Ted crashes to the floor, mumbling incoherently with Will on top of him. Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out zip ties to secure Ted’s wrists behind him. Sounds rise from somewhere deep inside this tortured man, growing into shrieks of suffering like nothing I’ve ever heard before.
“Doreeeeen,” Ted wails at me. “I had to kill you. I thought I’d lost you.” He breaks down sobbing. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”
I hear sirens in the distance.
Will and I look at each other and then at Ted, who’s still wailing Doreen’s name.
~~~~~
Later that night, I soak in the tub to erase the feeling of creepy Ted’s body pressed against mine. I take solace in knowing that Will and I have helped the Lyla family find peace. I also think of my own two daughters who are close to Doreen’s age when she died.
I look up at the huge photo of James Bond and offer a toast. “Here’s to the memory of a lovely young woman with so much promise, one who had her whole life ahead of her.”
Beside me, my phone rings and Will’s number shows on the caller ID. I answer, and can’t hold back a grin when his quiet voice says, “Good job.”
“I didn’t offer much besides a little intuition and a whole lot of luck,” I answer truthfully.
“I would have missed this one, Ronnie. It would have taken me much longer to finish this case, if I ever caught it at all, and Steve’s father doesn’t have much time. Your work made all the difference.”
“Thanks, Will. That really means a lot to me, especially coming from a pro like you.”
“You know, you might turn out to be a private eye after all,” Will says, emphasizing the word “private” in a way that could easily be taken wrong by the right woman.
“Will Benson, I just said you were a professional! You never struck me as the kind to make a dick joke!”
He doesn’t say a word, and I can envision the open-mouthed look of shock on his face. I laugh and tell him goodnight before hanging up the phone.
“Delilah”
performed by Tom Jones
Part of the fun of writing Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case was the research, including spending plenty of time online watching Tom Jones perform his many hits. Some of the earliest clips reminded me what a remarkable voice he has, and what an amazing performer he has been from the moment he appeared on the scene in the 1960s.
These days, he’s a slightly different kind of amazing. Check out his fabulous 2012 video on YouTube where he sings Leonard Cohen’s, “Tower of Song.” The decades have added a wonderful darkness and dimension to what was already so perfect. Like the proverbial good wine, Tom Jones has aged well—just the way many of us are striving to do.
Acknowledgements
Without the kindness, support and expertise of the following people, Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case would still be a work in progress. Words cannot express the gratitude I feel for their help:
My wonderful editor, Mercy Pilkington;
Lt. Vito Abrusci (Retired), Mendham Township Police Department, New Jersey, who gave me invaluable input on correct law enforcement procedures in this cold case mystery;
And finally, Donnie Light, who first came up with the brilliant idea for the anthology Lyrical Darkness: 11 Dark Fiction Stories Inspired By The Music That Rocks Your Soul and invited me to contribute a story. I was honored to participate with this group of talented writers and encourage readers to check out the other stories in this anthology, inspired by music we all know and love.
A Note from the Author
Thank you very much for taking the time to read Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case. Reviews are important to authors, so please leave a review of this title where it’s available.
I can’t even count the number of times that my work has been read and reread, but please email me at [email protected] should you spot a typo!
To be notified of future Niki Danforth books, please sign up at http://nikidanforth.com/ for a quarterly email.
Thanks,
Niki Danforth
To see where it all began, please turn the page for the first three chapters of Stunner: A Ronnie Lake Mystery.
STUNNER
A Ronnie Lake Mystery
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.
Stunner: A Ronnie Lake Mystery
Copyright © 2013 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.
“Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1984 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP).
Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
Publisher: Pancora Press
Book Design by Donnie Light – eBook76.com
Cover Design: KT Design, LLC www.kristaft.com
Chapter One
The fist explodes in a punch toward my stomach. Like most women, I would have folded in panic not that long ago, my only move to throw out my arms protectively in front of me, shielding myself from the blow while cowering like a trapped animal.
Not now. Even though this attack happens in a split second, time really does seem to slow down. First, I take in the whole of my opponent, never fixing my gaze on any one point. Without a doubt, this person means to finish me off.
As the strike travels toward my abdomen, I strategically move aside with a quick shifting of my feet, simultaneously grabbing my adversary’s wrist, my fingers applying the force of a steel trap. With rapid speed, I turn my opponent away from me as if I’m opening a gate and swing this assailant right off balance.
Then I quickly step in and plant my feet close to one another while lowering my torso under my aggressor’s center. I reach around my opponent’s waist while turning my hips to load this individual onto the small of my back.
Hold that image! Hey, the decade of my twenties with my body feeling immune to injury was ages ago. So why would I even consider acting like Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan and stack an aggressive attacker onto my fifty-five-year-old aching back? Commmme onnnn.
The key is not to struggle and attempt to muscle this person onto my spine. It’s all about the correct stance, the correct posture, and finally the correct hip turn from my core that together combine into a force of leverage powerful beyond belief. This set-up allows me to execute a flawless hip throw, and my attacker breaks a freefall through the air with an arm-slam onto the ground.
I hear a quick exhale of air and then a soft groan from the floor. Grinning, my attacker pushes up from the mat and tells me, “Good job with the koshinage, Ronnie. Your stance and core were rock solid.”
“Thanks, Isabella. I think I’m getting better at koshinage.” We use the Japanese name for the technique we’ve just practiced in the martial art of Aikido.
Isabella Romano is my sensei, or teacher, and she’s a sixth-degree black belt. I’m a humble first-degree black belt newbie, and I’m in awe of her. When Isabella performs that hip throw, well, I sure wouldn’t want to be some idiot-guy in a bar picking a fight with her. I’d bet on this fifty-something, small brunette any day of the week.
We wrap up our weekly private lesson before Isabella’s noon class starts at her dojo where we train. “See you in class on Friday?” she asks.
“Absolutely. Thanks for the lesson, Isabella.” We bow out to O’Sensei, the founder of Aikido, whose picture hangs on the spacious front wall of the dojo. I enter the dressing room to change into jeans and a tee-shirt and then head home.
Driving a little too fast, I glance down at the black belt neatl
y folded in the top of my Aikido bag on the front seat of my car. Not bad for an AARP broad, I muse. I feel the pride of recent accomplishment and love the time I spend at the dojo studying with Isabella Sensei. At least for the moment, my confidence and attitude register a one-hundred-eighty-degree shift from six months ago when my divorce became final.
The sun sparkles through a canopy of overhead branches as I maneuver the woodsy back roads close to home in my post-divorce, adorable red Mustang. With the top down, I fully enjoy this scenic route—although it still jars me to glimpse the flashes of trees tossed on the ground like random clusters of pick-up sticks, the result of a raging Superstorm Sandy.
I click on Bruce Springsteen, and his voice blasts at me through the car speakers.
…Glory days, well, they’ll pass you by
Glory days, in the wink of a young girl’s eye
Glory days, glory days…
It only takes a little Springsteen to remind me that being a Jersey girl, or better yet, a single Jersey woman, is not so bad.
My phone rings as I turn the Mustang onto the dirt road leading to the house. I press the button on my steering wheel and answer, “Laura? Hi!”
“Hi. Where are you right now?” my niece asks on speakerphone. I hear an uncharacteristic tension in Laura’s voice.
Concerned, I tell her, “Almost home.”
“Can I come over?” She waits a half-beat. “It’s important.” Her voice quivers. “An emergency.”
She scares me with that. “Is everyone all right?” I ask.
“It’s Dad. You know he just got back, and he brought this girlfriend with him—I think they want to get married. Oh, Aunt Ronnie, I’m worried. Some weird things are happening here since they came home.”
Oh well, if that’s all it is… “Slow down, Laura—”
“All I know is my watch-out-for-Dad radar is on high alert and going off way more than usual since Mom died. I’m not kidding. Something’s wrong.”
“Sweetie, get over here. I’ll have coffee waiting for you.” Maybe my niece has reason to worry.
Chapter Two
My German shepherd, Warrior, rubs the soft coat of his head against my bare ankle as I search among a half-dozen opened but not-yet-unpacked dish boxes stacked on the kitchen countertops. I find two mugs, fill them with coffee, and then hear a car door slam. That noise is followed by the sound of a car engine roaring by, and I catch a glimpse of a van spewing gravel as it races up my dirt road. Metallic blue or grey, I think.
“Aunt Ronnie, I’m sure that guy was following me,” Laura says as she dashes into the kitchen, a little out of breath.
I truly doubt it. “Probably just a repairman or delivery for the big house,” I say and pour milk into both our coffees. “Hey, by the time I got the police over here, he’d be long gone through the back gate, anyway.”
Before Laura can manage another word, I give her the time-out signal. “Stop. Take a deep breath.” I extend our filled mugs, and she takes them with a grateful smile.
“Follow me,” I order. Holding the coffee pot and a small pitcher of milk, I lead her into my garden.
Warrior trots out behind us into the hedged enclosure that’s backed up by fencing so my dog can be off his leash without my having to worry about him.
“Not working today?” I indicate a table with an open umbrella to shield us from the sun, and we sit down.
“Mrs. McCann doesn’t need me to look after the girls this afternoon, but I’ve got some tutoring sessions later on.” Laura is a recent college graduate working various summer jobs. In two months she leaves for Australia, a graduation gift from Daddy.
My niece is a welcome sight with her wild red locks flying out every which-way. While I usually brush my straight strawberry blonde hair into a quick ponytail, lovely Laura bounces out of bed every morning, long mane loose, looking nonhairdo perfect. We do have the same green eyes and toothy smiles, however, so there’s no missing we’re family. Today though, her beautiful, gentle eyes look panicked.
“OK. Tell all.” I reach down to scratch Warrior’s head. “Forget about that van. What’s going on with your darling dad?”
“Well, you know it’s already been four months since he went out to California.” Laura puts her elbows on the table, steeples her fingers, and taps her mouth. I nod in agreement, remembering her oh-so-serious father gesturing the exact same way when we were in our teens.
I snap back to the present to listen to Laura. “…except for the weekend of my graduation a month ago, he’s been out there the whole time, you know, working with his new CEO at that Santa Clara tech company he bought last year. He was only supposed to be there a month. Remember?” She gives me a significant look.
“I do remember. All of us thought it’d be a great change of scenery for Frank.” I adjust my chair so that it sits totally in the shade of the umbrella. “How long’s it been?” Poor Frank. “Ten months, almost a year, since Joanie died?”
“Nine months, thirteen days.” Laura’s eyes tear up, and she quickly blinks back the threatened drops.
Poor Laura, too. “Oh, honey, I know it’s hard. To lose your mother is a very big deal, and it takes time to grieve and mend.” I reach across the table and squeeze my niece’s hand. “So tell me about this person your dad met. Does she work for his company?”
Laura shakes her head. “No. He met her at a country club out there. She’s widowed, too, and they started playing golf and then dating…” Her creased brow broadcasts her distress.
Though I’m somewhat wary, myself, on hearing the news, certainly Frank couldn’t be expected to avoid eligible women for the rest of his life. “When did they arrive?” I ask.
“Two days ago.” Laura picks up her steaming mug and inhales the aroma. “But you just came back this morning, and we haven’t had a chance to talk. How was the shore?”
“Great as always.” I reach for my coffee. “Her name?”
“Juliana Wentworth. She’s gorgeous, too. Long, dark, perfect hair. Great figure,” Laura says, and I reflexively sit straighter and pull in my tummy as I lift my mug. She adds, “Late thirties. No way forty yet.”
I stop mid-sip. Laura lowers her head and raises her eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little young for Dad?”
I ponder the reality. “Frank is two years older than I am, so that makes him fifty-seven. So, yeah, I might have to agree.” I quickly do the math and smile. “Although, when he’s almost ninety and she’s seventy, it won’t matter.”
My niece now has a death grip on her mug and a faraway look in her eyes. “Laura?” Her head jerks slightly, and she looks at me. “I feel as if something else besides the age difference is bothering you,” I say. “What is it?”
“I’m definitely picking up a bad vibe.” She says that with both her voice and her eyes.
“I’m listening.” Warrior nudges my knee with a ball in his mouth. “Not now, Warrior.”
Laura sighs. “OK. Since they arrived, we’ve been getting hang-up calls at the house. When I pick up, no one answers,” she says. “We never had those before. It’s weird.”
I’m definitely interested. “How many hang-ups have you had? And when?”
“Nine calls in two days, and it’s any time of the day,” she answers, quickly spitting out her words. “Caller ID shows some of the numbers are blocked, and the rest of the hang-ups come from or around Scranton, Pennsylvania. Aunt Ronnie, do we know anybody in Scranton?”
“Don’t think so,” I say and slowly drink my coffee. Sounds like more than annoying telemarketers since if you answer, they—or their recordings—start their spiel. “That is strange, all those hang-ups.”
Laura nods and sips her drink. “And then something even more bizarre happened. A box arrived for Juliana this morning. Dad was out. I put it on the front hall table and noticed it had a funny smell. I told her about the box when she came downstairs.”
“OK. What’s so odd about that?” I ask.
“First, I saw her pick up the
box and read the postmark,” Laura says. “Right away, she got this very upset look on her face, like she wanted to cry, and then she rushed back upstairs with the box.”
Well, that could be anything. “Maybe you’re reading too much into this.”
“Come on. Usually if you get a box in the mail or from UPS or whatever, it’s because you’ve ordered something you want, or somebody has sent you a gift. And that’s a nice thing, right? You wouldn’t look horrified, the way she did.”
I drink from my mug. “Sweetheart, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Maybe she got something for your father and was concerned he’d walk in before she could put it away.” Is Laura being an alarmist, or do her worries warrant attention? I try to decide.
“Maybe,” she answers. But my niece presses on. “What has me really worried is that Dad’s been dropping some funny hints…” Her voice rises in pitch. “…like maybe he’s going to marry this Juliana. God, he barely knows her. It’s way too soon.”
She definitely has a point. “I would agree.”
“And why would some young babe marry Dad, who’s almost sixty, anyway? No offense, but hey.”
I chuckle a little. “No offense, but your dad’s a handsome, sexy guy—”
“TMI, Aunt Ronnie.” Laura puts her hands over her ears, and I laugh again.
“Too much information?” I ask. “How so?”
“You do know kids don’t think their parents are supposed to have sex.” Laura now covers her eyes in mock horror. “But Juliana Wentworth would enjoy other benefits if she wants to become Mrs. Franklin Livingston Rutherfurd.” Her fingers flick air quotes when she says her father’s formal name.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “There’s the money…”
“It’s not about the money. I’m worried that Dad will make a terrible mistake the way Uncle Pete did.” My niece once more looks as though she wants to cry. “And then we’ll never see him again, just like Uncle Pete.”
Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Short Story Book 2) Page 4
