by Mary Bowers
Table of Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
To all my old high school buddies. Happy 50th. Please don’t try to figure out which character represents which classmate – they’re all figments of my imagination. Really. Go Minutemen!
As always, special thanks to cousin Kiki.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Deadly Reunion
Copyright © 2016 by Moebooks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author.
Cover designed by Revelle Design, Inc. www.RevelleDesign.com
* * * * *
Chapter 1
I was up before dawn on that hot morning in August, and I made Michael get up too.
Oh, I was nice about it. I gave him a fresh cup of coffee and a kiss on the lips, but I was serious: he was getting up. He’d thank me later. In about half an hour, the sun was going to form up into a hot ball and start rolling up the sky until it was roasting straight down on our heads, and by that time I wanted to be sipping iced tea on the veranda, shooting the breeze and gazing over the river.
Orphans of the Storm, my animal shelter, wasn’t open for the day yet, of course, but we needed to get out and get things going in the kennel. Dogs can’t read clocks, but they always know what time it is, especially when it’s time to be fed. The kennel is in the estate’s old barn, across a wide swath of tough-looking grass from the mansion we rent from the old Cadbury family, and as Michael and I walked toward the barn, the occasional woof turned into a rousing chorus.
The dogs agreed that it was going to be a hot day. They could feel it already. The usual frisking around and barking was a little half-hearted. We have an inverter in the barn, so it’s not excessively hot, but we still have to fight the humidity, and no matter what kind of atmosphere we create on the inside, the dogs still have an instinct for what’s going on outside.
As I made the rounds, I paid special attention to the new German Shepherd mix that had just been brought in as a stray. As far as I could see he was about a year old, and since he was German, so to speak, I had named him Gunther.
Something was a little off with Gunther. He had a cough that I thought I recognized, and I got a sinking feeling every time I heard it. A local veterinarian was due for her regular visit later that day, and I wanted her to take a good look at him. He had the usual fleabites and other minor problems we see with strays, and we could deal with them, but I was afraid he also had heartworm. It wouldn’t be a death sentence, but it would make him harder to place. Very few potential adoptors were willing to start off with a pet that was going to rack up big vet bills right from the get-go.
I’ve always had a weakness for Shepherds, and Gunther was especially handsome, with lovely dark markings and a kind of sad and bewildered look. I told myself that those satin-brown eyes were going to sparkle one day. We’d find just the right human for him.
Just as Michael and I were leaving, I heard Gunther cough again, so I was distracted and worried as we walked out of the barn and the early sun came melting over us like warm syrup. I took a deep breath and tried to shake it off. No use obsessing now. We’d take good care of Gunther when we were sure what we were dealing with.
It had been sweaty work, and I was about to suggest to Michael that we throw ourselves into the swimming pool with all our clothes on when a cry suddenly came across the land like the blast of a Viking battle horn.
“TATERS!”
I stopped in my tracks and went brain dead. Decades fell away. Suddenly I was a gawky, slightly overweight teenager with a new zit on my forehead, mortified all the time because I was three inches taller than anybody else in my class, including the boys.
They were coming toward us by then, and Michael was standing next to me, looking from me to the two sixty-something female attackers with a pleasantly expectant look on his face.
“’Taters?’” was all he said.
“I’ll explain later,” I shot out of the side of my mouth.
“No need. With a first name like Taylor, a nickname like Taters was inevitable. A little overweight, were we, back in the old high school days?”
“I was not overweight. I was tall and big boned, and . . . hey, wait a minute. How did you know they were from my high school days?”
He continued to gaze at me blandly. Knowingly.
I backed up two inches and blazed at him. “They called you! You knew they were coming! And you didn’t tell me!”
“They wanted to surprise you, honey. I wasn’t going to spoil it for them. But they never mentioned your nickname. Taters, huh?” He continued to observe me, eyebrows lifted, not quite smiling. He’s a retired lawyer. He’s never lost the gift of cross-examination.
“Oh, all right!” I whispered at the last private moment we had before my classmates reached us. “I could’ve lost ten pounds. Fifteen. And I did lose it. After high school. You saw that picture of me in that little black dress – Coco!” I exclaimed, switching gears. They were close to us by then. “Hemi!”
We threw ourselves into a group hug, bubbling out omigods and I-can’t-believe-its for a while. We’d kept up with the larger issues of life through Christmas cards (Hemi was widowed with two grown kids and a few grandchildren; Coco was thrice divorced, alimony-rich, childless and restless), but why they had suddenly materialized out of the ether was still a mystery.
I turned to see that the smile had finally broken through on Michael’s face. God, he was gorgeous. Mature wrinkles and suntanned skin only seemed to brighten the ice-blue of his eyes and the cool white of his thick, short hair. Trim. Confident. Just as thrilled and happy about the sudden reunion as we were. Maybe more.
When my classmates and I were semi-composed again, he said, “’Coco?’”
I gestured. “For Coco Chanel. The fashion designer? See for yourself. She hasn’t changed.”
“Well, thank you, Taters. I haven’t changed much, have I? I tried on my old cheerleader outfit last week – you know, the awful ones we wore back in the day, with the pleated skirts and the sweaters –“
“Go Minutemen! Let’s hear it for the old buff and blue,” the other one broke in. Then she turned to me in deadly earnest. “Did you know they changed our old school colors? It’s red, white and blue now. Some nonsense about not being able to get uniforms for the football team in such delicate colors. No contrast.”
I grimaced and nodded. “I know. As I recall our football team back then, they needed camouflage if they were going to survive the game. Buff and blue blended nicely with the swamp around the school. They could have hid out there for hours, but not in red, white and blue.”
“You’re Hemi?” Michael asked her, grinning.
The sun broke over her face. “Yeah, that’s me. At least, it was in high school. I had braces. My mouth looked like it belonged under the hood of a car. Nice to meet you, Michael. Taylor, you haven’t changed a bit!”
Maybe because Mich
ael and I had been discussing my puppy fat just a few moments before, I was taken aback. Somehow over the years, I’d gained that fifteen pounds back. Okay, twenty. But on a lady my age, it’s allowed. I’m pretty fit, and I’m still taller than all the other girls my age. The young folks are all taller, of course; for some reason kids get taller with every new batch. I straightened up and smiled.
“I always loved your hair,” Hemi crooned. Good old Hemi; always the sweet one. She’d stepped on Coco before she could finish telling Michael how cute she was, and now she was making me feel good. I’m far too well-bred to tell people, but I’ve always liked my hair too. It doesn’t give me any trouble. I wear it in a no-nonsense, low-maintenance, short style, and yes, it’s still very blond. Not much gray. Coco’s was still a glossy chestnut brown, just like in high school. These days it must have been costing her a fortune to keep it that color. Hemi’s was getting streaks of that curious creamy gray that redheads get, and at this stage it looked like very skillful highlighting, but probably wasn’t.
“Michael,” I said formally, “these are my old high school running buddies. Cathy Kaminsky – Coco – and Patty O’Roark. Hemi.”
Coco reached out for Michael’s hand, holding it way too long as she said, “I’m the one you’ve been talking to on the phone. Thanks for keeping it a secret. We got her all right, didn’t we?”
“We did, indeed,” he said, turning to Patty for a handshake and breaking Coco’s grip before she could pull him into her arms.
He always does me proud. Coco, Patty and I had come from the steel mill ‘hoods of Chicago, and we still had some of that “Oh, yeah, sez who?” thing about us, but Michael had the tender manners of a southern gentleman, and he became courtly while the girls fluffed out their feathers and preened. The boys of Washington High had never treated us like this. Nor us them, come to think of it.
“Have you ladies had your coffee yet this morning?” he asked. “Y’all come on inside. I’m just dying to hear about little Taters’ high school days.” With a sly glance my way, he ushered them forward and left me staring at their backs.
I felt like I’d just hit a brick wall. No. Like a brick wall had just popped up and run into me.
After a moment, Michael turned his head and called, “Coming, Taylor honey?” He was a true southerner from birth, but he was pouring it on for the benefit of the ladies. I pulled myself together and made my feet move. I needed to get in there and control the conversation.
Chapter 2
“She poured what all over your boyfriend’s windshield?” Michael was saying as I walked in.
I closed my eyes. It was the old glue-on-the-windshield story, from our freshman year. I had no regrets, but it hadn’t bothered me a bit that I hadn’t had to listen while my friends recounted it over the years. It was one of those things that come up at parties, once everybody’s drunk enough. One grows out of that kind of thing. Perhaps one looks back with mild regret. But not having to be reminded about it had been one of the benefits of moving to Florida.
“Glue,” Patty was telling him, as they all laughed merrily. “The kind you can’t get off glass once it’s dry.”
“He deserved it,” I grumbled as I stomped in. “He was getting his exercise on the Washington High School trampoline, Nadine Farnham. He was supposed to be Patty’s steady at the time.”
“Nadine really was a slut,” Coco said, fondly reminiscing.
“Whatever happened to her?” I asked.
“She got married right after graduation and had five kids in eight years. All of a sudden she was a pillar of rectitude, a real nuisance at PTA meetings, and then she took over the teen club at the church.”
“You’re kidding!” I said.
“Nope. I suppose it was a good thing in a way: she knew everything the teenagers were getting up to and how put a stop to it. These days, there’s nothing she likes better than babysitting the grandkids, and she’s got about a hundred of them. If you want to spend a few hours doing penance for you sins, ask to see her cell phone pictures of them.”
“Who’d she marry?”
“Al Kennedy.”
I harrumphed. “Figures.” Al was a skinny, nasty little thing in black leather, dark sunglasses and hair oil. “How’d he turn out?”
“Dead. Ran off the road on his motorcycle back in the ‘eighties.”
I was suitably ashamed. Now that the class of ’67 had gone all the way through middle age and into seniorhood, experiencing all the phases of life along the way, I was going to have to watch my mouth. We weren’t seventeen anymore, and all of us had had tragedies along the way, no doubt.
I walked around the breakfast bar and hiked myself up onto a chair next to Coco.
The ground floor of Cadbury House had been designed as an open, galleried great room with smaller rooms running along the north and south sides. French doors lined the outside walls, giving onto a wide, wrap-around veranda. Originally, the kitchen had been in a separate building across the veranda on the west side, but as the modern age had come upon them and the squads of servants had left, the Cadbury family had converted one end of the great room into a gourmet kitchen, separated off by a breakfast bar with tall chairs facing in.
The girls were on chairs at the breakfast bar, admiring Michael’s backside as he produced coffee, pastries and fresh fruit for them. Our housekeeper, Myrtle, wasn’t downstairs yet, thank goodness. She tends to glower, and she sees any visitors as a violation of her unwritten contract: she was too old to work too hard. She undoubtedly could hear our voices by then, which was probably why she hadn’t come down. She was up there hoping the intruders would go away.
Michael offered to cook a little something for us, and my old friends declined sweetly. I could swear they were already picking up southern accents, which wasn’t surprising. The American southern accent is a kind of verbal flu. Very catching. Y’all.
Michael turned to me and asked in an exaggerated way, “Glue on a windshield? I know you’re a creative thinker, but did you have to be so hard on poor old Billy?”
“He was a conceited little snot,” I said. “Billy Wood was the only one in our class who had his own car, and he thought it made him a man. Other people had driver’s licenses, but they had to borrow their dads’ cars. Billy had his own. He called it ‘the chick magnet.’”
Coco picked up the story. “He was dating Patty, and when we heard he was fooling around with Nadine we began to investigate and found out he’d also been seen with Sharon . . . Sharon –” She snapped her fingers and looked at Patty.
“Moore,” Patty said. “Another slut. We stopped investigating after that. If there were more, I didn’t want to know. I cried for days. I can’t imagine why. You should see Billy now. Bald, overweight and still thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
“Well, you know your Taylor,” Coco told Michael, cutting in before I could change the subject. “Crying’s not her thing. She wanted revenge. Then she let Patty cry on her shoulder. I don’t know how we all would’ve gotten through high school without Taters. She made us laugh when we needed a laugh, and when we cried, she cried with us. A friend forever.”
They lifted their coffee cups toward me while Michael beamed. It gave me the chance to get everybody off the gluey windshield.
“So, what brings you two to Tropical Breeze all of a sudden like?”
“You, silly,” Coco said.
Patty leaned forward to see me around Coco. “I wanted to let you know we were coming, but Coco insisted on surprising you. We did get in touch with Michael, though. We didn’t want to get here and find out you were away on vacation or something.”
“I’m never on vacation,” I said. “I’m happy right here, and with the shelter to look after, I’m needed here, so here I stay.”
“You never take a vacation?” Coco said.
“Seriously?” Patty chimed in. “We were hoping – we thought –“
“We wanted to get you to come along with us sometimes.”
; “Coco and I take a trip together every year. We’ve been doing it for ages. Nancy Kelly and Alice Nixon – you know, Alice Anderson, before she was married? – they used to come along too, but they can’t come anymore.”
“Nancy died in a car wreck two years ago, and Alice is –“
“She’s got Alzheimer’s,” Patty said solemnly. “Her husband just moved into an assisted living condo with her, but it won’t be long before she’s going to need the next level of care. We aren’t any of us getting any younger.”
“If you want to see the world, Taters, now’s the time. We’re all retired, so we’ve got the time, and we’re all healthy. We’ve all made enough money to enjoy ourselves a little, so why not?”
“I am enjoying myself,” I said. “I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and as for money –“
“We’ve got plenty of money,” Michael said grandly, leaning back against the cooking island, “and they’re absolutely right. You should get away sometimes.”
“We only do it once a year,” Patty said.
“I know you don’t like to travel, but I bet you’d enjoy yourself with your friends, here. You ought to go.”
Coco got businesslike. “This is our trip for this year – coming here – we’ve got a condo on Crescent Beach, up the road in St. Augustine. But we had an ulterior motive, coming to an area where you just happen to live. We’re going to be working on you all week. Really, Taters, you’ve always been too serious about life, and I always knew you’d take this animal thing too far. If your parents had let you have a pet when you were a kid, you wouldn’t have developed a full-blown psychosis about it. I thought you’d just become the crazy cat lady, but a whole shelter?”
“I do not have a psychosis.”
Michael raised his hand. “I, for one, think you should get away every now and then, and once a year is the minimum.”
My two buddies raised their hands.
“This is not a democracy,” I snapped. “This is my life. I’m needed here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have, what, thirty volunteers?” Michael said. “Sometimes closer to forty? You have good old Florence running the resale shop downtown, and people always step up if you ask them to. And you have me. I know the ropes. Believe it or not, Orphans of the Storm would not collapse in a smoking heap if you weren’t here for a week.”
