by Cathy Tully
Dr. Shine Cracks the Case
A ChiroCozy Mystery, Volume 1
Cathy Tully
Published by Visions & Revisions Unlimited, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. 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.
Dr. Shine Cracks the Case
First edition. October 10, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Elizabeth C. Tully
Written by Cathy Tully.
Published by Visions and Revisions Unlimited
Cover Art by StunningBookCovers.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
Newsletter
GLUTEN-FREE RECIPES | Huevos Rancheros Susannah
Gluten-Free Flaxseed Crackers
Gluten-Free Blueberry Muffins
About the Author
This book is dedicated to my parents. Their love of reading mysteries is in my DNA. To Carol and Don. Gone but never forgotten.
I want to acknowledge the numerous writers who have helped me in ways great and small. Most importantly my Cozy Guppy pal Alli Stone. Next in line, the women of the Secondary Characters Group: Vikki Walton, Tonya Marie Agerton, Danielle Botz, Janie Pritchett Clark, Peta Flanigan, Stacy Stewart, and especially Rose Dewar, Erin Scoggins and Mary Pat Smith.
CHAPTER ONE
Dr. Susannah Shine’s hand shook as she keyed in the password again. The ear-piercing whoop made it hard to think. Third time’s a charm.
Behind her, Police Chief Randy Laughton shouted, “Will you please shut off that alarm!”
The whooping ceased, and Susannah turned to face him, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t an outright lie. She knew that her cat, Rusty, had triggered her clinic’s security alarm, but she didn’t want to admit it. Randy already treated her like an incompetent.
“The cat must have gotten locked inside and tripped the alarm,” Susannah said, biting back her shame.
Pulling himself up to his full six-foot-two, Randy peered down at her. She blinked up at him. “I reckon,” he said, hands on his belt. “Seems like they would have gone over securing the premises in your training in New York City.” He drawled New York City as if the words left a foul taste in his mouth.
She leveled her gaze on the police chief, on his gray-blue eyes set in a long ruddy face marred by acne scars. She resisted the urge to speak.
“Doc,” Randy said, jutting his chin toward Rusty, who was now lying on his back at the edge of the parking lot, the picture of innocence. “If you don’t get control of that critter, I may have to stop responding to these alarms. This is the second time this month.”
His eyes drilled into her as if daring her to contradict him. She didn’t. She started to inch door closed.
He sighed. “I’ll take a look inside for you.”
“That’s not necessary. It’s clear that Rusty was the culprit,” she said, forcing a smile out of muscles that would have rather scowled. Remember your Southern charm training. It’s okay if smiling hurts. “No need to come inside.”
A car door slammed, and a woman leaned against Randy’s patrol car. She wore an expression of barely suppressed boredom.
“Who’s riding with you today?” Susannah asked. A light breeze stirred the pine trees and lifted the woman’s blond hair off the collar of her Peach Grove PD windbreaker. Susannah felt a chill and stepped inside, shielding herself with the door.
Randy’s jaw tightened, and his thick nose reddened. “The mayor hired a new detective. I was giving her a tour of the town when the call came in to respond to your alarm.”
“Well,” Susannah said, distracted by the rumbling of her stomach. Because of the alarm, she had run out of her house without eating a thing, and she thought of the gluten-free snacks she kept in the kitchen. “I guess you should get back to official business.”
Randy cocked an eyebrow. “This is official business. If you’ll let me get on with it.”
“Really, no need.” Susannah had lived in Peach Grove for years but sometimes still felt like an outsider. Randy would always see her as a bumbling law enforcement wannabe, even though she had been a part of the NYPD.
Randy shrugged and turned, fingering his radio as he made his way back to his car. With a glance over his shoulder at her, he got in the car and sped out of her parking lot.
As she closed the door, a streak of orange announced Rusty’s return. He rubbed against her calves, causing a flank-to-slacks fur deposit. Allergic to the core, Susannah felt her eyes begin to itch, but she patted the animal’s orange head anyway. She couldn’t resist a hard-luck story. Pulling a tissue from her bag, she walked him through the office to the break room, where she kept his kibble.
“Mrow,” Rusty commented. He danced about her legs as she filled his dish and placed it outside the rear door.
“You’re welcome,” Susannah said, shutting the door before he could re-enter the building.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a gluten-free blueberry muffin, ripped off the top, and pushed it into her mouth. Still chewing, she entered her office and fed her betta fish, Henry the Eighth. He wagged his tail fins as she checked the tank’s temperature and gave him a ration of food pellets.
Nibbling on her muffin, she gazed out the window at the orchard where early risers were queuing up to pick their own peaches. She smiled. Her adopted hometown, Peach Grove, Georgia, was everything that Brooklyn, New York, was not. Blue skies, green grass, orange mud, and locally grown peaches beat out cement, dirt, and rattling trains any day of the week.
She didn’t understand why her family worried about her, especially her mother, who said the rosary daily for her safe return. Adjusting spines in Georgia was far safer than defending New York City subway trains from perverts.
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br /> She also didn’t understand Chief Laughton’s disdain for her. Her training with the NYPD’s Transit Patrol had been solid, and so had her performance—until a health issue compelled her to leave the force after just one year. But here in a small town on the rural side of Atlanta, there was no reason for military-like precision when locking up her chiropractic practice. Peach Grove was a safe town that rocked peach blossoms and pastureland, not breaking-and-entering gangs.
Besides, she was a doctor now.
She turned to her computer and began work on some insurance reports. An hour later, a loud blam shook the building. Susannah rushed from her office and raced down the hall to the waiting room. Every eye in the room was on Marcie Jones, who steadied the door with one hand, ignoring the mark on the wall where the knob had hit. Fiona Bailey, already seated, put down her magazine. There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“What did that door ever do to you, Marcie?” Fiona asked.
Marcie sneered, tossing her light brown bob and rolling her eyes. She folded her arms, scowling at her husband as he entered. Billy Jones lumbered through the doorway, leaning on worn metal crutches, escorted by Rusty, who circled him, mewling.
Tina Cawthorn, Susannah’s assistant, shooed the cat away while a smile warmed her heart-shaped face. She placed her slender hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Dr. S. wants me to help you—”
“I’ll help him,” Marcie interrupted. “I left the store to bring him up here. He doesn’t need the both of us hanging on him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tina said, her brows peaked, her bronze skin flushed. She cast a look at Larraine Moore, the office manager, who perched behind the counter and tapped at a computer. With a shrug, Tina turned and strode down the hall without a word.
Larraine stood, took off her glasses, and put them on top of her head, burying them purposefully between soft ringlets of white hair. She was taller than Tina and older by forty years, and she was invaluable to Susannah because her long service to her church had taught her to smile effortlessly in all circumstances. She smiled now at Billy and came around the counter into the waiting area.
“Come on in, darlin’,” she said, stepping in front of Marcie and ushering Billy down a hall. “We’ll get you fixed up.”
Marcie followed closely as Larraine led Billy into a treatment room and assisted him onto the chiropractic treatment table. Larraine left the room and returned with an ice pack.
“He needs his back popped.” Marcie scowled her neck rigid and pursed her lips. “We have plenty of ice in the coolers at the Wing Shack.”
“I’m sure you do,” Larraine said, placing the gel pack over Billy’s lower back. “The doctor wants him to ice his back. She reckons it helps with the pain. But I expect there are some pains that don’t never go away.” She locked eyes with Marcie, resettled her eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose, and marched out of the room and into the hallway, where she pressed a bony finger to her lips. “Lord forgive me,” she whispered. Her complexion, powdery-white at the best of times, turned momentarily translucent. She looked up to see Susannah standing in the hall. “Have you been there this whole time?”
Susannah nodded, and Larraine looked away, a pink tinge testifying that blood actually circulated to her face. She pulled her white cardigan tighter around her light pink scrub top and returned to her station behind the front counter.
Susannah had treated Billy many times before, and her technique was always the same: a tall order of chiropractic adjustments served with a short stack of ignoring Marcie. She entered the treatment room with a smile, nodding at Marcie, who sat with her arms folded across her chest. After Susannah greeted Billy, her experienced hands probed his back and efficiently manipulated his vertebrae. Holding out her hand, she helped him to his feet; he took two steps without the crutches and gave her a wan smile.
“Finally,” Marcie blurted. “Now maybe I can get back to my day.”
“That’s better,” Billy said, cutting his eyes to her and giving Susannah a sympathetic shrug. “Thanks, Doc. You’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s what I do,” Susannah replied, winking at Billy. She turned to Marcie and added, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Business Association meeting.”
Marcie jutted her chin, mumbled a response, and steered Billy out.
CHAPTER TWO
Anita Alvarez, a dark haired, full-lipped woman, suffered from a perpetually cheerful personality. She should at least have the decency to look tired at 7:30 a.m., Susannah thought. But she never did. The Peach Grove Business Association met monthly in her restaurant, the Cantina Caliente, known to most locals as simply “the Cantina,” and Anita was usually the most chipper person in attendance. Susannah, who found it hard to be chipper at any hour of the morning, bristled, knowing that Randy would be speaking for the Peach Grove Police Department. She dreaded confronting him again and wished she hadn’t told Bitsy Long, her best friend, that she would attend the meeting. She imagined herself still in bed with a pillow over her head. At least the pillow would stifle the big hair she was experiencing because she hadn’t had time to use the flat iron. It felt like she had a brunette lampshade on her head.
Anita touched Susannah’s elbow, interrupting her ruminations on her hair, and offered her a cup just as Susannah’s stomach rumbled.
“Hot café to start the day,” she said in a clipped, singsong way with hardly a trace of her native Mexico. Susannah wished she had the ability to make simple statements sound like jingles, but that was not in her skill set.
Today, as they hid in the kitchen pass-through and sipped coffee, Susannah noticed Anita’s hand trembling. Maybe she imbibed too much latte, Susannah thought. The coffee, brewed from Mexican espresso, mixed with hot milk, and topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon, packed a wallop. She sighed, inhaling the bracing aroma.
“I’ll be back,” Anita said, sloshing latte foam onto the floor as she pushed through the swinging door. Before the door even stopped swinging, Susannah heard Anita’s raised voice coming from the kitchen. A man’s tenor hollered a response. Susannah tiptoed away from the doors and turned her attention to the meeting. A few minutes later, Anita returned, sipping through a clear plastic straw that jutted from a plastic cup. She lifted it in a toast. “I felt like something cold. You want?”
“No, thanks,” Susannah said, recognizing the Mexican version of iced tea Anita preferred. She tipped her cup toward Anita. “I prefer my drink hot.”
Anita was about to reply but slipped on the floor where her spilled latte foam had congealed into a small slick spot. She slid into Susannah and then regained her balance. “Would you?” She handed Susannah her cup while she grabbed a few paper towels from the server’s station and mopped up the spot. “There.”
They resumed their beverage sipping, but after several minutes, Tomás, Anita's assistant, opened the door and glared at Anita. As he beckoned to her, his gaze shot to Susannah, and the scowl shifted to a weak smile. His dark hair flopped over one eye.
“Ah,” Anita said, “trouble in paradise.”
Anita re-entered the kitchen, and Susannah sauntered off to the dining room, turning her gaze on Randy, who stood at the hostess’s podium addressing the room. The Peach Grove Business Association, known to locals as the PGBA, was preparing to stage their biggest project—the Independence Day Festival—and the Peach Grove Police Department would provide security for the event. She glanced around the dining room. Most members focused their attention on the police chief, and she hoped she could slip into a seat unnoticed.
Susannah sipped her coffee, observing Marcie at her game. Marcie’s brown bob swung into her face as she dragged a stool over from the bar and placed it directly in front of Randy. There she perched, shaking her head to straighten her hair before peppering him with questions, her green eyes boring into him and the veins in her neck bulging.
Susannah’s shoulders relaxed. Perhaps Randy wouldn’t notice her. Let him throw some sass at Marcie; she was impervious to snide comments. She
scanned the tables, also hoping to avoid the new detective, who had accompanied Randy to the meeting; for some reason, the woman gave her gooseflesh. She rubbed her arms, taking a moment to identify club members from behind. Colin Rogers, the local auto shop owner, sat alone, his hands wrapped around a ceramic mug. At the next table, Daniel Kim, the Peach Grove insurance guru, sat with his associate.
Susannah took another sip, reveling in the sensation of espresso warming her body. No sign of Fiona Bailey; Susannah couldn’t remember the last time the stable owner had attended. Billy Jones was also absent, but that was no surprise. Even when he wasn’t in pain, he appeared only occasionally, preferring to fade into the background while Marcie flaunted her position as PGBA president.
A flicker of color caught her attention as Bitsy Long settled an orange shawl over her shoulder. Bitsy owned Peachy Things, a themed boutique in downtown Peach Grove, which supported her addiction for all things peachy. Keeping her eyes down, Susannah crossed to Bitsy’s booth and slid in, asking, “What did I miss?”
“I’m not sure,” Bitsy said, licking a blob of sour cream off her thumb. “I’ve been busy with this breakfast burrito.”
“How did you get that?” Susannah looked around. “The kitchen isn’t open yet.”
“If you know the right people, it is.” She chuckled, the smattering of dark freckles standing out on her rich brown skin. “My girl Anita took pity on me.”
Susannah turned her attention to the podium, where Randy had stopped speaking. He ran his thick fingers through his light crew cut and stared at Marcie, whose usual workaday attire of khakis and a polo shirt went by the wayside when she was performing her duties as the PGBA president. Today, she wore a charcoal-gray skirt suit with sheer black hose, which made her look like she was on her way to a big job interview at a Fortune 500 company. As usual, her white blouse was so stiff Susannah wondered if she had bought a new one for the occasion. Marcie acted like local royalty because she came from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Peach Grove, but in reality, she was a small-town girl who ran a chicken takeout shop.
