Table of Contents
Copyright
DEDICATION
Acknowledgements
Window of Guilt
1
2
3
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4
5
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Book Discussion Questions
About the Author
MORE Jennie Spallone
Window of Guilt
A Mitzy Maven/Maggie O’Connor Mystery
By Jennie Spallone
Copyright 2013 by Jennie Spallone
Cover Copyright 2013 Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2011.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Jennie Spallone and Untreed Reads Publishing
Deadly Choices
http://www.untreedreads.com
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my loving husband and kids, my three adorable pups, and all the medically challenged whose lives have been adversely impacted by denied health insurance claims.
Acknowledgements
To developmental editor Charis Conn, my Mussar Kallah friends, and my insightful Indian Trails Library Writing Critique group, as well as all the people who so generously enabled me to research Window of Guilt: Jan Zwart; Bethesda Lutheran Communities Residential Treatment Facility, Waukesha, Wisconsin, Jerry Kaye; Director of OSRUI Camp, Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, Kerrie Hughes; former health insurance adjuster, Jay Brickman; former health insurance attorney, Greg Porter, MD, Anesthesiologist, Alexian Brothers Hospital, Elk Grove, Illinois, Police Chief James Wallis; Town of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin.
I am grateful for the following contribution of character names and physical descriptions I received from winners of numerous raffles held at mystery author conferences, book stores, book clubs, and libraries across the nation:
. Anastasia from Mary Wagor, Author’s Marketing Conference,
. Griselda Jones from Natalie A. Paprocki, Skokie Library,
. MacFerron from Sara Jenlink, Scene of the Crime,
. Eddie from Gale Borgen, Love is Murder,
. Frankie from Jonathan Quist, Palatine Library,
. Rocky from Gloria Katz, Schaumburg Book Club,
. Maury from Mark Jacob, Writer’s Institute,
. Stout, Socially Inept, Earnest from Betty Mishkin, Checker Rd. Book Club,
. Beautiful Older Woman with Lots of Life Experience, Grey Hair, Nice Figure from Laraine Johnson, Indian Trails Library
Window of Guilt
A Mitzy Maven/Maggie O’Connor Mystery
By Jennie Spallone
1
The lanky youth stumbled on blistered feet through the pebbled landscape. His sunburned forehead and arms revealed the scorching sun as his sole companion. As he staggered along the sandy trail, he fingered a crumpled Greyhound ticket receipt and a worn paper napkin containing two addresses printed in kindergarten script.
An energetic lake breeze failed to muzzle the sun’s high-noon intensity. Sweat zigzagged down the young man’s back like a football player breaking for a touchdown. Wincing, the stranger stopped to shake tiny gray stones from his dusty sandals.
Nearing his destination, he eyed the hodgepodge of houses to his left. Some were English Tudor, others modern monstrosities with floor-to-ceiling windows stripping away the illusion of privacy so coveted by the upper class.
Strips of modest-sized homes flanked by withered grass sat sandwiched between structural giants. Through glassy eyes, he confirmed the top address on his napkin matched the country mailbox of a simple white frame house set back on a corner lot. Like the other summer homes in its midst, the corner property sat naked of fence and gate.
The young man unscrewed the cap of his army canteen and thirstily ran his tongue around its circumference. Not a drop of liquid remained. He fumbled through his pants’ pocket for a mint. A lone peanut salvaged from the dusty road was his jaw’s only solace.
In a frenetic burst of energy, the youth sprinted toward the corner lot. A fluffy white dog the size of a bed pillow yapped at the far end of the yard. Shielding his eyes from the blazing sun, he gazed at the tiny white house, dwarfed by its scorched acreage.
Head down, the diminutive white dog slunk towards him. Its warning growl tweaked the silence. The young man tossed the nutshell past the dog’s head. As the miniature creature raced towards the perceived treat, the youth dashed across the treeless yard. Suddenly, he grabbed his throat. Panic engulfed his facial features.
The curtained kitchen window sat in full view as the young man gasped his last breath. Before losing consciousness, his eyes locked upon the small white animal lounging on a grassy area a few feet away, the nutshell stuck to his whiskers.
*
Laurie Atkins burrowed her hoe into the garden bed, and then swiped at her perspiring brow. She’d been working outside in the blistering sun since Ryan had high-tailed it off to the lake three hours ago. It was crazy, her being outside for such an extended period while the air-conditioner fans droned her name in the distance. But this morning’s argument with her husband had so incensed her that she needed to work off the fuel that burned deep within.
Swiping at the sweat running down the bridge of her nose, Laurie surveyed the drooping tomato plants that, despite the town’s ban on watering, she’d so diligently attempted to resuscitate. Even though gardening was definitely absent from her DNA strand, she was committed to giving it a run for the money.
In recent years, Laurie and her husband had continued her parents’ tradition of driving up to Oconomowoc’s lakeside community in an effort to escape Chicago’s most sweltering month of the year. This summer, she’d vowed to plant a single fruit tree in the backyard of their summer home to commemorate her father’s recent passing. Wisconsin’s record high August temperatures had scorched that vow.
With a sigh, Laurie visualized the flowered landscape that might have been had her renters bothered to water the garden throughout the year. But by the end of May, Shakia and her roommate had graduated college and returned home to the Chicago area, abandoning Laurie’s plants and flowers to nature’s capricious design.
Lightheaded, the thirsty gardener clicked the hose for a drink. Not even a trickle of water emerged. She glanced at the two water bottles that ha
d kept her company through the morning hours. Nary a drop of liquid remained. Her throat felt like sandpaper.
Peering up at the sky, she noticed the sun directly overhead. Even an urban cowgirl like her knew when it was time to fold up and walk away. Besides, no yogurt had passed her lips this morning and she was starting to feel lightheaded.
Laurie was collecting her gardening tools when the sound of her dog’s sharp barks drew her attention to the front yard.
“Hold on, Rocky. Mommy’s coming,” Laurie shouted, wiping her brow as she ambled across the rotted acreage. Her Bichon was circling in a frenzy. “If you found a dead squirrel, don’t go near it!”
The sight she came upon confounded her. An emaciated young man in a sweat-soaked yellow jersey and blue jeans lay prone on the withered grass, his head lolled to one side.
Laurie nudged the man with her foot. She pinched her nostrils at the rank smell emanating from his motionless body.
Laurie’s eyes darted toward the road flanking Lac La Belle. The landscapers often took their siestas on Laurie’s front lawn during their weekly visit, but their truck had already been out this week.
Where was her husband when she needed him? Earlier this morning, she’d been studying for the third retake of her real estate exam when he had picked a money argument with her. Soon after, he’d stalked off to the lake.
The seagulls’ screeches pierced the stillness.
Laurie held Rocky under one arm and warily poked the horizontal figure’s yellow jersey. “I’m talking to you.” The young man refused to acknowledge her presence. Perhaps he was a vagrant, or a college kid selling magazine subscriptions. Privacy was rapidly becoming a rare commodity in this neck of the woods.
Holding her nose, she knelt beside the man and lightly pressed his wrist, then the side of his neck. Shit! Her heart was pounding like a classic rock singer on acid. “This isn’t happening.” Laurie felt in her shorts pocket. She’d left her cell phone inside the house.
Praying the young man didn’t have a communicable disease, Laura pinched his nose and breathed three quick breaths into his mouth. Then she started CPR. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Breath. Breath. Breath. Outside, the hot, sticky air clung to her like a cloak. Her heart pounding like a furnace, she willed herself to stay on task. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. Breath. Breath. Breath. After five minutes without progress, a wave of nausea hit.
Laurie jumped to her feet. “Fire!” she screeched. That word, alone, should produce an immediate response. Then she laughed giddily. Up here, their nearest neighbors were a half acre away.
Laurie’s breathing came fast and shallow now. Heat exhaustion coupled with shock at finding a young person dead on her front lawn jumbled her depleted brain cells. Check for water. Her fingers clumsily unscrewed the young man’s canteen. Empty. Feverishly, she observed her dog licking the young man’s hand.
Call nine-one-one. Like a drunk staggering home from an all-night party, Laurie weaved across the vast acreage and stumbled up the porch stairs. Rocky nipped at her shorts. She slammed the screen door on him.
Once inside the house, Laurie collapsed on the cool kitchen floor. Refusing to acknowledge her dehydration, she scanned the kitchen for a telephone. No cell phone.
Then she eyed the telephone unit hanging on the wall adjacent to the pantry. The one in a million times she’d actually replaced the cordless in its receiver. She crawled across the white tiled floor and reached for the phone. The telephone unit crashed to the floor, grazing her right temple on its descent. Her eyes closed. Rocky’s whimpering echoed through her ears. Darkness.
2
Laurie came to with a start, her head jutting against her Bichon’s water bowl. She propped herself up on one elbow. Strands of wet hair dribbled droplets down her back. Her forehead pounded as she glimpsed the fallen telephone unit. What the heck had happened?
“Ryan?” she called through the house. No reply. The sound of Rocky scratching at the porch door echoed in her ears. Thank goodness for the invisible fence Ryan installed last summer. Otherwise their pup would be long gone.
Her lips felt cracked and dry. She arose unsteadily and made her way to the kitchen sink. Then she cupped her hands beneath the faucet and brought the cool liquid to her parched mouth. Clinging to the counter, she gazed at light rays playing hide and seek across the sun-drenched kitchen walls.
Swinging open the porch door, Laurie stared across the wide expanse of yard. Rocky had run to the far end and was circling something in the distance. Her stomach felt queasy. Flashbacks of pressing her mouth to the pasty lips of a dead person. Fumbling to phone the police. Passing out on the kitchen floor.
A rush of adrenalin coursed through her. Laurie ran to the hall closet. With trembling hands, she extracted the cell phone from her purse, and then dialed nine-one-one. She pushed through the screen door and lumbered across the front lawn, her dog yapping in the background.
“Nine-one-one.”
“There’s a dead body on my property,” she screeched.
“Are you alone, ma’am?”
“Uh huh.”
“We’re sending an officer right over.”
“My address is…”
“Your phone number matches our records. Am I speaking to Shakia Williams?”
She paused, momentarily stymied. “This is Laurie Atkins. Please come fast.”
“We’re on our way, ma’am Can you tell me what happened?”
Laurie didn’t recall ever loaning her cell phone to her renter. She reached the spot where Rocky was sniffing. Steeling herself for the worst, she looked down at the burnt grass.
“Thank you God!” she bellowed into the telephone.
“Ms. Atkins? Are you still there?”
Only a peanut shell and a dead squirrel lay on the spot her dog was circling.
“Sorry. I made a mistake.”
“Just hold tight, ma’am. An officer will…”
“Don’t you understand?” Laurie screamed into the telephone. “There is no dead person.”
Dizzy with relief, she clicked off her cell phone. “Get away from there, Rocky! That squirrel might have rabies.”
She dashed to the garage for a plastic bag to wrap the squirrel in. Hm. The wheelbarrow, usually stored beside the snow-blower, was now flanked by the recycling bin. Shakia must have moved it. Laurie was scooping the dead squirrel into the trash can when a police car pulled up.
An unexpected shiver ran through Laurie’s chest as a police officer of medium build walked up the driveway. “You can walk on the grass, whatever’s left of it,” she called to the woman. Even in Laurie’s distracted state, she noticed the officer’s trim, muscular body. When she and her family returned home to Chicago, Laurie was definitely resuming yoga class with her friend Mitzy.
“Hello, ma’am”
“I told them you didn’t have to come.” Laurie eyed the buxom officer’s badge. Gomez.
The officer glanced down at her pocket notebook. “You Mrs. Atkins?”
Laurie nodded. The darker woman’s thick mascara and eyeliner appeared smudgy in this ninety-degree plus inferno.
“We received a cell phone call from this address concerning a dead body on the property. You the person who made that call?”
“Yes, but I was wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“It was just a dead squirrel.”
The officer tapped her pencil against her forehead. “You’re a little old to be pranking the police department, don’t you think?”
“It was no joke, officer. I was suffering from heat exhaustion. I hallucinated seeing a dead person. Everybody makes mistakes.”
“We’re a volunteer police department, ma’am,” said the officer, leaning on one foot. “We share shifts with the state police. We don’t appreciate being called out on false alarms.”
“I told the dispatcher not to send an officer.”
“What did the dead person in your so-called hallucination look like?”
“He was a twenty-somet
hing, lanky young man with long greasy hair wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless yellow jersey with ‘TG’ and the number ‘7’ printed on the front.”
“Sure doesn’t sound like a hallucination to me.”
“I didn’t think so either, officer, but when I came to after fainting on the kitchen floor, all that was out here was a dead squirrel. And since dead bodies don’t usually get up and walk away, I attribute my vision to heat stroke.”
“Actually, your description fits that of a vagrant spotted in this area earlier this afternoon,” said the officer.
Laurie’s heart pounded in her chest. “Where was he seen?”
“Near Camp Briarwood.”
“My son goes there,” Laurie said, her voice panicked. “Is this guy dangerous?”
Officer Gomez threw up her hands as if to ward off further questions. “No criminal act has occurred. We’re just taking precautions.”
“By the way, how did you connect my cell phone to this address? I didn’t sign up for that service.”
The officer consulted her notes. “The cell phone number belongs to Shakia Williams.”
“She rented this house from me during the school year. Strange she’d register my cell phone number instead of her own.”
“Did your renter leave under amicable circumstances?”
Laurie nodded. “She finished graduate school and took a teaching job back in Chicago.”
“Shakia the only person living in the house?”
“She had a roommate.” Laurie chose not to mention the girl’s boyfriend.
The officer screwed the cap on her pen and shoved it into her shirt pocket. “No crime has been committed with the cell phone. Talk with your renter about the police registration. Once that issue’s resolved, you’ll want to re-register your phone number in your own name. Meanwhile, if you do spot the vagrant on your property, give us a call.”
“Why wasn’t this guy picked up for questioning?” Laurie asked, walking the police officer back to her patrol car.
“He’s no longer in the immediate area.”
Prickles of recognition dotted Laurie’s consciousness, yet she failed to identify their source. “Was he armed?” Laurie asked, her stomach cramping.
Window of Guilt Page 1
