Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeanne Glidewell

  By the time the first signs of dawn appeared in the eastern sky—pink and purple streaks across the lower part of the horizon, fading to light blue higher up—I was beginning to get hungry and restless. I was still reeling from having struck and killed a raccoon that had darted out onto the road in front of me. I'd pulled over to check on its condition, hoping it wasn't beyond saving, but I was saddened to discover that it had died instantly upon impact. I scooted its lifeless body off the pavement into the grassy area beyond the shoulder and said a quick prayer on the raccoon's behalf.

  Driving along, keeping an eye out for a cafe, I thought about Wendy's reaction to my announcement that I was traveling to the east coast to meet a man I'd encountered over the Internet. It seemed to me that she was as concerned about my safety as she was about the fact I was considering a romantic interlude with a man. I don't think it was the fact that I was meeting a man so much as the manner in which I was going about it.

  Thinking back several years, I recalled the time Wendy had tried to set me up on a blind date with the divorced father of one of her friends. So at least she wasn't completely opposed to the idea of me dating. Perhaps she'd even realized that I wanted a man in my life before I'd come to that conclusion myself. I was still not convinced that was the case, but I admitted to myself I was beginning to feel a twinge of loneliness and depression since Wendy's wedding a month and a half earlier. Wendy had Clay to share her life with now. Who did I have to discuss the mundane aspects of my day with at the dinner table each evening? I could hardly call Wendy umpteen times a day, now that she was married. I could adopt a cute little orange tabby I'd seen at the animal shelter, but I wasn't certain that was the answer either. A cat's vocabulary was pretty much limited to "feed me", "pet me", and "get out of my way." I needed a little more stimulating conversation and companionship than a kitten had to offer.

  I was almost shocked by the direction my thoughts had taken. It had been a long time since I'd given a man a second thought, or even a second glance. I was very accustomed to my independence, and reasonably comfortable with my current lifestyle. I wasn't sure I could adapt to such a big change at this stage in my life. Still a gentleman—a thoughtful, caring, and mature individual—might be fun to spend a little time with, now and then. Oh, good grief, what was I thinking? I needed stronger coffee; that much was obvious. And maybe a little fresh air, I thought as I cracked open the window.

  I shook my head to revert my wandering attention back to driving. No sense endangering the wildlife population and leaving a trail of roadkill in my wake.

  As I continued east on I-70, I admired the pastoral scenes on either side of the road. There were three horses running through a field of newly baled hay on my left, a young boy and an elderly man walking toward a small farm pond on my right. The two were wearing matching bib overalls and carrying fishing poles over their shoulders. They appeared as if they could be discussing the trophy fish they were hoping to catch.

  I took a sip of coffee and cranked the volume up on the stereo. One of my favorite Merle Haggard tunes drifted out of the speakers, and I sang along with the confidence of someone who knew she couldn't carry a tune in a dump truck—much less a basket—and didn't really care.

  "Big city turn me loose and set me free," I sang off-key as I beat my fingers on the steering wheel in reasonable beat with the music. I felt completely in tune with the words of the song, emotionally, if not audibly. I loved the country, its scents and scenes, and its laid-back atmosphere. But I also loved the conveniences of city life, even though I felt the crowded confines were unbearably stifling, and sometimes frightening. I had experienced both worlds and found both had good points and bad. The Kansas suburb I now lived in offered a comfortable mixture of both, and that greatly appealed to me.

  I'd felt a great sense of apprehension and uneasiness leaving Shawnee to go to Schenectady, not knowing what I might discover about my new son-in-law. I noticed that the farther east I drove, the more nervous and uptight I felt.

  Up ahead a flashing sign stretched across the front of a barn-shaped building. Redwood Cafe, it read, and according to the sign it was home to the best breakfast buffet in town. Although I normally ate a light breakfast, or no breakfast at all, this morning a plate piled high with cholesterol-laden bacon and eggs sounded like just the balm I needed to calm my nerves. If nothing else, I reasoned that it was better to be anxious on a full stomach than an empty one. I steered the Jeep down the next exit ramp and turned left toward the cafe.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the fall colors back east were even better than I'd anticipated, and I found myself taking photo after photo. Each bend in the road brought a picture-postcard scene more incredible than the last. I was particularly proud of a shot I'd taken earlier in the trip of large tobacco leaves drying as they hung from the rafters of an open-ended barn. The sun shining through the barn should make it a fascinating photo. I hoped the new Minolta produced the type of photographs promised in the company's advertisements.

  I'd booked a room at a bed and breakfast right in downtown Schenectady. It was on Union Street, across from a cozy-looking diner where I figured I could eat many of my meals. The white-haired proprietor at the Camelot B&B was a feisty, little old lady named Harriet Sparks. She looked to be about a hundred years old, but ran around the place like she was eight. Where did she get that kind of energy? I wondered in awe.

  Harriet chain-smoked unfiltered Pall Malls down to the point the calluses on her fingers were glowing red. She weighed about one hundred pounds, and before I could stop her, she had hoisted my ninety-five-pound suitcase up the steep staircase to my room. She sprinted up the steps and then waited for me to catch up at the top of the staircase. I followed her to a room at the far end of the wide hallway.

  "Ya need anything, sweetie, ya just holler. Ya hear?" Harriet's raspy voice made me think of a western Kansas pheasant. It sounded like she had a load of gravel in her craw. "I know most everything 'bout everybody in these here parts."

  I nodded and knew instantly that Harriet would become a friend, and hopefully, a valuable source of information. I thought of Justin's Korean marathoner as I said, "Say, listen, Harriet, I'm thinking about doing a freelance article on a murder that took place here in Schenectady a couple of years ago. Would you know anything about the Eliza Pitt case, by any chance?"

  "As much as anybody, I reckon. But the killing didn't take place here in Schenectady, sweetie. No sir-ee! He kilt that little gal up in dem mountains."

  "Oh? Have they determined who murdered her then?"

  "Well, not 'fficially, but it's as plain as my face that it were her old man that whacked her," Harriet said. "Don't take no rocket scientist to figure that one out."

  Whacked? Harriet had been watching too many NYPD Blue shows. She sounded like Andy Sipowicz. "After I get settled, would you mind telling me what you know about the case? Tomorrow sometime, maybe?"

  "Shore sweetie, any time. Like I said, I know most everything 'bout everybody in these here parts." With that, Harriet scurried off down the hallway, as if there were snakes that needed whacking in the basement.

  * * *

  I relaxed over dinner at the Union Street Diner across the street. The small cafe was dimly lit with only a handful of customers, but the food was excellent. I chose to eat sensibly and ordered one trip to the salad bar. I then piled about ten thousand calories' worth of macaroni salad, fruit salad, banana pudding, fresh bread, and other goodies on a platter that looked like something a pizza parlor might use for baking their jumbo supremes.

  When I returned to the room, I unpacked my bag and set up my laptop computer on a little corner hutch. I planned to make occasional contact with Wendy, via e-mail, to rave about the vivid color of the trees and to let her know I was enjoying myself and doing fine. I hesitated to call her. I knew she had caller ID, and I hadn't thought to purchase a cell phone. A call from Clay's hometown area code would not be a wise move on my part.

  My small, b
ut well-appointed, room was adorable. There was a four-poster bed with a canopy against the back wall, and a blue, white, and yellow spread that featured bright sunflowers. Belgian lace valances hung on both windows, and the antique dresser had a large oval mirror with scented candles on either side. A note under one of them read, "Feel free to burn me."

  An old-fashioned rocking chair and the corner desk completed the furnishings. The entire house boasted nine-foot ceilings and hardwood floors. There were no less than a dozen different-colored throw rugs scattered about my small room. I could walk around the room all day long and never have my feet actually touch the floor. It was like wall-to-wall carpet in three-by-five-foot sections.

  The bathroom assigned to my room was not connected, but it was behind the next door down the hallway. It had fuchsia-colored wallpaper and a huge turquoise and yellow bath mat. I was beginning to see that Harriet preferred her surroundings to be bright and bold. Her taste matched her colorful personality perfectly. It was nothing like the way I'd chosen to decorate my own home, but for some reason, I loved it and was charmed by Harriet's eccentric style. Perhaps it was because it was in such sharp contrast to my own home that it appealed to me.

  I was relieved to feel very comfortable with the accommodations I'd booked over the Internet. As I undressed in the bathroom, I thought about how fortunate I was to have found this quaint little inn. It was ideal for me. I spent an hour lounging in a warm bath, nearly falling asleep in the deep, claw-footed tub. I then sent a quick e-mail to Wendy, stating only that I'd arrived safely at my destination and it had been an uneventful trip. I'd been on the road most of the day and I was exhausted. I logged off the computer, crawled into bed, and counted about two and a half sheep before drifting off into a much-needed slumber.

  * * *

  I woke up feeling refreshed the following morning, but still I didn't feel quite ready to begin delving into the mysterious disappearance and death of Clay's former wife. My procrastination tendencies were kicking in full force.

  When I'd registered the previous day, Harriet hadn't mentioned the "breakfast" half of her B&B services. It was only 7:45, but I thought maybe I could catch her up and about and talk her out of a cup of coffee. I needed a fix for my caffeine addiction before I did anything else.

  As I walked down the stairs, I heard lively music coming from the kitchen and recognized the tune as "Brick House" by The Commodores. I walked toward the sound of the music and found Harriet dancing and cleaning out the bottom of a large birdcage at the same time. It was an amusing and endearing sight.

  "Morning," came a high-pitched greeting that was barely discernible over the loud music. "Morning, sweetie," the voice repeated. I looked up and saw the red tail of an African gray parrot as it flitted behind a large kettle atop the refrigerator.

  Harriet flicked off the radio and turned toward me. "Morning, sleepyhead. Say hello to Sinbad." She gestured toward the parrot.

  "Good morning, Harriet," I said. "Good morning, Sinbad. You sure are a pretty thing."

  "Ah, horseshit," Sinbad responded as he paced back and forth across the appliance. "Horseshit, horseshit. Shut up, nasty thing. Sinbad's a bad boy, a bad boy. Damn bird."

  Harriet snapped her towel at the foul-mouthed parrot and muttered, "Damn nasty-mouthed bird." It was easy to see from whom Sinbad had learned his colorful vocabulary.

  "Did you sleep well, sweetie?" Harriet asked me. She gave me a cup from the cup rack and pointed toward a percolator on the stove.

  "Oh yes, I slept like a log," I said. "Just need a shot of coffee to wake me up." I poured what appeared to be half coffee and half coffee grounds into a coffee cup labeled "Lady Luck Casino." I could easily picture Harriet slamming quarters into a slot machine and cussing like Sinbad when it didn't pay out.

  I took a swallow of coffee and almost spat it out across the kitchen floor. I was wide awake instantly. This coffee even made the espresso I normally drank seem weak and vapid. After a few sips of Harriet's stout coffee, I'd be bouncing off the walls. It had to have been brewing for a long time. Harriet must have gotten up hours ago, I decided.

  "Good, that's good. I was just thinking I otter go up and put a mirror under yer nose to see if you's still breathing," Harriet said. "Breakfast is served at six 'round here. I made your breakfast fer ya but tossed it out after a spell when ya didn't show up."

  "Oh, Harriet, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize..."

  Did Harriet forget she hadn't told me about breakfast, or did she just assume that everyone got up at the crack of dawn for a six o'clock feeding? With a sweep of her hand, Harriet waved off my apology. "S'okay, I knew ya had a long day yesterday, so I let ya be lazy and sleep in late. But after this, be down here at six fer breakfast. Ya hear?"

  Oh my! I had gone and enlisted in boot camp! I'd have to set my alarm for five-thirty to be dressed and down in the kitchen by six. I didn't get up at five-thirty even if Ed McMahon and the prize patrol were at my front door, and much less for breakfast.

  "Horseshit," Sinbad squawked. He'd taken the words right out of my mouth.

  "Sure, Harriet. No problem," I said. I couldn't hurt this nice lady's feelings. She'd already wasted one breakfast on me. I told myself that tomorrow I'd have my lazy butt down at the kitchen table at six sharp.

  "Sit down, girl," Harriet commanded. "I'll have yer plate ready in a jiff. Ya like poached eggs on toast, don't ya?"

  I could barely stomach poached eggs. I liked eggs cooked over hard or not at all. But Harriet had already scrapped one meal because of me. I didn't feel like I could be choosy at that point, and I had no desire to look like a prima donna in her eyes. I felt I could tolerate runny eggs for one meal. If I could get Harriet's coffee down, I could suffer through anything. "Love them, Harriet. Thanks."

  "Just be a sec."

  "No hurry. Has everyone else eaten?"

  "There ain't no one else, sweetie. This time of year is usually perty slow. You be my only lodger right now."

  "Oh, I see. Well I love it here, and I'm so thankful I found your place on the Internet." It was the truth, although I was beginning to have second thoughts.

  "Yeah, me too. Like I say befer, business been perty slow. My son set that 'puter deal up. Me, I don't do 'puters. Figure you can't teach an old dog new tricks," Harriet said, as she set a plate down in front of me. There was enough toast and runny eggs on the plate to feed a lumberjack, and I wasn't sure I could even get half of it down. "Chow down, sweetie. Time's a'wasting."

  I reluctantly shoveled spoonfuls of half-raw eggs mixed with soggy toast into my mouth, knowing I was going to have to eat it all or be severely scolded for wasting perfectly good food. At least I would save money on meals while I was here. I wouldn't be hungry again until suppertime. If I ate like this all the time, I'd have to make room in my closet for an extra-large wardrobe.

  I noticed that Harriet was watching me intently, apparently waiting for my evaluation of her cooking.

  "This is wonderful, Harriet. Thanks."

  "Ya like it, huh?"

  "Yes, I sure do."

  "Ya like it a lot?" Harriet asked, for more clarification.

  "Oh yes, it's delicious." Please, Lord, don't let me upchuck on Harriet's table.

  "Good, that's good. Ya want some peaches with that? They needs to be ate befer they go bad," Harriet offered.

  Befer they go bad? As good as that sounds, no thanks. No way, Jose. That's where I draw the line. Poached eggs are one thing, but nothing on the verge of "going bad" is going to cross these lips.

  "Oh, no Harriet, I couldn't," I said. "There's more on my plate now than I can handle. It's wonderful, but I've got to watch my weight, you know."

  She eyed my thighs for a second and replied, "Yes, I guess yer right." Oh my, that one hurt. Harriet shook her head as if she'd just spied a woman at her kitchen table the size of a beached whale. I decided at that very moment that those pesky ten extra pounds would have to be dealt with in the near future. I started to push my half-finished plate
away and grimaced as Harriet continued, "Oh well, them eggs won't hurt ya none, so after ya clean yer plate, we'll sit out on the porch with our coffee, and I'll tell ya what I know 'bout that little gal that got whacked by her old man."

  * * *

  There was a covered porch off the kitchen in the rear of the little inn that overlooked the most chaotic flower garden I'd ever seen. There were at least a hundred different kinds of flowers growing and scattered haphazardly about the backyard. It looked as if the entire area had been tilled and a hundred bags of mixed seeds broadcast from a hovering helicopter. There was a riot of color, but somehow it all resulted in a very soothing effect.

  Looking closely, I saw a single tomato plant in the back corner, one bell pepper plant near the steps leading down from the porch, and in the very middle of the backyard was a solitary pumpkin. It was by far the largest pumpkin I'd ever seen in my entire forty-eight years. Harriet must have gone through a full gallon of Miracle-Gro on that one plant alone.

  "Big critter, ain't it?" Harriet commented when she saw me staring at the humongous pumpkin.

  "I'll say," I agreed. "If it had an antenna and a bud vase it could easily be mistaken for an orange VW bug. You need to enter that monster in the county fair, Harriet."

  "Reckon I otter. Won't be worth a tinker's damn to eat—that size and all. But I ain't got the heart to whack it outta there. Maybe I'll make a jack-o'-lantern outta it and put it on the front porch come Hallerween. Fer the kiddies, ya know."

  "Oh, yes, you should, Harriet. If I'm still here, I'll help you carve it."

  Harriet had pointed me to a hanging hammock-type chair swinging from the rafters of the porch. Nestled in the seat was a green and white striped cushion. Harriet sat down opposite the chair on an upside-down five-gallon bucket that looked like it had been around as long as she had. There were spots where rust had eaten completely through the metal.