by Lois Winston
I frequently buy myself more trouble than I need, and this time I jumped in with both feet. “I’ll put her in my guest house.”
“Kelly! You can’t save everyone. Wait and see what she wants to do. Besides, I’m uncomfortable with your idea. Something about Claire Guthrie makes me nervous, and I don’t think you should expose the girls to her. And if it goes to trial I’ll have to testify against her.”
Didn’t think of that. But I wasn’t worried about the girls—Claire was a kind person, and she’d only shot in the heat of passion. I’d put the offer out there and deal with problems as they came up. “She was in shock tonight,” I said. “Tell me about Mrs. Dodson.”
“Not much more to tell. Looks like she fell. An old lady shouldn’t have been going down those rickety steps, even though it wasn’t full dark yet.”
“She wasn’t that old, and she was always…well, sprightly.” Of course she was sprightly—enough so to complain about a lot of things. I added, “I don’t think she fell.”
“Kelly, don’t go suspecting villains everywhere. People fall down steps every day, even much younger people, and sometimes they hit their heads.”
“I don’t believe it. I know you laugh at my hunches or instinct, but it’s there about this.”
Mike had the grace to look a bit ashamed. “I know I should have listened to your instinct about Jo Ellen North. I could have stopped things before she almost killed you. But this time…I think your instinct is out of whack. She fell. Period. End. Of. Story. The police will treat it as a homicide until they do an autopsy—routine procedure. They have to do that with all unexplained deaths. But I’ll bet you it comes back ‘accidental death.’” He took a pull on his beer and then asked, “Do you know about any family?”
“I think she had nephews. No children, but there were two men that used to visit her on occasions, like they’d come by the day before Christmas or Thanksgiving. Once or twice I saw one of them—the one that drove a Lexus—take her somewhere, maybe for Sunday dinner at noon. But they didn’t come often, and I think she was alone a lot except for her dog and her birds.” Mrs. Dodson’s house had cages, lots of them, full of parakeets and canaries. I guess they were her companions. I’d never been in the house but knew about the birds because she’d told my mom about them.
Mike smiled. “Yeah, those birds. They’d drive me batty in no time at all. But the house was neat, just crowded with stuff. Furniture that looked old, statues and bric-a-brac and everything on every table all over the place. I was afraid to move for fear of breaking something, but I doubt any of it was valuable.”
“Probably not. Was the house clean?” Oops, I sounded like my mom.
“Pretty much. As clean as a house with all those birds can be and as an old lady could keep it.” He hesitated. “It smelled bit like urine. You know how old people are.”
I wished he’d stop referring to her as old. “How old was she?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe seventy.”
“Seventy is not that old,” I retorted. “It’s too young for a healthy woman to die.”
I stopped, arms crossed in front of me, and thought about the way people stereotype the elderly. This was not the time to remind Mike that seventy is the new fifty or whatever. Besides, I thought Florence Dodson was quite a bit older than that. “Can you find the nephews?”
“Sure. They’ll run it down. There was one strange thing. We found a sleeping bag, kind of battered and old and—well, smelly—in the carport. Looks to me like a homeless person took up residence there. Be hard to find out and trace though. You seen anyone in the neighborhood?”
“No, but I’ve been gone from that street for eight months. How would Mrs. Dodson miss that? I think she goes in her carport frequently—and I know she still drives, uh, drove.”
We talked a bit more, but we were both tired and there didn’t seem to be anything either of us could come up with about Mrs. Dodson or Claire. When Mike said he had to go, I rose to walk him to the door. Our goodnights were getting more and more awkward. Mike usually gave me an affectionate hug or a quick kiss, but we both knew something much more intense lurked on the other side. As I stood next to him this night, he put his arm around me for that hug and then, unexpectedly, kissed me—hard, his tongue exploring mine, his fingers digging into my back.
And I responded. I’d been missing that attraction, that sense of passion, for a long time, but still my response surprised me. I quelled an instinct to look around and make sure the girls weren’t peeking again.
When we moved apart, we were both a bit stunned. Mike didn’t say anything for a long time. He stared at me. Then he muttered, “Kelly, I don’t want you hurt. I care too much. Please, for my sake, keep your nose out of both Mrs. Dodson’s death and Claire’s problems.” He meant of course the crimes I’d gotten involved in when I found a skeleton in a house we were redoing. In the end my ex-husband was killed, and I came close.
At that point, I would have promised him almost anything, but I knew I couldn’t abandon Claire and I wouldn’t let go of Florence Dodson’s death. Even if I didn’t like her much, she was a person with a life she liked—and she’d been my neighbor, for better or worse.
And then with a quick goodnight, he was out the door, leaving me to lock it with shaking hands.
“Mom? Everything okay?” Maggie’s voice called from her bedroom.
Didn’t that child ever sleep? “I think so,” I called back. “I think everything’s just fine.” And I smiled to myself. I didn’t want to face at that moment what I was going to do about the girls if my relationship with Mike took a sharp turn—and yet I knew I wanted that sharp turn, apprehensive as I was.
~*~
The phone woke me around one-thirty in the morning. It was Angus Mitchell, telling me there would be a bond hearing in the morning at ten. “Claire hopes you’ll be there,” he said, his words almost a command. I asked where it was, grateful that I wouldn’t have to go to the jail again. I’d been there to talk with Joe, one of the young men who vandalized my skeleton house and my own home. The fact that I was now fond of him, and he’d turned his life around and was married to Theresa, my carpenter’s daughter, did nothing to erase the horror of the jail in my mind.
Grabbing the pencil and pad I kept by the bed, I scribbled down his directions and then managed to get my mind clear enough to ask, “Where will she go? I guess she can’t go back to their house,”
He cleared his throat. “I’m in a bit of an awkward place here. I’ve always represented Jim, and when they married I represented both of them. But….” He let his unfinished sentence hang in the air.
“Have you talked to him?” I wanted to add, “I thought you called him a sorry bastard,” but I guess business is business for lawyers like everyone else.
“The nursing staff wouldn’t let me, but they said it’s a superficial wound—painful no doubt and must make sitting uncomfortable.” Did I detect just the slightest amusement? “I’ll go to the hospital after the bond hearing.”
We said goodnight, each thanking the other, and I went back to bed where, of course, I did not sleep, my thoughts bouncing from Claire to Florence Dodson to Mike Shandy and landing on Florence Dodson. She didn’t fall down those stairs. She may have been old—in her eighties, I suspected—but she wasn’t frail. She did a lot of gardening, more than I could do, and complainer that she was, she always seemed in control of her senses. Someone pushed Florence Dodson down those stairs. I had nothing to prove it, just instinct. My hunches were usually right. Had Claire pushed her? That thought was too bizarre to tolerate.
~*~
Want to know what happens next? Click here to buy No Neighborhood for Old Women.
About the Author
Judy Alter has written fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults. Her historical fiction titles feature such strong women as Elizabeth Bacon Custer, Jessie Benton Frémont, Lucille Mulhall, and Etta Place, of Hole in the Wall gang fame. Forthcoming soon is The Gilded Cage, a n
ovel of 19th-century Chicago and Bertha Honoré (Mrs. Potter) Palmer. She is the recipient of many awards, including the Owen Wister Lifetime Achievement Award from Western Writers of America and induction into both the WWA and the Texas Literary hall of fame.
Skeleton in a Dead Space is the first mystery in a series of six to date.
Recently retired as the director of a small press, Alter raised four children as a single parent and has seven grandchildren, with whom she spends as much time as possible. Judy lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with a Bordoodle named Sophie.
Connect with Judy at the following sites:
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://www.judyalter.com
Judy’s Stew blog: http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/judyalter
Sign up for Judy’s Only Occasional Newsletter by emailing Judy at:
[email protected]
Books by Judy Alter
Blue Plate Café Mystery Series
Murder at the Blue Plate Café
Murder at the Tremont House
Murder at Peacock Mansion
Kelly O’Connell Mystery Series
Skeleton in a Dead Space
No Neighborhood for Old Women
Desperate for Death
Oak Grove Mystery Series
The Perfect Coed
Historical Fiction
Libbie
Jessie
Cherokee Rose
Sundance, Butch and Me
Mattie
Sue Ellen Learns to Dance
Miscellaneous
Bake, Love, Write
We’d Rather Be Writing
Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books
In for a Penny
A Cleopatra Jones Mystery, Book One
By Maggie Toussaint
Amateur sleuth Cleopatra Jones of rural Hogan’s Glen, Maryland faces an unwanted hazard when she skulls her golf ball across the number six green and it lands in the inseam of a very dead banker. Though the victim is a longtime friend of Cleo’s, his ongoing dispute with Cleo’s best friend and golfing partner, Jonette, is public knowledge. When the police key in on Jonette as the prime suspect, Cleo sets out to find the real killer.
Amidst the fun of wacky meals, dueling daughters, Mama’s heart problem, lovesick Saint Bernards, a sexy golf pro, a repentant ex-husband and a host of murder suspects, Cleo does what she does best. With her trusty spreadsheets and logical accountant’s brain, she organizes the information and ferrets out a crazed killer.
Set against the lush splendor of mid-Atlantic springtime, this fun-packed mystery with a dash of romance will keep you turning the pages to see what happens next.
ONE
The golf course is one of the few places I don’t have to pretend. Oh, I still give the socially correct answer of “fine” when asked how I am, but I am not fine. There’s enough anger churning through my gut to fuel a volcano.
Golf therapy is how I’m relieving my stress. I imagine my ex-husband’s face on every ball I hit, and when I’m done, I’m almost fine.
My name is Cleopatra Jones, Cleo for short. Self-employment allows me to spend my Wednesday mornings playing golf in the Ladies Nine Hole Golf League. So far in today’s round, I hadn’t experienced any signs of rebirth into a nicer, perkier thirty-five-year-old, but I hadn’t given up hope.
Sunbeams danced around me on the number six ladies tee of the Hogan’s Glen Golf Club as I aimed my shoulders at the distant flag. I swung hard. My tee shot hooked left into the trees lining the fairway.
I whacked my driver against the ground. Exorcising Charlie through golf was therapeutic to my mental health, but it was hard on my golf score.
“Provisional ball,” Jonette Moore suggested. People thought of Mutt and Jeff from the comics when they saw us together because I was tall and slender while she was short and stacked. I’d known Jonette since forever, a fact she never let me forget.
Jonette’s tee shot taunted me with its perfect lie in the middle of the fairway. By mutual agreement we’d decided that the winner of the previous round got to drive the golf cart. I can’t remember when I last drove Jonette around the course.
I dropped my provisional ball on the tee box. Hitting this second ball would speed our play if I couldn’t find my first ball. Unfortunately, my provisional ball curved along the same evil trajectory into the woods.
Drat. I stomped back to the cart.
“Looks like you’ll be buying more golf balls,” Jonette said with a smirk.
I’d used up my late father’s lifetime accumulation of golf balls during the first year of my golf therapy. If I didn’t find either of my tee shots, I’d only have one ball left for the remaining three holes. Not good. “I’ve been over there before. The underbrush isn’t too thick.”
“Have you given any more thought to going out with that lawyer friend of Dean’s?” Jonette asked as we zipped towards the woods. Dean was the current man in Jonette’s life. He was also her boss at the tavern where she waited tables.
The thought of dating twisted my stomach in knots. “Sure I’ve thought about it. And the answer’s no.”
“Darn it, Cleo.” Jonette waggled her finger at me. “Don’t let Charlie win.”
My ex hadn’t won. I was being cautious. I wasn’t giving up. Who said I had to jump back in the dating pool right away? The view from the high dive was terrifying. “I’m not ready.”
“Maybe some hot guys will move into White Rock. I wouldn’t mind checking them out for you.”
“That development is wishful thinking and you know it.” The much-hyped new subdivision on the old Wingate farm had stalled in the bulldozer phase of construction.
“You need to get out of that house.”
“If I wanted to get out of the house, I should take a golf lesson so I don’t spend half my round scouring the woods for my balls.”
“There’s an idea.” Jonette beamed her approval. “The golf pro is definitely hot.”
I sure wished Jonette would get off this dating kick. “Don’t go getting any ideas. I’m not interested in dating.”
“You may be right about Rafe Golden,” Jonette said. “He’s supposedly slept his way through the women of the club. But, he’s such a hunk.”
“I don’t want a man that reeks of sex appeal. If I ever dated again, I’d want someone like me. Hardworking, loyal, trustworthy, family oriented, and obedient.”
Jonette’s mouth gaped. “Where’s the excitement in that? You need someone to sweep you off your feet.”
I leveled my sternest gaze at her. “Forget it.”
Jonette rolled her eyes and huffed her disapproval.
Too bad. If I could erase Charlie from my life, I would, but his weekend visitations with our two daughters put him on my schedule every week.
Shedding Charlie was more difficult than getting fungus out from under a toenail. Just when you thought you had the problem solved, there it was again.
Jonette stopped the cart near where my balls had disappeared into the woods. “Should I help you look?”
“Stay put.” I waved her back in her seat. “I won’t be responsible for you getting poison ivy again.”
I marched into the thicket alone, kicking through last year’s musty leaves as I searched for my golf balls. A gleam of white beckoned in the honeysuckle-scented shade ahead.
Both balls lay adjacent to each other. That brought a fleeting smile to my face. Heck, if I couldn’t hit straight I’d settle for consistent. “Got ‘em,” I called to Jonette as I pocketed my provisional ball.
A massive maple stood between me and the number six green, blocking forward progress. I had no choice but to chip out of the rough and hope for distance on my next shot. Of course if I missed and hit the slender trunks of the myriad of smaller obstacles between me and the fairway I’d quite possibly lobotomize myself. Fair enough.
I marched back to the cart and selected my pitching wedge. “You might want to
back up the cart while I hit.”
“Won’t do it.” Jonette smoothed her flirty little red golf skirt. “But you hit me and you are one dead dog.”
Back in the woods, I took aim at Jonette and whaled away. My ball skimmed over the top of her head and landed in the center of the fairway.
Success tasted sweet in my mouth. “Hot dog! I’m on a roll.” I jogged back to the cart and noticed Jonette had a death grip on the steering wheel. Served her right. I thumped her on her back.
She choked in a breath of air. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Cleo. Nice shot.”
I was still furthest from the hole, so I exchanged my wedge for a seven iron. In truth, I didn’t see the point of having so many clubs in my bag when my trusty seven worked well for any occasion. I took a deep breath and swung easy.
My ball landed twenty yards ahead of Jonette’s. Counting all my strokes, I lay three to her one, but that was beside the point. If the world ended right this minute, my ball would still be closest to the pin. That was worth a lot.
The golf gods must have taken a lunch break because my next shot zoomed over the green and down a steep embankment. I grabbed a club and started down the hill.
Jonette followed, sniffing tentatively. “Do you smell something?”
I did. My eyes watered at the latrine-like stench. It wasn’t unusual to smell something ripe this time of year in Maryland. The odor could be anything from farmers manuring their fields to the groundskeeper’s natural fertilizers. “No telling what that is.”
Using my golf club as a cane, I crabbed sideways down the hill, scoping the terrain near my feet for my ball. At the base of the hill, I saw something that resembled a bundle of clothes.
A huge lump formed in my throat. “What is that?”
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this,” Jonette said.
“You and me both.” The closer I came, the more certain details stood out in my mind. I saw that the bundle of clothes was actually an expensive business suit. Pinstriped trouser legs were rolled up to reveal dark crew socks and black-and-white golf shoes.
