Murderous Heart

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  MURDEROUS HEART

  By Lynne Waite Chapman

  Copyright 2016 by Lynne Waite Chapman

  Published by Take Me Away Books

  Cover design by Cynthia Hickey

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever – except short passages for reviews – without express permission.

  Chapter One

  O w.

  My lashes fluttered open, only to be met with a beam of light shooting through the window. Struck in both eyes. Not the way I wanted to wake up.

  Well, good morning, sun. I pulled the pillow over my face and wiggled to the side of the bed before removing it to peek outside. Tree-tops swayed on the other side of my window. Another beautiful morning in small-town Indiana. My bed was warm and soft, and urged me to stay and watch birds flit from branch to branch for a while. Cooler temperatures had signaled leaves to begin their transformation from green to red and yellow.

  I’d drifted back to sleep when the rapping on the door jerked me into reality.

  Crap. What was wrong with people? Much too early for visitors.

  It took a moment for my foggy mind to clear, and I remembered agreeing to this early morning visit. What had I been thinking? My friend Clair had arrived right on time. Having renewed her mission to get me into good physical condition, she’d set up yet another power-walk schedule.

  I rolled out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt from the chair to pull around my shoulders. After shuffling to the door, I pulled it open and gave Clair what I hoped was a dazzling smile. My ever-energetic friend jogged in place on the porch until I pulled the door open wide enough for her to jog in.

  “Did I wake you?” The twinkle in her eye indicated she knew the answer and thought it was hilarious.

  “No. I’ve been up forever.”

  In my dreams.

  “Just haven’t gotten around to making coffee. I’ll load the coffee maker and get dressed.”

  Clair hopped around the living room in her imitation of a prize fighter. “You should try a bottle of water instead. It’ll wake you up just as well and be healthier.”

  I stood at the kitchen counter pulling out the coffee canister. “Um. No. I have a cold or allergies or something. The caffeine will help clear my head.” I loaded the pot and flipped the power button.

  “Are you sick?” Clair stared at me, possibly in an attempt to see if I had spots.

  “No, just a stuffy nose.”

  “Drink orange juice.” She jogged over to the refrigerator, yanked open the door and stuck her head inside. “You don’t have any. No juice at all. Well, you’ll feel better after our walk this morning. It increases blood circulation and builds up resistance.”

  “Right.” I didn’t know if my friend was an expert on staying healthy, but I couldn’t remember her ever being sick. Had to admire the woman for her boundless vitality and her spirit. She embraced regular exercise and was determined I would, too.

  “You know, we’re of that age.” Clair and I had known each other all through high-school and she’d taken an interest in my well-being when I’d returned home after twenty-five years.

  “Yes, I know we’re in our forties and have to work harder to stay in shape.” I’d heard the mantra before. According to Clair, all my body parts were destined to head downhill and reside somewhere around my ankles if I didn’t become more active.

  The pot made sizzling noises signaling coffee was brewing, so I wandered to the closet to find sweatpants and a reasonable matching shirt. Clair was fashionably dressed in black and yellow striped leggings with coordinating t-shirt and jacket. I didn’t own anything to compete or even two pieces that matched. I was happy with clean.

  She called from the kitchen. “Mason’s dish is empty. Did you feed him already?”

  “Um. No, I guess not.”

  Fortunately for the feline, Clair knew her way around my kitchen. The pantry door squeaked open and his dish rattled as it was filled with kibble.

  I toted my shoes to the kitchen and grabbed a mug of coffee, taking it to my vintage walnut dining set. The sweet black and white kitty sat beside his dish and glared at me as I tied my shoe-laces. “You don’t have to act like I starved you. I’m sorry I was a little slow with the cat-food this morning. I would have gotten around to it before I left.”

  I leaned back in my chair and savored the last dregs of coffee.

  Clair, who hadn’t let up dancing around the room, grabbed my empty cup and trotted to the sink with it. “Let’s go, girlfriend. It’s a glorious morning.”

  With a deep, fortifying breath, I followed her into the chilly morning air. As soon as she hit the concrete Clair set off at a fast walk. I jogged to catch up and settled into keeping pace, one step behind her.

  My amazingly physically fit friend launched into her morning monologue. As usual she expected me to contribute. But even after being on the exercise routine for weeks, I wasn’t able to participate in the rolling conversation while walking.

  Clair didn’t notice, or ignored, my lack of participation, and happily changed subjects at random. “I have an appointment to show a house at ten this morning. That gives us an hour and a half to walk before I have to get home to shower.”

  “How long? Hold on. Are you trying to kill me? I thought we were keeping it to forty-five minutes.”

  “Yeah, I know, but you should be ready to increase your time by now. You’ve been doing great. Stretch yourself. Reach for more!”

  My cheerleader.

  “Not today.”

  “Alright, how about sixty minutes?”

  “Sixty? I could die in that amount of time. When I collapse you’ll have to carry me home.”

  “Okay. Forty-five minutes. Just concentrate on your stride and don’t worry about how long you’re walking. I’ll keep track of it and let you know when the time is up.”

  “Right” I’d fallen for that pitch before.

  Clair pumped her arms and powered on. “What do you have planned for today?”

  I spit out an answer. “I’ll be writing. Have a couple articles I want to tweak before sending them in to the magazine. After that, laundry and scrubbing the house. Never gets cleaned while I’m in the middle of writing.”

  With my last puff of breath I concluded my side of the conversation.

  Clair kept marching on, not even working up a sweat. She pointed out the trees and points of interest as we passed. “The storm the other day took down some limbs. Park service will have to get out here and clean up.”

  “The wind was hard on my trees, too. There are a lot of sticks in my yard that I’ll have to pick up. My windows need washed.” I threw in the part about the windows for Clair’s benefit. I didn’t plan to wash them. Not while I could still see out.

  Clair slowed up to walk beside me. “I’ll come over and help you with the sticks. I wish I had a yard to work in. And a garden. I can’t wait to move to a place with some land.”

  “You have to be kidding. I know you said you’re tired of apartment living, but I thought it meant you wanted more space. Like a villa, where they have a lawn service. Living in a house is constant work.”

  I took a minute to picture my life in Tampa. “I miss the condo. Someone else took care of the grounds. Maintenance men at my beck and call.”

  Clair raised her hands in the air. “Give me upkeep. I want to get my hands dirty. Plant flowers and vegetables. Rake leaves. Even wash windows.” She skipped ahead and then twirled around to walk backwards.
“I’d love to live in the country on four or five acres.” Without missing a step she pivoted to face forward again. “Let’s take the path down by the ravine. We haven’t been that way for months.”

  “No way. That’s where we found the dead body. I can’t believe you’d want to walk past that scene.”

  Clair dismissed the thought with a flap of her hand. “Over and done with. We’re not likely to find another body. How many murders do you think could take place in this little burg?”

  “It’s not that I expect another murder victim. It’s the memory of the last one. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”

  “I don’t think about it. Don’t like to keep negative things in my mind. But if it bothers you we’ll take the trail past the pond instead.”

  Clair veered to the right and powered on, waving her hands as she spoke. “Hey guess what. I’m cooking. I bought a spaghetti squash yesterday. Going to roast it tonight.”

  “With your work schedule, when do you have time to cook? I didn’t think you ever used your stove.”

  She giggled. “I had to read the instruction manual. And dust the burners. But girlfriend, my priorities are changing. I can work less, enjoy life and still earn a decent living. I’m getting out of the old race.”

  I wondered if her exercise priorities would change any time soon. Maybe she’d let me out of the race—this race. The longer she talked about her evolving lifestyle the faster her feet went. I changed the subject. “Have you asked Anita to join us for our power walks?”

  Why was I the only friend subjected to this? Maybe the only one gullible enough?

  Clair strode on. “Three’s too many. It works better with two on the trail.” She paused for a moment. “By the way, there’s a class on gardening at the library next month. Why don’t we go?”

  No.

  “Um, I’ll think about it. You must be serious about moving. Have you looked at houses?”

  “I’m keeping my eyes open. Looking at country homes that are still close to town. I don’t want to be far from the office. And I need to be close to Ava’s Java. We can still have our coffee meetings, although I’ll probably invite you and Anita over to my house, too. Maybe I’ll have a big farm kitchen.”

  I was happy she didn’t want to change everything. Clair and I and the third member of our team, Anita, met at Ava’s Java, several times a week. The coffee house was the place to discuss world affairs, local news, and what we thought of Ava’s new hair-cut.

  Musical notes began to drift from Clair’s pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and slowed her stride while she answered.

  I took the interruption in our conversation as an invitation to catch my breath and tighten my pony-tail.

  Clair clicked off and stuck the cell back into her pocket. “Sorry, I wasn’t going to answer it, but saw it was my boss, so I had to.”

  “Not a problem.”

  A welcome relief.

  “Was it anything important? Do you need to get back to work early? I’d understand.” I really wouldn’t mind.

  Clair stopped and pivoted toward me. “Something interesting. We were called by a mortgage company. It seems they have a place here in Evelynton that has gone through foreclosure. They were never able to contact the owner, so they considered it an abandoned house. Anyway, Howard said they want us to list it as soon as possible. He asked me to go over today and check it out. We have to make sure they didn’t trash it. I get to decide what it will take to make it market ready. And the listing is mine. If it’s in good shape it’ll be an easy sale. The mortgage company only needs to recoup what’s left of their investment. Howard says the price will be right.”

  Clair linked arms with me and slowed to a stroll. “Go with me to see it. I hope it isn’t too much of a mess. This will be fun. And if it’s a bore, we won’t stay long. Then we’ll go to Ava’s for a cup.”

  I thought of my computer at home waiting for me to finish my latest Hoosier Lakes Living article. Hmm. What would be more enticing? I could go with my friend, or I could sit alone in my house and talk to the cat for the rest of the day. “Sure. When do you want to go?”

  The good thing about being a writer—the flexible schedule. The bad thing—I take advantage of the flexible schedule. That left me rushing to meet deadlines or failing to be productive. Hence my part-time receptionist job at The Rare Curl. Twelve hours a week got me out of the house, helped to pay bills, and forced me to wear make-up. As an introvert writer, it’s a challenge to wear anything but sweats, and to remember to comb my hair.”

  “Sometime this afternoon. I’ll call you when I’m done with my appointment this morning. Howard arranged for a locksmith to open the door and change the locks. As soon as I find out it’s open, I’ll be over to get you.”

  We turned the corner and headed toward home. The sight of the little bungalow, inherited from my Aunt Ruth, drew me forward and provided renewed energy. I focused on the front porch and could taste the coffee.

  I trudged up the steps and leaned into the door until it swung open.

  Clair jogged in place on the sidewalk. “I’m heading home to get ready for work. I’ll call you this afternoon. This should be fun unless the dead-beat owner tore out all the lighting fixtures. I’m afraid that often happens in a foreclosure. But we’ll see.” She jogged to her car, climbed in and squealed the tires as she sped away.

  I wanted to fall onto the sofa, but forced myself to the kitchen to reheat the coffee.

  Mason circled my feet until I picked him up. His purring body vibrated against my chest while I carried him to the back porch. He leapt to the floor and dashed through his cat door to the backyard.

  Cradling my micro-waved coffee, I went to the shower and stripped off sweaty clothes. The bed called to me. But no, I’d find something nice to wear and even put on mascara and lipstick. Clair would be in full make-up, a painfully-tailored short-skirted business suit, and spike heels.

  This was my life. Impersonating a homeless person while I wrote fluffy articles of interest only to senior citizens. The highpoint of my week would be visiting a foreclosed house.

  I needed a life.

  Chapter Two

  C lair sat forward and tapped the steering wheel as she drove. “Every home I list is an adventure. Wondering what’s it going to look like? How can I help the homeowner prepare it? What kind of person is the perfect buyer?”

  I put out my hand to brace myself on the dash. She slammed on the brakes at the stop sign, looked both ways and sped on. “In the years I’ve been in the business I’ve developed a sixth sense about houses. At my first visit I get an impression of how easily it will sell and what type of person should live in it.”

  I lifted my chin to smile, hoping to appear as excited as my friend but only managed to sneeze. “Sorry. Being out in the park must have aggravated my sinus problem.” I searched my bag for a tissue to blow my nose.

  Clair turned off the car radio. “This house is special, I can tell. And I haven’t even seen it yet.”

  I tucked the tissue back into my handbag and leaned my head back. “Just hope it isn’t too dusty.”

  Larry’s Lock and Key - 24/7 Lock-picking Service was printed on the side of the white panel truck parked in the driveway. Clair hopped out of the car and waved to the man in the driver’s seat. “Hi, I’m Clair Lane from HH Realty.”

  The lock smith slid out of the van and ambled over to meet her as she approached. “Good afternoon, ma’am. You must be the woman I hand the keys to. Both front and back doors are re-keyed.”

  Clair grinned as she stuck out her hand. She’d been in this business for twenty years. Yet she behaved as if she’d won a ticket to an amusement park.

  The man returned to the van and backed it out of the drive, leaving us a full view of the property.

  We stood side by side, gazing at the abandoned house, me thinking it was nothing special and wishing I’d stayed home, Clair smiling while she studied the siding or the windows or the atmosphere. Or something. I didn
’t know what.

  Without tearing her eyes from the house, she nodded. “Awesome. This is perfect.”

  “Really? It looks sort of ordinary to me.” Newer than my Cape Cod, but a simple ranch style home.

  “The siding is in great condition. The roof looks good, at least from here. Nice curb appeal. I’d add a few bushes at the end of the walk. This will be great.”

  I squinted, trying to see the property through Clair’s eyes. “Uh-huh.” Maybe I’d catch the feeling of the house once inside.

  Clair scanned the yard. “I’ll have to find someone to trim the shrubbery and get the leaves out of the mulch. Those beautiful leaves are falling. Too bad it’s autumn, it would be easier to sell in Spring or Summer. Let’s go in.”

  She hustled to the front door and inserted the key. Before turning the knob she twisted toward me. “I love this part. The first view of the inside is always exhilarating. I still get butterflies. You never know what to expect. I can almost hear trumpets and a drum roll.”

  I tried to smile. “Me too.”

  She turned back to the door but stopped and tipped her head toward me. “Wait. Just to clarify, this house was abandoned so we don’t know what to expect. Any furniture in good condition will be gone. Sometimes the owners trash a place before leaving, even as far as pulling out light-fixtures. I hope that didn’t happen but prepare yourself.”

  I imagined the drum roll and prepared for the cymbal clanging at the let-down when we walked into a disaster scene. The door swung open and Clair stood rooted in the entryway. I scooted in beside her hoping to catch the excitement of the first glimpse.

  Her head turned as she scanned the room side to side. “No way.”

  We stood in the entry of a typical middle-class living room. The carpet was clean. Curtains hung in the windows. Blue and yellow pillows sat propped in the corners of a light-brown sofa. There were end tables with lamps at each side of the couch as well as beside the two upholstered chairs. A remote control sat on the coffee table. A television was nestled in an entertainment center. Nicely framed prints hung on the walls. The thought struck me that at any moment the woman of the house would appear with a plate of cookies to welcome her guests. Or maybe to ask us what the heck we were doing standing in her living-room.