Dead Silent (A Jettine Jorgensen Mystery, Book 1)

by S. L. Menear

  Dead Silent

  A Jettine Jorgensen Mystery, Book 1

  S. L. Menear

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2021 by S.L. Menear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-191-0

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Before You Go…

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Dropped Dead

  Also by S.L. Menear

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Niko and Meliodora Bujaj,

  Owners of The Island Grill and Tiki Bar,

  The finest restaurant in Palm Beach County.

  One

  Rain pelts my castle.

  Its mighty towers stand firm,

  while the grey stones weep.

  A strange sense of foreboding prickled my skin as my journey home had almost reached an end. Luxury International Airlines Flight 1167 skirted the east coast of South Florida on its final approach to Palm Beach International Airport. A pang of mixed emotions jabbed my heart when I gazed out a passenger window and spotted my family’s ancestral home on Banyan Isle, visible between rain clouds.

  Shaped like a wide crescent moon, the quaint residential island extended a mere six miles north to south and a mile and a half east to west. Giant banyan trees with their multiple trunks looked like small forests and covered the island everywhere except the beach. My family’s century-old castle stood on a six-acre lot fronting the ocean at the northeast end of the island.

  Named Valhalla, its turrets jutted high above the broad branches that hid much of the island from an aerial view. The stone mansion had been built by my Danish ancestor as a tribute to his Viking heritage. The Norse theme had seemed out of place for my late mother, a Cherokee shaman, but she loved it. Tall and slender with golden skin, high cheekbones, long black hair, and golden eyes, Atsila could have passed for royalty in any culture. I was fortunate to resemble her, except I had my late father’s electric-blue eyes.

  My flight pulled into the gate at PBI, and I grabbed my wheeled carry-on the instant the seatbelt sign blinked off. After having worn a Navy officer’s uniform for six years, I relished looking feminine again in a flowery sundress. A little unsteady in my new stiletto sandals, I exited the jetway and strolled to the arrivals area.

  Gwen Stuart, my best friend since childhood, pulled up in her white Mercedes roadster, honked the horn, and waved. She rolled down the passenger window. “Hey, Jett!”

  I tossed my bag in the trunk and slid onto the passenger seat. “Hi, Gwen. It’s good to see you. Still driving the bait car, huh?”

  “Yeah, but so far, no bites from the killer carjacker.” She grinned. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

  “Jetlagged, but happy to be home.” I leaned over and hugged her. “I have a month to chill out and make some big decisions.”

  “Good. We’ll have loads of fun, and I’ll help you figure out your future.” She pulled into traffic and took the airport exit to I-95 North. “Any updates on your love life?”

  “A total disaster. I needed this time off, and it took the better part of two days and several flights just to get here from Afghanistan.”

  “Wow, you must be knackered.” Gwen changed lanes to avoid big trucks spraying road water from heavy afternoon showers.

  I admired her thick red hair. “Your hair’s a lot longer now. I like it.”

  “Thanks, I have to pull it back when I’m in uniform, but I’ll be promoted to detective soon. Then I can wear civilian clothes.”

  “Congratulations, and I understand about your hair. I have to put mine in a bun whenever I’m in my Navy uniform. That’ll change if I decide not to re-enlist.”

  We chatted like we’d never been apart as we zipped up the expressway and exited east through Palm Beach Gardens toward the Intracoastal Waterway. A few minutes later, we drove over the tall Banyan Isle bridge. I enjoyed looking out over upscale middle-class homes, condos, and shops, all in pastel colors, covering most of the island. They were four stories or less to preserve the small-town atmosphere.

  Our brief drive to the east side of the island took us past the Banyan Harbor Inn on the southern curve. Inlets to the Atlantic Ocean separated the island from Singer Island to the south and from Juno Beach to the north. We made a left onto Ocean Drive and passed a beachfront hotel, a public beach, several pastel condo buildings, and the six southernmost mansions that had been converted to luxury condos.

  Continuing north, we drove past several mansions built over a hundred years ago by industrialists from New York and Boston. At the northern end of the island, I clicked the remote gate control, and we turned in between tall stone pillars onto a tree-lined drive.

  The gray stone castle, no longer warm and inviting, wept with cool, rainy tears. I bit my lower lip and reminded myself of all the wonderful family memories it held. Everything would be all right if I could just get through the first few days. Thank God I had Gwen to ease the loneliness.

  “Let’s leave your bag in the trunk until the rain stops.” She held a large umbrella over us as we navigated through a typical afternoon downpour to the huge oak entrance door. “Too bad your ancestor failed to include a porte cochère when he built this Nordic stronghold.”

  Heavy raindrops hammered the puddles, splashing my open-toed shoes and lower legs with tepid water. “And stubborn Jorgensen descendants would rather get drenched than al
ter their patriarch’s grand design.”

  “Typical Vikings,” she joked. “Except you, of course.”

  We rushed up stone steps and ducked inside. I closed the heavy door behind us with a firm thud.

  An only child like Gwen, I missed having my parents there to welcome me. I knew she was the one person who understood how I felt because she, too, had lost her parents.

  I punched the code into the security panel and noted the normal indications. As I crossed the spacious foyer, I caught a whiff of perfume and froze. Had I imagined it? It wasn’t Gwen’s or mine. It reminded me of my mother’s favorite fragrance. The weird thing was my mother had not been in the house since she perished in a plane crash with my father two years ago. The house had stood empty, yet the fragrance seemed real.

  Gwen noticed my hesitation and stopped in front of one of the ten-foot winged Valkyries flanking twin marble staircases that ascended the two-story foyer.

  A brief image of Valkyries escorting my parents to mythic Valhalla flashed through my mind. The fragrance I’d noticed seconds ago wafted past me again, jolting me back to reality.

  “You okay, Jett? You haven’t been home since the funerals. Would you like to spend a few nights next door at my place?”

  My stomach churned. “Something’s wrong.”

  She stared at me. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Goosebumps erupted on my arms as I glanced around the dark foyer. Lightning flashed, and something on the white marble floor glinted.

  I gasped and dropped to one knee, tracing the moist marks with my fingertip.

  Wet footprints, barely visible, glistened in the gray light cast by floor-to-ceiling windows and continued to the left staircase. Two sets, one from a man’s shoes and the other from a woman’s high heels.

  Shoes like my parents had worn.

  Thunder boomed, and I shivered as I pointed at the footprints. “My parents‍—”

  Gwen’s jaw dropped when she spotted the faint trail leading upstairs. “No, it can’t be.”

  “But‍—”

  She interrupted, “Listen, I know your mom was a shaman, but that doesn’t mean your parents’ spirits have returned. And ghosts don’t leave footprints.”

  I pointed at the electronic panel. “The security system is on, and the only way to enter without triggering an alarm is with the key and the code, so who‍—” I inhaled through my nose. “Is that cigar smoke? It smells a lot like Dad’s favorite brand.” My mouth went dry.

  She tilted her head, her long hair billowing in a light breeze that drifted down the staircase. “The odor seems to come from the second floor.” She drew her police-issued Glock 40 from under her blazer. “Ghosts don’t smoke.”

  I gazed up the left staircase and whispered, “It can’t be relatives. They’d know Mom never allowed smoking inside the house.”

  The wet footprints were lost in the rich jewel tones of the Axminster carpet runner that ran the length of the staircase. Shiny brass stair rods held each section in place.

  Gwen squeezed my shoulder. “Nobody you know would dare smoke here.” She transformed into her cop persona as she started up the steps. “Stay behind me.”

  I passed a life-sized painting of my mother dressed in buckskin and flanked by timber wolves. Atsila held open flames in her outstretched hands, and her golden eyes seemed to follow me up the stairs.

  We stopped at the second floor and followed the odor into the long, north hallway. Vivid portraits of Viking ancestors lined the fifteen-foot alabaster walls, their fierce gazes fueling my apprehension.

  The oak floor creaked, and I froze.

  Gwen hesitated. “Did you hear that? Sounded like a groan.”

  “Could be the storm.” A humid breeze twirled my waist-length hair. “The cigar smoke is coming from that guest room.” I pointed at an open door on the ocean side of the house.

  We crept closer.

  She grabbed my elbow. “Wait here.”

  “But‍—”

  She gave me a stern cop’s look.

  I hung back a few moments, then followed her anyway. After all, I had survived three deadly terrorist attacks on the base in Afghanistan. My job normally involved gathering intelligence for SEAL missions, but I could handle myself in combat. How dare someone invade my family’s home?

  Gwen eased up to the door and peered inside. A brisk wind lifted her hair. She held her fingers to her lips and pointed.

  I eased closer and peeked over her shoulder. Sheer blue curtains billowed in a fresh ocean breeze flowing through the open balcony door. A cigar smoldered in a crystal dish on the mahogany nightstand beside a whisky bottle and two glasses.

  As I followed her inside, I caught another whiff of perfume. Goosebumps prickled my skin again. I peered at the king-size, four-poster bed with a royal-blue satin bedspread and a matching, satin-covered canopy. “Is that a man’s shoe sticking out from under the bed skirt?”

  “Yep, he must’ve undressed and kicked his shoes under the bed. I’ll check the bathroom.” She moved to the inner door and peeked inside. “Nobody there.” She turned to me. “I’ll search the closet while you check the shoe. Maybe it belongs to your uncle.”

  I eased up to the massive mahogany bed, leaned down, lifted the leather loafer, shrieked, and jerked my hand away like I’d touched a tarantula. “The shoe has a foot in it!”

  Not the best reaction from a Navy Intelligence officer, but I was exhausted.

  Gwen rushed over. She dropped to her knees and lifted the satin bed skirt.

  “Not just a foot‍—there’s a body under here.” She paused. “Make that two bodies. A woman is lying beside him.”

  Two

  “Two bodies! How could this happen here?” My gut churned.

  Gwen holstered her weapon, crawled to the head of the bed, lifted the blue fabric, and reached underneath to check the man’s neck for a pulse. “Still warm, but he’s dead.”

  “Oh my God!” a squeaky voice shrieked.

  Gwen glanced up at me. “Who was that, Jett?”

  “Get me out of here!” A woman wriggled out from under the other side of the bed. Wide-eyed, she stood on wobbly legs. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  My four-inch stilettos raised me above six feet. I towered over the short blonde and crossed my arms. “Who are you, and how’d you get into my house?”

  The blonde stared at me and took a step back, bumping into a mahogany armchair with dark-leather cushioning. “She called you Jett. You must be Victor and Atsila Jorgensen’s daughter. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, but why are you here?” I pointed at the bed. “And who’s the dead guy?”

  Gwen stood and looked over at the woman. “Brenda? What the heck?”

  “Is he really dead?”

  My cheeks burned as I clenched my fists. “Gwen, do you know this woman?”

  A nod. “She’s Brenda Carrigan‍—owns Treasure Chest Antiques on Main Street.”

  I sucked in a breath. “What were you doing, checking out my family’s antiques?”

  “Of course not, but if you ever wanted to sell‍—”

  “Unbelievable.” I shook my head. “Now, about the guy under the bed‍—”

  Gwen kept her eyes on Brenda. “I checked his face with my cell phone light. It’s Phil Peabody, Mayor of Banyan Isle, and he’s definitely dead.” She thrust her hands on her hips. “All right, Brenda, why were you hiding under the bed with the body?”

  She gasped and slumped into one of the armchairs by the balcony door. “It’s not what it looks like.” Her voice panicky, she whimpered, “Phil and I were watching the rain while he smoked a cigar. He wanted some Scotch, so we circled the bed to the nightstand. He’d just taken his first drink when we heard you coming up the stairs. We thought the closet would be the first place you’d look, so we slid under the bed. Phil was alive when he scooted in beside me.”

  Gwen’s tone darkened. “This looks like murder‍—probably cyanide poisoning. The mayor’s lips
are blue with foaming at his nose and mouth and a strong scent of almonds.”

  Brenda’s taut, middle-aged face paled as she sputtered, “What? Poison? No. Must be a heart attack. Unless . . .” She stared at the whisky bottle. “Oh my‍—someone tried to kill me too. If I’d taken a drink of that Scotch . . . Did his wife find out about us? Or maybe my husband‍—he’s got an Irish temper.” She leaped up. “I have to get out of here!”

  “Not so fast, Brenda.” Gwen pulled out her cell. “I have to notify the police.”

  “No, don’t do that!” she shrieked.

  As Brenda, a member of the More-Botox-is-Better Club, sped through a wide range of emotions, I marveled that her face remained frozen in a neutral expression.

  Gwen unlocked her cell phone.

  “Wait! Please don’t call the police,” Brenda pleaded. “This’ll be a huge scandal.”

  “And thanks to you, my family’s good name will be right in the middle of it.”

  Gwen dialed 9-1-1 and spoke into her cell, “This is Palm Beach Police Officer Gwen Stuart reporting a possible murder at One Ocean Drive on Banyan Isle. Be advised I’m armed and inside the home with the homeowner. We found a body and a suspect. I’ll brief the local police when they arrive.”

  I glared at Brenda. “It’s obvious why you were here, but you still haven’t explained how you got into my house.”