  A red Mercedes convertible sped down the windy road south of Cedar Cove, Oregon. The road was carved into the side of a mountain, overlooking a jagged, rocky coastline. Gary Hollister, a good looking 60-year-old guy, had the top down, the wind blowing through his hair.

  Life was good.

  Gary was on the verge of closing his largest real estate deal yet. A large chunk of land that he owned was about to be sold to the tune of 5 million dollars. A 100-acre parcel was on the chopping blocks, and ChemCorp was buying it to put a factory on it.

  Most people in town didn't want the factory, but Gary never let those things bother him. Being a real estate mogul meant that he had to make some enemies on the way to the top. Eat or be eaten was a motto that was etched in Gary's mind at an early age by his father.

  He hugged the corners, and the car veered left and right with the turns of the road. He accelerated on a straight stretch and came to a big left turn, and when he pumped his brakes, nothing happened. A sense of panic tightened every muscle in his body.

  He kept pumping, but the car wouldn't slow. The emergency brake was his last hope, and he pulled it, nothing. The road turned left, but Gary, unable to slow or turn the car, went straight.

  1

  Life of Substitute

  My ringtone blared, ripping me from a peaceful sleep. I fumbled around the nightstand for my phone. With one eye still closed, I said, "Hello."

  "Hi Tatiana, this is Glenda Gunning, the secretary at Cedar Cove Elementary. I was wondering, can you come in for Mr. Bryant's 4th-grade class? He just called in sick."

  I was groggy, but I said, "Sure."

  Life as a substitute meant that sometimes I had the jobs prearranged, and other times I got woken up by either a secretary or the automatic calling service from the district. The job lent itself to craziness and the unexpected.

  I looked at the clock, and it was almost 7:30 am, so I didn't have much time for my morning routine. Barsik, our tabby cat, went back to sleep after the phone call. He liked to have the house to himself during the day and would be glad that I got called into work.

  Comfortable under my white down comforter, my body felt glued to the bed. Getting up has never been my strong suit. I glanced out our bedroom window and saw the hillside full of tall Northwest pine trees. The room was cold; the window was cracked open. Nothing better than fresh air in the morning. Finally, I was able to drag myself out of bed and head to the bathroom.

  In the shower, the warm water hit my skin, and I realized I made a mistake. One advantage of being a substitute is that I can pick and choose which jobs I take. The demand for subs outweighs the supply. In general, I try to avoid elementary schools or classes of teachers I don't like to sub for, like the black plague.

  Mr. Bryant's 4th-grade class was on my do not sub list. Why? In grade school, you are stuck with the same class all day long outside of lunch, library trips, or PE class. In that setting, if you have a class that is rebellious or has a few too many trouble makers, there isn't enough Advil to make that pain go away.

  As I got ready, time went by in a flash. I wore a long green dress and a nice sweater. For breakfast, like always, I ate oatmeal that soaked overnight with blueberries. The smell of Colombian coffee filled the room as a pot brewed. Good Colombian coffee, not the type you get in the store, but the kind that your friend that lives in Colombia brings when they visit, and you treat each bag of coffee beans like gold.

  Running late, I grabbed my phone and coffee and walked to the garage. I hopped in my white Honda Accord, opened the garage door, and headed for the elementary school.

  In Russia, we didn't have substitute teachers, so I never dreamt that I would be working as one in the United States. I never imagined I would live in Cedar Cove, Oregon. I never heard of the place before I met my husband, Tanner. Now I call the coastal town of about 40,000 people home.

  I arrived at school 30 minutes later than I would on a typical day. The elementary school, built in the '50s, had recently been painted a light blue, but it was like putting lipstick on a pig. The building didn't age well, and it sagged here, or the foundation cracked there. It was coming to the end of its life cycle.

  There was a parking spot in the visitor section, and I parked my car. I gulped the coffee, and it was a welcomed taste. I walked up the sidewalk to the main entrance. Once inside, I came to the reception area and saw Glenda Gunning, a 70-year-old firecracker who won't retire. She is feisty and loves the job.

  I nodded at her as she whistled a cheery tune.

  "Good morning, Glenda."

  Glenda looked up from her paperwork and gave me a big friendly smile.

  "Tatiana, thank you for coming in, you saved the day."

  I rushed down the hallway to the 4th-grade classroom. I opened the door and walked in and found the vice principal, Bruce Thorpe, taking attendance. He was in his early 60s with a full head of silver hair and a mustache that looked like a gray caterpillar. Mr. Thorpe always wears dress slacks that are too short, like he is waiting for a flood.

  "Tatiana, thank you for coming," Mr. Thorpe said.

  "You are welcome," I said as I set my coffee cup and purse down on the teacher's desk. "I can finish taking attendance."

  Mr. Thorpe nodded and left the room.

  "All right, class, I am Ms. Johnson."

  After taking attendance, I grabbed a stack of worksheets and passed them out to the students. It was a simple writing assignment. I went back to the desk and sat down. The rumble of pencils on paper was as calming as waves crashing. I was enjoying my coffee until Billy stopped doing his worksheet. Billy, a freckled redhead kid, snickered with his friend.

  I sprang up like a cat pouncing on a bird and said, "Excuse me, the other students are working."

  Billy went quiet, but it didn't last long. I wasn't even back to my desk when I heard his voice. It wasn't even a whisper, which I would have probably let go. I spun around and stared at Billy. He smiled, challenging me. Billy crinkled up the worksheet and threw it at a student in the front row. It hit the unsuspecting girl in the back of the head. Shocked, she snapped her head back. Billy laughed; I marched down the aisle to his seat.

  "Well, Billy, you are going to the office," I said.

  A lot of kids don't respect the substitute teacher, and it took
me a while, but I realized you have to get the trouble makers out of the classroom. Otherwise, the other kids feed off that energy, and it turns into a real nightmare.

  I used the phone on the teacher's desk to call the office.

  "Main office," Glenda answered.

  "Hi, this is Tatiana Johnson. I have a student, Billy, who I am sending down to the office."

  "What for?"

  "He is disrupting the class and won't listen."

  "Okay, send him down."

  I hung up the phone and looked at Billy.

  "Okay, Billy, I am sending you down to the office."

  Billy grabbed his backpack and glared at me as he walked out.

  With Billy gone, things went back to being quiet. At that moment, I realized it was a decent way to make a living.

  With a few spare minutes, I looked at my phone. My friend Hannah texted me. She wanted me to call her and said it was an emergency. Everything in her life was an emergency. She was the type of person that, a mile into a road trip, would wonder if she left her iron on. You couldn't find a more thoughtful, sweet girl in town; she was just crazy.

  I walked around, looking at the student's work, and answering questions they had.

  All of the students finished their work, and the teacher had nothing left to do for the writing time, so instead of having them talk, I had them ask me questions about what life is like in Russia.

  A little Mexican boy named Juan asked, "Do you guys have Mexican food in Russia?"

  I laughed and said, "It isn't common. Big cities have a few restaurants, but small towns don't. In the village I grew up in, no, nothing like that."

  A blonde girl raised her hand and asked, "Was the transition from the Soviet Union to the Russian Federation difficult?"

  Shocked, I almost couldn't answer. A high school kid might ask a question like that, but not a 4th grader. I made a note of the girl; it was the smartest question I ever heard from a 4th grader.

  I said, "Yes, it was a difficult time. In the Soviet Union, everyone had jobs, and there was stability. In the '90s, people didn't have much money but did have enough to eat but not much extra. Also, my mother, as a teacher, didn't get a salary for half of the year. Sometimes friends and I would get a Snickers bar, and we would cut one bar into six pieces and share it. My mom cooked soup. So much soup that I got sick of it, and I would pour soup down the toilet sometimes, so my mom would think that I ate it."

  The kids laughed.

  After writing time, we had math and reading assignments. At 11 o'clock, I saw 27 hungry faces staring back at me; it was lunchtime. I wrangled the students up like cattle, and we walked together down to the cafeteria.

  With the students eating lunch, I stopped at the staff lounge on the way back to the classroom. It was an old room that had an ancient, green tile asbestos floor. The counter had a scary-looking microwave, maybe the first one ever made. Next to it, a tired, sad coffee pot.

  The room had several tables with cheap wooden Ikea chairs around them. Several teachers sat and talked about students in between bites of food. I didn't care to talk about or hear others talk about students, so I limited my time in the staff lounge. On a bulletin board, there was an anti-ChemCorp poster.

  I made my way to the coffee pot seeing if it had one more cup in it.

  At that moment, Glenda Gunning came in with a face that looked like something terrible just happened.

  "Hey, everyone. Gary Hollister was found dead on the rocks south of town. His car made a wrong turn and drove off the cliff. They aren't sure why," Glenda said with the satisfaction that one could only receive from being the first to break the news to someone.

  On the way out of the room, she ripped down the anti-ChemCorp poster.

  The teachers and staff rumbled in the discussion. I couldn't tell who said what because the room became loud, but it sounded like most people didn't like Gary Hollister.

  I never knew the man, but I was aware he was a local real estate tycoon that made some enemies on his way to the top. One teacher said, "He got what was coming to him. Trying to ruin this town with that chemical factory."

  Many people in town opposed the project, but others felt it would bring much-needed jobs to the area. I filled up my coffee and decided it was time to leave the staff lounge.

  I walked back to the classroom, and with the students still at lunch, I decided to humor Hannah and give her a quick call. Before I could, a little black-haired boy walked into the room.

  "Can I help you? Shouldn't you be in the cafeteria eating lunch?" I asked.

  The boy looked at the ground.

  "I don't have lunch today."

  He walked to a chair to sit down. His little sad, hungry face made me want to cry. An idea flashed into my head; I opened my purse and found a ten-dollar bill. Since I didn't work at the elementary school very often, I didn't remember the boy's name from the morning attendance. I'd never seen him before that day; his family could have recently moved to town.

  "Sorry, I don't work at the elementary school very often, what is your name?"

  He looked up.

  "Zyler."

  "Okay, Zyler. Here is ten dollars. I will buy you lunch, and if there is money left over, you can keep it."

  In an instant, Zyler went from sad to happy. His smile was so big I was afraid it might break his face.

  He ran over and grabbed the money.

  "Thank you."

  Once he was gone, I called Hannah.

  She picked up the phone on the first ring and said, "Oh my gosh, Tatiana. Did you hear about Gary Hollister?"

  "I heard."

  "Gary's wife took out a huge policy on him last week. I wrote the policy up. Hey, don't you do piano lessons with Faith's daughter?"

  "Yeah, I have a lesson with her daughter, Katie. Why?"

  "Well, she works down as a dispatcher at the police station, maybe it was a suicide. Just see what you can find out. Oh, gosh, I don't want to lose my job."

  "Hannah, calm down. Why would you lose your job? You work at an insurance company, that is what happens. People die, and then the company has to pay. From what I've heard, most people in town didn't even like the guy."

  "I know, but that policy was my first policy, and it has a big payout. It is a 5 million dollar policy."

  "Well, I guess I can ask, but what would it take for the insurance company not to payout."

  "If he had a medical condition that he didn't disclose or it was a suicide."

  "Are you saying that he drove the car off the cliff on purpose?"

  "Tatiana, I don't know what I'm saying. Please try to find out what they know down at the station."

  "I don't know. I'm not sure I feel comfortable doing it."

  "Pretty please. I will make that homemade salsa that you like."

  I paused, my mouth watered, thinking about her salsa and said, "Okay. I don't like this, but I'll try."

  Hannah hung up before I had a chance to say goodbye. I pictured her at the office, running around like a cat trapped in a cardboard box. She perked my curiosity, and I thought, maybe it wasn't an accident.

  Four days a week after school at 4 pm, I teach piano lessons, and on some weekends, I play piano at retirement homes. It made my parents happy to see that I used my piano skills since the family had to scrape the money together for the eight years of music school. That day my student was Faith's daughter, Katie.

  I had most of the day left to figure out how I would ask Faith about the accident. It needed to be a way that didn't feel like an interrogation. If I could frame the conversation, so she felt like she brought things up, or it was so subtle that she wouldn't notice, that'd be ideal.

  The rest of the day, I taught classes, and the day went smoothly. It was like I was in a canoe going down the river with the current. In the back of my mind, my brain worked on the different questions I might ask. I knew I only had a few questions, so I had to be careful, and I didn't want to mess it up for Hannah, even though the information might not
be helpful.

  2

  Piano Lesson

  I approached our one-story, light gray house, and pulled the car into the garage. I closed the garage door, headed into the house, and heard something banging against the wall. It was in the dining room. I walked down the hallway and saw our cat Barsik; he meowed and looked guilty. I sat my purse down on the coffee table. What was making the noise?

  On the other side of the oak kitchen table, our Roomba robot vacuum was banging against the wall. I grabbed it and noticed there was poop all over it. Disgusting. After opening the sliding glass door, I threw it outside, and it smashed onto the ground. I yelled at Barsik in Russian. He had been trained to go to the bathroom in the toilet, but in his old age, once in a while, he can't control himself, and he relieves himself randomly around the house.

  It went unnoticed as I walked in, but there was poop all over our hardwood floors in our great room and down the hall. The stupid vacuum was supposed to make my job easier, not to spread cat poop all over the house. Faith and her daughter Katie would be over soon; I had to clean the floor.

  I dreaded asking Faith about the accident; it felt like a rat was trying to get out of my stomach. The floor wasn't going to clean itself, so I opened the pantry door and grabbed a mop and bucket. After filling the bucket with water, I went to work. The distraction was nice. After about 15 minutes, I got it all, which felt good.

  I glanced at the piano, a 1924 Bush and Lane standup that I got for free off Craigslist. When I had it tuned, the man told me that the keys were ivory.