Praise for The Country Club Murders
“A sparkling comedy of errors tucked inside a clever mystery. I loved it!”
– Susan M. Boyer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Lowcountry Book Club
“Set in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1974, this cozy mystery effectively recreates the era through the details of down-to-earth Ellison’s everyday life.”
– Booklist
“Readers who enjoy the novels of Susan Isaacs will love this series that blends a strong mystery with the demands of living in an exclusive society.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“From the first page to the last, Julie’s mysteries grab the reader and don’t let up.”
– Sally Berneathy,
USA Today Bestselling Author of The Ex Who Saw a Ghost
“This book is fun! F-U-N Fun!...A delightful pleasure to read. I didn’t want to put it down…Highly recommend.”
– Mysteries, etc.
“Mulhern’s lively, witty sequel to The Deep End finds Kansas City, Mo. socialite Ellison Russell reluctantly attending a high school football game…Cozy fans will eagerly await Ellison’s further adventures.”
– Publishers Weekly
“There’s no way a lover of suspense could turn this book down because it’s that much fun.”
– Suspense Magazine
“Cleverly written with sharp wit and all the twists and turns of the best ’70s primetime drama, Mulhern nails the fierce fraught mother-daughter relationship, fearlessly tackles what hides behind the Country Club façade, and serves up justice in bombshell fashion. A truly satisfying slightly twisted cozy.”
– Gretchen Archer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Double Knot
“Part mystery, part women’s fiction, part poetry, Mulhern’s debut, The Deep End, will draw you in with the first sentence and entrance you until the last. An engaging whodunit that kept me guessing until the end!”
– Tracy Weber,
Author of the Downward Dog Mysteries
“An impossible-to-put-down Harvey Wallbanger of a mystery. With a smart, funny protagonist who’s learning to own her power as a woman, Send in the Clowns is one boss read.”
– Ellen Byron,
Agatha Award-Nominated Author of Plantation Shudders
“The plot is well-structured and the characters drawn with a deft hand. Setting the story in the mid-1970s is an inspired touch…A fine start to this mystery series, one that is highly recommended.”
– Mysterious Reviews
“What a fun read! Murder in the days before cell phones, the internet, DNA and AFIS.”
– Books for Avid Readers
“If you liked Gilmore Girls, you’ll love Watching the Detectives. It has the same sarcastic humor and wit, with a loving, but dysfunctional multi-generational family of strong women. You’ll have all the feels following the adventures of life, love, and murder with the Russell women.”
– A Cozy Experience
The Country Club Murders
by Julie Mulhern
Novels
THE DEEP END (#1)
GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)
SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)
WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (#5)
COLD AS ICE (#6)
SHADOW DANCING (#7)
BACK STABBERS (#8)
TELEPHONE LINE (#9)
Short Stories
DIAMOND GIRL
A Country Club Murder Short
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Copyright
TELEPHONE LINE
The Country Club Murders
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | June 2019
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Julie Mulhern
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-547-5
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-548-2
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-549-9
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-550-5
Printed in the United States of America
In memory of Steve Kirk
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Katie who puts up with boring dinners, to Matt who eats boring dinners without complaint, and to Mer who gave me an idea.
Thank you to Margaret Bail for finding Ellison a home.
Thank you to eagle-eyed Edie Peterson.
As always, my thanks to Gretchen Archer who talks me off ledges.
Finally, my thanks to the staff at Henery Press.
One
April 1975
Kansas City, Missouri
The heels of my hands and the balls of my feet pressed into the yoga mat. My hips stretched for the ceiling.
“Deep breaths,” the instructor intoned. “Breathe through your body, all the way to your toes.”
I wasn’t Zen enough to breathe to my toes. Breathing through my lungs was all I could handle.
“Reach,” said Marigold, the woman at the front of what had once been Winnie Flournoy’s third-floor ballroom—now the enormous room served as a yoga-studio. “Breathe.”
Next to me, Libba muttered. Apparently, today’s yoga class wasn’t living up to her expectations. Instead of the gentle, easy exercise Winnie promised us, we’d sweat. Sweat hard enough for dampness to stain my leotards. I would ache tomorrow.
“Sink into a child’s pose,” Marigold told us.
We sank.
“Let’s move to our backs.”
We moved to our backs.
“And breathe.”
We breathed.
“Close your eyes.”
My eyes closed to half-mast.
“And find your center.”
What?
“Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
That I could do. So could Sharon Michaels. She stretched out on the mat next to mine and followed directions. Loudly.
I concentrated on the music—something with a sitar and a violin. Normally, such noises would annoy me, but the pitch and tone suited the moment.
The room was dim, the mat was comfortable, and I’d had little sleep.
“Relax and breathe.”
I closed my eyes.
“Drift on a cloud.”
I drifted.
“Melt into your mats.”
I melted.
I drifted and melted and dozed until the record skipped.
My lids fluttered open.
Around me, women remained melted on their mats.
Sharon Michaels snored softly.
Marigold was nowhere to be seen.
I pushed up from the mat, went to the record
player, lifted the needle, and dropped it at the beginning of the album. The music began again.
Someone sighed.
I tiptoed to the bench running the length of the windowless wall and collected my shoes and handbag.
No one moved.
The door was just to my right. I turned the handle and pulled. The door didn’t budge.
I pulled again. Harder.
Nothing.
I pushed. The door still didn’t move.
“Winnie,” my voice was low but every woman in the room except Sharon opened her eyes.
“Does the door stick?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
I pulled again. Hard. “How well do you know Marigold?”
Winnie sat up on her mat. “Why?”
“Because she locked us in.”
Winnie pushed herself to standing. “Don’t be silly.”
I stepped aside and let Winnie try the handle.
The door remained immovable.
“I’m sure there’s a mistake.”
Marigold was probably downstairs cleaning out Winnie’s jewelry drawer. “Do you have a phone up here?”
“A phone? Up here?” She glanced around her private studio. “Why would I have a phone up here?”
In case her yoga instructor locked her in.
“Are any of your neighbors at home?”
“How would I know?” Winnie wrung her hands and looked back at Libba, Kate, Sarah, Betsy, and the still-sleeping Sharon.
Leaving her at the door, I picked my way through the yoga mats and peered out the front window. The street was quiet. The neighboring houses were far away. We might yell for hours before anyone heard us. “What time is your mail delivered?”
“Three o’clock.”
I glanced at my watch. The time read a quarter past ten. Spending five hours locked in Winnie’s ballroom wasn’t on my agenda for the day. There had to be another way out. Besides, in that five hours, Marigold could steal Winnie blind. “Is there a towel up here?”
“A towel?”
“Yes. A towel.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a new tube of paint in my purse.” I’d picked up the tube from the artists’ supply store on Saturday and hadn’t yet put it in my studio. As long as Winnie’s towel wasn’t cobalt blue, we were set. “We can write a message and hang the towel out the window.”
“What kind of message?”
“I’m thinking SOS.”
Winnie shook her head. “I don’t know, Ellison.”
Libba joined me at the window. She scowled down at the line of cars parked next to the curb on the quiet street. “Your yoga teacher is probably downstairs helping herself to your grandmother’s pearls.”
Winnie turned a sickly shade of green and disappeared into the half-bath muttering something about how Marigold would never steal from her. She returned quickly and thrust a hand towel at me. “Will this work?”
“Do you have anything bigger? Or two more?”
“I’ll look,” she snapped. Any semblance of calm or Zen Winnie possessed had disappeared.
Neither Kate, nor Sarah, nor Betsy retained any Zen either. Their arms were crossed across their chests and their eyes were narrowed.
“What a disaster,” declared Kate.
“I’m just glad our purses are here and not downstairs,” said Sarah.
Betsy merely shook her head. “Do you need help painting the towels?”
“She’s an artist,” said Libba. “She can manage an SOS.”
Sharon snorted in her sleep.
Winnie reappeared with an additional two towels.
I spread them on the floor, and finger-painted an “S,” an “O,” and another “S.” The letters were as large as I could make them and brilliant blue against the white of Winnie’s towels.
We hung one towel per window and sat down to wait.
If I hung SOS towels out the window at my house, my nosy neighbor, Marian Dixon, would call the police within a half-second then step out onto her lawn for a better view of the action.
Too bad Marian wasn’t across the street now.
“Winnie, would you turn that infernal racket off? Please?” Betsy pointed to the record player.
“I’ll do it.” Libba lifted the needle off the album.
The absence of sitar was a gift.
“How well do you know this woman?” Sarah demanded. “Did you get references?”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to lock us in.” Winnie was lying to herself. And us.
“I have a tennis game at one,” said Kate.
“I have a dress fitting. I can’t be late.” Betsy’s sweet voice fooled no one—if she missed her appointment, there would be hell to pay.
I leaned against the window and stared at the street. Libba’s Mercedes convertible was parked between Sarah’s BMW and Betsy’s Oldsmobile station wagon. Then came Kate’s Cadillac and Sharon’s Volvo. Behind the Volvo was a blue car. I turned back to the studio. “Winnie, when I pulled up, I saw a plum-colored Gremlin in the drive. Is that Marigold’s car?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because there’s a blue car I don’t recognize parked on the street.” I tapped my fingernail against the glass.
“People park on the street all the time.” Winnie dismissed my observation with ease.
Outside, a figure appeared next to the blue car. I pounded on the glass, then raised the sash. “Help!”
The person next to the car looked up at the house, at me, at the SOS towels, and covered his forehead with his hand as if a glare impeded his view—that or he was hiding his face.
Libba hurried to my side in time to see the man toss a large duffel bag into the front seat, slide into the car, and drive away. “Didn’t he hear you? Didn’t he see your sign?”
“He heard. He saw.”
“And he drove away?”
“He did.” My stomach knotted into an impossible yoga pose. Something was very wrong.
Behind us, conversation continued.
“Just where did you find this Marigold?” Kate sounded deeply annoyed.
“She came highly recommended—” Winnie’s voice had a how-dare-you-question-me tone that wouldn’t win her much support among the women locked in her attic “—and you’ve been to dozens of classes here. There’s never been a problem. Not until today. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.”
“Dream on,” Libba whispered.
“No kidding,” I whispered back.
“Look!” Libba pointed out the window.
An older woman and her dog had rounded the corner. They strolled toward Winnie’s house.
I wiggled my upper body out the window and yelled, “Help!”
The woman on the sidewalk stopped. She glanced over her shoulder. She looked across the street. She even stared down at her little dog.
The dog barked.
“Up here! Up here!”
The woman shifted her gaze to the attic and her jaw dropped. Surprise was a reasonable response. How often did one see grown women leaning out an attic window?
“We’re locked in,” I explained. “Would you please call for help?”
The area near the window was suddenly crowded.
“That’s Gertie Kleinman. She lives three doors down. Ask if she’ll come in and unlock the door.”
“Mrs. Kleinman, will you please come in and open the door?”
The woman nodded, and she and her dog hurried up Winnie’s front walk.
We waited. Was the front door locked? Gertie Kleinman was taking forever.
“What’s taking so long?” wondered Betsy. She still sounded sweet as pie, but the expression in her eyes was scary.
Winnie squeezed her eyes shut and tapped her forehead. “I can
’t remember if the door is locked.”
Gertie Kleinman reappeared on the sidewalk. Running. Away. She dragged her little dog behind her.
“What’s she doing?” Acid etched the sweetness in Betsy’s voice.
“Gertie!” Winnie nearly took out my eardrum.
Gertie didn’t stop. She didn’t even slow down. Gertie ran.
“What’s that all about?” Kate demanded. “Is she unbalanced?”
“The door must be locked. She’s in a hurry to call for help. She’ll send someone.” Winnie’s voice was full of bravado.
“But why didn’t she stop and tell us that?” insisted Kate. “She just ran.”
My stomach twisted into that upside-down yoga pose where feet crossed like pretzels. Gertie, who was no spring chicken, hadn’t just run—she’d run like a fox pursued by a pack of hounds.
The tight crowd of women near the window made breathing difficult. Or maybe the difficulty came from the sudden dread pressing against my chest.
After a moment or two of watching the empty street, Kate and Sharon and Betsy faded away. Winnie watched a bit longer, then she too stepped back from the window.
That left me with Libba and Sarah.
I breathed deep.
“Why did Gertie run like that?” asked Sarah.
Why couldn’t my stomach take a nice savasana pose—easy, relaxing, serene? But, no—my intestines contorted into something impossible, a visvamitrasana (I’d seen it done once and still didn’t understand how it was physically possible). “I have no idea.”
Sarah stood with us for another moment before she too drifted back toward the mats still spread across the floor.
I wasn’t surprised by the first siren’s claxon blare. Nor was I surprised when three police cars parked in front of Winnie’s house. I might—might—have blinked once or twice when Anarchy and his partner, Detective Peters, arrived. “We’re locked in the attic,” I called down to them.
TELEPHONE LINE Page 1
