Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

  The Manely Beauty Salon was less crowded than usual. “Where is everyone?” Deena asked as she sat down in Kristy’s chair.

  “Anyone in their right mind has gone to the coast or up north on vacation to get away from this heat.” Kristy wrapped a plastic drape around Deena’s neck. “Are we doing the usual?”

  “Yes, but maybe go a little shorter. I need to look younger.”

  “Don’t we all, honey,” Kristy laughed. “I’ll mix up your color and be right back.”

  Deena looked around at the other clients to see if she knew anyone. It was the polite thing to say “hi,” even if you saw your worst enemy. A young mother was trying to get her toddler son to hold still so the stylist wouldn’t cut off his ear. An older woman was getting her hair set with rollers as she probably had every Saturday morning for the past twenty years. Barbara Cummings from the elementary school was getting her hair cut but had her back to Deena. Another woman was at the hair wash station, so it was hard to tell who she was.

  “Okay, here we go.” Kristy stepped on the bar to raise the chair. Handing the bowl of dye to Deena to hold, she made a part in the center of Deena’s scalp and then brushed on the color. The strong smell of the mixture made Deena’s nose twitch.

  “So, anything new with you?” Kristy asked without giving her client a chance to answer. “I heard about your uncle. Such a shame to find out all these years later that he was murdered. I still don’t know how they couldn’t figure out he was a man. We do have different parts down there, you know.”

  “Apparently his skeleton wasn’t intact, and they didn’t have the DNA tests we have now.”

  “Well, I can’t even imagine how you must feel. It reminds me of one of those mystery stories you see on TV.”

  “Speaking of mysteries,” said Cheryl, the stylist at the next station, “did you see that story on the news the other day about that rich man in Galveston?”

  “No. What about it?” Kristy asked.

  Deena was glad the conversation had turned to another topic. As Kristy and Cheryl chatted, she reviewed what she had learned about Leon Galt, a.k.a. Noel Future. He had four books: two on Roswell, one on the NASA moon landing, and one on the CIA. His name popped up in forums about Princess Diana’s death, Watergate, John Lennon, Jimmy Hoffa, Elvis, 9/11, and JFK. Apparently, he never met a conspiracy theory he didn’t love.

  So why was he investigating Matthew? Was his death part of some evil plot to take over Texas?

  She watched as Kristy methodically applied the color to her roots. She worked quickly, which is one of the reasons Deena liked going to her.

  Deena decided her first priority was tracking down the two people Matthew had dinner with the night he disappeared. She had a plan. Like she told Gary, if you want to find out about somebody in a small town, there is only one place to go: spaghetti supper after Sunday service. She would also bring along the photo of Matthew with the mystery woman to see if anyone recognized her.

  “I’m going to sit you over here while I cut this little girl’s hair,” Kristy said and led Deena to the other side of the shop. “Here are some magazines.”

  She chose a copy of Southern Living and began flipping through the pages. Looking up from an article about bluebonnets, she saw the woman who had previously been getting her hair washed. It was Janice Marshall. Knowing she was trapped, Deena looked over and smiled, nodding her head. Janice returned the gesture. Deena pretended to read the article.

  I thought I was finished with her when I left the high school. At least she isn’t wearing heels.

  At that moment Deena became more determined than ever to get enough information about Matthew’s death to write an article that would knock the socks off people like Janice Marshall. She would show them she could walk the walk and talk the talk. Sure she had been a journalism teacher, but that didn’t mean should couldn’t be a journalist herself. She got up, holding her head high and started to walk out of the shop.

  “Deena!” Kristy called out. “Where are you going? I’m not finished with your hair.”

  Oops. She’d have to hold off on her gallant march to success just a little while longer.

  Chapter 13

  The largest building in Bingham was the courthouse, originally built in 1892. Entering the town from the east, it could be seen from miles away. The second largest building was the First Methodist Church. That is where the Meade family had attended services for at least three generations and where Deena was headed on Sunday morning. Walking through the large carved church doors, she knew today she was searching for something other than God.

  About fifteen minutes remained before service would be over, so she slipped into one of the rear pews and sat next to a young woman anxiously rocking her baby and trying to keep a pacifier in his mouth. After the closing prayer, the minister welcomed visitors and new members, read announcements from the bulletin, and invited everyone to stay for the spaghetti lunch. All donations would benefit the youth ministry’s trip to Six Flags, he said. After two rousing verses of “How Great Thou Art,” the congregation began making its way out the door. A crowd headed to the Fellowship Hall. Deena waited a few minutes before getting up to leave, wanting time for the food to be set out and people to be seated.

  As she entered the hall, she located the ladies room to kill a few more minutes. Feeling enough time had passed, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Not too much make-up, a simple floral dress, black flats—she knew she fit right in.

  The line of hungry Methodists had formed quickly, and she spotted the usual fare of spaghetti, salad, and French bread. She headed to a round table covered with a white tablecloth at the end of the buffet line where several women were filling plastic cups with ice and sweet tea. She thanked them as she picked up a cup, put a dollar in the donation jar, and cased the room for a place to sit. She was looking for the 80-ish crowd, people who might have known Matthew when he lived here.

  She spotted a group that seemed to fit the bill. They were sitting at a rectangular table covered with white butcher paper that served as a disposable tablecloth. She walked over and sat down. A few people looked up and smiled.

  “Hi. I’m Deena Sharpe.” No one seemed to hear. “My grandparents are Cora and Frank Meade.”

  “Oh, is that so,” a woman with her hair in a snowy white bun said. “How is Cora? Is she still living with her daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s well, but she’s just having an awful time coping with the news of her son Matthew’s murder.”

  The gentleman sitting next to Deena, cutting his spaghetti with a knife and fork, belted out a few words with gruff authority. “Terrible. Tragic.”

  “So, you must be here to visit the cemetery. It really is the best place to find comfort,” another woman said.

  “Well, no. Actually, I am writing a story about Matthew’s death and was hoping to find some people who knew him.”

  “She’s doing what?” a woman farther down the table asked.

  “She’s writing a story,” the gruff man yelled back.

  “Oh,” the woman replied flatly, and everyone turned their attention to another woman showing pictures of her new great-grandbaby. Deena knew she couldn’t compete.

  That didn’t go very well. She excused herself, although no one heard, and made her way to a different table. This one was round and filled with all women except for one lone man.

  “Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

  “Not at all, dear,” a kind woman with a pretty blue hat said. “I don’t believe I have seen you here before. Are you new to town?”

  “No, I’m just visiting from Maycroft.” Deena spoke her words carefully. “Cora and Frank Meade are my grandparents. I am on my way to the cemetery to visit Frank’s and Matthew’s graves. It really is the best place to find comfort,” she said and sniffled, trying to bring a few tears to her eyes. “Poor Uncle Matthew.”

  “Oh goodness, dear, everything will be fine. Ladies,” she announced, “this is Frank and Cora grandda
ughter, and she stopped by on her way to the cemetery. She’s just sick about the death of her poor Uncle Matthew.”

  Like the hallelujah chorus, the sweet women all began shaking their heads and speaking at once.

  “Can I get you some more tea?”

  “You need to eat, my dear. Dorothy, fix her a plate of food.”

  “They are putting out brownies for dessert. Let me just get you a couple. Chocolate makes everything better.”

  And just like that, she was in.

  “I’m Harriet. How is Cora? Such a shame she wasn’t able to make it to the funeral service. Have you found out any more about Matthew’s death? He was a fine young man.”

  “Did you know him?” Deena asked politely and then took a bite of her salad.

  “Why yes. I think we all did.” The other women shook their heads. “Roger, did you know Matthew Meade?” She practically shouted the question across the table to the man who was apparently hard of hearing.

  “He was older than me, but I knew him,” Roger replied.

  Deena reached for her handbag. “I have a picture of him. Would you all like to see it?”

  They most definitely did. She retrieved the photograph of Matthew with the blonde woman and handed it to Harriet who admired the photo and turned it over to see if anything was written on the back.

  “Who is this pretty girl with him? I don’t remember her.” She passed the picture, which slowly made its way around the table.

  “I have no idea,” Deena said. “Do any of you recognize her?”

  Several of the women speculated, but all their guesses were ruled out. “That picture was taken after he got back from the army. Maybe that is someone he met when he moved up to Dallas,” Harriet said.

  Technically, Matthew had lived in Perry just northwest of Dallas, but many folks in Bingham referred to any place “up north” as Dallas. The picture made its way back to Deena. Laying it reverently on the table in front of her, she addressed the group. “There are two other people I have been wondering about.” Her audience seemed anxious to help her out. “Does anyone remember a woman named Donna Morrison?”

  They talked it over and unanimously agreed the name was unfamiliar.

  “There were some Morrisons living over in Hamilton, but they had all boys,” Roger offered up.

  Deena put her hands in her lap and crossed her fingers under the table. “How about a man named Gene Collins?”

  “Sure, we know Gene,” Harriet said and got confirming nods from the group. “The Collins family have had people here for a long time.”

  “Didn’t Gene go up to Dallas with Matthew and work for a time?” Dorothy asked.

  “That’s right,” Roger said. “He moved back not long after Matthew went missing.”

  Thrilled by the news, Deena cautiously asked if he were “still around.”

  “He’s actually in Restwood,” Harriet said.

  Uh-oh, she thought. That sounded like the name of a cemetery.

  Seeing the concern on her face, Harriet quickly said, “Restwood Nursing Home is over off Pecan Street and Elm.”

  Deena breathed a sigh of relief. “I may go visit him, if y’all think that would be okay. He was one of the last people to see Matthew alive, and I...”

  “We understand, dear,” Harriet said, patting Deena on the arm. “I think that would be fine.”

  Deena thanked them for their kind hospitality and promised to come back again to visit. Walking out to her car, she felt a little guilty for manipulating her new friends but decided real reporters do what they have to in order to get a story. As she headed out of the parking lot toward Pecan Street, she failed to notice the black Ford sedan slowly following her.

  She found a spot to park near the front door. Taking a deep breath, she looked out the window of the car at the aging building in front of her. It appeared to have once been a well-maintained, tan brick building intended to reflect a homey and welcoming atmosphere. Much like the residents within, the years had taken their toll and the building was showing its age.

  Opening the glass door, the smell of ammonia mixed with pine trees, the kind of odor that gets in your sinuses and stays there for days, smacked her in the face. She walked up to the reception desk and signed her name on the spiral notebook for visitors. Next to her name, she wrote “Gene Collins” as the resident she was there to visit.

  The receptionist chatted with a nurse. She finally turned to Deena and asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Gene Collins.”

  “Nancy, is Mr. Collins still eating or is he done?”

  “I’ll go check,” the young nurse said.

  Deena waited, wondering if the receptionist would ask about her relationship to the resident or her purpose for the visit.

  Nurse Nancy returned. “He’s asleep. Probably won’t be up for at least an hour. Do you want me to wake him?”

  “No,” Deena said. “I’ll come back later.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Disappointed, Deena walked out and got back in her car. She thought about going to the antique store around the corner but decided to drive over to the cemetery, keeping her promise to Harriet & Co. It was probably bad karma to lie to old women.

  Chapter 14

  Nurse Nancy escorted Deena to Gene Collins’ room about an hour later. “You must be a lawyer,” she said.

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Any time someone here gets two visitors in the same day, at least one of them is a lawyer.”

  They stopped in front of room 319, and Nancy knocked on the door before opening it. “Here’s another visitor.”

  Deena walked in and Nancy walked off. “Hello, Mr. Collins. My name is Deena Sharpe.”

  “What do you want?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you a reporter, too?”

  “Me? No. I’m Matthew Meade’s niece.” She stood in the doorway hoping for an invitation to enter. The man inside looked older than she expected.

  “I see. Excuse me then.” He pushed himself about halfway up out of his chair, fell back down, and said, “Come on in and sit down.”

  The room was about the size of the old motel rooms where Deena’s family used to stay when they took trips in their big station wagon. The space was furnished with a hospital-type bed and a round table with three chairs. A small bureau and nightstand were pushed next to the wall by the bed. A television sat on a rolling cart.

  “Let me just turn off the TV.” He picked up the remote with a shaky hand. “What can I do for you today Miss —?”

  “Please, call me Deena.”

  “Deena. I suppose you want to ask me a lot of questions about Matthew just like the other fellow.”

  “I didn’t realize you were going to have another visitor today or I would have come another time.”

  “Don’t put off what you can do today because tomorrow you might be dead.”

  “That’s true, I guess,” Deena said awkwardly. “Was the other man named Leon Galt by any chance?”

  “Leon. That’s right. Said he was an investigator. I asked him who he was working for, and he said it was an independent investigation. I answered a few questions and he left.”

  “Well, I’m here because my grandmother, Matthew’s mother, asked me to see what I could find out about Matthew’s death.”

  The old man nodded. “And since I was with him that night, you thought I might know something. How did you find me, Miss Deena?”

  “I talked to Roger and Harriet and Dorothy at church. They told me you were here.”

  Mr. Collins reached over, picked up a small plastic pitcher, and poured water into a paper cup. “Want some?”

  Deena declined.

  “You know, I must have thought about that night a thousand times, and I still can’t figure out what happened. Matthew and I knew each other since we were kids. We enlisted together. When he got out and found a job, he found me one, too. We were like brothers.”

  “Where were you working?” Deena s
tarted to reach for a notepad but thought better of it, not wanting to come on too strong.

  “We worked at the Barnes Medical Supply Company in Maycroft. Matthew was a manager, and I worked in the warehouse. He was a smart one, he was.” He stopped to take another drink of water. Deena noticed his hands, fingers bent, skin dark and dry.

  “Can you tell me what happened that day—the day Matthew disappeared?”

  “I gave my friend Donna a ride to work that day. She said her front fender was busted up and she needed a ride. After work, I told her that Matthew and I were going to the diner, just like we did every Wednesday, and did she want to go along. She said ‘sure’ because she needed a ride back home anyway. She said she would call her brother and ask him to pick her up from there. She rode with me, and we met up with Matthew at the Park Street Café.”

  An attendant appeared in the doorway and reminded Mr. Collins that he needed to take his afternoon pills. She picked them up from the nightstand and gave them to him. He swallowed them down with a few gulps of water and she left.

  “Where was I? Oh yes, so we ate supper and had us a good talk. Didi gave us our tickets and Donna was watching for her brother. It had started raining hard. A real gully-washer. You could barely see out the big front window of the diner. I got up to go to the men’s room and when I got back, Donna was gone. Matthew was standing up at the register with Donna’s coat and check. He said she had run out so fast she had forgotten to pay. I said I would cover it, but he said no. He waited for me to pay, then we ran out to our cars and drove off.” He looked down at his hands. “I never saw him again.”

  Deena reached in her purse and pulled out the photo of Matthew and the woman. “Is this Donna Morrison?”

  He looked at the picture and whispered, “Kitty.” He appeared to lose himself in time for just a moment. “No. That’s Kitty, uh, Katherine. I can’t think of her last name. She and Matthew were sweet on each other for a while, but he ended it.” He handed the photo back to Deena.

  “Do you know why?”