by Norma Huss
Yesterday's Body
Title Page
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About the Author
Yesterday’s Body
A Jo Durbin Mystery
Norma Huss
Praise for Yesterday's Body (2011 EPIC finalist)
"I just read the excerpt and I very much like your voice.
You project just the tone and attitude I love to read."
Chris Roerden, Author of Agatha Award-winning
Don't Murder Your Mystery
"I think if you like mysteries you'd like Norma's book."
Elaine Cantrell, author of A New Dream and other books
What Readers are Saying:
"I really want to tell you how much I enjoyed
reading Yesterday's Body.
"I think Angela Landsbury would be a good person to be Jo."
“Thank you Norma for writing the "older heroine" book.”
“...being "an older woman" this really made me feel good.
It sure is a change from all those young and sexy things books
are made about. Course I won't give those books up either.”
“...a mystery so complicated.... I didn't have any idea
who was the killer until you finally revealed...”
Sunset Cloud Mystery
Yesterday's Body
Author: Norma Huss
Cover: Donna Hedricks
Format: Donna Hedricks
All rights reserved
First North American Publication: Wings ePress, Inc. 2009
Second North American Publication: Sunset Cloud Mystery 2012
Copyright © 2009 by Norma Jean Huss
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either 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.
Chapter 1
If a woman goes on vacation and leaves keys in her drawer, I say they’re fair game. And her address in the Rolodex on top of her desk? Too easy. But, what the hey. I’d accept any opportunity that came along.
~ ~
Francine Hemingway’s house was twenty minutes by bus from downtown Queensboro and too far from Chesapeake Bay to advertise waterfront view. The neighborhood had that comfortable, lived-in look with two-story homes, attached garages, well-kept yards, daffodils in neat beds, old shade of oak, maple, and budding dogwoods. Her house was the exception. The grass was sparse under a sweet gum tree, its kamikaze seed pods taking control of the yard. Her bushes were overgrown and much too close to the building for security.
I stood across the street. No traffic. No dogs. No one in sight—until a front door opened and a woman in sweats stepped out, but I was prepared for emergencies. I brought my pencil over the notebook I held and added a doodle or two. The woman ignored me as she stretched, twisted, and jogged in place. I turned a page and doodled some more. Finally, she loped down the street, building speed.
After she disappeared around the corner, I purposefully strode to the house, swinging my new keys. “One’s sure to fit,” I told myself. And one did, although not the first one I tried.
Before I could open the door, a single crunch sounded behind me. A belligerent voice demanded, “Who are you?”
Lord love a duck.
I turned, my face carefully embellished with a smile.
Ms. Jogger, the community snoop, had returned to check on the alien. Not that I was strange. She and I could have been sisters. We were about the same age, and both white bread plain. Her hair had already turned salt and pepper, and she was dressed for running instead of a hard day at the office. Still, that was superficial. She’d want to believe me.
I grasped her hand and pumped vigorously. “It’s a godsend that Mrs. Hemingway has concerned neighbors. It makes my job so much easier.” I waited for the inevitable questions before explaining further. “Just checking for the agency. It’s a service we provide when a client is out of town. In fact, we often place an operator inside the house for a limited time.”
“What agency is that?”
I flashed a card, the one with only my name, Jo Durbin,and my phone number. “Please call if you see anything suspicious.” Would the card satisfy her?
“But where has Mrs. Hemingway gone?”
Where indeed? I palmed the card as I replied. “It’s against agency policy to reveal such matters.”
Her eyes brightened as she formed theories. “How long will she be away?”
That I could answer. “Quite some time. Perhaps a month.”
“It’s not illness in the family, is it?”
“I really can’t tell you more.” I smiled like the stone wall I was and repeated, “Agency policy, you know.”
“Well, okay, then.” She glanced around hesitantly, then walked away.
Just to be sure she didn’t double back, I watched. She turned once with a puzzled glance. I waved and added another doodle to my paper. Finally, she disappeared, and I entered the house.
Inside, the home was more or less what I’d expected from the look of the yard. Some folks walk out of a house, close the door, and forget the mess inside. I couldn’t imagine going on vacation and leaving newspapers and empty shopping bags on the floor, drapes sagging, and a chair smack dab in the middle of the room. And the shoe, forgotten where it dropped.
I’d repay my unknowing hostess—a clean house in exchange for a free room. Plenty to do, but first I plugged in my cellular phone, then pushed the chair into place. The shoe, a blue stiletto, went into my tote bag temporarily. I’d find the mate somewhere.
I called up ancient memories. First was the once-over with a dust cloth—in this case a damp paper towel—clearing as I went. I shuffled the
mail scattered on the coffee table, sorting out the junk. An envelope was on the floor, its contents spilled out. A Waterman’s Museum brochure with a letter thanking Mrs. Hemingway for her generous contribution, and a ticket to an opening of some sort. The event was next week and included refreshments, guided tours, and a talk by someone important. Too bad she’d miss it.
“Our English Heritage.” Had to be historic. Sounded
intriguing, and she would be gone.
Useless to Mrs. Hemingway, but an excellent opportunity for me, a freebie, with food. I glanced through the junk again. One empty envelope was local, from something called Freedom, Inc. Could I find anything of use there? A second part-time job perhaps? I slipped the envelope into my tote along with the museum ticket.
I had moved to the dining area when sister Sylvie called.
“Jo, you will be staying with me Saturday night, won’t you? Maybe we’ll do a movie or a video.”
“Sure. I’ve latched onto something, but I’ll be due for a break by then.”
“By, ‘latched onto something,’ do you mean a place to stay?”
“You worry too much.”
“No, really, I don’t. A homeless woman was killed two days ago in Minnesota. Her body was found under a bridge. Your ‘something’ isn’t under a bridge, is it?”
I swiped my paper towel over a chair back. “Good thing I’m not in Minnesota. Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
She sighed audibly over the phone. “And Sunday, I thought you might want to use my computer to compile notes.”
Two days with my sister was one day too many. “Sylvie, please remember this is my life. Besides, I certainly wouldn’t want my cat to start up your allergies.”
“A cat? You have a cat? Jo, I don’t understand you. I’d think a cat would be—let me say, I’d find a cat completely counterproductive.”
Of course, I had no cat. Whatever had inspired that comment? But a cat, yes. “A cat is an inspiration, an option I haven’t tried yet.”
“Jo, be reasonable. Think of the problems. I mean, the additional problems.”
Sylvie was taking her role as my emergency backup too seriously. But a cat was serendipitous. "Excuse me, I must walk my cat," I'd say as I hung up the receiver. What was cat's name? Kitty? Clyde? He'd need a leash.
“Did you get that job?” Sylvie asked, bouncing to the real reason for her call.
“Uh-huh.” I moved my cell phone to the other ear and wiped a smudge from a heavy ornamental dish before I put it into the china closet. “Office work. At Abbott Computing Services.”
“What does a computing service do?”
“Haven’t the slightest. I’m in the Billing Department. Receptionist and all-around gofer.” She’d talk forever, but I had cleaning to do. “Excuse me. Have to go. Clyde needs his bowl of milk.”
“You named a cat Clyde?”
“Of course.” Gleefully, I broke off the connection.
Purple leash, I thought. Gold. Black studded with rhinestones. No, wouldn’t work for a Clyde. Brown leather. Braided like a western belt.
Yes, brown, definitely brown, I decided as I moved to the kitchen. The answering machine was on the counter, blinking to indicate one old message. I pushed the play button.
“Mrs. Hemingway, this is Nell Nordstrum,” the voice said. “That ring will be on display next week after all. So I’ll see you then?”
Another thing she would miss. At least she knew about it. I left the red light blinking and moved on.
The stairs led to a hallway of doors. Three bedrooms, two unused, and the bathroom, where I found the other shoe. I returned them both to her closet. A few items of men’s clothing remained. Hadn’t someone said her husband left? And even mentioned a boy friend? Oh, well. It all fit the profile that was emerging, as did the heat and air settings of 75̊ and 68̊.
One could certainly learn a lot about a person from an empty house. But, what the hey? I’d stay the night. I had what I needed in my tote bag: PJs, toothbrush, comb, clothing for the next day.
Actually, I carried everything with me. Except, of course, for my mad money in the bank. I wasn’t that big a fool.
It was after six and time to organize for the evening. I called Mel, told his answering machine, “Jo here. I won’t need the pad tonight. Another time, okay?” He’d have no trouble finding someone else to use the empty bed. And he didn’t need my help to find something in his cupboard to eat.
Next was my supper.
“Clyde, you need a walk.”
We headed for High’s Dairy, a brisk walk away. I asked Clyde about his parentage. He was half Persian and half alley cat. What did he look like? Long-haired tiger stripes? Yellow, I thought. Green eyes? Was he one of the Key West Hemingway cats with the extra toes? No. What would the other cats think of a freak in their midst?
Definitely, a cat was an excellent idea. Chatting with invisible entities went with the territory. I’d ramble without Sylvie’s replies. Expound without the detail of taped reports.
Inside the store I kept an eye on Clyde. Could he be trusted around all that milk? Actually, he was more interested in the scruffy, aromatic man picking his winning numbers at the counter. I was interested in High’s soft ice cream machine. But one must eat one’s meal before dessert, so I passed it up.
By seven, Clyde and I had re-entered the Hemingway house from the back yard, a lovely place for a cat to explore. No fences between lots, and the meandering streets left open space to a rear, park-like acreage with tall trees and no underbrush. Fortunately, no sweet gum trees either. Eminently suitable for tree houses, swing sets, and family picnics. A lilac beside the door was budding. No aroma yet. Pity.
I didn’t want to leave the yard, but Clyde was hungry. He had milk. I had one of those microwave meals, and the slightly melted ice cream bar I’d chosen instead of a truly scrumptious hand-dipped cone.
The Hemingway’s cupboard was remarkably short on dishes. I checked the dishwasher.
Lord love a duck! It was full of dirty dishes. And the fridge was full of food. A thawed package of meat, salad fixings, milk, orange juice, a case of beer. What had that woman been thinking? Imagine the smell in a month. I started the dishwasher. Now, what could I do about that food? Freeze it?
Forget it. A night’s lodging didn’t call for that much responsibility. Let her deal with it when she returned. However, when I began this project, I’d promised myself to repay any advantage I accepted. Entering a house was no exception. I’d leave everything secure and cleaner than I found it. No clutter or dust. Closets orderly. Almost like preparing for an open house. Except, for that, I’d need hangings to cover the bare walls, flowers scenting every room, perhaps a jigsaw puzzle in progress.
Garage first. Space for two cars, but only one there. She must have left by taxi. A bicycle hanging from the rafters. Shelves neatly organized. It would do.
Upstairs next. The master bedroom required a light dusting. As I moved her hand mirror I saw the cash. The idiot woman had left a wad of bills on her dresser. Three twenties and two tens. Anyone could walk in and steal it. I opened her jewelry box. Pretty things inside, perhaps one necklace was gold. Why hadn’t she taken it? I placed the bills under the necklace and closed the lid. She’d probably not even remember the money in a month. The bathtub needed a full scrub. Seven minutes.
I flicked dust in the spare bedrooms, swished the dust mop, and lined up empty hangers in the closets. I even dusted and lined up boxes labeled, “Summer,” “Books,” and the like. Six minutes.
The main floor had a coat closet, which is where I found the vacuum. Nine minutes.
“I’ve done enough. We skip the basement,” I informed Clyde.
Clyde sat at the stairs, switching his tail.
“Oh, well, you’re right. Won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
The basement had the laundry and a peculiar scent, but I wasn’t about to wipe everything down with Lysol. I ignored the two blouses hanging beside the dry
er. I swept up lint and discarded drier sheets.
Clyde was with me as I headed for the stairs. Clyde, or was it me, stopped again. “Aha, the last closet.” It was under the stairs, where closets so often are. I opened the door and stepped back involuntarily.
I’d found the odor source.
“Stand back, Clyde,” I said. “Mustn’t get your paws all bloody.”
Chapter 2
There was no body in the basement. No woman crumpled to fit the confines of the closet. No stench of body wastes. Nothing.
Who was she? Had I ever seen her?
Morbid curiosity took over. What did they say? “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” After all, I’d never seen a body in a closet before. I reached out. No—I’d slammed that door and it would stay closed. But my fingers had a mind of their own. They twisted the knob, opened the door. And I leaned closer—purely to satisfy that curiosity.
No blood, at least I didn’t see any. The woman wore blue, a jacket and a skirt. Short. Or maybe her skewed position made it look short. No visible wounds.
Mrs. Hemingway. Or a rival perhaps? I closed the closet door again.
It was yesterday’s body, ripe, but not fully so. The smell was certainly nothing I could cover with a spritz of air freshener.
“Look what you’ve done, Clyde. Led me to the basement. Made me find that body.” No, I couldn’t blame an imaginary cat. My fault. All my fault. I’d had to push, try something different for yet another chapter.
“Mrs. Hemingway is on a month’s vacation,” the temp agency said when they hired me. Where was Mr. Hemingway? Or the boyfriend if rumor proved true. Also on vacation? Or, not on vacation at all.
Could be major trouble.
