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

by Danforth, Niki

  “I’m sorry,” Will and I say almost in unison.

  “Pop’s dying wish is that his sister’s killer be brought to justice,” Steve says as the waitress delivers our breakfast.

  He gestures toward the folders next to him on the seat. “My dad’s cousin gave me his old case files. In his spare time, Uncle Benny helped a guy named Detective Brannigan who ran the Paterson part of the investigation.”

  “Do those files include a list of people the police talked to back then?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, and it’s a long one.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “No, but I was first on the scene—”

  I jump in. “How did that happen? You must have been a kid.”

  “Yeah, I was only twelve. But Mom and I stopped by to drop something off at Aunt Doreen’s after basketball practice.”

  “What do you remember?” Will digs into his eggs, but his eyes are on Steve.

  The man looks down and takes a moment. “Mom and I pulled up to the front of Aunt Doreen’s house.”

  “Do you remember what time?” I ask.

  “No, but the light was on outside. The door was wide open, and I remember thinking that was weird because it was cold out. Then I noticed something on the landing.”

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “My mother hadn’t even stopped the car when I jumped out and raced over. My aunt was sprawled across the steps. Her eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone someone who’d been murdered.” He shakes his head. “It looked like someone had stabbed her over and over and over. I touched her wrist to find a pulse, like they’d taught us in Scouts. There was no pulse, but she was still warm. So I guess it had just happened.”

  “What an awful memory to carry with you,” I say.

  “I remember her expression…it was like she couldn’t believe that someone wanted to kill her.” Steve’s mouth goes tight. “I ran inside and my mom screamed at me not to go because maybe the guy was in there. But I had to call the police. Pretty soon, I heard the sirens.” He goes quiet, staring at his food.

  We give him a moment, and then Will asks, “What happened with the investigation?”

  “Like I said, this Detective Brannigan ran it. As the case got colder, Uncle Benny tried to help.”

  “They didn’t come up with anything?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Steve says. “Brannigan retired fifteen years ago, and Uncle Benny ten.”

  “To be fair to the police and detectives, their other work never stops. New cases keep piling up,” Will says. “Once the leads dry up in a homicide, it gets pushed to the side for more recent crimes and the case goes cold.” Will waves to the waitress for the check.

  “Because of Uncle Benny, both the Paterson and Parklawn cops said I can check out their records,” Steve says. “That goes for you, too, since I’m hiring you and all.”

  “I’ll email you the paperwork,” Will says, “and we’ll start right away.”

  ~~~~~

  Back at the office, we lay out Steve’s files on the work table.

  “I have an appointment in twenty minutes,” he says. “It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, take a look at these. Let me know what you think.”

  “Do you want me to head out to talk to some people who were around when this happened—”

  “Not yet. Let me be clear, you’re working under my supervision. You’re not to set foot out of the office on this case unless you’ve cleared everything with me.” Will’s voice is firm. There isn’t even the usual flirtatious twinkle in his eye as he talks to me.

  “But Will—”

  “No buts, semi-Detective Lake.”

  “Yes, boss.” I don’t mean to, but I’m certain a discouraging tone sneaks into my voice. Sure, Will’s been a private detective for almost two decades, but I’m a good fifteen years older than he is. That has to count for something in experience and maturity. So why do I feel like a bumbling office intern when he tells me what to do?

  “Now look, I want you to get some experience while you’re going to school for this, but I don’t want you in danger.” He pauses, and his piercing blue eyes soften. “As we both know, rushing into the field too soon without enough facts can land you in hot water. Remember?”

  “Right.” I try to keep my voice calm. I’ve known Will long enough to understand he only wants the best for me. But after last summer’s family matter that I tried to investigate on my own, I know I have a lot to learn. Thankfully Will hasn’t written me off completely as a detective, and is still game to help me out.

  “Look, I just…I want you to be sure about your decision to become a private investigator.” The kindness in his voice and the gaze in his eyes makes me want to melt. My face feels hot.

  Once Will leaves, I dig in, carefully reading through copies of the autopsy report, various police reports, and Doreen Lyla’s death certificate. Next I look at photos of Doreen from that time, and then digest the newspaper articles that Steve’s family saved about the murder.

  Amazingly, the killer appears to have left no clues so the evidence is slim. The police follow-up back in the seventies yielded very little, but it’s hard to believe this may have been a perfect crime.

  Doreen was twenty-four at the time of her death and a popular, well-regarded teacher at the local high school. She sang in a church choir, worked out several times a week at a gym, and volunteered at a soup kitchen. The transcripts of the interviews indicate that everywhere she spent time, she left a trail of admirers.

  I check out Brannigan’s list of candidates who were interviewed, create a shorter version, and then look up contact info. I’m itching to leave the office to investigate, but I don’t want Will to fire me before we’ve even started.

  ~~~~~

  We meet at a Starbucks around the corner from Will’s office. I fill him in on what I’ve learned so far from the files.

  “There were no clues at Doreen’s house, nothing from the killer, no prints, no defensive wounds, nothing under her nails. It looks like she turned to walk into the house and maybe he got her from behind.” I sip my decaf mocha. “Oh, and none of the neighbors saw anything.” I pull a yellowed snapshot out of my bag. “Here’s a picture of her house back then.”

  Will studies it. “Those bushes by the front door were a good place to hide.”

  “Or maybe Doreen knew the guy and blew him off,” I answer. “Then she turned to go inside, and that’s when he got her. According to the autopsy report, there were twenty-two stab wounds. They were all over her body, front and back.”

  “A passionate attack like that, it’s a classic sign that the killer knew his victim, meaning he wasn’t a pro and there should have been mistakes.” Will slowly drinks his coffee. “It’s surprising there are no clues.”

  I pull out another photograph, one of Doreen. “Here.” He looks closely. “She was beautiful,” I say. “And from what I’ve read, equally nice.”

  He nods, pulls out a small pad, and writes a name and number. “Tomorrow morning at eight we’ll meet at Parklawn P.D. and spend time going through their cold case files. Give this guy a call. Let him know that Steve hired us, and we’d like to come by in the morning.”

  “Got it,” I answer. “Here’s the preliminary list I put together of top candidates to re-interview.”

  “Go ahead and set up meetings, in person or by phone. Try not to set up any evening interviews unless you have to. And never by yourself at night.” Will looks at me with a mixture of tenderness and sternness. “Are we clear?”

  “Ten-four, boss.”

  ~~~~~

  After setting up several appointments and leaving voice mails for others on my list, I reread everything Steve left with us, getting lost in the details of Doreen Lyla’s murder.

  It’s late afternoon when I head home. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Woodstock” explodes from the radio in my red Mustang. Along the way I decide on a new destination, pull over, and r
each for my case notes from the back seat. I put the address in my GPS and blast the music even more for the long drive in rush hour traffic.

  It’s getting dark by the time I arrive, probably close to the time of day of Doreen’s murder. I stare at the scene of the crime, an ivory-colored stucco bungalow from the thirties with slate shingles and black shutters.

  The large bushes that used to stand sentry on both sides of the front door are long gone. Now, a two-foot-high, neatly trimmed hedge stands in their place. There are lights on inside, and every now and then I see a silhouette run past a window.

  I turn up my satellite radio when I hear Megan Trainer singing “Lips are Movin’.” My daughter Brooke had shown me the video on YouTube of a pretty, voluptuous blonde with lots of black eyeliner, and I loved the 1960s vibe to her music. I quickly text Brooke that I’m listening to the song again.

  I look at the old photo of the house and then glance around the street filled with similar bungalows. It’s a quiet neighborhood, perfect for families or a young teacher like Doreen.

  A car turns into the driveway and a woman gets out. The light over the door turns on as she runs up the front steps. Before she can open it, a young girl and boy fling open the door and rush to her with hugs. They all go inside.

  Wouldn’t Doreen’s neighbors have heard her cry out when her attacker came at her? The music fades out as I mentally step back to 1972.

  I imagine the two large bushes on either side of the front door, tall enough for someone to hide behind. Perhaps Doreen walked up the steps, tired at the end of a long day at school, and pulled out her keys. As she unlocked the door, she may have heard him behind her, maybe she even knew him.

  Before she could fully register his unexpected presence, he grabbed her, covered her mouth, and stabbed her. He cut her again. Over and over, angrier and angrier, he kept stabbing as she dropped to the stoop. This hulking figure loomed over her, continuing to knife her. He didn’t need to cover her mouth anymore, because the life was finally out of her and she was quiet.

  I snap back to the present where the stoop is empty. The neighborhood is quiet and peaceful, and I drive away listening to another talented blond musician famous for her heavy black eyeliner, 1960s icon Dusty Springfield, singing “I Only Want To Be With You.” I wonder if that was what the killer was thinking as he waited here to make his move. And if he couldn’t have her, no one else could either.

  For more, please go to https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01AIIPMMY

  About the author

  Niki Danforth, daughter of a Cold War covert intelligence officer, has the thriller/adventure gene in her DNA. After a career in New York television, including as a director on Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous, this empty-nester has recreated herself as an author of suspenseful mysteries. And like her character Ronnie Lake, she studied Japanese Aikido, earning a black belt in time for a decade birthday. Danforth lives in the New Jersey countryside with her husband and two drama-queen dogs. She’s busy at work on her next book.