Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1)

by Lisa B. Thomas

  “Do you think this guy is legit?”

  “I think he truly believes what he told us. He doesn’t seem to have a motive to lie. I think the part about stealing from the warehouse probably happened, but I’m just not sure someone would kill Matthew because of it.”

  “That would seem to require a big leap of logic. What do you plan to ask Cora?”

  “I want to know as much as I can about Matthew’s army and work experience. Russell said that if there is no other reasonable explanation for the murder, Leon Galt is free to say just about anything he wants.” She swirled the ice around in her glass.

  “Speaking of that, I talked to one of our lawyers today. You’ve met Scott Myers, right? I gave him a short synopsis of the situation, minus the JFK part. He said that once Cora dies, no one else in the family would really have a case to sue unless they were directly implicated.” He looked at Deena. “That means the clock is ticking.”

  “The clock was already ticking because of Galt’s book.”

  The phone rang, and Deena got up to answer it. Gary set about cleaning up the dishes. “That was Russell. Seems like Mr. Future was telling the truth about having other obligations in Dallas. He is going to be signing books at a shop outside the Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas on Saturday.”

  “His new book?”

  “No, his CIA book. Russell wants to go and I haven’t been there in ages. It might be interesting. What do you think?”

  “Umm, one problem. Texas is playing the Yankees Saturday night, and Scott invited me to the game. I can cancel if you want me to.”

  “No, that’s fine. Russell and I can go. You try to catch a foul ball, and I’ll try to catch a killer.”

  *

  Now that she was no longer a working gal, she could not keep making excuses about the clutter in her car. The cargo area of the SUV was a travelogue of her life, reflecting her appearance, adventures, habits, correspondence, and even culinary choices. It might have stayed that way a few more months had it not been for the leftover barbeque sandwich that had made its way under the passenger seat. The stench, much like the port-a-potties at Galveston Beach, blasted her senses when she opened the car door to retrieve her sunglasses.

  “Oh, lordy,” she said, slamming the door shut. “Gary is going to kill me.” He was one of those men who took his car as seriously as he took his finances: Take care of it, and it will take care of you. She decided to back it out into the driveway and leave the doors open while she pulled out the contents. Dragging a garbage can up to the door, the autopsy began. A pair of shoes, a winter scarf, a broken umbrella, empty soda cans, potato chip bags, three Sharpies, seven pens, newspapers, one glove, and finally, the barbeque. I’m surprised there is not a family of mice living in here, she thought.

  The car was hot as coal, but at least it looked more presentable. A half a can of Lysol later, it was suitable for driving. Knowing she was running late, she opted not to run by the store on the way to Lucy and Richard’s. They would understand if she showed up empty handed this time: she was family.

  The drive seemed shorter this time, probably because she had a lot on her mind. Just as before, Lucy had prepared sandwiches, iced tea, and a plate of sugar cookies. Richard was reading a fishing magazine, and her great aunt was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her. “Aunt Cora,” Deena said, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Oh sweetie, give me some sugar.” Cora reached up and wrapped her arms around Deena’s neck. “How are you?”

  “I’m just fine. You look good. Russell and Gary send their love.”

  Sitting around the table reminded Deena of the old days when her mother would take the family on holidays to visit “the aunts.” She was suddenly back in her pleated plaid dress and black velvet Mary Janes, listening to the grown-ups, leaning on her mother’s arm. An ache, deep inside, reminded her that life was like the snapshots she had brought with her, one memory captured at a time.

  “Deena, dear, aren’t you hungry?” Lucy asked. “Maybe you need some iced tea to cool down.”

  “Yes, that’s what I need,” she answered politely, remembering she had said the same thing to Lucy’s son.

  “By the way, how is Uncle Mark. Is he feeling better?”

  “What do you mean?” Richard walked over to rotate the small countertop fan toward the kitchen table.

  “When he came by the house yesterday, he seemed a little dizzy. He left in a hurry, and I thought he might be sick.”

  “That’s odd. He didn’t say a word to us about driving down there. Let’s go into the front room where it will be more comfortable.” Uncle Richard helped Cora out of her chair.

  When they were all settled, Cora started right in asking Deena questions. “Have you been able to find out anything about Matthew? Have you found out who took his life?”

  Deena was surprised by her directness, expecting tears and tales of midnight apparitions. “I’m following two different leads. I have several questions, but first I have these pictures to show you.” She pulled out three photographs. “I’m hoping you might recognize the people in them.” The first one was of Matthew in his army uniform standing next to two other soldiers.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” Cora held the picture in her trembling hands. “I still have that uniform in the cedar chest. This was taken shortly after boot camp.” Moving the picture forward and backward to get just the right focus, she said, “That boy on the left is Bill Barnett. They lived next door. I don’t know who that other boy is.”

  Deena made a note on the back and passed it to Lucy and Richard who shook their heads, confirming they did not know the identity of the other person either. She handed Cora the second photo, showing Matthew leaning against a blue Chevy and standing next to a man and woman.

  “That’s when he got his new car. He was so proud of it. That’s Jackie and Ed. Now what was their last name? I can’t remember right off hand. Matthew lived in a garage apartment at their house for about a year after he got his discharge. They were nice folks and took good care of him in Maycroft.”

  Deena passed the picture to Richard. “We had already moved to Ft. Worth by this time, so we never met them.”

  The last picture was the one that Sandra said looked like an engagement photo. “This is the last one.”

  “Oh yes. Katherine. She was such a pretty little thing. My, my. I haven’t seen this picture in years.”

  “She and Matthew look to be pretty close. Were they engaged?”

  “Yes. Engaged to be married. Katherine Clark.” Cora fell silent. Perhaps she was dreaming of what might have been if only Matthew had stayed with her.

  “What happened to them?”

  “Matthew called it off. I know he loved her, but he said he didn’t want to marry her.”

  “Did he tell you why he called it off?”

  “He said it was to protect her. That’s the same reason he gave for leaving Bingham—to protect his papa and me.”

  Lucy stood up and came over to look at the picture. “Did he say what he was protecting you from?” she asked.

  “Ghosts,” Cora said. “Ghosts from his past in the army. That’s all he would say.”

  Deena took the picture and wrote Katherine’s name on the back. “Do you know what happened to her after that?”

  “We heard she married a rancher and moved to West Texas. Matthew would say, ‘Oh Mama, don’t worry about me. You and Papa are all the family I need’.”

  Deena studied the three photographs. “What can you tell me about his service in the army?”

  “They gave him a lot of important assignments. He talked to his papa about it some, but they never would tell me. Frank said it would upset me too much. I always wondered if that was why Matthew disappeared—that maybe he was hiding from someone. We hired a private detective, you know, but he never found anything. Now I know that my son was dead all along.”

  Deena knew her aunt was emotional, but it was, after all, her wish to find out the truth. “Right before he we
nt missing, did he mention anything unusual going on at work?”

  “No. He liked his job and said he had some friends there. We hadn’t talked to him in about a month before he went missing. If only… “

  Deena waited a minute for Cora to regain her composure. “Do you know the names of any of the people he worked with?”

  “He had an address book. It’s in the cedar chest. Richard, help me up and I’ll get it.” Leaning on her cane, she shuffled into the bedroom and sat in a straight-back chair next to the old wooden chest. Deena watched as Richard lifted the hinged lid and stepped back out of the way. The acrid smell of moth balls cleansed their sinuses. Cora gently pushed aside items on top to reach the bottom. “Here it is,” she said and pulled out a small black book with yellowed edges. She held it out for Deena. “Please don’t lose this, dear.”

  “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

  Cora, tired from the visit, said she wanted to lie down for a spell. Deena said her goodbyes and promised to return as soon as she had news to report. They returned to the kitchen where Lucy refilled their empty glasses.

  “I have a lead that is related to Matthew’s job,” Deena said softly. “It seems a little far-fetched, but right now it’s all I’ve got.” She filled them in on some of the details. “And another thing, I met with Leon Galt.”

  “Leon Galt? For heaven’s sake.” Lucy clutched the edge of the table. “Is that the man who came by here asking all those questions?”

  “Yes. You talked to him recently, right? You told him I was investigating the murder.”

  “We haven’t seen or heard from that man since his first visit.” Lucy gave her husband a concerned look. “Oh my, I hope he isn’t stirring up any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” Deena said, trying to sound reassuring. “I have talked to him and everything is fine. He is just interested in the case.” Here I go lying to old people again, she thought.

  “You know,” Lucy said, “maybe Mark talked to Mr. Galt. Richard, I remember you gave him that man’s business card.”

  “Can I have Mark’s phone number? I’d like to call him myself.” Uncle Mark, she decided, apparently had as many secrets as the mysterious Leon Galt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Selling found treasures, whether online, at a flea market, or in a shop, allows a shopaholic to drink the wine without getting drunk. The thrill of the hunt, the power of possession—all thirsts quenched without any of the bitter after taste. Buy, own, sell, repeat. The perfect diet requiring no self-control. Even Gary supported Deena’s entrepreneurial endeavor. Fewer knick-knacks sitting around meant more room for an even bigger big screen TV. Circle of life, he called it.

  With inventory piling up in the guest room, Deena knew she had neglected her booth long enough. She opened the door, and projects put off until summer glared at her with their unfinished surfaces and not-yet repaired parts dangling like broken limbs from a tree. Not today, she thought, brushing past the bigger pieces in favor of some smaller items. She wrapped newspaper around the breakables, carefully placing them in plastic crates she could easily carry into the antique mall.

  After almost an hour, her treasures were tagged and ready to go in search of new homes. Hopefully, rich people’s homes. After placing the boxes in the car, she picked up her small kit filled with pins and pens, nails and knobs, bits and bobs—everything she might need to organize her small booth space.

  Texans rarely throw a fit when they get mad; they throw a hissy fit. That was Deena’s first inclination when she saw her booth in total disarray. The regulars who frequented the mall throughout the year were careful with collectibles that filled the shelves and hung from the walls. The summer tourists, however, treated shopping like dumpster diving, tossing merchandise here and there with no regard for its value. Deena spent a good fifteen minutes taking items that belonged to other dealers up to the front desk to be returned to their rightful spaces. In the process, she found several broken items that had to be tossed.

  Each piece of glass and pottery had to be dusted separately and placed carefully to catch the best light and a potential customer’s eye. Deena liked to put little cards in front her special pieces with the maker’s name, such as Roseville, McCoy, and Weller. Gary often teased her, saying she enjoyed displaying her collectibles more than selling them.

  “What a pretty piece.” She looked around to find Rhonda Pryor admiring her newly-acquired Blenko decanter.

  “Hi Rhonda. Looking for anything special today?”

  “You know, if something speaks to me, I may have to buy it.” She picked of a cloisonné vase to read the price on the bottom and set it back in place. “Lloyd tells me you want to work for the newspaper.”

  “I talked to him earlier in the summer about a job.” Deena turned her face and sneezed. “Sorry, dust. I have been busy since then trying to find out information about my uncle’s murder.”

  “Murder?” Rhonda repeated. “That’s not a word you hear very often in Maycroft.”

  “Do you remember about a month ago when the paper ran a story and picture of a John Doe who was killed forty years ago?” Rhonda remembered the article and shook her head.

  “That was my uncle from Bingham. I’m trying to unravel the mystery about what happened to him and how he died.”

  “That’s just the kind of story that sells newspapers. Do you mind if I tell Lloyd about it?”

  “Not at all. I haven’t written anything yet because there are still so many unanswered questions.”

  “Well, good luck with your booth and with your story.”

  After Rhonda left, Deena felt a new sense of excitement. She got pen and paper from her kit and wrote a to-do list: call Mark, talk to Collins, research Barnes Medical Supply, call Matthew’s phone list, find Donna Morrison. She put a star next to the last entry. She had a hunch that Donna could prove helpful—if she were still alive, that is.

  *

  When Deena picked up Russell at his house on Saturday morning, he was red as a fire ant. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as he inched and ouched his way into the passenger seat of her car.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, wondering if he would survive their trip up to Dallas.

  “I fell asleep in Cliff’s pool.” He pulled down the visor to survey his face.

  “You mean the bunker?”

  “In the water. It’s too hot out. We’ll have to come up with plan B for the bunker.”

  “That sun can be deadly, you know. Be sure to wear sunscreen.” Russell turned his head slowly and gave his little sister a snarky look.

  “Thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  On the drive to downtown, Deena recounted her visit to Cora’s, including the part about Mark. She wanted to see if Russell found it as suspicious as she did.

  “You definitely need to talk to Uncle Mark. How else would Leon Galt know about your investigation? I always thought Mark was a little smarmy. Always looking out for himself.”

  “I agree. Nothing like his sister Gloria.”

  The parking lot next to the Sixth Floor Museum was pickle packed, so Deena circled a few time waiting for someone to leave. She finally found a spot and watched her brother carefully get out of the car. “Are you going to make it?” she asked.

  “I survived the jungles of Mekong. I can survive a little sunburn.”

  Walking toward the front entrance, she noticed he was carrying something bulky in his shorts pocket. “I can put whatever it is in my handbag if that would help.”

  “I got it,” he said, sticking his hand protectively in his pocket. He walked up the steps to the museum entrance and held open the door. Before entering, Deena looked up at the building. Like most things from childhood, she was struck by how much smaller the building looked than she remembered. Seeing a line of people inside the door, she hurried in to buy tickets.

  Waiting in line, Deena thought about that day when she was in her 4th grade classroom at Davy Crockett Elementary in Luf
kin when the principal interrupted Miss Shelton’s lesson on long division. She remembered his shaky voice over the school’s scratchy P.A. system saying President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. All the children, Deena included, sat in silence, unaware of the magnitude that simple statement carried. Miss Shelton turned her back to the class for a long while, then took a tissue and stepped into the hall. Deena remembered that when the teacher returned and resumed the lesson, she found herself staring at the gray metal speaker hanging in the front corner of the room, blaming it for the queasy feeling in her stomach.

  Three years later, the entire 7th grade boarded a yellow school bus to Dallas as part of their Texas history study to see the site where Lee Harvey Oswald had assassinated their beloved president. There was no museum, no admittance into the School Book Depository Building, no white ‘X’ painted outside on Elm Street. That didn’t happen until 1989 when the museum opened. But school children across the state stood in Dealey Plaza to honor their slain president, feeling a mixture of awe and responsibility.

  Stepping off the elevator onto the sixth floor sent chills through Deena. Like many visitors, she and Russell walked past the first few exhibits and headed straight to the glassed-in area along the opposite wall where curator’s had meticulously recreated the sniper’s nest. How odd it felt to see boxes of textbooks piled up—boxes just like the ones she received when new books arrived in her classroom. She inched her way through the crowd toward the window just to the right of the sniper’s, staring down at the spot on the street that marked where Kennedy was first hit. For a moment, she forgot why she was there. All she could think about were the Kennedys.

  She did not need to see the exhibits—detailed displays with enlarged photos of every aspect surrounding that fateful day—because those same images rushed through her head like a movie in fast forward. Jackie in her pink suit, holding roses, greeting the crowd; Jack shaking hands on the tarmac at the airport, pushing his hair off to the side; the Zapruder film—the black car, the crowd waving, the car turning, the shots, the chaos; Walter Cronkite choking back tears, Oswald, Jack Ruby, the riderless horse, the horse-drawn carriage, Jackie’s black veil, John John’s salute…