Praise for The Country Club Murders
“A sparkling comedy of errors tucked inside a clever mystery. I loved it!”
– Susan M. Boyer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Lowcountry Book Club
“Readers who enjoy the novels of Susan Isaacs will love this series that blends a strong mystery with the demands of living in an exclusive society.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“From the first page to the last, Julie’s mysteries grab the reader and don’t let up.”
– Sally Berneathy,
USA Today Bestselling Author of The Ex Who Saw a Ghost
“This book is fun! F-U-N Fun!...A delightful pleasure to read. I didn’t want to put it down…Highly recommend.”
– Mysteries, etc.
“Set in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1974, this cozy mystery effectively recreates the era through the details of down-to-earth Ellison’s everyday life.”
– Booklist
“Mulhern’s lively, witty sequel to The Deep End finds Kansas City, Mo., socialite Ellison Russell reluctantly attending a high school football game…Cozy fans will eagerly await Ellison’s further adventures.”
– Publishers Weekly
“There’s no way a lover of suspense could turn this book down because it’s that much fun.”
– Suspense Magazine
“Cleverly written with sharp wit and all the twists and turns of the best ’70s primetime drama, Mulhern nails the fierce fraught mother-daughter relationship, fearlessly tackles what hides behind the Country Club façade, and serves up justice in bombshell fashion. A truly satisfying slightly twisted cozy.”
– Gretchen Archer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Double Knot
“Part mystery, part women’s fiction, part poetry, Mulhern’s debut, The Deep End, will draw you in with the first sentence and entrance you until the last. An engaging whodunit that kept me guessing until the end!”
– Tracy Weber,
Author of the Downward Dog Mysteries
“An impossible-to-put-down Harvey Wallbanger of a mystery. With a smart, funny protagonist who’s learning to own her power as a woman, Send in the Clowns is one boss read.”
– Ellen Byron,
Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Plantation Shudders
“The plot is well-structured and the characters drawn with a deft hand. Setting the story in the mid-1970s is an inspired touch…A fine start to this mystery series, one that is highly recommended.”
– Mysterious Reviews
“What a fun read! Murder in the days before cell phones, the internet, DNA and AFIS.”
– Books for Avid Readers
The Country Club Murders
by Julie Mulhern
Novels
THE DEEP END (#1)
GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)
SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)
WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (#5)
COLD AS ICE (#6)
SHADOW DANCING (#7)
Short Stories
DIAMOND GIRL
A Country Club Murder Short
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Copyright
SHADOW DANCING
The Country Club Murders
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | June 2018
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2018 by Julie Mulhern
Cover art by Stephanie Savage
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-350-1
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-351-8
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-352-5
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-353-2
Printed in the United States of America
To Poppe, Kappus, and Ruth—I miss you!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my wonderful editors at Henery Press, Rachel Jackson and Kendel Lynn, to my agent, Margaret Bail, and to my family. But, most of all, thank you to everyone who reads and loves the Country Club Murders—I am incredibly grateful.
One
February, 1975
Kansas City, Missouri
“You are surrounded by death.”
Oh dear Lord. Libba’s “medium” sat on one side of a small table. I sat on the other. I tugged against her vice-like grip on my hand.
When Libba had said “medium,” I’d imagined a woman in a turban (royal purple or turquoise) and long, flowing robes who was surrounded by the scent of patchouli. Someone who spoke with a foreign accent. The reality was an older woman with a surprisingly strong grip, wispy white hair, creped skin, liver spots, and fire engine red lipstick that had bled into the wrinkles surrounding her mouth. As for that accent—pure Brooklyn.
“You cannot fight your fate.” Madame Reyna stared at my trapped palm through rhinestone-speckled cat glasses as thick as Coke bottles. Those glasses made her eyes appear ten times larger than they actually were. Those eyes, dark and enormous, lent her an otherworldly air completely at odds with our surroundings—a gold brocade living room set covered with plastic slip covers, deep, recently raked shag carpet, macramé wall hangings, and a corduroy chair the size of Maryland. Dust motes waltzed through the half-hearted sunshine peeking through the curtains. The lingering scent of a late breakfast—bacon and fried eggs by the smell of it—hung in the air. Suburbia, not supernatural.
Again I pulled at my hand.
Madame Reyna held on. She leaned forward, peered more closely through her Coke-bottle glasses, and tsked. “So much death.”
I shot Libba a look that should have killed her.
It didn’t.
Instead, she perched on the edge of the plastic-covered couch like a curious robin, immune to my murderous glare.
Madame Reyna tsked again.
This was Libba’s fault. She’d dragged me here, not kicking and screaming but almost.
“Everyone is going to her,” she’d wheedled.
“No.”
“She’s the real deal, Ellison.”
“No.”
“She says Henry wants to communicate with you.” Henry was my late husband.
“I don’t want to communicate with him.” Then, in case I’d been unclear, I added, “I’m not going.”
Yet, here I sat.
Libba was nothing if not persuasive.
I shifted my gaze to Madame Reyna. Weren’t mediums supposed to commune with the dead? Why was this one reading my palm? Again, I tugged at my hand.
This time, she released me. “Your late husband has spoken to me.”
I offered up a sympathetic sigh. My life was much better now that Henry, a cheating, lying, barnacle-on-the-ass-of-humanity type of man, no longer spoke
to me.
“Don’t you want to know what he said?”
“Not particularly.”
“I do,” Libba chirped.
Madame Reyna’s dark gaze traveled between Libba and me. I could almost see the cogs working in her medium’s brain. Libba was hooked. A true believer. A rich true believer.
“He says that Mrs. Russell will find death.”
“Poo,” said Libba, unimpressed. “For a while there, Ellison was finding death every week.”
Some people found pennies in parking lots. I found bodies. And not just in parking lots. I found bodies everywhere. But I’d made a New Year’s resolution. No more bodies. Eight weeks into the new year, my resolution held firm. Not a single body. Not one. I wrinkled my nose and stuck my tongue out at Libba.
No, I didn’t.
But I wanted to.
“He says she will find death again. Soon.”
I rolled my eyes with elegance and aplomb. Watching Grace, my sixteen-year-old daughter, roll her baby blues has made me an expert.
Madame Reyna reached across the table and re-trapped my hand. “He says your daughter will be in danger and that salvation is in the safe.”
My organs seized. Froze. No air in the lungs. No beat of the heart. No blink of the eyes. Grace in danger? Almost as worrisome, how could the woman across from me know anything about the contents of our safe?
“That’s not amusing.” There was a decided chill in Libba’s voice. “Not remotely.”
I didn’t believe in mediums or fortune-tellers or any such hokum. I remembered that and my organs resumed operations. “What are you talking about?”
Madame Reyna closed her eyes for ten, maybe twenty, infinitely long seconds. “The spirit has gone. I can give you no other answer today.”
Translation—I’d have to return to her ranch-style house and cross her palm with more silver if I wanted an answer.
I pushed away from the table.
“Wait!” she cried.
I paused.
“I saw something in your palm.”
“Oh, please.” My purse hung over the back of the chair. I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder.
“It’s important.”
I raised a brow. Slowly. The effect was one of mild disdain. I was an ace at that expression, too. A lifetime of watching Mother raise her brow in extreme disdain had made me an expert.
“There is a man.”
“Isn’t there always.” The way Libba said it, it wasn’t a question.
“You have met the One and let him go.”
“Just wait a few days, Ellison. Another One will come along before you know it.” That was how things worked for Libba.
Madame Reyna glared at Libba. With the size of her eyes multiplied by ten due to her glasses, it was an impressive glare. A glare she transferred to my blameless palm. “You’ve let the One go but Mr. Right is still coming.”
Libba lowered her chin and regarded Madame Reyna with frank disbelief. “A second soul mate? You mean marriage?”
Sean Connery could show up at Libba’s door with a three-carat diamond, a marriage license, and deeds to his condo in Vail, house in Lyford Quay, and villa in Tuscany, and Libba would tell him she wasn’t ready for a commitment. She had too much fun being single.
I too would send Sean Connery packing. But not because I enjoyed being single. I would send the Scotsman away because the mere thought of a commitment turned my toes to popsicles. “I’m not interested.”
Madame Reyna’s crimson lips thinned. “You are foolish.”
Well! Insulting her customers was hardly the way to win repeat business.
“This relationship has the power to transform your life.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted my life transformed. What’s more, the man who might have transformed said life had walked out of my house (and life) eight weeks ago without looking back. “Not interested.” Nor was I interested in a new Mr. Right.
The medium rolled her eyes.
Was there a Mr. Reyna? If so, did his wife complain about her clients over cocktails? Two society women came in today. One didn’t believe in me at all. The other mocked the idea of soul mates. I charged them double.
“Ellison, we should be going.” Libba stared pointedly at her watch.
I wasn’t about to argue.
“You’ll be back.” Madame Reyna looked almost smug.
Not likely. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Libba and I stepped out into late February chill. The sun played hide and seek with scudding clouds and lost. Both of us pulled the collars of our coats tighter around our necks.
“I’m sorry about that.” Libba jerked her chin toward the little ranch house and the medium inside.
“Don’t worry about it. You had no idea she’d make up stuff about Grace being in danger.”
“Still, I’m sorry.” She actually sounded contrite.
“Grace is fine.” I would not worry based on the warning of a bogus medium.
We walked toward our cars with our shoulders hunched against the cold, our hands jammed in our pockets, and our heads down spotting the slick spots on the sidewalk.
“You could call him.” Libba’s voice was soft, quiet, almost tentative.
Him. Detective Anarchy Jones. The One. “When pigs fly.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be this stubborn.”
Just because I gave in on things like visiting mediums or extending curfews didn’t mean I couldn’t dig my heels in. “Pfft.”
“Seriously.” Libba laid a gloved hand on my arm, stopping me. “You’ve changed.”
Finding your husband murdered then finding umpteen other bodies will do that to a woman. “I had to.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I know.”
“He cares about you.”
“You know why he’s mad at me?”
“I do.”
Of course she did, I’d told her at least fifty times. Some of those tellings blurred by wine, some sharpened by coffee.
“You know what I did?”
“I do.” Libba let go of my arm and resumed walking.
I followed her. “If I had to do it all again—”
Libba held up her hands halting my words. “I know, I know. You’d still do almost exactly the same thing.”
Perhaps I’d been a little boring on the subject. “You’ve been a good friend to listen to the same story so many times.” Maybe I’d been a lot boring. “Never again. I promise. You won’t hear me even mention the name Anarchy Jones.” I traced an X over my heart.
Libba pulled her keys out of her handbag and shivered as a gust of wind buffeted against us. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy to listen.”
“I mean it Libba.”
“If you say so.” Was that a lilt in her voice? She glanced again at Madame Reyna’s snug little house. “I’m not one to give advice, but—”
I refrained from comment. Barely.
“Either let this go—him, the anger, and all the other feelings—or fix it.” She circled her car and opened the driver’s side door. “I’ll talk to you later. Toodles.”
“Toodles.” My voice lacked her verve. Mainly because she was right. Retelling (and retelling) my falling out with Anarchy was a way of holding on.
With a sigh, I settled into my car and started the engine. I sat for a moment, letting the engine warm and replaying Madame Reyna’s words—you have met the One and let him go. The time had come to do just that—let Anarchy Jones go.
I drove toward home, my mind not on the road. Barry Manilow crooned “Mandy.” I turned up the radio over the sound of the heat blasting. I touched my lips, remembering Anarchy’s kiss. I dug in my purse for a tissue. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see her. Then again, she dashed out from between
two parked cars. I slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched. The car slowed. Not fast enough.
The sickening thud of my front bumper meeting a human being reverberated through me. I threw the car into park and leapt out of my seat. “Are you all right?”
Of course she wasn’t. I’d hit her.
The girl sat on the cold pavement looking dazed.
“Where are you hurt?” I demanded. And what was she doing outside without a coat? And why wasn’t she in school?
She shook her head. “I’m not hurt. You weren’t going very fast.”
I’d hit her. With a car. Granted the car was a TR6 and not a Cadillac Fleetwood, but I’d still hit her. “Did you hit your head?”
“No.” She glanced down at the cold pavement. “I landed on my bottom. I’m fine.” She offered me a smile as if the curve of her lips could prove that all was well.
“Let me help you up.” I extended a hand.
She stared at the navy leather of my glove for a few seconds before she accepted.
I pulled her to standing.
She was tiny with dark hair and a pixie face. Maybe fourteen. Possibly fifteen. A gamine.
“Shall we try and find a phone?” I asked.
“A phone?”
“To call the police. We need to file a report.”
“No!” Her hands—no gloves—flew to her cheeks. “There’s no need to file a report.” Her words tumbled over each other in their hurry. “I told you, I’m fine. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”
“It did happen.”
“But I’m fine. See?” She danced a little jig on the pavement. “Fine.”
I remained unconvinced. “What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in school?”
She glanced over her shoulder as if she expected to find a truant officer lurking behind her. “I skipped.”
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