by Diane Morlan
Shake Down Dead
A Jennifer Penny Mystery
Diane Morlan
Published by Cozy Cat Press at Smashwords.com
Shake Down Dead © 2011 by Diane Morlan.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Cozy Cat Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design and illustration by Cecilia Rockwell
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Crochet pattern by Celt’s Vintage Crochet, copyright 2000-2011 http://groups.yahoo.com/group/celtsvintagecrochet/
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Date
LCCN: 2011939376
Morlan, Diane, 1943—,
Shake Down Dead / Diane Morlan.— 1st ed.
Thanks to the following—
Deb McManus, my editor. You made my story better with your comments, even the snarky ones. I am so grateful for your help.
Shirlee, my daughter, Steven, my grandson, and Jim, my son. Thanks for your encouragement.
Cecilia Rockwell, my cover designer extraordinaire, for her terrific cover art.
Patricia Rockwell, my publisher and friend. Thanks for all you do for me, I truly appreciate it.
DEDICATION
To my BFF, Jennifer Walker,
My number 1 fan and casino buddy.
Thanks for introducing me to Bennie and Cleo.
1
Charlie was a rock star before he became a politician. Sometimes I forgot that until I heard his theme song on the radio. The radio cut out when I turned off my car in front of Trudy’s Lace House in the tiny town of Itzig.
I found myself humming “City Lights” while gathering my purse and the tote bag filled with my crochet supplies. A cold gust of Minnesota wind tore my tote bag out of my hand, and tossed three skeins of fluffy white yarn across the small parking lot. I scrambled to pick them up, dusting off the dirt and leaves they had picked up on their journey. I walked past a terra cotta planter filled with marigolds and mums that matched the tumble of orange, yellow, and brown threads and yarns in the shop’s front window.
I set my tote bag on an empty chair and greeted Lisa and Whitney, my crochet buddies. “It’s so warm and cozy in here. It’s cold and windy out there.”
I know,” Lisa said. “Won’t be long before we’re up to our knees in snow.”
“Doesn’t anybody in this state talk about anything besides the weather?” Whitney snapped.
“I doubt it.” I smiled at the women. “Where’s Trudy?”
“I’m right here,” a voice called out from behind the counter. Trudy’s head popped up. “I just got in an order of yarns in some yummy winter colors. How did the rally go?”
“It went okay for me. These are all the cookies left over.” I held up a white bag and set it on the table. “Help yourselves.”
“Oh, I love cookies. No one ever brings treats to the emergency room. Whose rally?” Lisa stuffed half a cookie in her mouth.
“Jennifer is catering the campaign events for Charlie Jackson’s run for governor.”
“Who’s Charlie Jackson?”
“Did you grow up in a cave?” Whitney looked up from the tablecloth she was crocheting. “Everybody who grew up in Hermann knows him.”
“I didn’t grow up here,” said Lisa Vetter.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“A little town in northern Iowa.”
“Why on earth did you pick Hermann?” Shaking her head, Whitney picked up a cookie.
“I have five brothers and sisters. There was no money for me to attend a four-year university. My aunt invited me to stay with her and go to college here.”
“You moved here to go to Hermann Community College?” Whitney chuckled and bit into her cookie.
“Didn’t you know that they have the best nursing program in the mid-west?”
“Didn’t know, didn’t care?”
“Whitney, be nice,” Trudy said.
“So, you never heard of Charlie Jackson?” I asked Lisa.
“Nope, never did.”
Trudy looked up from the box of yarn she was putting on the sale table. “So, then, maybe you heard of his band, Captain Jack and the Walleyes?”
“Wow! That was Charlie Jackson’s band? I didn’t even know they were from Minnesota. Is Charlie the sexy lead singer?’
“No,” I said. “That’s Jack Jackson. Charlie’s cousin.”
“Kind of,” Trudy said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Trudy sat down, setting the box of yarn at her feet. “Charlie and Jack aren’t really cousins. They met at Boy Scout camp when they were teenagers.”
“But, they have the same last names,” said Whitney.
“Yah,” said Trudy. “There’s lotsa Jackson’s, ya know. Ever hear of the Jackson Five? They aren’t related to Charlie either. The boys liked to sing and they—what do you call it? They ‘bonded’ at camp and stayed friends. Jack lived in Minneapolis and he had the connections to get the band started.”
“How do you know all this, Trudy?” I asked.
“Ray and I have been playing with our friends, Vic & Clare Schmidt in our polka band since the ‘80s. You hear things when you’re in the music business. Even though we’re just a polka band, we recorded our albums at the same studio that the Walleyes used. Ach, you don’t want to hear about all that. So, Jennifer, how’s Charlie’s campaign doing?”
“Who cares about that? One politician is the same as another,” said Whitney. “My father used to say they were all a bunch of crooks.”
“Actually, Whitney, you should care,” I said. “The group home where you work is funded by state and federal subsidies. You should know each candidate’s views on funding group homes before you cast your vote.”
“I’m not sure I’m even going to vote. One vote won’t make that much difference.”
“Oh, no, Whitney,” Lisa said. “You should always vote. My high school social studies teacher said that it’s not just a right, it’s an obligation.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in high school anymore and neither are you. Life’s a lot harder than we were led to believe.” Whitney dipped her head down as if concentrating on the pattern in front of her.
Filling the awkward silence that followed Trudy said, “Well, now, let’s get started, Jennifer. Do either of you two ladies have any questions before I get Jennifer going on her project?”
Whitney shook her head. Lisa said, “I’m good.”
Trudy read the directions and I started crocheting the skirt of a christening dress. My daughter was having a baby in a few months and the gown was my gift to my first grandchild. After a few minutes, I had the hang of the pattern for the skirt and was crocheting along.
“So, Jennifer,” Trudy said, “Is Charlie going to win the election?”
“I
don’t know. He talks a good show. If all his old fans vote for him he’ll win hands down.”
Charlie, a tall, blond, charming real estate mogul, by Hermann, Minnesota standards anyway, had bought up an amazing amount of real estate in this area. Somewhere along the line, he decided he could run the state better than the present governor. He was probably right.
“Are you catering all of his political events?” Trudy asked.
“No, just the ones in southwestern Minnesota. Charlie wanted me to take over all the events he has left before the election. But I turned him down.”
“You turned down a job?” Lisa asked, arranging the doily she was crocheting on the table and smoothing out the edges. “Can you afford to turn down a job like that?”
“Charlie isn’t paying me that much. I gave him a deal because Megan Murphy talked me into it. I do supply the coffee for all his events, at a discount, of course. I’m a coffee roaster, not a caterer.”
“He should stick to real estate,” Whitney piped in. “He’s the realtor who sold my home to Sister Bernadine. And he found us the tiny townhouse that was the only thing in town we could afford. Mother hates it but at least we don’t have mortgage payments. Not that anyone would lend us money.”
Breaking the silence from Whitney’s remarks, Trudy asked, “How did Megan talk you into working for Charlie then?”
“Charlie is her newest beau. She’s all gung oh over him right now and his campaign seems to be the best part of the relationship. She’s organizing it to the hilt.”
“Is she good at it?” Lisa asked.
“Oh, yes. She loves being in charge and she has a way of getting people to do what she wants.”
“Maybe I should hire her to talk Randy into getting me a new car,” Lisa joked.
“Yah, I’m sure she could do it, too.” Trudy said.
Lisa, who was working on a large round doily, sighed. “I love sitting here crocheting. It’s so peaceful and I love the ambiance, surrounded by all these lovely threads and soft yarns.”
“Yah, me too, agreed Trudy. “ Sometimes I come out here when Ray is watching football to sit and quietly work on one of my projects. One night he couldn’t find me and said he was sorry that he’d ever converted his garage into my shop. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“I just like getting out of the group home for a while. It gets so hectic there at times.” Whitney said. “When I first started there I thought it would be like going home every day. In fact, it’s just a reminder that this is my life now.” She scowled and jabbed her crochet hook into the tablecloth in her lap.
Whitney had once lived in the spacious house next to Trudy’s shop. Whitney’s father had been the president of Herman Bank. The house was sold after he died and discrepancies were found at the bank. Talk around town was that he committed suicide.
“Yah, sometimes I think you should ask Sister Bernadine to put you in one of the other group homes,” Trudy said.
My friend, Sister Bernadine—Bernie to me—was the Director of Mary’s Haven Group Homes. She and I, along with our friend Megan Murphy had been friends since second grade. The diocese put her in charge when they took over two group homes that were mismanaged. Since then she had opened three more homes. Sunrise Group Home was the home where Whitney worked.
“No, I’m settled here and the residents depend on me. They have so many people in and out of their lives as it is.”
As if on cue, the back door creaked as it opened. “When are you coming back for the picnic, Whitney?” A short woman in a pink wig peeked around the door.
“It’s not a picnic, Marsha.” Whitney set down her tablecloth and looked directly at the forty-something woman. “It’s a cook out. We’ll eat inside.”
The diminutive woman came in and slid into the chair next to Whitney. She put her elbows on the table, and cradled her head in her hands. “Why can’t we eat at the picnic table?”
“It’s too cold and windy today. Remember its September. Sometimes September days are cool,” Whitney calmly explained.
Marsha’s forehead wrinkled as she frowned and said, “Not as cold as the Christmas month.”
“Yes, December is very cold, Marsha.” Whitney patted Marsha on the shoulder. “Right now, I’m taking a break so you need to go back to the house and see how you can help with the cookout. Okay?”
Marsha’s bottom lip stuck out. “Okay. Harold wants me to get a Mountain Dew for him.” Marsha looked at Trudy and held out her hand to show five quarters.
Trudy looked at Whitney who shook her head.
“Sorry, Marsha,” Trudy said. “Harold needs to come in himself to get his pop.”
Tucking the coins in her pocket, Marsha turned to Whitney. “He’ll be mad at me if I don’t bring it to him.” Arms at her side, she rolled her hands into fists.
“You tell him to come talk to me then. Don’t let him be mean to you. Okay?”
Marsha hung her head, opened the door, and turned back to Whitney. “If Harold gets mad at me, it’s all your fault!” Then she slammed the door and we watched her run across Trudy’s back yard to the group home next door.
“Is she going to be alright?” I asked.
Whitney said, “Oh, sure. Harold yells a lot but he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’ll amble over here in a little while, if he really wants a bottle of pop. Pete won’t let him drink it before dinner anyway.”
“Who’s Pete?” Lisa asked.
“Oh, darn, Lisa,” said Whitney with a scowl. “I meant to call you about that. Pete’s the new house manager. Can you fit him in for a TB test?”
When I looked puzzled, Whitney explained. “Lisa is our RN for Mary’s Haven Group Homes. She checks prescriptions, makes doctor appointments, and does any other medical things we need done at the homes.”
“Sounds like a busy job,” I said to Lisa.
“It is,” Lisa said, “but not busy enough to be full-time yet, so I still have to put in some hours at the ER. Hope I can quit that job soon. The hours are terrible.”
“It shouldn’t be long before we open the sixth home,” Whitney said. “Sister Bernadine thinks she’s found a house. Just like the last three group homes, Charlie Jackson will be buying the house and leasing it to Mary’s Haven.”
Charlie’s recent philanthropy was purchasing large homes precisely for the purpose of leasing them to Mary’s Haven Group Homes, Inc. Charlie always had a soft spot for Bernie and since she became the director, the rent on those home dropped appreciably.
Whitney looked at her watch and gave a little squeal. “Oh, darn, I have to get going,” she said. “I have some paperwork to finish and I’m meeting some friends for drinks later. I need to get out of these social-worker clothes and into something with a little more attitude.”
Whitney dropped the tablecloth she had almost finished crocheting into her backpack and swept out the back door with a backhanded wave to us.
Lisa began putting her things into a flowered tote bag. “I should get going, too. Randy’s mother is watching the kids. He had to work today. The joys and sorrows of owning your own business.” Randy was a mechanic and had opened his own garage about a year ago.
“How’s the garage doing then?” asked Trudy. “Is this bum economy hurting his business?”
“Not at all,” Lisa said, a smile playing across her face. “Lots of people are fixing up their cars instead of buying a new one. We’re probably one of the few people making money in this economy.”
“Well, good for you,” Trudy exclaimed, giving her a little hug before Lisa left by the front door.
“Last to arrive, last to leave,” I said to Trudy. I didn’t want to leave yet. I was feeling so serene sitting here crocheting with a friend.
“Stay a while longer, Jennifer,” Trudy said leaning toward me. “It’s kinda nice to just sit here and quietly crochet. I don’t know how those two are ever going to get along working together. Miss Sunshine and Miss Gloom.”
I chuckled at Trudy’s apt description of my c
rochet buddies—cheerful Lisa and churlish Whitney. I held up my project. I had completed a series of three double crochet clusters and they looked neat and even.
“Way to go, Jennifer, I knew you could do it,” encouraged Trudy.
Our next class was two weeks from today. I hoped I could stay confident in my crochet ability until then.
2
Two weeks later, I was serving coffee and cookies at another of Charlie’s rallies. The speeches were over and I was waiting for the crowd to move toward the exit.
A small hand tugged at my shirttail. Looking down I saw a raven-haired girl, about six years old. “May I help you?” I asked.
“Can I have a Coca-Loca?” She looked at me and smiled, showing huge dimples in each cheek.
I dug in the ice cooler and pulled up a red Coke can, opened it and handed it to her. “There you go, Honey.”
She took a big gulp of the cold liquid and gave me another smile. She’d be a heart breaker one day.
“Thank you. I just love Coca-Loca.” I was giggling aloud while watching her skip away. I watched a well-rounded woman with a flawless complexion take her hand. When they left the room, I went back to packing up the refreshment table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The screeching voice startled me, and I dropped the plate of cookies I had just picked up from the table.
I turned to see gray-haired Henrietta Wentworth, Whitney’s mother, looking regal in a purple dress. I thought the wool dress was a bit too heavy for the mid-September weather. Mrs. Wentworth had a sheen of perspiration covering her slightly wrinkled face.
“I’m just cleaning up, Mrs. Wentworth.” I noticed that there were now only a handful of people left in the large room. The grand hall of the Benevolent Order of the Shining Stars (BOSS) building was where the political “town hall” had taken place.
“I will take one last glass of that delectable wine you brought today, my dear,” Henrietta said with a crooked smile. She was tilting a little to the left when she held out her plastic cup.
“I’m sorry,” I said, scooping up the cookies and the plastic tray I had used to serve them. “Everything is packed, except for a few cookies.” I held out the tray of cookies toward her.
