Table of Contents
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
Other Books by Karen Cantwell
SATURDAY NIGHT CLEAVER
A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery
by KAREN CANTWELL
Saturday Night Cleaver
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell. All rights reserved.
Published by: Boundless
First Kindle Edition: December 2012
ISBN-10: 0988566214
ISBN-13: 978-0-9885662-1-7
Cover Design: Katerina Vamvasaki
Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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 locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my husband, Dennis
Chapter One
I blame the Internet.
After suffering three straight days of crushing fatigue, I decided to do a little research. Unfortunately, that research eventually led me to a page listing thirty-four symptoms of menopause. Number four on that list was fatigue.
Sitting in my cramped and cluttered closet-turned-office, with a cup of coffee warming my left hand, I clicked the arrow on my computer keyboard to scroll down the checklist.
Hmm.
Hot flashes? Yes, I’d had a few.
Irregular periods? Several of my recent cycles had not been so regular.
Mood swings? Definitely. Happy one minute, crying the next. Just ask my kids. Also my husband, the cats, the dog, the mailman, and that annoyingly slow teller at the bank.
Hair loss? As a matter of fact, I’d just discovered the beginning of a bald patch and blamed my new coconut oil shampoo.
Headaches? Yes.
Dizziness? Yes.
Bloating? Yes.
Bleeding gums? Yes.
Panic disorder? YES! I was panicking at that very moment.
There were other symptoms which I won’t describe because they were, um...personal, but suffice it to say of the thirty-four symptoms of menopause listed on that page, I had all thirty-four of them.
To calm myself down I took a deep cleansing breath followed by a hefty swig of the coffee. Well, I thought, no need to worry. There was a treatment. I typed “Hormone Replacement Therapy” into the search engine. I’d heard this term bandied about on shows like Oprah and The View. Not that those women were shining examples of successful therapies. If Congress ever felt the need to pass a bill requiring the incarceration of all menopausal women, and wanted the country’s support, all they needed to do was tell everyone to tune into The View. Those are some moody, moody ladies.
In any event, I didn’t have to dig too deep to find out that the hormones for Hormone Replacement Therapy are derived from horse urine. That was a disturbing fact. I’m not a horse. The idea of taking pills that were in any possible way connected to horse pee gave me a serious case of skin-crawling heebie jeebies.
So that’s how I found Dr. Sadistic.
I mean, Dr. Sadjik.
Dr. Sadjik was a holistic physician I sought out at the Natural Life Wellness Clinic on the north side of Rustic Woods. She was forcing me to become a healthier person through diet and exercise. Well, okay she wasn’t forcing me, but she did exert a good amount of force by pushing the guilt button. You know, things like, “Your body is a temple to be worshiped, not corrupted,” and “Don’t you want to live long enough to see your grandchildren?” Things like that. Okay, I’m making that up. She actually didn’t push any button of guilt. But she did sit there with that taut, glowing skin, looking at me through clear, bright eyes, as if she were plucked from a granola ad (I think I even heard angels singing), and I knew that I had to follow her plan.
A healthy diet filled with fresh, organic fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, fish, and chicken, plus a daily elephant-sized dose of supplements, topped off by an hour of exercise a day, would bring my body into proper balance and the symptoms of menopause should minimize. At first, this didn’t seem so bad. I can do that, I thought.
But then she handed me a list of foods I couldn’t eat.
Stupid Internet.
No sugar, white flour, egg yolks, white rice, red meat, white potatoes, processed foods of any sort, chips, sodas, fried foods, cakes, cookies, donuts, candy. Basically: everything I enjoyed eating.
Maybe the horse-pee pills weren’t such a bad idea after all. I mean, people are always saying, “So-and-so is as healthy as a horse,” and health was what I was going for.
As I was leaving the office with a fifty-page volume of things I couldn’t eat, and a very short list of things I could, Dr. Sadistic, I mean Dr. Sadjik, reminded me: “And don’t forget to exercise for an hour each day.”
I stared at her blankly, wondering how I would possibly have any energy for exercise on her despotic diet of lettuce and bean sprouts.
So, on a chilly November morning three days after beginning Mission: Slay Menopause, I tied myself into a pair of sneakers and prepared for a brisk one-hour walk. The crushing fatigue had not diminished entirely, so the shoelace-tying alone, was not an easy task to confront. A few months earlier, I would have talked my friend and next door neighbor, Roz Walker, into keeping me company, but one too many “adventures” involving guns and felons had scared her and her family clear across the continent. When the deal to sell their house fell through in the eleventh hour, they found a young, childless couple to rent it at the last minute. I’d spoken with our new neighbors only a few times, so I hadn’t yet graduated to a come-on-a-walk-with-me level of acquaintance.
But I had other friends to employ. My tummy grumbled as I dialed Peggy’s number, hoping she’d agree to join me on my jaunt. She must have seen my name on caller ID. “Ciao, Signora!” she answered perkily. “Come stai?”
Peggy Rubenstein was my good friend whose Irish genetic code was apparent in her fiery red hair and pasty white skin. She grew up on corned beef, cabbage, and soda bread, and then, at the age of twenty-five, fell deeply in love with the very Jewish Simon Rubenstein. She said good-bye to the Pope and hello to Rabbi Goldman. But, when the newlywed Rubensteins landed
on the shores of Bella Italia while honeymooning, Peggy found her true calling: the religion of Italianism. She fell in love with the people and the culture. Ever since, she’s walked Italian, talked Italian, cooked Italian, and often forgotten that her maiden name was McCarthy and not Minelli. Because I’d known Peggy for so long, I knew that “Come stai?” was Italian for “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I said, “but it’s nothing that an hour-long, invigorating walk won’t cure. Wanna come?”
“I would, Bella, but there’s a Fall Festival planning meeting at Dandi Booker’s house.”
Ugh. Dandi Booker. She was the new PTA president at Tulip Tree Elementary. Dandi was possibly the shortest woman I’d ever met, but what she lacked in height she made up for in zippy enthusiasm. She was like a high school cheerleader on a caffeine drip. You know: one of those people who just loves everybody. I don’t trust people who love everybody. It’s not natural. You have to dislike some people and I’m not just talking about Hitler and puppy killers. For that reason, I was wary of Dandi Booker. Peggy claimed I was paranoid and that Dandi was just the nicest person and I needed to give her a chance. For that reason, I was starting to hate Dandi Booker. Peggy was my friend first and I was beginning to suspect that Dandi was stealing her away. Roz had already deserted me, so losing Peggy was out of the question.
“Forget Dandi,” I said, reining in the urge to whine. “Play hooky. Please, please, please.”
“I can’t, she needs my pumpkins.”
“Sounds like a bad pick-up line to me.”
I heard her sigh. “Another day, but I gotta run now.”
“Some friend you are.”
“This diet is making you very grumpy. Is there hope you’ll feel better soon?”
“Walking and talking with a good friend is just the medicine I need for the grumpies. Tell Dandi she can have your pumpkins later. And while you’re at it, would you ask her how she got that silly name?”
“I’ll call you later. Maybe we can get together for a glass of wine.”
“It’s not allowed.”
“Coffee?”
“Nope.”
“Green tea, then.”
“Have you tasted green tea? You might as well throw three blades of grass in a cup of hot water and call it healthy, because that’s what green tea tastes like.” The urge to complain had grown stronger than my ability to hold it at bay.
“Barb?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, and I know the last few months have been really rough on you, but I need to go right now. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Yeah.”
A dial tone buzzed in my ear. I clicked the receiver off and contemplated my options. Husband Howard couldn’t walk that fast, that far, or that long with his bad leg. Daughters Bethany and Amber had just left for a fun-filled day of education at Tulip Tree Elementary School, and teenaged Callie had zipped off to Rustic Woods High in Howard’s Camry. I sighed, then clicked the phone back on and hit number three on my speed dial. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I murmured under my breath.
After four rings, my body relaxed when a familiar voice answered. “Yo.”
“I need you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Beautiful.”
Speed dial number three was my buddy from the college days, Colt Baron, who had been kind enough to walk with me the day before. Colt was confident, sexy, and sensitive all at the same time. He had wispy blond hair barely touched by gray, a good view from behind when he wore jeans, an enviable talent for cooking, and he really needed a woman in his life to pamper. I’d been working on finding him the right woman, but for today, was hoping he’d be willing to pamper me. Or at least keep me company.
“Walk with me again today?”
“I told you yesterday, I can’t. I’m on a job.”
Did I mention that Colt’s a private investigator? Adds to the whole sexy-factor.
“Start after the walk,” I said.
“Curly, I’d walk with you to the Moon any other day of the week, but today is a no-go. Out of the question. How about your mother?”
“I’d rather walk with Mussolini,” I said with an uncontrollable grimace.
“Mama Marr?”
Alka Marr was Howard’s mother who lived with us and who was known to just about everyone as Mama Marr. “Her sciatica is acting up.” My grimace had turned into a pout. I decided to play the guilt card. “After Howard’s accident you said that you were here for me whenever I needed you, and I need you now.”
“That was three months ago and I was there for you twenty-four hours and day, seven days a week, remember? I turned down job after job to be with you and the girls. I need to make some money now before the bill collectors start camping out on my front door.”
Hmm. That backfired. Now I was the one that felt guilty. “You sure know how to make a girl feel bad.”
“That’s not what I meant to do.” Another call must have beeped through on his line because his voice cut out briefly. “Curly—gotta take this call. Listen, I’ll stop by tonight and fix you guys my famous tacos.”
“No red meat.”
“Chicken tacos.”
Colt Baron chicken tacos. I’d take those. “Okay. Have fun making money.”
“I plan on it. Love ya.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Everyone was full of love for me today, but not enough to make them drop their plans and hit the trails.
“Hey, quick question,” he said. “Those new neighbors of yours, the Penobscotts. Did I see white rocks in their front yard? The decorative kind? Landscaping rocks.”
“Where Roz used to live? They did a little re-landscaping when they moved in, but I’ll be honest, I haven’t looked that closely. Why?”
“No reason. See you tonight.”
For the second time in just five minutes, a dial tone buzzed in my lonely ears.
“Double poo,” I shouted to no one in particular. Puddles the poodle, who had been lounging on the rug in front of the sliding-glass door, raised his head and yapped twice at my outburst.
“No backtalk from you, Mister Man,” I snapped. “It looks like you’re going to be my walking companion today, so get used to it.”
“I’ll go with you.”
I turned to see Howard limping down the hallway, a cane in his left hand, a book in his right, and three days worth of beard growing on that face that made my heart melt. He looked a little like George Clooney—same dark, gray-streaked hair, a little less chin, slightly softer features. I had to admit, he was supremely handsome as husbands go.
“You,” I replied sternly while stepping forward to help him, “are going nowhere except to the couch to rest that leg like the doctor ordered. You’re going to do what he says so I can have my happy, healthy husband back and life can get back to normal around here. No more hospitals, no more surgeries. You hear me?”
He shook off my attempt to assist him. “I’m tired of sitting on the couch and I’m not an invalid. The doctor said to rest the leg regularly, not to immobilize it. Walking around does me good.”
He was right. I was probably overreacting. “Someone is moody,” I teased. “Are you going through menopause too?”
Howard frowned, obviously neither pleased nor affected by my attempted levity. Three months earlier, during his last day on the job as an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Howard’s SUV took a five-roll tumble, narrowly missing a dive off the overpass and onto Interstate 66 below. I know, because I witnessed the entire metal-crunching, heart-stopping episode while teaching Callie to drive home from a dentist appointment. If I hadn’t been an eyewitness, I would probably have never known what really occurred. As it was, no one, not Howard, nor one person at the Bureau would tell me who they were escorting that day or
why that car came out of nowhere firing endless rounds of lead at the government vehicles.
Of the five agents involved, only one lost his life. Howard was touch and go since he’d unbuckled to warn civilian vehicles on the road to stop approaching the mission gone dangerously wrong. He’d spent a week on life support in a doctor-induced coma which allowed his brain to heal from the head trauma. They didn’t let him come home until two weeks after he’d regained consciousness. Even then the damage to his left leg and collar bone were so extensive that he went back to the hospital for three additional surgeries.
To say that he’d experienced emotional ups and downs would be the biggest understatement since the crew of Apollo 13 told Houston they had a problem. And unfortunately, the downs seemed way deeper than the ups seemed high. However, I have learned the hard way that when you see the love of your life come excruciatingly close to death, patience becomes as easy and natural as breathing. This current little display of irritation was nothing a bit of TLC couldn’t fix.
“My walks are an hour long, but I’ll tell you what—you can walk Puddles and me up to the path.” I placed a warm kiss on his scruffy cheek. “Deal?”
He emitted a low grumble that I interpreted as an affirmative.
I tugged a fleece jacket from a hanger in the hall closet, slipped a pair of mittens into one pocket, three grocery bags for collecting doggy poop into the other, and snapped the leash onto Puddles’ collar. We were one week into a startlingly chilly Virginia November so I decided to grab my fluffy, warm scarf too, just in case. Those woods could get pretty nippy, even if I paced myself at a good clip.
One of the beauties of our quaint Northern Virginia suburb, is the fifty five miles of paved walking paths that run throughout the forested community. A person can get exercise and commune with nature simultaneously. Admittedly, I hadn’t really availed myself of the benefit in the six years we’d lived there, but I was developing new respect and admiration for it now.
Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) Page 1
