Love Finds You in Sunflower, Kansas

by Pamela Tracy

  PAMELA TRACY

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Sunflower, Kansas

  © 2012 by Pamela Tracy Osback

  ISBN 978-1-60936-594-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture references are from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Garborg Design Works | www.garborgdesign.com

  Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Cover photo of sunflowers by Bigstock.

  Back cover photo of sunflower field by Gina Collecchia.

  Photo of Sunflower Army Ammunition Plant by Ben Anhalt.

  Photo of downtown Bonner Springs courtesy of Bonner Springs Tourism, bonnersprings.org.

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Acknowledgments

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  A few months ago I made a phone call to a minister in Bonner Springs, Kansas. I asked him, “Who in your congregation likes to read?” He gave me the name of Kay Tinsley. I promptly called, and a friendship was born. Throughout the writing of this novel, Kay has been the expert on the look and feel of small-town Kansas. Thank you so much, Kay.

  Thank-yous wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t thank my son and husband, who often find their way to my office to say, “Come play,” when I should be writing.

  Also, to my critique group—Libby Banks, Connie Flynn, and Cathy McDavid. You keep me from using the word look a million times. You keep me from letting the heroine and hero stay apart too long. And you remind me that writing is a whole lotta fun. We’ve been together ten years; I say let’s do ten more.

  Thanks to my wonderful agent, Steve Laube, who keeps me grounded.

  And, of course, to the team at Summerside, especially Rachel Meisel and Ellen Tarver, who made it all happen.

  IT’S NOT SURPRISING THAT KANSAS SHOULD HAVE A TOWN NAMED for its state flower. And true to its name, the area around Sunflower, Kansas, boasts at least eleven varieties of sunflowers.

  Sunflower, at first glance, is not a place to put down roots. Yet it manages to have its roots grow in two directions—Johnson and Wyandotte Counties. This historic area has always been a hub, thanks to the Kaw River. Some claim it as the oldest area in Kansas. But, to believe that, you have to believe that Coronado, the Spanish explorer, made his way here in the mid-1500s. He was searching for love but instead found a place to stay near one of Kansas’s many springs.

  The Wyandotte Indians and Delaware Indians migrated here. Soon, fur traders and trappers called it home. Then came trading posts. The most famous one in the Sunflower area was called Four Houses. Eventually, there was a ferry across the river that helped expand the area into a settlement. Then steamboats came along and did their share. They were followed by the railroad, which helped make this region just outside of Kansas City one of the most populous in the state.

  Searching a map will indicate that a place called Sunflower, Kansas, exists right by the town of Bonner Springs. Farmers once populated this area, but nothing resides in Sunflower anymore except a now-defunct ammunition plant. Today, Midwestern values and the quest for good times and fellowship (think outdoor concerts, Tiblow Days, and a Renaissance festival) make for a great place to live.

  Pamela Tracy

  Chapter One

  “Just about anybody, except a convicted felon, can become a private investigator.”

  Burt Renfro’s words did not make Annie Jamison feel any better.

  Anybody, in this case, happened to be her mother.

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, Annie closed her eyes, hard, opened them again, and slowly peered around the corner into the living room. No matter how many times she did this—by her count, she’d just reached fifteen—the fact remained that her mother was not entertaining the Thursday morning ladies’ Bible study group.

  “Yup,” Burt continued, “your mother told me all about it. Pass an evaluation, pass a background check, pass a test, and get a firearms permit. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”

  “My mother has a firearms permit?”

  Burt held up his hand. “I don’t believe she has a firearms permit. Nor am I certain she really plans on becoming a private investigator. All I said was, it looks like she’s on her way.”

  “Mom never does anything halfway,” Annie muttered, peering into the living room again to get a good look at her mother.

  Gone were the simple pullover shirts and blue jeans that had been Willa Jamison’s mainstay. Instead, Mom wore a gauzy, flowing skirt of orange and red swirls topped by an oversized bright yellow blouse. Annie figured the outfit would look more at home on her sister Cathy. It certainly didn’t look at home on her mother, at least not the Sunday school–teaching, cookie-baking, carpooling mother of her memory. After scrutinizing her mother’s outfit again, Annie breathed a little easier.

  Nowhere did she see the telltale bulge of a gun.

  Interestingly enough, of the four people sitting in the living room, all from her mother’s forensics class at the local college, her mother looked the sanest. A young man enamored with his laptop computer sat cross-legged on the floor. His name was Leonard. What he lacked in social skills, he more than made up for in keyboarding skills. His fingers flew across the keys. He’d only managed a shy, mumbled hello to Annie and then had gone back to his computer. He was definitely the behind-the-scenes guy, the computer geek. The two women on the couch watching the Jack and Janice Morning Show wore flowing black wigs—so obviously wigs that even Annie noticed—and had storybook names. The taller one was Alice, the shorter one was Wendy. Wendy was flamboyant with shocking red lipstick and a cobalt-blue pantsuit complete with rhinestones. Alice was a little more subtle. She chose pale pink lipstick and a sky-blue pantsuit with rhinestones. They had to be pushing eighty, yet their animated hand signals and spirited conversation mimicked pure youthful energy. Annie was exhausted just from watching them. They were the salespeople, talking up the ArmChair Detectives’ potential and spitting out advertising ideas as if it were an up-and-coming contender in the world of private detectives. Unfortunately, not everything Wendy said made sense.

  “You need me to stick around?” Burt asked gently. As their across-the-street neighbor since before Annie was born, he’d seen everything the family had to offer. He, like Annie, probably never expected this.

  “No,” said Annie, “and let me apologize again for thinking you were pulling a belated April Fools’ joke. I’m really thankful you called me. I have no idea what my mother’s thinking.”

  Burt smiled a bit, enough so Annie almost felt better. “You were the only one I felt I could call. Good thing you have a presence on the Internet. How are your businesses doing?”

  “Even with the downturn in the economy, people still want their homes cleaned,” Annie replied. “As for Jamison Jewelry, it’s slow but sure. I make most of my money at the weekend bazaars, not off the website. I’m not a name.”

  “Yet,” Burt said encouragingly.

  “Speaking of keeping me busy…” Annie peered into the
living room for the sixteenth time.

  “Don’t be too hard on your mother. She’s gone from wife and mother to widow and empty nester in just a short time. She’s trying to fill space. My wife turned our house into a gym after our youngest got married, exercise machines in every room. Great dust collectors. I hang my shirts on the stair-stepper.”

  “That was five years ago,” Annie remembered.

  “I’ve lost fifteen pounds,” Burt joked. He moved toward the kitchen door and continued. “Thanks to a bike that never leaves the family room.”

  He shrugged into a light jacket as Annie opened the door for him. “I was on that bike,” he said, “when your mother and her friends carried that sign across the yard and into the house.”

  Annie’s mom lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood in Tucson, Arizona. Annie didn’t even want to know what the rest of their quiet, conservative, upper-class neighborhood thought when they saw her mother and her friends toting a large hot pink ARMCHAIR DETECTIVES FOR HIRE: WE FIND LOST THINGS sign.

  No doubt it was a Wendy and Alice design.

  “There really is no such thing as an armchair detective,” Annie muttered. “They only exist in fiction.”

  Before Burt closed the door behind him, he chuckled. “I know that, and the really good news is, most of them don’t have, need, or even want firearms.”

  The kitchen door didn’t stay shut for long. Annie hadn’t even made it back to the living room when she heard tires screeching and Burt’s cry of welcome. Finally, her sisters were here. They’d had a longer drive than she. Phoenix, where they both lived, was two hours away; Casa Grande, Annie’s home, only an hour. Annie headed outside and watched as Beth pulled her silver Taurus into the driveway.

  Beth bolted out of the car and met Annie in the driveway. Cathy followed, more leisurely. Beth got right to the point. “Where’s Mom?”

  “In the living room,” Annie said. “Mr. Renfro was right. She’s involved with kooks. I’d call them harmless except they’re actually starting a business. They’ve got a website, business cards, and everything. Whenever I try to get Mom to talk to me, she tells me a statistic. Did you know that every twenty-four seconds a car is stolen in the United States?”

  Beth, law degree duly framed, bar passed just last year, gave Annie a look of disbelief and headed for the front door. She disappeared inside. Annie and Cathy looked at each other for all of two seconds before hurrying after her.

  Leonard, the laptop computer guy, caught sight of Beth, turned bright red, and said hopefully, “Have you lost anything lately?”

  Annie had to give Beth credit. She didn’t lose her temper. Ignoring Leonard, she went straight to the source of the problem. “Mother, this is ridiculous. Have you been to the doctor?”

  Their mother simply smiled and said, “Let me see my friends to the door, and then we’ll talk.” She turned to her classmates. “What a surprise. All my children are here for a visit at one time.”

  Alice and Wendy insisted on shaking Beth’s and Cathy’s hands. They’d already cooed over Annie. Now, Wendy mentioned her own children and expressed envy at their mom having all her brood home at once. Alice apparently considered Wendy’s children her own and talked about grandchildren. Mr. Laptop, who probably didn’t have children, seemed disinclined to leave. Clearly smitten with Beth, which was strange because Cathy usually garnered the most attention, he lingered in the living room until Beth’s glare and Annie’s nudge urged him out the front door.

  Cathy headed for the green armchair in the corner—their father’s favorite—and pulled a Spanish book out of her bag. Of all the sisters, she was the one who typically went with the flow. “I have a test on Monday,” she said in response to Beth’s glare. “And finals are next month!”

  Beth was more than annoyed. “Is that all you’re worried about?”

  “Those ladies were nice. The guy was a bit weird, but he looked harmless.” Cathy glanced down at her book and grimaced. “I can tell you exactly what this class cost and how much time I’ve put into it.”

  Annie knew something Beth didn’t. Cathy was in danger of flunking out of her Spanish class and had a right to be concerned.

  “Plus,” Cathy continued, “you guys might be worrying for nothing. Mom’s gone through these phases before. Remember cake decorating? Tole painting? Scrapbooking? Pilates?”

  “She’s as bad as Mom,” Beth mouthed to Annie.

  No, not really, Annie knew. Beth just saw the glass as half-empty while Cathy saw it as half-full. Annie, always busy, wouldn’t even take the time to consider the question. She’d just be busy trying to fill it the rest of the way.

  Their mother swirled into the room. Like a child home from school with lots of news to share, she plopped down on the couch and faced her daughters.

  Beth wasted no time. “Mother, are you going through the change?”

  Mom laughed gaily. “At just over fifty, I hardly think so. But, yes, I suppose I am going through a change. A most spectacular one, and it’s way overdue.”

  “Mother, this nonsense has to stop!” Beth frowned at a giant blue book that lay centered on the coffee table. Annie watched as Beth picked it up. Raised gold lettering proclaimed What Every Detective Needs to Know. Judging by the wear and tear, the book was circa 1940.

  Beth looked like she’d just eaten a pickle.

  Cathy shut her book, keeping her page marked with a finger. “Mom, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I think starting a business is incredibly brave.” She stood and gave her sisters accusing looks. “I’m going to my room. I have to study.”

  The slamming of Cathy’s bedroom door spurred Annie’s mom onto her feet. She started picking up the drinks, napkins, and such, left by her earlier guests. “I have a lot to do, and you girls worry too much,” she said. “This is just something new in my life. I don’t have a college degree, I don’t want to be just a volunteer, and I don’t want to stay home watching television all day.” She frowned at the television where Janice, from the Jack and Janice Morning Show, was highlighting wedding dresses.

  She sighed before turning it off. “I want to do something different.” She looked down at the dishes in her hands. “Something fun.”

  Annie waited until Mom left the room and then looked at Beth. “Fun? I don’t think detectives, even armchair detectives, have fun.”

  “If that’s all she were doing, I wouldn’t worry. That might even be fun, except armchair detectives don’t leave the house, and she definitely needs to get out more. Mom’s taking on the role of amateur sleuth. Very Jessica Fletcher. Mom, do you hear me?”

  “I do,” Mom called back, “but ‘Amateur Sleuths for Hire: We Find Things’ didn’t sound as marketable.”

  Beth opened her mouth and closed it again. Annie rarely saw her older sister speechless. If it weren’t such a serious time, she’d enjoy it.

  “I blame Edgar Allan Poe for all of this. He introduced the world to detective fiction, and Mom reads it all the time.”

  “Murder, She Wrote was my favorite show,” Mom added. And then said loudly, “This is a perfect job for me.”

  “Mom, I’m not sure Jessica Fletcher really had fun,” Annie responded, just as loudly. “Every vacation was ruined by a dead body.”

  “Yes,” Beth agreed, the pickle look back on her face. “If Jessica Fletcher were real, which she’s not, she most assuredly didn’t have fun. Most of the time, in today’s world, sleuths—which I guess would be a private detective, really—are either trying to catch a spouse cheating or they’re looking for missing people who want to stay missing.”

  “A child goes missing every forty seconds,” Mom called.

  Beth lowered her voice. “And since fifty percent of the US population cheat on their spouses, private detectives have job security.” She raised her voice. “Mom, you don’t need a job.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Mom,” Cathy called, coming out of her bedroom. “We’re your job.”

  “Not enough an
ymore,” Mom insisted. The sounds of the sink being turned on and glasses and plates being washed came from the kitchen. They were the sound of home, of normalcy. Annie fingered one of the cards left on the coffee table. “According to the business cards and the sign in the laundry room, she and her friends are going to focus on finding lost things.”

  “There’s a sign in the laundry room?”

  “Hot pink,” Annie answered. “I think the big-haired sisters designed it.”

  “Mom!” Cathy yelled, as if cued. “I can’t find my Jars of Clay CD!”

  “It’s in the drawer by your bed! Under the book I gave you to read that you didn’t read.”

  “It’s midlife crisis. Has to be,” Annie joked.

  Beth completely missed the joke. “Midlife crisis? At fifty-three? That means she’ll live to be a hundred and six! I don’t think we’re up to that. Try again.”

  “She’s bored.” Cathy exited her bedroom and disappeared into the kitchen. Annie noted that she wasn’t carrying her Spanish book. When Cathy returned to the living room, she had a soda in hand.

  “Burt said the same thing,” Annie said. “After we left the nest, she had Dad to take care of. He’s gone, and we’re scattered. It makes sense that she’s looking for something to do. We need to devote more time to Mom.”

  “How?” Cathy sat down on the couch and propped her head on her hand.

  “One of us needs to move back home, at least for a little while,” Beth said matter-of-factly.

  Cathy’s hands went in the air, waving a negative. “I can’t possibly, at least not right away. This semester is crazy and—”

  “I wasn’t thinking about you,” Beth said coolly. She looked down at her left hand where a split shank diamond engagement ring glittered.

  Annie wanted to laugh. Who Beth was thinking about was obvious. Cathy was two years away from her teaching certification and usually attended summer school. Beth was a brand-new associate at a law firm. She was also getting married in a year, to a stuffy man with a stuffy, upper-crust family and political aspirations. Beth intended to have the wedding of the century.