The Dunn Deal

by Catherine Leggitt

  To my husband Bob Leggitt, thank you for understanding the time needed to nurture my obsession with the written word. To my firstborn child, Jule Wright, how grateful I am for your unwavering faith that because God called me to write, He would provide. Thank you for reminding me often. Still loving my iMac. Thanks again, Jason and Angie Leggitt for providing this sturdy, efficient machine. To my Mom and Pop, Pill and Gene Rogers, I am indebted to you as heads of my cheering section. Also, thank you, Pop, for steering me through the complex waters of the sheriff’s department. To my in-laws, Jane and Dale Harman, thanks for sticking to your high opinion of my potential as a writer even when no evidence existed. To my beautiful sisters, Florenza Krnich, Toni Deaville and Patty Little, I hope you already know how much I value your praise and support.

  Janna Schumacher and sister-in-law Merrilee Leggitt left their imprint on this manuscript through their skill at editing. Thanks for being tactful where improvement was required.

  I owe much gratitude to the critique group at the 2007 Mount Hermon Christian Writers’ Conference. Thank you Renae Brumbaugh, Margaret Kroening, Michael Tough, Russell Nakamura, Germaine Bleile, David Bena, Leslie Lynch, Debbie Sho, Lynda Munfrada, Susanne Lakin, and our tactful leader Kathy Ide. You received my new ideas for The Dunn Deal with enthusiasm and insightful suggestions, igniting my excitement.

  My dear friend, the incredible author/editor Susanne Lakin—winner of the 2009 Zondervan writing contest and expert proponent of the fairy tale—you’ll never know how much your timely emails have meant. I am indebted for your insight, knowledge, creative assistance, editing, and right-on fixes to problem spots. Thanks for never allowing me to quit.

  Agent Les Stobbe steered me clear of the dark side of occult spirituality, which never belonged in a cozy mystery in the first place. Thank you, Linda Nathan at Logos Word Designs, for discerning words about the inherent danger of the occult.

  My dear friends at the Stockton Bible Study Fellowship Day Women’s class, how can I thank you enough for years of intercessory prayer? Your affirmation and support has been my lifeline at times. Thank you Pam Regan for encouraging me to reach for the stars.

  Special recognition must go to my excellent critique partner, Marcia Lahti, for her timely contribution. Thanks for dropping everything to read for days. You are a true pal.

  Kudos to Scott Hanna for the last-minute rescue affected by his computer skill.

  I greatly appreciate the input and guidance of Rochelle Carter and the Ellechor Publishing House team. What an awesome group of dedicated believers! Thank you, God, for connecting us.

  Most of all to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ—The Blessed Word of God, Author and Finisher of my salvation—I humbly submit my offering of eternal thanks for filling my head with words to string together and a burning desire to speak for Truth.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Constance Boyd is a good and generous person, providing for the needs of countless orphans. She sincerely believes that when she dies, she will go to heaven for her good deeds. Does the content of what you believe matter or is it only necessary that your faith be sincere?

  2. Is there one Truth or many truths about life, death and God? What about people who say, “That may be right for you, but for me…?” Is Truth relative?

  3. How does a person find Truth about God?

  4. Zora Jane proclaims God’s Truth with boldness. Is this an effective way to witness? Should the Truth always be delivered straight or should it sometimes be watered down?

  5. Are all religions true? If not, how can you tell which ones speak for God?

  6. What’s the difference between belonging to a religion or denomination and being a Christian?

  7. What about the Bible? Is it relevant and truthful for today? All of it or only parts of it? If you think you should obey only certain parts, how do you decide which parts to follow?

  8. Jesse Sterling suffered from hearing loss that distorted sound. Often what he heard wasn’t what was actually said. Does this have a spiritual application? If faith comes by hearing the Word of God, how do people sometimes filter Truth through wishful thinking? Or rationalization? Or intellectualization?

  9. Did Christine Sterling learn any lessons in The Dunn Deal? What about her inclination to go against her husband’s wishes? Who should be the head of the family according to the Bible? Why does God desire that?

  10. Did you see yourself in any of the characters of this book? Which character did you identify with the most? The least? Why?

  Enjoy a Sample from Book 3 in

  the Christine Sterling Mystery Series

  Parrish the Thought

  A man in the ladies’ room?

  I slipped on a take-charge attitude and shoved through the mumbling huddle of waiting women. Past pointing fingers and impatient faces, I managed to enter the three-stall bathroom off the church foyer. Sure enough, scuffed boots with significant holes protruded toes up from under the handicap stall. I bent to inspect them and found one hiked up pant leg revealing a calf with dark coarse hair. Definitely male.

  A neon alert blinked warning in my brain. I censored the unchristian exclamation that almost tumbled from my lips. Where else but California would you find a man sprawled on the ladies room floor?

  Of all the nerve! He had also managed to track red Nevada County clay onto our clean shiny floor. A whiff of alcohol and cigarettes reached out to me like clawing fingers. I didn’t try to disguise my disgust. “Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”

  The shoes didn’t move.

  By then, a pack of female onlookers had congregated behind me. At the sound of my voice, they all spoke at once like a flock of hens. I faced them, waving my hands and clearing my throat. Their chatter ceased as quickly as it had started. “I’ll get help. Meanwhile, please use the restroom downstairs.” I produced a smile and pointed in the general vicinity of the stairs.

  Tilted heads and squinty eyes faced me, but after one or two women turned to leave, the rest followed—a few sending back questioning frowns. They weren’t the only ones wondering who put me in charge. Why did I always do this? Must be Jesse’s influence. Leave it to me to marry someone with a compulsion for fixing everyone else’s problems.

  Heaving a long sigh, I returned to my inspection. With the tip of my pointer finger, I inched the stall door open just far enough for a clear view.

  The stranger lay on his back beside the commode, eyes closed, lips a thin bloodless line. Tousled gray-flecked hair jutted from his head like greasy straw. An angular jaw rendered a hard edge to his face. One arm lay beneath him with the other bent so his hand rested on his chest. Good thing he chose the handicap stall. The other tiny cubicles barely contained space to sit. Even so, how could he sleep on this hard floor?

  When I released the stall door, it clapped shut and the sound echoed through the empty room. I stuck my head out the ladies room door. A few people glanced toward me. I ignored their puzzled expressions and focused on my husband across the foyer at the sanctuary doors. “Jesse!” I shouted over the chatter. “Come here!” When I motioned for him, my purse thumped the door. More heads turned toward me. Those who knew me smiled and waved before returning to their conversations.

  Jesse arched both eyebrows and peered over his glasses, sending a nonverbal message to his fellow usher on the opposite side of the doorway. The other man nodded, slightly lifting his brows in reply. Jesse shrugged. I rolled my eyes. Is it any wonder men are no good with words? They can communicate just fine with looks and grunts.

  Certain that Jesse would come eventually, I hurried back to the stall. Despite the clapping, clicking, and thumping—as well as other general commotion—the interloper hadn’t moved. How could he sleep through all that noise? And how did this filthy person find his way into our pristine church in the first place? I hacked an exaggerated cough. “Sir? Do you know you’re in the ladies room?”

  The man still didn’t budge. Must be sleeping off a binge.

  What could be
keeping Jesse? I stuck my head out the ladies room door again. Looking as if I’d never called, Jesse stood planted at his appointed station, passing out bulletins to Sunday morning stragglers. When I delivered a second—more insistent—summons, he threw me a scowl. I dashed out, intercepting a woman I didn’t know as she headed toward the ladies room. After a quick point toward the downstairs restroom, I stomped across the foyer, two-inch heels banging the floor. Jesse would have to get the man out of there in a hurry or some unsuspecting woman would be in for a most unpleasant surprise.

  “Jesse! Please. Come now. I need you.” I yanked his sleeve to drag his six-foot frame down to my five-feet-one-and-a-half inches so I could whisper in his ear. “There’s a man on the floor in the ladies room.”

  He lifted one eyebrow and stared blankly.

  Even with his hearing aids in place, he had to read lips to know what I said. Drawing a deep breath, I faced him and spoke louder. “Help me. In the ladies room.”

  Jesse’s hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “You never needed my help in there before.”

  With one final tug on his sleeve, I pointed across the carpeted space. “Please!” Then I darted off to check on the interloper, hoping my speed would communicate the necessity for immediate action.

  Pulling the stall door wider, I braced it with my hip. Then I bent as low as my Sunday clothes allowed and inspected the unfortunate creature. Beneath his eyelids, his discolored skin suggested either poor health or severely neglected hygiene. An old scar lined one cheek from ear to chin. A dingy leather glove fully a size too small stretched over the visible hand. Scraped knuckles peeked out through tattered holes. Indigent, probably a homeless person.

  I nudged his shoe with my foot. “Hey. Wake up.” Should I check his breathing? The mere thought of touching him wrinkled my nose. Why didn’t I carry plastic gloves in my purse for emergencies? I dropped to one knee with my fanny sticking out the door. My hand hovered three inches above his chest like a helicopter with no place to land while I pondered how to check his heart through all those layers of clothing. Unable to decide, I gingerly lowered my head until one ear brushed his chest. I held my breath and listened. An involuntary shudder shivered over me as I envisioned lice relocating. In spite of my magnanimous sacrifice, I heard nothing.

  Nor did I hear the tiny red drop that splashed into an expanding crimson puddle under the man’s head. I gasped. Had he fallen? My brain connected the blood to an old Columbo TV show where the rumpled detective discovered a bleeding victim. If his heart could still pump blood, it meant he wasn’t dead. Unconscious, maybe. But not dead. Colombo was never wrong.

  I couldn’t hold my breath forever. Grasping one side of the stall to steady myself, I teetered to a stand. When I did so, I inhaled a huge gulp of alcohol, stale tobacco, urine, body odor, and who knows what else—a cloying odor worse than sour milk left overnight on a sponge. I recoiled at the stench. Some primitive instinct made me push backwards until I’d lengthened the distance between my nose and the offensive smell. When I stopped, I landed on my most padded part. Not a dignified position for a middle-aged woman.

  Get a grip, Christine. Much as I wanted to flee, that bleeding had to be stanched. His life might depend on it. That meant I’d have to touch him again. I probably shouldn’t move him, though. Didn’t want to risk compounding the condition.

  Come on. You can do this. Concentrate. Mouth to mouth? Nausea. The room began to spin.

  Jesse flung open the door and bellowed. “Any ladies in here?”

  Relief brought clarity and annoyance. Ladies. Was he making a commentary on my position? “Only me.” I replied with as much vigor as I could muster.

  Jesse didn’t so much as glance at the shoes under the stall or hunt for the man attached to them. He simply reached for my hand and pulled me off the floor. “Where’s this man you’re so worried about? And what’re you doing down there? Did you see a mouse?”

  Mouse? “Would I be on the floor if I’d seen a mouse?” I jabbed a finger at the stall.

  Jesse’s lips formed an “O” without sound escaping. He squared his shoulders and yanked open the door. While he conducted his examination, I took up a post inside the ladies room door, pacing like a caged tiger.

  In less than a minute, Jesse backed out the handicap stall. “He’s breathing. Barely.” A few steps into the room, he stopped and fixed his gaze on the floor, expelling a long breath. The set of his jaw spoke volumes about his state of mind. After thirty-eight years as his wife, I knew that expression—he didn’t know what to do either.

  Giving the man a backward glance, Jesse pushed past me and raced out of the ladies room. He stepped briskly into the foyer, calling over his shoulder. “I’ll get help. My cell phone’s in the car, but there’s a phone in the church office. Meanwhile, don’t let anyone in here.”

  As if I would.

  I couldn’t remember where I’d left my cell phone. I never remembered to carry the stupid thing. If I had it in my purse, I wouldn’t have remembered to charge it.

  Minutes later, paramedics trooped through the front of the foyer. I left my guard post and sank onto a bench near the double doors, far enough from the action to be out of the way.

  The opening strains of a hymn floated from the sanctuary. “They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love.”

  My stomach gurgled while I watched the efficient comings and goings of the emergency team. Their frozen expressions radiated professionalism—just another day on the job. How did they cope with the constant parade of human misery they encountered on a daily basis? Take this particular man. How did he arrive at such a state anyway? Not the injury. That certainly could have been the result of an accidental fall. Maybe he slipped on a wet spot. What happened before? What catalyst made him give up striving for a productive life? I didn’t understand that part.

  Being liberated from prejudice, I cared about this stranger’s welfare. Didn’t I get Jesse to help him even though the man didn’t belong here?

  Muted sounds of rescue filtered through the closed ladies room door. Who was our stranger? Tilting my head, I blinked at the door. Maybe he’d once been an important person. Betrayal and financial reverses left him broken and hopeless. His family deserted him. In desperation, he turned to the bottle for consolation. I rested my chin on one hand, elbow in my lap, while visions of sad possibilities danced through my thoughts like rotten sugarplums.

  After several minutes, I shook off the wanderings of my wild imagination. What did it matter anyway? Soon the interloper would be gone and I’d never see him again. No need to pursue his sorry situation one step further. Besides, after pursuing two murders in the past five years, I promised Jesse I’d give up what he called snooping. (I called it sleuthing.) I straightened, brushing a speck of lint from my skirt. None of my business.

  “Yes, they will know we are Christians by our love,” sang the congregation as paramedics wheeled the still unconscious man out of the ladies room.

  Be merciful to him, Lord.

  The squeak of gurney wheels echoed off the soaring ceiling and disappeared into reverent silence. Time to get busy. Afraid that my friends might use that restroom before someone got the mess cleaned up, I returned with rags and a broom. The puddle of blood would be disquieting, to say the least. That reminded me of contamination from “blood-born pathogens”—something I learned from my nurse daughter—so I rooted through the supply closet for plastic gloves. Finding a suitable pair at last, I snapped them on and grabbed the bleach to disinfect the area. A person couldn’t be too careful.

  Back in the rest room, I kicked off my heels and tackled the mess. On hands and knees scrubbing away dirt and blood, a sparkle caught my eye. There. Behind the toilet, a small object gleamed like Rudolph’s nose. After slight hesitation, I bent to retrieve it—a lady’s clip earring with a bright scarlet stone nestled in a gold-filigree setting.

  I fished hot pink readers out of my pocket for a better look. Nobody did filigree work anymore. Too expensive. T
he clip looked old-fashioned too. Could be antique. Too red for a garnet, it might be a ruby. I turned it in my hand. That would be one huge ruby—at least four carats. I held it to the light. Very clear.

  With a sigh, I dropped it into my jacket pocket and continued cleaning. I would deliver the earring to the church’s lost-and-found after service. As I cleaned, questions circled my head like an annoying cloud of gnats. How did the earring get there? Did the homeless man bring it? How would a man like that come into possession of such a fine piece of real jewelry?

  Within minutes, all trace of the unfortunate occurrence had been removed. Only my questions remained.

  Christine Sterling Mystery Series

  Available Now!

  Payne & Misery

  Coming Soon!

  Parrish the Thought

  www.ellechorpublishing.com

  Catherine Leggitt welcomes comments,

  ideas, impressions, and questions at:

  www.catherineleggitt.com

  or write to c.leggitt@aol.com