Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set

by Lisa B. Thomas

  The summer months had passed quickly since her brief stint at the newspaper. She had buried her head in her antique business, occasionally filling in for the owner of the Hidden Treasures Antique Mall. Vacations to Boston and San Francisco were welcome respites from the brutal Texas heat.

  The smartest thing she and Gary ever did was put in a backyard pool. Hurley, their rescued terrier, seemed to know it was splash time as soon as he spotted her floral swim towel. Deena led the way to the backyard, and he jumped in the pool before she did.

  The silky, cool water was the perfect cleanser for Deena’s dusty face. Why couldn’t someone invent swimming pool shampoo and conditioner? Then she could kill two birds with one stone.

  As usual, Hurley quickly tired of paddling after the tennis ball and jumped out, shaking water all over the deck. He snuggled up next to her towel and flip-flops for a little sun-bathing.

  Deena climbed onto a vinyl raft that was slippery with sunscreen. She steadied herself and shooed away a dragonfly attempting to land in her hair. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture Max Dekker. Would he think she and the others in the class were a bunch of corn cob, know-nothings?

  After all, Max and his wife had spent most of their time in New York City. Alexis was his literary agent and had made headlines of her own. She was his first and third wife, from what Deena remembered reading. Hard to believe a New York power couple would be happy settling down in Maycroft.

  The sun’s heat and the soft rocking of the float soon had her drifting off to sleep.

  “Hey there,” Gary called out.

  Deena sat up and tumbled off the raft and into the water. She made her way over to the side of the pool where Gary stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the water’s ripples.

  He sat in a lawn chair and loosened his tie, still a requirement for a financial adviser even in a town where most men wore plaid shirts and cowboy boots.

  How was it that his dark hair, sprinkled with gray, was still lying perfectly coifed on his head? It didn’t seem fair that he was still in such good shape for a man staring down the barrel of his sixtieth birthday. Deena instinctively sucked in her belly. “I must have dozed off,” she said, resting her elbows on the side of the pool.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? I thought you had that cooking class tonight,” Gary said.

  “It’s not until seven, and it’s not cooking anymore. It’s writing.”

  Gary held the tennis ball Hurley had dropped at his feet. “Writing? Would you mind explaining?” He threw the ball.

  Deena told him about her visit to the library and the new class she had decided to take. Before he could respond, she said, “And don’t lecture me about jumping from one thing to the next. I think this might be the challenge I’ve been looking for.”

  Gary hurled the ball to the side fence again, and then picked up the swim towel. “Deena Jo, I’ve given up questioning your motives.” He smiled and tossed her the towel.

  Hurley barked then snarled at something on the other side of the wooden fence.

  A few seconds later, a door closed.

  “Not again,” Deena said, the heat rising in her face. “What are we going to do about him?” She pulled the towel tight around her shoulders.

  “I don’t think there is anything we can do. According to Officer Nelson, he isn’t breaking any laws as long as he’s on his own side of the fence. Besides, he’s harmless.”

  A chill ran down her spine despite the sun’s searing rays. She sneered at Ed Cooper’s house next door. “There has to be something we can do. Like put up a second fence so that creeper can’t watch us through the slats every time we’re out here.” She lowered her head and hurried to the back door.

  The blast of cold air from inside sent her scurrying to the bedroom to change clothes. When she came out, Gary was working in the kitchen. Hot soup steamed in a saucepan and sandwich fixings covered the counter.

  How did she get so lucky to find such a thoughtful husband? The precision with which he assembled the sandwiches was a marvel. She refrained from teasing him about it this time. Never bite the hand that feeds you, right?

  “Have you decided what you want for your birthday present?” she asked, snatching a handful of potato chips.

  His eyes twinkled. “You know Harvey, the new guy we hired. His wife is making him sell his Harley-Davidson, and I was thinking—”

  “Stop right there.” She held her hand up. “There’s no way you are getting a motorcycle.”

  “But—”

  “I would be worried sick you’d crash and end up in a ditch somewhere. I’m too young to be a widow.”

  “You’re the clumsy one, not me,” he protested.

  “Does this mean you’re having a mid-life crisis?”

  He carried the soup bowls to the kitchen table. “Maybe.”

  “How about something sensible like some nice leather boots or a new set of golf clubs?”

  “New clubs?” His eyes twinkled.

  Deena bit into her sandwich. “So are you excited about my new venture?”

  “You mean catastrophe, don’t you? Something odd always seems to happen. Just don’t wind up in the hospital this time, and it’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t worry. This time I’ll be writing a mystery, not investigating one.”

  Chapter 2

  The Fitzhugh Library was hopping when Deena arrived unfashionably early. How many budding writers could Maycroft really handle? She looked around for Betty.

  Nancy, the other librarian, manned the front desk while parents with their anxious kids waited in line to check out books. It must be science project time at the elementary school.

  “Have you seen Betty?” Deena asked when she got to the front of the line.

  Nancy cocked her head toward the reading room where some people were starting to gather. “She might be in there. She left before six to get some supper before she had to be back for the class.”

  The small room held two rows of tables, each with four chairs. Deena chose an empty table at the back and set her satchel in the chair next to her in case Betty wanted to join her. A podium and a tall stool stood ready at the front of the room. A wooden desk sat off to the side near the podium. Chatty women and one man filled several tables in the front.

  Someone touched Deena’s shoulder, and she jerked around.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in fiction writing,” Lydia Ivey said. “Were you here last week?”

  Lydia taught history at Maycroft High School where Deena used to teach journalism. Unfortunately, Deena hadn’t really kept up with her friends who were still teaching. Lydia looked younger than Deena remembered, her auburn hair hanging loose at her shoulders rather than pulled back in its usual low ponytail. It also looked as though she’d been coloring the gray.

  “How are you?” Deena got up to give her a polite hug. “No, this is my first class. I guess it’s natural to move from reporting to writing a novel. We’ll see anyway.”

  Lydia grinned like a groupie at a Stones concert. “I’m just excited to get to be around Max Dekker. He’s one of my favorite authors. I’ve read every one of his books.”

  Deena glanced over Lydia’s shoulder as a handsome older man walked by. “Look,” she whispered. “There he is.”

  Max Dekker strolled to the front of the room and set his briefcase on the desk. He looked as one would imagine a successful mystery author to look. His light-blue shirt and brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches complimented his ruddy complexion. His salt-and-pepper hair was heavy on the salt and needed trimming. He was shorter than Deena had expected but had a nice build. His fashionista wife must have made him keep in shape.

  Betty walked up and set her notepad next to Deena on the table as Lydia hurried to take her seat. “Let’s go up there before he gets started,” Betty said to Deena. “I’ll introduce you. I brought this book for him to sign. Who knows, it might be worth something someday.”

  More than a little self-cons
cious, Deena could see all eyes were on her as she followed Betty to the desk where Max stood taking books and folders out of his old-fashioned “Death of a Salesman” style briefcase.

  He narrowed his eyes as they approached. He looked at the book in Betty’s hand, and he gave her a faint smile. “I see you have a copy of Crimson Waters. First edition. I suppose you want me to sign it.”

  “Of course,” Betty said stiffly. She laid the book open on the desk and shot out her hand with a ballpoint pen ready and waiting.

  Taking it, he said, “And your name is...”

  “Betty. Betty Donaldson.”

  He signed the book and set the pen on the open page.

  She folded up the book with the pen inside. A souvenir, of sorts. Like a foul ball caught at a ball game.

  “And what did you think of it?” he asked. His face seemed poised as though waiting for a gush of praise.

  “The plot was brilliant. But I didn’t like the title. It didn’t fit the story.”

  He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

  Betty’s face turned pinkish gray and she stepped to the side.

  Oh, my, Deena thought. If that was her idea of flirting, she had a lot to learn.

  “This is Deena Sharpe,” Betty said, pushing Deena a step forward. “She’s just starting tonight.”

  Max nodded at her and asked, “So what makes you think you can write a mystery novel, Deena Sharpe?”

  Her smile fell as she stammered, “I...wrote...write...I taught journalism.”

  He snorted. “Ah. Another journalist thinking they can write that big, blockbuster novel.” He picked up his books and walked toward the podium.

  Deena crossed her arms. Had she been a cat, her back would have arched. “I don’t just think it; I know I can write a novel. Whether or not it is a blockbuster is another thing, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Betty smirked and started toward the back of the room.

  Deena wasn’t finished. “I would imagine the pressure, in this case, is on you. You are the one teaching us, after all.”

  Removing his reading glasses, Max’s eyes pierced hers. “You can lead a horse to water...”

  “I’m not a horse, Mr. Dekker.” She turned on her heels to leave.

  “Ms. Sharpe—”

  “Mrs.,” she said curtly, looking back over her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Sharpe. I like your spunk. I’m expecting good things from you. Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t.” She turned again and marched back to her seat, her palms sweating and her heart racing.

  THE NEXT HOUR ZOOMED by as Deena filled page after page of her spiral with notes. Max Dekker seemed in his element as wise teacher to the class’s twenty-one students.

  Deena even got up the nerve to ask a few questions, and she was glad when he nodded his head as though pleased with her participation.

  Lydia raised her hand. “Mr. Dekker. It’s eight o’clock. Time for our break.”

  “Yes. Thank you for the reminder,” he said and put the cap back on his fountain pen.

  “I brought homemade cookies to go with the iced tea and coffee,” Lydia added, and a collective “yum” sounded throughout the room.

  “Good,” Betty said and headed out of the reading room.

  Like a herd of heifers, the would-be authors quickly stampeded toward the break room.

  Deena took her place near the back of the line. So Lydia was also a baker. Maybe she was familiar with the elusive mother-in-law dessert. She picked up a plastic cup of sweet tea and took a bite of an oatmeal raisin cookie. “This is delicious,” she said to Lydia. “What’s your secret?”

  “I add cinnamon and pecans for extra flavor and crunch.” Lydia beamed as everyone raved about her baking prowess. “You know, I’ve been thinking of writing a cookbook. After listening to Max Dekker these past two weeks, I think it would be a lot easier than writing a novel.”

  Betty walked by holding a small stack of cookies and napkins.

  She must be really hungry. Deena opened her mouth to say something when a commotion near the doorway pulled her attention.

  Several people filed out of the break room as Nancy frantically waved her arms, reminding everyone that “no food or drinks are allowed in the main area of the library.”

  Before Deena could get to the action, the word “police” drifted through the crowd back to where she stood craning to see what was happening.

  Sure enough, two police officers were talking to Max Dekker. His face was stoic as he listened and nodded his head in response. After a few minutes, the officers walked away and waited near the library’s main door.

  Max motioned for everyone to return to their seats.

  Deena brushed crumbs off the front of her blouse while Betty stood next to the wall wringing her hands. The anticipation was as thick as concrete.

  Max leaned one arm on the podium and cleared his throat. “I must apologize, but it seems we will have to cut class a little short tonight. There’s been an accident.”

  A gasp rose from the room.

  “My wife, Alexis, has been killed in a car accident. The police suspect foul play.”

  Most everyone in the room put their hands to their mouths or chests and shook their heads in disbelief.

  Deena’s mouth fell open as she listened. Is this real? Is it a hoax? Perhaps Max Dekker was setting them up for a lesson in mystery writing 101. If so, it was just sick.

  “Now, if you all will excuse me, I must tend to business.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose quickly before returning it to his pocket.

  Everyone waited in stunned silence as he packed his briefcase. He glanced at the stack of cookies on the desk and put them inside along with his books and folders. He squinted his eye, focusing on the inside of the case before quickly shutting it closed.

  As he clicked the metal clasps on his case, he straightened and revealed an eerily calm composure. “How ironic. It seems the mystery is about me this time around. I pray one of us will be able to solve it before an innocent person is blamed.”

  With that, he walked quickly out of the room toward the waiting officers.

  For a moment, no one seemed to know what to do. Betty spread her arms and said, “I guess we’ll see you all next week.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.

  Next week? Would he actually continue teaching their class after this?

  Slowly, people rose from their chairs, gathering their things and whispering to each other.

  Lydia, her face streaked with mascara-filled tears, flew up beside Deena. “That poor man. That poor, poor man.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  Deena stood, her legs weak. “That was weird, right? The man finds out his wife is dead, and he doesn’t miss a beat.”

  “He was probably in shock, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. But what do you think he meant by that comment? ‘Protecting an innocent person’? Was he talking about himself?”

  “No! Of course not. Who would think such a talented, sensitive man would be capable of killing his wife?”

  Deena tilted her head. “But he writes murder mysteries for a living.”

  Lydia blew her nose into her wet wad of tissues.

  Trying hard not to roll her eyes, Deena picked up her satchel and led Lydia toward the exit. “Good grief. I thought the only mystery I’d have to worry about for a while would be on the pages of a book. This is one case I’m going to stay as far away from as possible.”

  Chapter 3

  The sound of her cell phone ringing woke Deena much earlier than she would have liked. Snuggled up next to Hurley, she hesitated to answer it. Too curious to ignore it, she looked at the screen and saw it was Sandra, her best friend and the owner of the Second Chance Thrift Store.

  “Why are you calling so early?” Deena asked, skipping the usual niceties.

  “It’s only early if you’re retired and living the life of luxury. Some of us actually have to work
, you know.”

  Deena pulled Gary’s pillow behind hers and sat up. The baking book she had been reading when she fell asleep lay open on the floor. “So what’s up—besides me, now?”

  “Did you hear about the car wreck last night? You were in that class with Max Dekker, right?”

  “Yes. The police came in during our break and told him his wife had been killed in an accident. Bless her heart. He told us they suspected foul play.” Max’s deadpan expression flashed before her eyes. “Do you know any more than that?”

  “Ian talked to one of his friends at the sheriff’s department when he was up at the jail. The guy said her brake line had been cut.”

  “Really? Where did the accident happen?”

  “Where else? On Dead Wally’s Curve.”

  “No way! The city really should do something about that road. It’s too dark and too dangerous.” Through the phone, Deena could hear the clink of a coffee cup on the table. Just the sound of Sandra knocking back fresh brew made Deena’s mouth water. She sat on the edge of the bed and closed the cookbook with her feet. “Do they have any suspects?”

  “Not that we know of. I was hoping you would call Dan Carson to see if he knows anything. I know he’ll have a story in the paper tomorrow, but I wanted to know more today.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting I call him? I closed that chapter on my life.” Dan Carson was the crime reporter for the Northeast Texas Tribune whom Deena had worked with for a short time the previous spring. “Gary would kill me if I got involved with another murder. I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “Ah, you’re no fun. At least tell me how Max Dekker reacted to the news.”

  “Now that was interesting,” Deena said, heading toward the kitchen. “He barely reacted at all. Maybe he was in shock. He said something about making sure an innocent person wasn’t accused. I wondered if he was talking about himself.”