Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

“By the way Simms, you might also want to let him know this: Your Jane Doe is actually a John Doe.”

  Chapter 3

  Deena flipped the pages of the latest issue of Texas Monthly. Tossing the magazine on the coffee table, she walked to the window to look out on the backyard for the hundredth time that day. The flower beds, once brimming with brightly colored blooms, were barren except for the occasional leafy weed standing defiant against the sun’s crucifying rays.

  Is this what it would be like from now on? As a teacher, Deena was used to having summers off. Those long, hot days were filled with attending workshops, reorganizing her classroom, taking a few short trips with her husband, and getting her house back in order before the next school year began. She also used the time to work on her vintage booth at the Hidden Treasures Antique Mall, a hobby she had turned in to a small side business. This summer was going to be different, and she had no idea what to do with herself.

  Ah. Life in the suburbs. The sound of cars driving past the house, garage doors opening and closing, and children screaming for no real reason all signaled the end of the workday. It was only her third day to be at home, but already her house felt like a white-collar prison.

  Deep cleaning her house was out of the question. With no children due to some wiring problems in her lady parts, she and Gary kept their ranch-style home tidy enough for their liking. Cooking was never one of her specialties. As a child, she’d preferred reading a book to helping her mother in the kitchen. What on earth was she going to do with her new-found freedom?

  The sound of Gary’s car pulling in was like a trumpet announcing the king’s arrival. She glanced quickly in the mirror above the entry table, noting that Janice was right. It was time to color the gray roots peeking out from her auburn hair. Earlier, she had spent half an hour playing with her make-up as a way to pass the time. She looked like someone the make-up artist at the funeral home had just practiced on.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said when Gary walked in the side door from the garage. “How was your day?” She couldn’t believe how June Cleaver-ish she sounded.

  “Same old same old. It’s weird having you here when I get home.” Gary placed his briefcase and keys on the entry table and turned to look at her. “What did you do to your face?”

  “It’s called make-up,” she said with a sneer.

  “Did you use a mirror?”

  “Very funny.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss him and left a bright red smudge on his cheek.

  She’d met Gary the first year she taught school in an East Texas town even smaller than Maycroft. He was a financial adviser and came to the school to discuss retirement plans for teachers. At just twenty-three years old, retirement was the last thing on Deena’s mind back then. She sat in the auditorium, however, thinking how nice it would be to spend a little one-on-one time discussing her long-term future with the dashing Gary Sharpe. After the meeting, she got his business card and he got her phone number. They married a year later and moved to Maycroft for Gary’s job ten years after that.

  Looking around in mock surprise, Gary asked, “What? No dinner on the table?”

  Deena shot him a look. “Just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly turned into Betty Crocker. If you wanted someone to cook and clean for you, you should have married your mother.”

  Gary loosened his tie. “You realize that’s against the law, right?”

  “I hope that’s not the only reason you chose me over her.”

  The playful banter continued until Gary offered to take her out to dinner as long as she would clean off her face.

  They drove to Las Abuela’s, their favorite Mexican food restaurant. It was small and dark and served great margaritas and comfort food. There were plenty of other good restaurants in Maycroft, most filled with tourists or screaming babies. Except for the strolling mariachis on Saturday nights, the place was quiet and cozy. Maycroft thrived on tourism, mostly from the antique stores, flea markets, and bed-and-breakfasts. The locals, however, had their favorite haunts off the main street.

  Gary took a sip of his drink. “So how does it feel to be retired?”

  “Unemployed, not retired,” Deena shot back. “For Pete’s sake, there are plenty of jobs I can do.”

  “I know, but you don’t have to work if you don’t want to. Besides, you know how burned out you were. This is the perfect time to take a break and re-group. We can manage financially.” He covered her hand with his. “I just want you to be happy.”

  There was that phrase again. Janice had called her burned out too. Still, the strong tequila and spicy salsa was lifting her spirits. “Hey, maybe I can come work for you. I could be your secretary or Girl Friday.”

  Sangria spewed out of Gary’s mouth, covering the tablecloth with little red spatters. Once he wiped his mouth and regained his composure, he looked at her sheepishly. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She folded her arms on the table. “I was, but I guess I know how you’d feel about it.”

  “Sorry, but you took me by surprise. I love you more than anything, but being together all day, every day...”

  “I get it.” The server appeared with their food. She waited until the girl left. “But seriously, I was thinking about trying to get a job at the newspaper.”

  “Is that something you want to do? I didn’t realize you planned to keep working.”

  “I think so, it’s just...” She felt the old insecurities creeping up and looked down at the table.

  “Just what?”

  “You know what they say, ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.’” She made air quotes to emphasize her point. “Maybe I can’t.”

  Gary leaned forward, looking her straight in the eyes. “Deena Jo, you are one of the smartest people I know. You can do anything you set your mind to. Besides,” he added, “the only reason you didn’t become a reporter in the first place was so that you could be close to home to take care of your brother.”

  Russell. Deena’s older brother was the family eccentric. Intelligent and creative, he served in the army and had returned home not quite the same. One of the reasons she decided to stay in Texas was to be near him. She had hoped he would marry, but it seemed he was destined to bachelorhood. That didn’t stop Deena from setting him up on blind dates, though.

  “Actually, I talked to Russell today,” Deena said. “Have you heard his latest scheme?”

  “What’s he up to now? Building a spaceship or searching for Bigfoot?”

  “He and some of his survivalist buddies are going to build one of those underground shelters for the next D-Day or the zombie apocalypse. They’re like little boys playing army in the dirt.”

  They both laughed and shook their heads at the thought of Russell’s antics, an endless source of amusement.

  Gary raised his glass. “Well, here’s wishing you much luck for the start of your new career, whatever it is.”

  She clinked her glass against his. “Move over Woodward and Bernstein. Make way for Sharpe.”

  Chapter 4

  Before even one single lump of clay could be laid across the plastic model of the skull of John Doe 1964, Dr. Erin Sparks knew she had to add precise markers to key areas of the skeleton. Forensic anthropology relied on specific measurements to recreate the features lost by death and decay. It was a painstaking process, requiring an objective mind and an artistic eye.

  She replaced missing parts of bone with plastic pieces carefully shaped to patch up the skull’s tapestry, once perfect but now tattered and threadbare. The bullets had destroyed much of the back of the skull. The jawbones had to be secured. One eye socket was merely a splintered void. Like a mason putting up drywall, she knew all the seams would be perfectly hidden once she applied the finishing compound.

  Like a buzzard circling its prey, Dr. Sparks walked around and around the mounted skull trying to determine if her calculations were correct and if each marker was in its proper position. Once the transformation began, there
would be no turning back. She and her assistant had spent four days getting to this point. Satisfied at last, she was ready to begin the wet work.

  Opening a fresh package, her fingers dug into the moist brown clay. She pressed it into the forehead section and smoothed it out as if performing a delicate facial massage. Every line, every crease had to be perfect. The work, slow and painstaking, would continue for several days.

  Her lab assistant knew this was when Dr. Sparks herself transformed from scientist to artist. With the precision of a surgeon and the creativity of a sculptor, she began to reveal the face that time and the elements had stripped away.

  Staring at the man who entered her life a stranger just a week earlier, Dr. Sparks contemplated his life and death. What had he done to be murdered in such a way? Was he an evil monster or an innocent victim? Where was his family? Had they lost hope after one, two, twenty years of waiting? Would anyone remember and identify him?

  These questions kept her keen on getting the details just right. The mouth, quieted by an assassin’s merciless act; the eyes, blinded by piercing hot steel—these were the most important features to capture, the critical keys to expression. Getting them wrong could be the difference between lying eternally in a pauper’s grave or coming home with a hero’s welcome. Day after day, she performed her magical resurrection.

  Finally, on the afternoon of the last day, she stepped back and smiled as though meeting the man for the first time. She greeted him warmly. “Hello, John Doe. Nice to meet you.”

  AFTER THREE WEEKS OF waiting for Dr. Sparks to finish the model, Deputy Simms was ready to release the face of John Doe 1964 to the media. Sheriff Lowry had said in an interview that the department owed it to the citizens of Bingham County to allocate the funds for a complete facial reconstruction sculpture to be made of the victim, especially considering how his predecessors had botched the original case. When the current forensics lab reassembled the skeleton, it was obvious the victim was male, not female.

  The department had a lot riding on this case. Not only would they have to hope the artist’s sculpture was accurate, they would also need people who had known the victim to recognize him and call in a tip. Fifty years of life can wipe away a lot of memories.

  “Any of the tips worth following up on?” Sheriff Lowry asked at the end of the first day.

  “Not so far,” Simms said. “Mostly they have been crackpots claiming the vic was Buddy Holly or Jimmy Hoffa. I ran down a few names, but they were people who were never missing in the first place. The article ran in the Dallas paper yesterday and the Tribune today. Tomorrow it will be in the Ft. Worth newspaper and on some of the news stations. Maybe we’ll get more viable tips.”

  “Let me know as soon as something useful turns up. We spent a piss-load of the county’s money on this case, and I want something to show for it.” Lowry picked up a file on his desk, a signal that meant Simms was dismissed.

  Relief washed over him as he headed to the front desk to retrieve the stack of new messages from Renee, the receptionist. Luckily, the sheriff had not asked for any of the specifics that Simms would just as soon keep hidden.

  “Anything good?” he asked.

  “Only if you are still looking for Elvis.” As the main receptionist, Renee was the first line of communications for the office. She had gotten the job right out of high school and could be counted on to screen the important calls from the quacks.

  Simms scoffed and headed down the long hallway to his office. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the John Doe flier off a stack of files. John Doe, he wondered, who are you?

  The next morning the tips started pouring in. Most of the callers were not sure if the person they were calling about had ever gone missing, but the resemblance was “uncanny.” Or so they claimed. Simms continued running names through the missing person database with no luck. Then Renee called asking him to come to the front desk.

  “Whatcha got?” He stared at the large stack of messages in front of her.

  She put two callers on hold and slid the notes toward him. “Look at this top message. This is the third caller who identified the same person. The other two are in the stack somewhere. Thought you might want to know.” She pressed one of the blinking red buttons on the console in front of her. “Bingham County Sheriff’s Office. Can I help you?”

  Simms took the messages and headed back to his office. Matthew Meade, he read off the top message, are you our John Doe? Flipping through the notes, he found the two others that named the same man. Turning to his computer, he entered the name. Nothing. No hits. Still, this was his first real lead. He dialed the phone number on the first message.

  “Fred Tucker? This is Deputy Trey Simms of the Bingham County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Oh yes,” said the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “I guess you got my message about Matthew Meade.”

  “Yes sir. What makes you think the picture in the paper is him?”

  “Well, I grew up in Bingham, you see, and the Meade family went to our church. Their boy Matthew was a few years behind me in school.” He coughed a few times before he continued. “After he got back from the army, he moved up to Maycroft. I remember that something happened and he disappeared. Right out of thin air.”

  “When was that?”

  “Well, let’s see now. That would have been some time in the sixties. Early sixties. I was living in Austin then but remember hearing all about it. Such a shame—a fine young man.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you remember the names of any of his family members?”

  “No. That’s all I can remember for now. I’ll think on it some more and call you back if I come up with anything.”

  “I would be much obliged, sir. Thank you for calling.” Trey hung up the phone and turned straight to his computer just as Renee walked in.

  “I’m taking a short break. Got anything?”

  “Maybe,” Simms said without turning around from his screen. He began searching the internet for everyone named Matthew Meade from Texas.

  Renee slipped out the door, leaving him to his work.

  There were more people with that name than he had imagined, so he telephoned the next lead, hoping she might have more information.

  “I am so glad you called, Officer Simms. I have been nearly sick to death ever since I saw that picture in the paper. I am positively sure that is Cora and Frank’s boy from Bingham.”

  Simms wrote down the names as he listened to the elderly woman’s dramatic tale.

  “Back in the early 1960s, ‘63 perhaps, poor Matthew disappeared off the face of God’s good earth. He had taken a job up there in Maycroft instead of staying with his kin and going to work with his daddy at the market. That was bad enough. But then to disappear like that? All they found was his car. Why, Cora and Frank were beside themselves with worry. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Of course.”

  “They hired a private detective and did everything they could think of, but they never did find that boy. You can imagine what people back home were thinking. No evidence of a crime. Just taking off and leaving his mama and daddy to worry themselves to death.” She took a deep breath. “Now, I read in the paper that his dead body was found in a pasture just a few miles away in Bingham County and not long after he disappeared. And they thought he was a woman? Well, I’m just sick, I am.”

  “Mrs. Davidson, do you know how I can get in touch with the Meade family?”

  “God rest his soul, Frank has passed. Cora is living with her sister in Ft. Worth, though. Let me just find my address book and see if I have their number.” She set down the receiver.

  Simms could hardly believe what he was hearing. His heart pounded and his hands shook a little as he waited for her to return. Deputy of the Year, he thought, picturing a gold plaque with his name engraved in bold letters. Lowry will shake my hand, and I’ll get my picture in the newspaper.

  “I don’t have their telephone number, but I have their addr
ess. Do you have a pen?”

  Simms wrote down the information and promised to call back. Just then, Renee stepped back into the office.

  “Trey, there’s someone on line three I think you want to talk to.”

  Glancing at the flier again, he picked up the phone and pushed the button to answer. “Deputy Simms here. Can I help you?”

  “Hello. My name is Cora Meade. My son is Matthew Meade.”

  Chapter 5

  Like a teenager applying for her first job at the movie theatre, Deena stood in her closet trying to find the perfect outfit to wear for her meeting with the editor of the Northeast Texas Tribune. She wanted to look like a “mature, responsible journalist” and not a “matronly, burned-out school teacher,” even though that’s apparently what she was. She had never cared that much about fashion and was regretting it as she searched her closet.

  By this time in her life, Deena had grown comfortable with her appearance, except for those darn gray roots. She looked around her closet and suddenly hated all her clothes. Everything seemed too young or too old or too boring or too something. A whole new wardrobe was what she needed. Maybe she should cancel the appointment with Lloyd Pryor and go shopping.

  Chicken, she chided herself. You can do this.

  Finally, she decided on an old stand-by: a navy-blue pants suit and crisp white shirt. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly crisp, but it would do. She added several pieces of turquoise jewelry. Heels would make her look younger, but flats would be safer, knowing she could be a little clumsy at times. She spotted a pair of red pumps she’d bought some years back to go with a dress she had only worn once. They would add a youthful flair without the worry of turning an ankle. She had gone easy on the make-up this time. Looking in the mirror, she declared her appearance “good enough,” and headed out the door.

  AN OLD BRICK WAREHOUSE from the seventies, formerly used to store used restaurant equipment, stood as the home of the Northeast Texas Tribune, a regional newspaper that served all the surrounding counties. It was the go-to paper to find out who died, who tied the knot, and who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, business-wise, that is. Although they were not hiring, Deena knew the editor, and he had agreed to talk to her.