Mayhem Takes a Dare: The Second Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 2)

by Jada Ryker

“I’ve only mentioned it to you about a million times. You never listen. Nancy was his girlfriend. Or, at least, she was one of his girlfriends. Martin liked variety in the females. At the same time, he expected his women to be true to him, and stick around until he was done with them.”

  “Nancy decided she was done with him? And Martin was mad because he was the one who got to say when it was done?”

  “Bert, I swear, I’m going to quit talking to you.”

  “Cindy, I can only hope that you quit talking—”

  “What?” Cindy was outraged.

  Bert backpedalled. A loud creaking came from behind Chris. “These chairs are so uncomfortable,” the man grumped. “That’s what I said.”

  “We are here to mourn, not get comfortable.” The woman sounded smug and self-righteous. “Anyway, Nancy put everything she owned in the Crossroads bar. She couldn’t afford insurance, not to mention she lived in a room above the bar. If she heard that Martin was on his way there to burn down her life savings because she broke up with him, I bet she’s rejoicing his death, not mourning.”

  Tina leaned nearer to Chris and whispered in his ear. “That was my brother Martin. It would take a well digger burrowing his way toward the center of the earth to find any scrap of humanity in Martin.”

  “Regardless, Tina, he was your brother and he’s dead. I’m sorry you heard that conversation.” Chris put his hand over hers.

  Tina was surprised to feel the roughness of Chris’ palm, as if he had been working at hard labor since she’d left town over a decade ago. She slid her hand from between Chris’ arm and hand.

  “Wake up, you old goat!” Cindy sounded furious. “Don’t you be thinking you’ll get a nap when you get home, either. You have to fix the leaking sink.”

  “I don’t have time to fix a sink. I’m going hunting with Herb.”

  “I don’t know why I married you, Bert. I could have married Jonathan Hanson. I’d be living in a beautiful farmhouse, looking out the window at rolling green hills, expensive horses, and fertile crops in the fields.” She sighed.

  “Did you forget your glasses again, or are you just too vain to wear them? There’s Chris Hanson right in front of you.” Bert raised his voice. “Chris! Call your father to come and get Cindy.”

  “You old coot! I ought to divorce you. I can get on one of those dating sites and find myself a rich man to marry and take care of me.”

  “You don’t need a dating site. Chris can take you to his dad right now—since you were almost his mother and all—”

  Tina turned around in time to see Cynthia thump Bert’s large ear.

  “Ow!”

  “Bert, you are embarrassing me. This is no way for you to behave at a funeral visitation.” Her rotund body shaking with anger, she grabbed her purse. Without a backward glance, she stomped through the mourners.

  Bert followed her, his steps dragging and his shoulders slumped under his tight jacket.

  Tina met Chris’ dancing eyes. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. She hadn’t thought she’d find anything funny about her trip back to her hometown.

  Althea stretched. She put the completed pages in her desk drawer. She carefully locked the drawer, and dropped the small key into her dress pocket. She rose and made her way downstairs.

  When she saw the woman with Clay Napier, Althea paused. Who is this beautiful stranger? At least sixty years old, the unknown woman practically in Althea’s suitor’s arms was beautiful. Her creamy white skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, like a ponytail pulled too tight, highlighting the gorgeous bone structure. As she looked up into Clay Napier’s shuttered face, with its aggressively hooked nose and strong jaw line, the stranger shook her long, sunset red hair out of her face with a practiced twitch of her head.

  The woman put one small, delicate hand on his arm, and she moved her petite body closer to his. With a slight twist of her hips, her large, perky bosom moved whisper close to his strong chest. One deep breath would close the microscopic space between the two.

  With a frown of annoyance, Clay shook off her hand and backed up.

  Partially hidden behind a curio cabinet in the lobby of the assisted living center, Althea hissed. The woman was putting the moves on Clay!

  Straightening her spine and firming her jaw, Althea ordered herself to stop lurking in the corner like a lovesick teenager, and enter the room like a normal human being. If decades of teaching elementary schoolchildren had not broken her spirit, nothing would. Including this painted, pampered product of a cosmetic surgeon, with her impossibly large breasts and wrinkle-free sly face.

  Before Althea could move from her impromptu hiding place, the woman spoke to Clay. “I am your lawfully wedded wife, and I want to take up where we left off thirty years ago. You know you want that, too, You’re afraid to admit it, even to yourself.”

  Althea’s hand flew to her mouth. The sensation of being hit by a blow was so real, her other arm covered her belly, as if to protect her from a physical shock. In distress, she wilted against the wall.

  Clay gripped the woman’s arm tight enough to bruise the white skin. “I have nothing for you now but loathing and disgust. You chose your path thirty years ago.”

  The woman threw back her long red hair and laughed.

  The reckless power in the laugh sent chills down Althea’s spine.

  “You will do whatever I tell you to do. Remember the nursing home? You should, since you came here straight from there after the murders. A man was found dead in his bed. Given the events, an autopsy was performed. He was killed with an overdose of a narcotic. Since it was the same narcotic used to kill the other victims, the police have assigned the responsibility for the killing to one of the murderers in custody. However, they don’t know what I know.”

  Clay pushed her away from him and threw up his chin in disdain. “What do you think you know?”

  The beautiful woman stumbled, the triumph her face never faltering. “I know you committed murder and you think you got away with it.”

  Althea felt paralyzed. She loved Clay. This woman referred to herself as his wife. The stranger also accused Clay of murder.

  The longer she stood there, the greater the chance one of them would turn and see her. She did not want to be caught in the embarrassing position of eavesdropping. Althea squared her shoulders.

  As a result of physical rehabilitation, Althea swept into the room. Her gait was smooth and graceful, with not even a limp to remind her of the hip she’d broken many months ago. With the full skirt of her new emerald dress, a perfect match for her eyes, swirling around her knees, she walked straight to Clay.

  As he glanced away from the other woman’s intent face, Althea could have sworn she saw a fleeting emotion cross his face. She wasn’t sure if it was concern or chagrin. In the next instant, his barely lined handsome face was smooth and welcoming.

  Clay turned to Althea, his thick white hair like a halo in the afternoon sun slanting in though the long windows lining the wall of the comfortable lobby. Thinking of the irony of a halo on the devil-may-care Clay, Althea smiled slightly.

  “Thea, my dear, you look lovely as always.” His pure gray eyes glowed with admiration.

  Taking in Clay’s pristine white shirt, perfectly pressed and neatly buttoned, and the pleated navy trousers accentuating the slim waist, Althea nodded her thanks. “And you are flawlessly debonair as always.”

  A trilling laugh came from Clay’s companion. It skittered down Althea’s spine, like the old days in teaching, when fingernails sometimes scraped on chalkboards.

  “Clay, my darling, introduce me! Is this your charming mother?”

  A bark of laughter came from the doorway.

  Althea twisted in surprise.

  Her short, stout body military straight in her normal uniform of polyester smock and matching pants, Clara Eastwood paused in the doorway like a battleship checking its longitude and latitude readings. Every afternoon after lunch, the old lady firmly marched
into the lobby and lowered her bulk into the largest and most comfortable chair. From her command post, she could see anyone entering or exiting the lobby, watch television, quiz the staff of the assisted living center, talk to other residents, and entertain her frequent visitors.

  To Althea’s knowledge, Clara was never absent from her self-appointed post in the hours between lunch and dinner. With the same iron fist with which Clara had ruled the elementary school lunchroom for several decades before her retirement, she ruled the assisted living center lobby.

  Mrs. Craft, her long red wig similar in shade to the stranger’s hair, always accompanied Clara like a permanent aide-de-camp. Pausing at the doorway with Clara, she pulled at her low-cut, bright red dress. Teetering a bit on her impossibly high heels, she carefully crossed the lobby in Clara’s wake.

  Fleetingly, Althea wondered if Mrs. Craft would use the awkward situation to make a smart-ass remark at Althea’s expense. With her hearing aid turned up, Mrs. Craft missed very little. At the nursing home where she, Clay, and Mrs. Craft had been residents four months ago, Mrs. Craft had been in dogged pursuit of Clay. Now, however, she seemed to be perfectly happy with Sonny O’Brien. Although Mrs. Craft didn’t know it, her romance was the result of Clay’s desperate matchmaking attempt to push her away from him and into Sonny’s admiring arms.

  Like a general taking her place in the war room, Clara eased into her command post, while Mrs. Craft slid onto the couch angled near Clara’s seat. “I realize you’re new, Mrs. Peters,” Clara barked, “but you’d have to be blind not to see how those two look at each other. It’s only in Greek tragedies you see mothers looking at their sons that way, and vice versa.”

  Clay smoothly took control. “Moira Peters, this is Althea Flaxton.”

  Althea opened her mouth to give Moira the setdown she so obviously deserved.

  Sliding his arm around Althea’s waist, Clay squeezed her warningly.

  Althea closed her mouth.

  “Moira and I go back a long way. Long enough for me to know, Moira, that you are actually older than Althea. Perhaps you should get your eyes tested while you’re in town.”

  The perfect features hardened. “Nice to meet you, Ms....Ranier.”

  Althea felt a clutch in her stomach. How does this beautiful stranger know my secret pseudonym? My darling Marisa, more dear to me than a daughter, doesn’t know. Clay doesn’t know, even though I love him. “My name is Althea Flaxton.”

  Moira laughed. “Oh, dear me, I mean Ms. Flaxton. I must be confused. Seretha Ranier is the name of my favorite author. Of course, that’s her pen name. Most people don’t know her real name.”

  Forcing herself to relax her facial muscles into innocent lines, Althea smiled. “I am sure it’s an honest mistake.”

  Running her fingers gently along Clay’s arm, Moira cocked her head. “Honest and mistake don’t normally go together. Do they, Ms. Flaxton?” Moira shrugged in the face of Althea’s silence. “Anyway, I just moved in. I am looking forward to renewing my...friendship...with Clay.”

  As if her fingers were creepy little spiders, Clay brushed them off his arm. He smiled, but his gray eyes were wintry. “Since we stay very busy with various activities, I doubt very much if Althea and I will be available for socializing.”

  Moira’s eyes matched Clay’s for arctic chill. “I am sure your little friend will spare me a bit of her time for some one-on-one girl talk. I would love the chance to learn her...secrets.” The husky voice had an edge as hard as steel.

  With a gentle shuffling, an elderly lady entered the common area. Her white hair was carefully rolled around plastic pink sponge rollers, and covered by a gauzy pink scarf. Her housedress was a pale floral print, with the roses the exact pink shade of the rollers and scarf.

  “Mrs. Kenton, good afternoon.” Althea dampened her anger down to a manageable level.

  “Mrs. Flaxton, Mr. Napier, ladies.” Her face set in its characteristic lines of grief, Mrs. Kenton eased her thin frame onto the couch next to Mrs. Craft. Her sadness was as much a part of her as her eye color or build, an acquired characteristic as unchangeable as a genetic physical trait.

  Althea smiled, her face settling into a gentle compassion. She knew Mrs. Kenton’s daughter had been brutally murdered twenty years ago. Mayla Kenton had been a carefree twenty-year-old college honor student, carelessly arrogant in her own awareness of her intelligence and beauty. With a glorious future ahead of her as a talented pianist, mortality had not been part of her sense of self.

  When a serial arsonist had burned Mrs. Kenton’s home as a part of his or her plan of doom, Mayla had died. The young woman had been asleep in her own room, too ill to accompany her parents on their vacation. The police’s theory was the arsonist had not known Mayla was in the house, since the previous fires had encompassed empty homes.

  When the fires stopped after Mayla’s death, the newspapers had speculated the arsonist had been overcome by a sense of guilt. Whether Mayla’s death was intentional or not, the outcome was the same. She was dead.

  Her voice unconsciously soft because of her thoughts, Althea remarked, “I see Starla Farrell has put your hair in curlers for you.”

  Mrs. Kenton’s thin, blue-veined hand tentatively touched the tightly wound curls. “Starla is a good girl. The center hired her after the unfortunate events at the nursing home several months ago.” She slanted uncertain, watery blue eyes in Althea’s direction. “She takes time out of her day every morning to put my hair in curlers. Then before dinner, she takes them out and carefully fluffs out my hair.”

  “Starla is an excellent employee who goes above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Mrs. Kenton nodded and continued, “I’ve told her she doesn’t have to do it every day, but the child insists. She says I must look my best for dinner. Otherwise, she claims, it’s a negative reflection on her as a personal care assistant.” Under the flowered housedress, the bony chest hitched. “My daughter Mayla used to babysit Starla when she was a little girl. I think that’s why Starla goes out of her way to be so sweet to me.”

  The front door of the assisted living center opened, and a small group of children and adults rushed inside.

  Clara’s round, wrinkled face lit up under her mass of short, suspiciously brown curls. “Ada and Judith! Come here, my dears! And you brought the girls!”

  The taller woman bent over to hug the old woman. “Mother, how are you?”

  Clara snorted. “My best friend, Arthur, is always with me!”

  The younger of the two little girls rushed forward. “Oh, Grandmother, who is Arthur? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Moira laughed shortly. “Clara! Don’t tell me you’re using that old saw, Arthur Ritis?”

  Clara frowned, but before she could answer, the smaller woman threw her arms around Clara’s neck. “Mom! I missed you!”

  “Judith, my dear, look at you! Nothing but skin and bones! How much do you weigh?”

  Althea saw Judith wink at Ada. “One hundred and ten, Mom, and it’s a good weight for five feet, two inches!”

  “Humph,” grumped Clara. “You’re ninety pounds, soaking wet!”

  The older of the two girls slowly approached the woman in the chair. “Grandmother, can we get the card table and play some cards? How about poker?”

  Moira’s laughter trilled again. “Earlier today, Clara was playing cards with some of the others. I saw her quite blatantly cheating.” Twitching her red hair back in a way that made Althea want to rip the scarlet strands out of her head, Moira sauntered over to Clara. Before the older woman could react, Moira quickly slid her hand into Clara’s voluminous, polyester sleeve. She pulled out a playing card, and held it up triumphantly. “You see? Your grandmother is a cheat.”

  “My grandmother is not a cheat!” the older child punctuated her statement with a stamped little foot.

  The younger child began to cry, great hiccupping sobs and large tears running down her cheeks.

  With a small, satisfied smile on
her beautiful face, Moira stalked out of the room.

  Clara held out her arms to her little granddaughters, and gathered them close to her.

  Seeing the look on Clara’s face as the old woman watched Moira leave the room, Althea shivered.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “There’s a good reason why there’s a dick in addicted.” Slightly reminiscent of a chipmunk with her bulgy cheeks and bucked teeth, Cindy was defiant. Her frizzy blonde topknot bobbed with her emotion. In her crumpled sweatshirt and pants, she looked like an agitated toddler.

  Marisa, who prided herself on her open and nonjudgmental attitude as a member of the addiction group, felt her eyebrows rise under her wispy brown bangs.

  “I am having a very hard time staying faithful to my husband,” Cindy went on. Normally a gentle doe brown, her eyes were flashing with aggression. “I love the thrill and excitement of an illicit affair. I enjoy the flirting, the planning, the foreplay of sexually-charged words and actions. I can’t wait to get the elicit emails and the late night phone calls.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The only thing that has stopped me so far is I do love my husband. And he stood by me when my friends and family did not.” The tears spilled over her round cheeks. Swiping her shaking, stubby-fingered hand over her sweating face, Cindy took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out.

  Allowing Cindy’s words to flow over her, Marisa let her eyes drift around the eclectic group of men and women. Arranged in a circle of hard folding chairs in the church basement, the faces and bodies were as varied as a crowd on the street. Minus any overt commonality of age or gender or race or socioeconomic class, the group’s common purpose would not be obvious to an outsider.

  None of the men and women, their clothing running the spectrum from ragged khaki shorts to expensive suits, appeared to be out of control, depraved monsters.

  Including herself. In the window, Marisa could see the reflections of the backs of the people directly across from her in the circle. Beyond them, she could see her own pale reflection. Her dark hair was pulled back from the oval lines of her face. In the short-sleeved pastel summery top and jeans, her body was at ease in the hard metal folding chair.