Three May Keep a Secret (An Endurance Mystery)

by Susan Van Kirk

  THREE MAY KEEP A SECRET

  AN ENDURANCE MYSTERY

  THREE MAY KEEP

  A SECRET

  SUSAN VAN KIRK

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  * * *

  Copyright © 2014 by Susan Van Kirk.

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  * * *

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Van Kirk, Susan, 1946–

  Three may keep a secret / Susan Van Kirk.

  pages cm. — (An Endurance mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-4328-2968-1 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-2968-8 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4328-2977-3 (ebook) — ISBN 1-4328-2977-7 (ebook)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2977-3 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2977-7

  1. Murder—Fiction. 2. Mystery fiction. I. Title.

  PS3622.A5854938T48 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014025068

  * * *

  First Edition. First Printing: November 2014

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2977-3 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2977-7

  Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at FiveStar@cengage.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 18 17 16 15 14

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  No one ever writes a first novel without the help and cheerleading of friends and colleagues. I would like to thank the following experts who helped me with many factual questions about the jobs they do: Suzy Owens, Ames, Iowa, police detective; Bill Feithen, Monmouth Police Chief; John Cratty, former Monmouth Fire Chief; Bill Underwood, Warren County Coroner; and Becky Tracy Whitemore, graphic artist, for her invaluable technical help.

  Also, I must thank the sharp eyes, ears, and brains of my “first-responder” readers: Susan, Lisa, and Hallie. Finally, I owe a debt of thanks to Lourdes Venard, my faithful first editor. She helped guide me through the intricacies of editing with expertise and professionalism.

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  Wednesday, November 26, 1975

  She never saw her death coming.

  Like a filmy silk scarf falling through the air in slow motion—gliding, twisting, turning—the whiff of smoke floated silently into her thoughts. Her unconscious mind struggled to remember where she was . . . a bonfire making s’mores with her Girl Scout friends . . . a fire on the lakeshore with Roger . . . a failed attempt at smoking in college . . . college . . .

  She coughed abruptly and felt as if she were inhaling feathers. Or dust. Or—smoke. It was hard to get her breath in. Her nose smelled an acrid, heavy odor. She couldn’t see, couldn’t get her eyes open. Finally, her eyelashes fluttered, unstuck, and immediately her eyes stung. Darkness. Thickness. A feeling of suffocation. She tried to clear her throat, not to panic, to force some air in and out. Suffocating. No sound.

  I have to get out. Adrenaline kicked in. She dragged herself to the edge of the bed and rolled off, falling hard onto a small rug. Her feet battered on college textbooks she’d abandoned on the floor. Her fall expelled more air from her lungs. She inched on her stomach across the floorboards, trying to take in tiny, rasping breaths. The throw rug slid along with her as she pressed her way under the thick, strangling smoke. Her legs were shaking. Where was the door? Which way was her desk, her chair? She tried to relax her throat, to swallow, to choke in some air. She couldn’t scream or call for help because her voice wouldn’t work. Her fingernails helped her inch across the bare floorboards until they touched a wall. Or was it the door? She squeezed her eyes and opened them a sliver, and saw a small opening between the wall and the floor—a door. She slid her hands into the space and tried to move it—a little sideways give. The closet. It was the sliding door to her closet. Maybe inside. If she could get inside and breathe some air she could think, get her bearings.

  Another surge of smoke washed over her in the darkness and it felt like a layer of smothering waves. I can’t do this. How am I ever . . . No. Find the bedroom door, the way out. It had to be to her left, past the desk and the chair and the lamp cord. Her lungs panted in quick, short breaths. She twisted around, still trying to draw in what little oxygen was near the floor. A light through the darkness, a thin, grotesquely colored line. Red. She crawled toward the light—the door that must lead to the stairwell. She was gasping again and her eyes were slivers of pain. She pushed herself the last few inches and wrapped her fingers up through the slit of light under the door. It scorched her hands and she yanked them away, silently screaming. Her heart beat rapidly as she tried to take in short breaths.

  Regroup. The window. She pressed her way to the left, toward the south side of her room. Not to panic. Calm. Don’t get flustered. Feel your way. Blood was rushing to her head and she was covered in sweat. Her muscles were tense and her heart was pounding. This is so hard. I can’t. I can’t. She gasped again, her lungs on fire, and tried to take a breath but couldn’t. She covered her mouth to ward off the smoke. Nothing came into her dry throat but a velvet coating. I can’t.

  And then she gave up. Exhaled. Shut down. Silence. Darkness.

  CHAPTER ONE:

  GRACE

  * * *

  Wednesday, June 15, 2011

  “Time to celebrate! Second retirement in our venerable and seasoned group. Here’s to you, Grace,” and Jill Cunningham raised her wine glass high and pointed toward the guest of honor. Grace, TJ, and Deb followed suit and clinked their glasses. “We oughta go out again tonight for margaritas. Anybody in?”

  “Depends,” Grace said, eyeing Jill. “By ‘seasoned’ do you mean ‘spicy’ or ‘old’?”

  She glanced at the women around the table—TJ Sweeney, Deb O’Hara, and Jill Cunningham. In this perfect summer setting with her friends, the dream that had kept her up half the night—the one about the terrible fire—seemed benign. She released her held-in breath and felt her muscles relax.

  It was a perfect day in Endurance, Illinois, where Grace Kim-ball had lived among 15,000 souls since her arrival as a newlywed years ago. At noon on the Endurance Public Square, the sun was shining and the temperature was in the low 70s. The square, the center of town with surrounding businesses and shops, was more a circle than a square. No one knew the official rules for driving around it, so defensive driving was the local custom. This was particularly true since Danny Walker, after a few beers at Patsy’s Pub, decided to cruise the square multiple times in the wrong direction and too
k out a fire hydrant and two signs for the Little People’s Daycare Center and Bert’s Collision Shop (“You Scratch It, We Patch It”). The only thing Danny missed was the neon “Open” sign for the Homestretch Funeral Home, but the hazy memory of seeing it go past several times undoubtedly contributed to his contrition once he sobered up.

  The square was decked out for Flag Day with five huge flags billowing in the breeze. An ancient fountain, part of Endurance’s history, gurgled in an endless stream of water that flowed from one platform to the next. Nearby, maple trees and ornamental bushes surrounded four wooden benches, and a plastic sign—stretched between two poles—announced the goal for the Red Cross fund and displayed a giant thermometer whose painted mercury rose toward its goal in shades of varying red increments.

  Up and down the streets, summer had finally returned after the long, snowy, gray-skied Illinois winter. Even the air smelled clean and revived. The library windows were decked out with children’s artwork and announcements about the summer reading program. Across the street Gimble’s Paint and Wallpaper Store announced a 30% off Summer Extravaganza Sale, its sidewalk tables stacked with boxes of wallpaper borders and overstocked rolls. A deluge of summer annuals spilled out of huge pots that lined the walkways. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that summer was finally here and school was out.

  Off to the south of the square, on a small side alley, sat round umbrella tables with matching chairs for the first café of the summer. Nearby, a temporary wooden platform with a microphone and a row of chairs waited at attention. Artistically draped red, white, and blue bunting hung around the platform, and a city worker busily taped down the microphone cable, hoping to keep the town’s liability insurance intact. Scattered throughout the alley, in smaller circles bordered by red bricks, were groups of white and yellow daisies. People milled around, quietly talked in small groups, and waited to hear the mayor’s annual address.

  “How’d the last few days go at school?” asked Deb. “Kids treat you well? Glad to be done with them? I know how they used to treat me in the junior high office. Better to retire to the Historical Society and volunteer than to keep dealing with the militant parents storming the front doors.” She thought for a moment and then giggled. “By now they probably arrive in tanks.”

  Grace laughed too and then she looked away from her friends. “Actually, I still tear up a bit. Several teacher friends stopped by my room to say goodbye. Suddenly, it was the last day of school and I hugged the kids and the next day it was over. Twenty-five years at Endurance High School. Done. Just like that. Like I said, don’t get me started or I’ll cry again.” She reached for some salsa, avoiding their eyes.

  TJ glanced up at Grace. “Give yourself some time, Grace. After the same schedule for all those teacher years you need to take some time to get your act together.”

  Jill tried a tactical change of subject. “Grace, why don’t you consider volunteering a few hours a week at the Historical Society like Deb?”

  Grace’s anxiety eased and she gave them a playful grin. “Deb, Jill—and everyone else with plans for my life—I know you have the best intentions, keeping me busy and all, but—”

  Before Grace could finish, a young waitress shuffled to their table and placed a salad in front of each of them. Grace noted her face as she leaned over, depositing dishes. Another one she remembered. Lacey Lancing. Probably about twenty-three. Has two kids and is married to a guy who works for the Department of Transportation. Terrible speller. Did her research paper on whether the Loch Ness Monster—spelled “Lock Nest Monstir”—could be related to Big Foot.

  Shaking that cobweb out of her head, Grace recalled their retirement discussion. She asked casually, “TJ, you’re a detective so you solve mysteries. Any job you want me to do at the police department? Everyone else is trying to put me to work.”

  “Let me give that some thought. I don’t doubt you could pass the police exam, but I’d tremble in my boots to see a gun in your hand, Grace. Besides, you’d probably correct their grammar instead of reading them their rights before you cuffed them.”

  “Ladies, ladies, we’re forgetting the subject.” Jill, her squiggly red hair bouncing, along with her animated face, always drew them back into focus. “I think we need a little project for the summer, an entirely new plan so we can keep Grace from becoming bored. TJ, want to add any ideas? Maybe something without a gun involved?”

  Grace quickly jumped in. “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here, please. Actually I’m going to write a novel. I won’t have time for any of your schemes. And, by the way, Jill, I’m launching a preemptive strike: You may run two miles a morning, but before you get any ideas, don’t figure I’m going to join in.”

  Deb put her hand up and whispered, “Shh. Mayor’s starting to talk.”

  Fifteen minutes later Mayor Blandford wound down his usual rambling, patriotic speech about their noble history. His bald head was getting shinier and a faint trace of sweat ringed his shirt collar as he stretched his rotund, five-foot, five-inch frame to meet the microphone clutched in his pudgy hands.

  “And so, my fellow citizens, after that first harrowing winter, when so many of our glorious ancestors died, the remaining band of hardy Scotch Presbyterians survived and named our illustrious town ‘Endurance.’ ” He jabbed a finger in the air for emphasis.

  Jill leaned toward her friends and whispered, “And to this day we have endured Mayor Blandford’s blather as he babbles on for fifteen minutes at our Flag Day luncheon. By the way, I could use that Scotch he mentioned.”

  “Shh,” cautioned Deb, but suppressing a giggle.

  “And now it’s on to our septaquintaques—ah—septequis—ah, okay, wait a minute while I stop and think about this darn word.” The mayor glanced down at his notes, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his lips moving silently, and his demeanor impatient. “All right, folks. I think I got it. And now it’s on to our septa-quinta-quin-que-centennial celebration.” His face beamed.

  “Is that a word, Grace?” asked Jill.

  “Not a clue.”

  “On July 30, 1836,” declared Mayor Blandford, his pace picking up with words he could actually pronounce, “our fair city was recognized by the territorial government exactly one hundred seventy-five years ago this summer. So we will soon be celebrating our town’s septaquisicalquin—geez. Sesquecetinen—” He took a deep breath, removed his reading glasses, and put down his notes. Exasperated, he trudged on. “Anyway, folks, it’s our anniversary and we’re gonna do it up big. So we’ll need some volunteers to be on the various committees to plan and execute this solemn endeavor. My administrative assistant, Tilly Thompson, is right over here.” He pointed to his left at a matronly, silver-haired lady with an enormous red, white, and blue hat. She was holding a large clipboard and standing at attention next to a nearby table. “She’ll come around and take your names and what you’d like to do. Let’s make this work, people. And happy Flag Day!”

  Applause sputtered, and Grace studied the expressions of her three friends who were giving her appraising glances.

  Jill rubbed her hands together and blurted, “That’s it! This project has landed in our laps. Come on, we can do this. It would be a great summer diversion. I’ll sign us all up.”

  “Wait a minute. I protest! No volunteering me,” Grace objected.

  They were interrupted by the syrupy tones of Tilly Thompson, hat on head, clipboard in hand, patiently waiting and scanning the area for volunteers. “Ladies, would you like to help with the town’s one hundred seventh-fifth? We have lots of committees—food, decorations, souvenir T-shirts, a parade, entertainment, flea circus, a real shootout and bank robbery, and period costumes. Any takers?”

  “Sure,” said Deb. “Put us all down for whatever you need.”

  “Especially Grace. She’s retired.”

  “Just don’t let her do the shootout.”

  Grace sputtered, “Now wait a—”

  “That will be wonderful,” chirpe
d Tilly as if they had saved her life. “I’ll get in touch with you when I’m all done and I can plug you into places we need help. Meanwhile, I’ll scribble your names down.” And she did just that with a pen made of a red, white, and blue feather. Then she stalked off in search of other prey.

  “Thanks a lot!” Grace grumbled.

  Jill countered, “What are friends for? It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

  Suddenly, Deb touched Grace’s arm, shuddered, and said in a shaky voice, “Oh, oh. Don’t look now. Brenda Norris is heading straight toward our table. I hear she has a new editor at the newspaper.”

  The reporter’s unmistakable, ear-splitting voice arrived far ahead of her physical presence. “Afternoon, girls,” Brenda announced, and she stopped a foot from Grace and Jill. As Grace turned, she saw skinny-legged jeans and a threadbare, tight T-shirt that left little to the imagination. Glancing up, she noted Brenda’s thin-lipped smile and calculating eyes. The reporter stuck a pencil back in her hair and looked up at Grace as if she’d suddenly remembered something. “Hey, I hear you’ve retired, Grace. Good for you! They’ll have a hard time finding someone to take your place.”

  Grace wondered if she really meant that or if she was being sarcastic.

  “Well, you know what I mean. They’ll never be able to find someone as good as you. That old sleazebag, John Hardy. He’s the worst principal I’ve ever tried to interview. Totally uncooperative, and when I mentioned ‘Freedom of Information Act,’ he had me escorted off the property by that goon who inhabits the office next to his. He really puts the ‘ass’ in assistant principal.”

  “I imagine they weren’t anticipating a flattering story,” Grace said, her voice quiet, and she became aware of a sudden hush from the tables nearby.