Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3)

by Danforth, Niki

  I stand up straight and stretch my back. “Anyway, I always envied my guests who stayed out here. This cottage is heaven, and living here has simplified my life.” I then add, “Plus, their rent covers the taxes, and I’ll be saving money. That’s always a good thing.”

  My niece looks at me as if she wants to say something but changes her mind, and I smile at her. “Hey, Ms. College Grad, I’m almost finished unpacking. Do you want me to save boxes for the move when you get back from your trip?”

  “Sure, thanks.” She hesitates for a moment. “You miss being married?” she asks, her tone rather careful.

  “Truthfully? It was hard at first. But these days, most of the time, I like my life just the way it is.” Fake it till you make it, I think to myself. I continue with the weed pulling.

  Laura glances at her watch, and obviously surprised at the time, jumps up. “OK. Have to run.” She comes over and hugs me. “Aunt Ronnie, thanks for listening. You’re the best. I always feel better after I talk to you. See you tomorrow.” She walks away and then stops. “Wait. What about that van that was following me?”

  I shrug. “Like I said, that was probably a house repair up the road.” I squint at my watch. “And by now he’s definitely gone. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  For the most part, fake it till you make it does seem to work, and I’m glad I could help Laura calm down. As for me, let’s just say, at times since my divorce, I’m still on shaky ground. I tried to continue with life as it was at the big house before the split, but no go.

  Too many rooms, too many memories, and too many spooky noises and shadows for me to be alone in that large space. Wonder if I ought to sell it, but maybe one of the kids will want to raise a family there. We’ll see. My hope is that a new start in my cozy cottage will be a positive step toward me feeling in charge of my life again.

  ~~~~~

  After my niece leaves, Warrior and I go inside and upstairs to the master bedroom. Warrior drops down on his dog bed to watch as I do some more unpacking. After placing linens and blankets in a closet, I open a box with framed family photographs.

  The first one I take out is my favorite of Brooke and Jessica. It’s a black-and-white of them sitting on the grass in the garden at the big house with our beloved Springer Spaniel, Cress, between them. The girls are around five and two, and it’s a beautiful picture. I place it on the nightstand next to my bed.

  Next I pull out a photograph of Frank, his wife Joanie, and their kids, Laura and Richard, on a sailboat, probably taken ten years ago. They look tanned, windblown, and happy. I put that frame on a shelf in a bookcase and sigh. Oh, Joanie, I miss you so much.

  I reach into the box and find a photograph of my oldest brother, Peter, with his wife and their children. I study the young faces of Petey, Ben, Tim, and Jimmy. This picture must be about twenty years old. Haven’t seen them in, what? I do the math. It’s got to be at least fifteen years, when the boys were still in their teens. Wonder what they look like today.

  I tug at a frame that’s jammed between several books in the box and shake it loose. It’s a picture of my ex-husband and me with our children, taken outdoors during happier years. As a matter of fact, it was taken the same year as the picture of Peter and his family.

  I reexamine the shot of Peter’s family—a great picture of the six of them. I also remember that was the first year either of us sent out picture cards for Christmas, using these two family photographs, and neither of us knew that the other planned to do the same.

  When his wife saw our card, she accused me of copying her and made a big stink about it. Wouldn’t most people have laughed and said, “Oh, how funny. Look. Yours is just like mine.”

  Peter was, is, our big brother. Frank and I looked up to him when we were growing up. We were in awe of him. I examine the faces of Peter’s children in the photo. Not having him and his kids in our lives—this estrangement—still hurts, and all because of his wife’s rigid insecurity.

  Why did our brother go along with all her nonsense? Why didn’t he stick up for his side of the family? Oh well, who knows what goes on in other people’s marriages. I place the photograph of them on the end of a bottom shelf, where I’ll hardly notice it. Then I tuck my family photograph back in the box. My ex will not be on display in this house.

  Time to switch gears. I run downstairs, turn on my computer and Google Juliana Wentworth. She doesn’t come up much on the Internet. A few party pictures at philanthropic events in San Francisco and San Jose. One picture shows her with her father—wait, that’s her husband.

  Then I spot an obituary two years ago about this husband, Carleton Todd Wentworth, a successful technology investor twenty-five years her senior. And now she’s with my brother. Hmm. This Juliana seems to like older men.

  Doesn’t look as if she would need more money, unless she didn’t make out very well in his will. No kids together, but he had four from his first marriage.

  What does warm my heart is that the couple supported a number of animal and canine rescue organizations. “Hey, Warrior. I think Frank’s new girlfriend likes dogs. And that’s got to be a good thing. Right?” A snore answers me. He’s fast asleep.

  At first glance, this Juliana appears to be a private woman living a quiet life. But the phone hang-ups and the peculiar reaction to the delivery of the box are, I have to agree with Laura, at the very least, curious.

  Chapter Three

  The phone in the living room rings, and the caller-ID shows Laura’s number. She probably has last-minute jitters before the party for Juliana. “Hey, how’s my favorite niece in the world—”

  “I’m your only niece, Aunt Ronnie, and you’ve been telling me that forever.” But she’s ribbing me and doesn’t sound annoyed.

  “I know, I know. I need some new material. So, what’s up?”

  “Three hang-ups today,” Laura announces.

  Hmm. “How long does the mystery person stay on the line?” I ask. “Do you hear him, her, breathing? Making any sounds at all?”

  “I do hear some heavy breathing, but it’s all pretty quick,” Laura says. “I try to reverse the call, but like I told you, it’s either blocked or it’s one of several pay phone numbers around Scranton and also a place called Moosic that’s nearby, and nobody answers. So weird.”

  “I guess so.” I look for my dog and call to him. “Into your mouse house, Warrior.” Which is a joke, since I had to buy him a huge crate. He charges out of the downstairs bathroom where he likes the cool tile floor, skids around the corner into the hall, and heads for the kitchen.

  “Warrior loves his mouse house,” I say to Laura. “Are you all set over there?”

  “Dad’s a happy camper, all smiling, laughing.” My niece stretches out the first syllables on smiling and laughing. “He’s helping Richard set up the bar,” she says.

  “What about Juliana? Does she look drop-dead gorgeous?” I guess I’ll find that out myself soon enough.

  “Who knows? Juliana’s been upstairs for almost four hours,” Laura says. “What do you think she’s been doing for four hours?”

  Point taken, but… “Easy, kiddo. Maybe she’s a little nervous meeting your dad’s friends and family,” I say. “Cut her some slack, OK?”

  “I don’t know why she’d be at all nervous. She’s scary beautiful. Richard calls her a real stunner,” Laura answers. “Are you coming soon? It’s almost six. I really need to show you something, before everyone else gets here.”

  “See you in ten.” I’m as ready as I’ll ever be and would need way more than four hours to become scary beautiful. I grab the keys and head out the door.

  ~~~~~

  I turn left off Hollow Road into Meadow Farm and drive up the long dirt road that winds among intermittent woods and fields. Split-rail and wire fencing surround many of the pastures containing the ninety-plus sheep that reside at the farm.

  One more big bend in the road, and there, at the end of a lush green meadow among clusters of sugar maples, ash, and C
hinese chestnut trees, stands the house where I grew up. I look over at the second floor, left-corner window, first my room and then that of my favorite-niece-in-the-world, Laura, during the last two decades.

  My gaze sweeps across the fine-looking house with stone and stucco walls and slate roof. A textile factory owner built it in 1910, and I was blessed to grow up here from the fifties through most of the seventies, way before the hyper-rich and obscenely famous of the twenty-first century moved into the area. These days, this house would need a complete do-over to interest any hedge fund guy. Not over-the-top enough for that crowd—which suits us just fine.

  I park, and Laura rushes out. We hug and walk inside to more greetings from my nephew, Richard, and his wife, Susie.

  My daughter Brooke walks through the dining room door into the foyer. “Mom!” We give each other a big embrace. She’s here from Manhattan and incredibly grown up at twenty-four.

  Laura tugs at my arm while saying to my daughter, “I’m stealing your mom for five minutes, Brooke.”

  “Be right back, sweetie,” I call over my shoulder as Laura leads me through the kitchen door.

  Then my niece scoots me past the breakfast table and outside to a grey trash bin. She flips open the lid, and I hear the rustling sound of garbage bags as she reaches inside.

  I’m taken aback. “What on earth? Your guests are due any second.”

  “You’re not going to believe this. I was out here a little earlier throwing something away, and I found that box I told you was addressed to Juliana in the bin. Dad and Juliana were out, so I snooped.”

  I’m not happy to hear about this. “Laura—”

  “I know, I know, but you’ve gotta see.”

  Reluctantly, I walk over to her, suddenly noticing the smell of rotten eggs and something else I can’t put my finger on. Decay? I look in the bin, inside a black garbage bag on top, and see a white box. The lid is addressed to Ms. Juliana Wentworth, care of Meadow Farm.

  I don’t know what to say. The bad odor is now overpowering, and the sound of flies buzzing about causes me to step back. “Something in this garbage bag is rotten. The smell is awful—”

  “It’s inside the box.” Laura gingerly pushes the lid to the side and motions for me to look.

  On a bed of shriveled flowers lies the bloody carcass of a very dead bird. The sight takes my breath away. Dribbled raw eggs cover the mass. The eggs and the dead bird are the source of the rotten smell turning my stomach.

  “This is super gross, isn’t it? And pretty creepy, too.” Laura fake-shivers as if she’s watching a horror movie. “Those flowers look like they come from a cemetery. And is that a dead pigeon?”

  “It looks like one,” I answer, appalled. “Who would send such an awful package to Frank’s friend here at the farm?”

  “I don’t know, but the box has a Scranton, Pennsylvania postmark, the same place that those hang-up calls are from. Look.” Laura points at the corner of the lid. “It’s dated the day before they arrived. I wonder who knew she was coming here.”

  So Laura’s bad feelings really aren’t unfounded. “This is alarming—the contents of the box and the fact that the sender knew she’d be here.” Even though I haven’t touched anything, I feel the desire to wash my hands.

  “I wonder why Juliana didn’t want anybody here to find out about the package,” Laura says. “Maybe she knows who sent it, and that’s why she was so upset before she even opened it.”

  “That’s a good point. If it was a stranger who sent this, you’d think she’d want us to help and call the police to investigate.” I glance down at the contents again. “Ugh.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, I took pictures of the box and the mess inside with my phone. You know, in case you hire a private detective.” She closes the lid of the garbage bin and walks me back inside. “I’ll send the photos to you.”

  As we enter the front hall, I notice goose bumps on my arms and rub them away. I feel truly disturbed.

  From upstairs, I hear the sound of a man’s voice. My brother is speaking soothingly to someone. Laura and I look at each other, and she gives me a small shrug.

  A silky, melodic woman’s voice answers, but I can’t make out what they’re saying to each other. I feel a bit guilty, even hearing that little, as though I’m eavesdropping on an intimate conversation between two lovers.

  Then I hear footsteps move down the hall.

  For more, please go to https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00F029810

  DELILAH

  A Ronnie Lake Cold Case

  By

  Niki Danforth

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case

  Copyright © 2015 Niki Danforth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, digital or any other form without permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Publisher: Pancora Press

  Cover Design: KT Design, LLC www.kristaft.com

  Delilah

  The bloodied corpses lay dumped on each other as if they’ve been sorted for the trash. Even with blindfolds covering their eyes, their frozen faces show an unspeakable terror. Two of the teenaged victims appear to have their hands tied behind their backs. The third must have worked out of the rope that’s still twisted around one wrist, her other rubbed raw from the binding. Her arms reach around the two girls as if she’s pulling them close. Were they already friends before this final embrace?

  I click through the next photographs, close-ups of the girls’ battered bodies. Their clothes are filthy and ragged, as if they’ve been held captive for some time.

  Other pictures on my laptop reveal the surroundings, possibly a warehouse somewhere in a rundown industrial area. The bleak, abandoned space is light years away from my cozy, safe cottage in Willowbrook, New Jersey, where I complete homework for my Intro to Criminal Justice class.

  Warrior, my beloved German shepherd, stirs near my feet on the end of a comfy chaise in my bedroom. This has always been my first choice of where to hunker down with a great book, but at the moment it’s where I study these photos.

  Suddenly, not wanting to taint my refuge with this Russian mob-related case, I take off my drugstore glasses, sweep up the materials, and head downstairs to the kitchen. I continue reading about this tragic human trafficking case and contemplate whether I’m really cut out for this world of investigative work.

  Unexpectedly, the wind picks up. Crack!

  I jump at the same moment the phone rings and grab it before it can ring again. “Hello? Who is it?”

  “Ronnie, it’s Will. Are you okay?” his calm voice asks. “You sound panicked.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. A huge noise outside startled me, like a gunshot, but it was probably just a limb that broke off.” I pour a glass of pinot noir. “What’s up?”

  “Do you want to assist me on a new case? I’m swamped—”

  “I’d love to, but is it more involved than the gofer work I did last time?” I take a drink. “Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity—”

  “It’s a cold case in Parklawn, just west of Paterson. It’s not that far from you, and you’ll have a chance to help a lot in the field,” Will interjects. “We’ll find out more tomorrow when we talk to the client. Meet me at the diner at eight.”

  “You’re really going to put me in the field?”

  “With my close supervision,” Will says. “I don’t want to see a repetition of your—”

  “See you there. Thanks!” I hang up.

  I grab my computer and run upstairs to turn in. The wind continues to howl outside, and I pull Warrior’s dog nest
next to my bed before sliding under the covers. I look at the computer screen, determined to pick up where I left off with my assignment. Outside, the branches creak spookily.

  “Who are you trying to kid?” I turn off my laptop. “Enough of the Russian mob for one night.”

  ~~~~~

  Will and I sit in a booth at Angie’s Diner drinking coffee, happy to be inside on a cloudy, chilly February morning. Bells jangle when the front door opens and a sandy-haired man in a plaid flannel hooded jacket and heavy canvas work pants enters. He has several folders tucked under his arm, so Will assumes he’s the man we want to meet and waves. As the guy walks to our table, I note he looks to be my age, somewhere in his mid-fifties.

  “You’re Will Benson?” he asks.

  “I am.” Will extends his hand to shake, and we introduce ourselves. After we order breakfast and make a little small talk, Steve Lyla begins his story.

  “Like I told you on the phone, my dad’s cousin, Benny Paola, retired from the force over in Paterson where he worked with your dad back in the ’80s,” Steve says to Will. “He said I should give you a call, that maybe you could help us on a cold case.”

  “How old is the case?” I blurt.

  Will grins at my eagerness. “Start at the beginning, Steve.”

  “My aunt, Doreen Lyla, was murdered back in 1972, and they never got her killer. Hey, I get it that the police didn’t have everything they’ve got now to track him down.” He drinks his coffee. “Parklawn P.D. and detectives in Paterson worked the case long and hard, but they still came up empty.”

  “So, why now?” Will asks. “It’s been more than forty years.”

  “My old man’s got cancer, and we don’t think he’ll make it.”