Murder Takes a Dare: The First Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 1)

by Jada Ryker

  Marisa opened her mouth, but Alex and Russell each simultaneously pinched her. She repressed a squeak of pain.

  “About ten years ago, Harlan Walker, Zoe’s father, was a teacher at the elementary school. I was on the force then, and I remember a bunch of parents came in to file complaints against him. Seems he liked to touch little girls. We were on our way to arrest him, when we got a call about a shooting at his house. When we arrived, he was dead, shot through the head by a single bullet from a small caliber hand gun. We found his widow in the bedroom, either asleep or passed out or unconscious. The little girl, Zoe, was spending the night with a friend.

  “We tested the conveniently unconscious widow for residue, but she hadn’t fired a gun. We canvassed the neighborhood, but no one saw anything. The murder was never solved. And honestly, none of us tried very hard. Our theory was one of the parents took the law into their own hands. In my opinion, the killer did everyone a favor.”

  The officer picked out a statement and handed it to Russell Meeks. “So you work at that nursing home. It’s definitely the week for stuff to happen out there.”

  Russell perked up in his chair. “What else has happened, officer?”

  Daviess officer frowned, and plucked out a sheet of paper for Alex.

  “Bear trap.” The officer shrugged.

  “Bear trap? What are you talking about?” In case they were thinking of pinching her again, Marisa glared at Alex and Russell.

  “Animal trap, Wanda—I mean Ms. Adair. The man who lives in the big fancy house on the property adjoining the Home Away from Home nursing home stepped into a bear trap. I took the statement from the woman who found him. She’s a nursing assistant at the old folks’ home. Her name is Florets—Florence—”

  “Flora May,” Marisa supplied. “Flora May Masters. Tall, big boned, big hair.” Marisa held her hand about a foot above her head.

  He brightened. “That’s her. She actually carried the man through the woods, to her car, and drove him to the emergency room.” He smiled dreamily. “What a woman!”

  Marisa cleared her throat.

  The dreamy expression disappeared. “And guess who the guy was?”

  Marisa shook her head.

  “Oh, come on, guess!” Daviess pulled up his sagging uniform pants.

  Alex must have sensed Marisa barely restraining herself from strangling the policeman. He grabbed her arm.

  “Henry Worthington!” Daviess rolled his eyes. “The head of the Church of the Eternal Devotion!”

  Marisa felt the ground shift beneath her feet. The head of the super-sized church…the man who had tried to convert Zoe Walker from a gothic stripper to a righteous woman…they could have entered into a relationship…she could have been blackmailing him…Jonah had done searches on churches and embezzlement…

  “When? When did he get his leg in the trap?”

  “Not sure, why? He laid there for some time until she found him the morning after we got the call about the dead dancer on a tombstone.” The officer brightened. “Hey, maybe you could use that in a wrestling scenario! Just give me credit for the idea, I don’t need to be paid. Not sure the lieutenant would like my being on the payroll, anyway. He is a tight assed—”

  Marisa tuned him out to follow her thoughts. They had stumbled on Zoe’s body and then Henry Worthington was found near the cemetery, wounded by the trap. He could have killed the young woman, and in fleeing the scene, been caught by the trap. Or…wait a minute. First, he must have killed Zoe. Then, as he was leaving the scene of the crime, he spotted Jonah. He had to kill the eyewitness to the murder. He followed Jonah to the hospital, waited for his chance, and gunned down the man who could identify him as Zoe’s killer. He must have gone back to the scene of Zoe’s murder, and in leaving the scene the second time, managed to get snared by the trap.

  She had to talk to this Henry Worthington. But before she did, she needed to interrogate another eyewitness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In her room, Althea fed a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter, and rolled it into position. She wondered if she should tell Clay she had lied. Should she tell him she actually wrote fiction under a pen name? No. It isn’t any of his business. Althea shrugged her thin shoulders, and placed her fingers on the cold typewriter keys.

  As the Crow Flies

  By Seretha Ranier

  Part Two

  It was not until Fresna reached the nursing home that she was finally able to stop shivering. She rummaged through her locker in the staff lounge for a clean uniform. In spite of her raincoat, Fresna had become soaked by the cold rain when she stood against the side of her car to inspect the wheel. She shivered, more from fear than the chill. If she had been driving when it fell off, the car would have crashed.

  Fresna stood in front of a mirror, comb in hand, and attempted to smooth her gnarled hair, which resembled wet rodent tails around her pale face. Once again, she thought of the black object that appeared on her windshield.

  What was it? A black sheet of plastic? A wayward tarpaulin? A huge bird?

  As Fresna scampered from room to room to help the patients get ready for their dinners, the sun came out. The rain-soaked trees and plants glittered like diamonds in the blinding sunlight, and warmth as cozy as a hug penetrated through the patients’ windows.

  “Girl! Fresca, or Sarsaparilla, or whatever the hell your name is, quit gawking! Take me out to the patio! Now!”

  The strident screech of old Mrs. Stith pushed the storm, and her close call, right out of Fresna’s head.

  Careful to stay out of the old lady’s vicious biting range, Fresna settled the persnickety resident and her mounds of blankets on the patio. As she bent over and locked her patient’s wheelchair, Fresna noticed a crow standing on the edge of the cracked, gray, concrete birdbath. The bird was staring at her so intently it caused her body to freeze in mid-stoop over the wheelchair brakes. The bird’s eyes were bright and penetrating, and although it shook its head with the jerky, jittery movement characteristic of a bird, it did not take its eyes off hers. She studied the bird as it bobbed its head toward the top of the birdbath, as if it wanted her to come over and look into the pool of water.

  Fresna shook her head at her own fancy, and slipped through the sliding glass door. It was time for her to gather clean linens and change the beds.

  ***

  Fresna lumbered down the hall, her vision obscured by the clean sheets, pillowcases, and towels piled high in her arms. Time was passing quickly, and she wanted to make sure she saved plenty of it for her favorite patient, Mr. Corvus. Fresna loved his deep, melodious voice, which contained a hint of an accent that she assumed was British. They often discussed several diverse topics, such as the possibility of alien life forms on Earth, one true God versus many gods, and even the existence of magic. Mr. Corvus would always listen to her very carefully, with his impossibly black head cocked to one side, as if every word she uttered was important.

  While she was lost in thought, Fresna stumbled when her foot accidentally connected with a hard object, sending her tumbling down onto the tile floor.

  “Should be more careful where you’re going, you fat cow.”

  Surrounded by the scattered clean linens, Fresna looked up to find Jeneva Valentine and Terry Snider, the two nursing assistants who worked the opposite wing, standing over her. Their smug, self-satisfied faces solved the mystery of Fresna’s unexpected stumble and subsequent fall.

  Fresna rose to her feet and rubbed her aching backside. Now she’d not only have to fetch more linen, but she’d also have to rewash, dry, and fold the spilled linens scattered around her.

  Jeneva energetically shook her head, and her brown eyes grew darker with feigned regret. “Oh, dear. Now you won’t have time to suck up to Mr. Corvus.”

  “Betcha Fresna puts in all of that extra time in his room hoping to get in the old man’s will.” Terry snickered, her pudgy face displaying glee. “Sucking up to something to get into his good graces!”


  Her shoulders stiff with anger, Fresna kept her head down as she gathered the strewn sheets and towels. Since she couldn’t afford to get fired for fighting, she decided it was best to ignore their baiting taunts.

  Jeneva laughed her trademark squeal, which sounded similar to a fork scraping a glass plate. “You’re wasting your time, Fresna. Don’t you know that old geezer showed up on the doorstep with nothing but that ratty old straw purse and that moth-eaten black blanket?”

  Terry waggled her fingers. “He just showed up in the lobby, no car or taxi in sight, as if he’d just materialized out of thin air!”

  “No insurance, no assets. Nothing worthy of keeping you in his room all of the time!” Jeneva frowned. “Guess the old guy’s gotta have something, since the administrator gave him the largest, most comfortable room in the facility. She kicked Mrs. Stith out of it, and moved the old lady to a narrow room in the other wing with a view of a brick wall.”

  Fresna now realized the reason Mrs. Stith took out her frustrations on her, in a toothy sort of way.

  “Maybe we should try our luck in that direction, Terry,” Jeneva said, poking her friend in the ribs. “Haven’t you noticed how Ms. Tate behaves around Mr. Corvus? Normally, she’s laughing and cutting up with the residents, or joking around with the family members. But Mr. Corvus…”

  “You’re right,” interrupted Terry. “The administrator does act like the old man is a member of royalty or something. Maybe he’s in line to inherit a kingdom!”

  Jeneva filled the hall with her derisive laughter. “Maybe Fresna will marry him, and live happily ever after. Maybe he’ll even let her carry his purse!”

  Without warning, both women crumpled to the ground.

  Fresna blinked. Her bullies were on the floor, thrashing and groaning. How could they have fallen? They couldn’t have slipped; they made no effort to move, not even to walk.

  A rustling sound in the hall caught Fresna’s attention.

  Mr. Corvus, with his black, knitted afghan settled over his bony shoulders and straw bag gripped in his hand, loomed like a bird of prey. He raised his arms, which caused the blanket to form an image of black wings. The fringe edging of the afghan resembled feathers. Even at a distance, Mr. Corvus’ eyes looked like bottomless black pools—

  “What in heaven’s name is that horrible smell!” The high-pitched screech from the hallway directly outside Althea’s room caused her fingers to stumble on her typewriter keys. She peered at the white sheet of paper. Damn. She had typed “black poops.”

  “Annette!”

  That’s the bellow of Mrs. Hill, the nursing home administrator, Althea thought. She pushed away from her minuscule desk and rose. She groaned as she twisted her stiff back. althea hobbled to her cane, and then out her door to the common area directly adjacent to the nurses’ station.

  The nursing home administrator was standing near the nursing station, her body rigid and her face twisted with fury. “What is that horrible smell?” Her hand covered her nose.

  A young nursing assistant, visibly quaking in her maroon uniform, hesitantly approached the angry administrator. “It’s kimchi, Mrs. Hill.”

  Mrs. Hill snatched off her gold half glasses. “Kim? She? I don’t think I have any employees named Kim. Where is she?”

  As the older woman swung abruptly away in search of her prey, the nursing assistant fluttered her hands. “Mrs. Hill!” The young voice was shrill with panic. “Kimchi is a type of Korean food, made from cabbage and other vegetables. It’s left in the ground to age, and then it’s ready to eat. I brought in a container for my break. When I put it in the microwave—”

  As if pulled by a string, the athletic body pivoted slowly back to the speaker. “Annette, are you telling me you put rotten cabbage into the microwave?” Her voice rose higher and higher. Bullish in her rage, Mrs. Hill lunged toward the girl as if she was a red flag.

  In self-defense, Annette threw up her hands. “It was an accident, I swear! I meant to punch in fifteen seconds on the microwave timer, but somehow I must have put in fifteen minutes! After I started the microwave, the light on the panel in the nurses’ lounge flashed, indicating one of the patients needed assistance. I hurried down the hall to answer the light. In the meantime, the kimchi burned and I guess the smell got into the ventilation system—”

  “I am away from the facility for a few hours. My payroll coordinator is missing. And you decide to incinerate that horrible substance in my microwave.” Mrs. Hill’s face was hard and cold. “Annette, you’re fired. Clean out your locker and leave the premises at once.”

  At an authoritative touch on her arm, Mrs. Hill swung around in anger. As her furious eyes met the gray ones of the dapper man at her side, she made a visible effort to control her emotions. “Mr. Napier—”

  “Mrs. Hill, I wouldn’t advise firing the girl.” The gravelly voice was harsh with suppressed fury.

  “Mr. Napier, I don’t think this matter is really any of your business. Perhaps you would like to watch television.” Determinedly, she grasped the old man’s arm and tried to steer him toward the common area.

  * * * * *

  Clay planted his cane on the floor and stiffened his legs. He felt like a stubborn old mule, digging in his heels and laying back his ears. “Mrs. Hill, this girl is young, but she’s one of your best nursing assistants. She works hard, treats the residents with dignity and respect, and she doesn’t spend most of her work hours out on the patio smoking.”

  “Mr. Napier, I cannot tolerate employees who carelessly make the facility reek of rotten vegetables.” Mrs. Hill flung back her head challengingly, her nostrils flared. “What if a state inspector were to walk in and close the place down?”

  Obstinately, Clay shook his silver head. “Mrs. Hill. Let us be frank. We both know you have several contacts in the state inspection office. You are always forewarned of the visits. Also, no state inspector will shut down a facility because something was burned in the microwave.”

  Mrs. Hill’s hazel eyes met the gray ones in a challenge of wills. “Mr. Napier, I must respectfully remind you I am the boss here and what I say goes.”

  Clay casually sauntered over to the shaking nursing assistant, and placed his hand on her arm in an overt display of support. He played his trump card. “If you want to fire the girl, then fine. She can call the American Civil Liberties Union and explain to them you’ve interfered with her freedom to eat foods from her country of origin.” His hand still ostensibly on her arm to comfort her, he surreptitiously squeezed Annette in warning.

  Mrs. Hill doubtfully inspected the obviously Caucasian Annette, who quivered under the iron gaze. “What do you mean ‘country of origin’?”

  Clay correctly interpreted the administrator’s glare. “Just because a person doesn’t look like a minority does not mean he or she is not. Her mother is Korean, but she looks like her father. Didn’t you know that, Mrs. Hill?”

  Under the short blonde hair, the hard eyes narrowed to slits. “Is that true, Annette?” barked the administrator, her chest heaving under the conservative suit.

  Clay firmly shook Annette’s tense arm.

  “Y-y-y-e-e-e-s-s-s, ma’am,” stammered the young girl, her blue eyes huge in her round, pale face.

  Mrs. Hill clenched her fists. “All right. Annette, consider this your final warning. If this happens again, you’re fired, whether your mother is Korean, Caucasian, or a green and gold alien from outer space. Go find some air freshener and spray it throughout this facility.” Coldly glancing around at the various interested faces turned in her direction, Mrs. Hill spun on her high heels and strode past the nurses’ station to her office.

  “Mr. Napier, my mother’s not Korean!” Annette shrieked, clutching at the old man’s hands.

  Clay put a warning finger to his lips. “Not so loud. Mrs. Hill has gone back to her office, but I don’t want to risk her hearing us.”

  “Our neighbor is Korean. She’s the one who made the kimchi and gave me some to try.
” Annette’s breath hitched on an agonized sob. “If Mrs. Hill finds out we lied to her, she’ll fire me for sure!”

  “It will be fine, Annette, I promise,” soothed Clay. “Now run along and do what she says. Grab some deodorizer and spray it around the hallways.”

  Annette gulped, and headed for the supply closet at a run.

  “How brave of you! My goodness, your quick thinking saved the young girl from getting fired.”

  Clay’s head jerked at the soft, feminine voice. “Thea!” As her admiring words sunk in, his angular face flushed with pleasure. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  Althea stared thoughtfully after the administrator. “Mrs. Hill was certainly angry. She was so enraged I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d grabbed the girl by the throat and throttled her.”

  Clay’s silvery eyebrows rose. “Are you saying you think you have Mrs. Hill pegged as the murderer?”

  Althea shook her sleek head regretfully. “To be fair, I can’t make a logical connection between an unpleasant disposition and murder. If a quick temper were indicative of homicidal tendencies in each and every case, then the murder rate would be astronomical.”

  Clay passed his hand over his lips to hide his smile. Thea, who had initially been reluctant to investigate the matter of the residents’ deaths, was flushed with excitement and her green eyes were sparkling like precious gems.

  Clay tilted his silver head, staring over Althea’s fragile, silk-clad shoulder. “It’s Mrs. Witherspoon. Her son is pushing her wheelchair.”

  Althea twisted her neck to gaze behind her, and then clenched her fists. “If he hurts her in any way...”

  Clay’s eyes opened very wide as he continued to gaze at the frail old woman and her pudgy, balding son. “Look, Thea. He’s bending over her quite solicitously. Now, he’s adjusting the blanket on her legs and straightening her sweater.”

  Althea took a quick peek and turned back to Clay. “You’re right. He’s the picture of a loving son.”