Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense

by Luana Ehrlich

  There was a beat of silence. "That name was in the guest book."

  "Mr. Schwartz is a very nice man."

  "Oh, and I met the manager of the virtual office Mark used. He handed me his business card, in case Gilhouly has need of his services."

  "Sounds like he misses Mark's business more than his presence."

  "Welcome to the real world, kid. It ain't always nice."

  "What are you telling me I don't know? I'm cooling my heels in Arroyo, and Cassidy's there in my place acting the prima donna."

  "Well I'll be, your mother just walked in. Ronnie, you did call her."

  "Mom's there?" This couldn't be good.

  "Wait, I gotta scoot into an empty viewing room. If she sees me, she might blow my cover, such as it is."

  "What is she doing?" I hissed.

  "Wait, wait, I'm trying to see and hear. Okay, she just approached Mark's parents, took his mother's hand, and is paying her respects."

  A lump formed in my throat. "How are they receiving her? If they belittle her…"

  Lately I wondered, how much his parents' disdain for his working-class bride and her spurned and impoverished mother had enabled Mark to break his marriage vows.

  "You'd be proud. Your mom's got class. She just shook Cassidy's hand."

  "If anything, appropriate etiquette is important to my mother." The purpose of good manners might indeed be to get through horrid situations like Mark's funeral. Mom might not be all wrong.

  "Wait," Jack growled. "It was a very subtle move, but that Renault babe just removed her hand from your mother's clasp. She's beginning to pivot away."

  "Don't tell me that little witch is turning her back on my mother!"

  "Hold on. Your mom just did a little fancy footwork and blocked that Texas skirt from an escape."

  "My mother did that. It's not like her at all to cause…"

  "She just flashed a beneficent smile and told blondzilla she remembered her from your college days when the two of you were best friends. Then she turned around and walked out."

  *****

  Abilene

  Day Eleven, Afternoon

  Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

  When my breakfast shift finished, I had to get the lingering bitterness from Jack's phone call out of my craw.

  Earlier in the week I had stopped at Fed Ex and blown up the photo of the flier for the organic cooking class I'd snapped in Trudy's apartment.

  The paper I now held in one hand, while driving with the other, was sweaty and crumpled. Could be aggravation and nerves, or maybe it was the heat of the day? At least the address was still legible.

  The woman's daughter had taken my reservation, and I hoped she'd remembered to tell her mother. The girl had seemed a tad disinterested. Teenagers, what are you going to do with them... the most self-centered beings on the planet.

  I pulled up in front of a neat, and somewhat compact, ranch with the requisite adobe-red tiled roof and a carport housing a late model, white Toyota Prius. A hybrid, natch. Two cars were already parked in the driveway so I parked on the street in front of the house.

  As I walked up the drive, my palms oozed sweat again and I rubbed them on my jeans. Although I loved to eat, I wasn't much of a cook and had never paid attention to the organics craze. I envisioned myself in the company of neuveau-hippy types who had breastfed their young and never let a product containing hazardous chemicals into their homes.

  I knocked on the front door.

  "Hello," I sputtered. At the spa, Dorothy Chandler's industrial hair net made me think of a surgical nurse. Here with her razor cut, wheat blond hair, she brought to mind Renee Zellweger. Today she'd donned an apron proclaiming: Organic Cooks Do It Naturally.

  The woman blanched. "I didn't realize you were my third student. My daughter botched your name on the message she left me. Ronnie Eggers. I thought I'd have a gentleman in class today."

  "Well, I'm certainly glad to be here." I smiled demurely. The benefit of giving Ronnie as my first name over the phone was time tested. That the kid messed up the last name... an added blessing.

  The other two women were in the kitchen reading the menu Dorothy had printed out on her computer. The older student, with salt and pepper hair, was Lacey Glover, and the younger one, who appeared to have a tiny pregnancy bump, Amanda Doyle.

  The print out showed pictures of what the various dishes should look like. A tossed green salad with pale-striped cucumbers and cherry-tomatoes, pan seared chicken breasts with shallots, golden sparkling cider as the beverage, and grilled pineapple slices for dessert.

  "This is the type of olive oil I recommend for salads." Dorothy held up a bottle of green tinted oil which she assured us was extra virgin and not only the most tasty, but with the desired health benefits.

  Amanda rubbed her belly. "I want to start my baby off eating the best."

  A pang ripped through my gut. I'd never have a baby with Mark. Taking his secret life into consideration, this might have turned out to be a good thing. An overwhelming craving hit me for a bacon and cheese Quarter Pounder with all the trimmings, super-sized French fries, a side of onion rings and a McFlurry. I willed myself to look at the array of salad greens on the counter and forced a smile.

  Dorothy gave me the job of rinsing and patting dry the skinless chicken breasts, which were of course, free range and grass fed. Then I had to sprinkle them with salt from the Dead Sea and crack fresh peppercorns over them. Pride swelled within my chest when she noted I'd done that well, neither over nor under seasoning.

  Each member of the class had a task as we prepared the chicken for the skillet. Minced garlic in butter and olive oil sizzled, their aromas mingling and wafting through the kitchen. Of course, Dorothy closely supervised as we all tried our hand at turning the breasts while they sautéed.

  We removed the chicken breasts from the pan, keeping them warm in the oven and stirred chopped shallots into the pan with a healthy splash of white wine. This light sauce would be spooned over the breasts right before they went to the table.

  Dorothy assured Amanda she need not worry about her pregnancy because the alcohol would cook out of the wine.

  I had to grudgingly admit it smelled a whole lot better than McDonald's take out.

  For dessert, pineapple slices were simply placed on a hot indoor electric-grill. A few minutes on each side and they were done. Easy, peasy.

  We students helped Dorothy set the table with heavy and colorful Fiestaware dishes.

  I hadn't realized organic could taste so good. And by the end of the class I felt I'd begun to master a useful skill.

  As Lacey and Amanda said their goodbyes and scooted to their cars, Dorothy asked me to stay for a moment. She put on a pot of coffee and offered me a cup with organic, fat-free half 'n half.

  "Do you think I'm stupid? I know you came here to question me, not to learn how to cook a free-range chicken." Her smile and gentle tone softened the words.

  I decided to be upfront. "Naturally I'm upset by my husband's murder, but believe it or not I'm just as devastated by Trudy's… perhaps even more so. And of course I believe the two are related."

  "I'm sorry for your loss, but judging by the few times I saw him at the spa… you could do better. Maybe a man like Dawson Hughes." She offered the smile of an older sister.

  Hughes, she brought up Hughes. I averted my eyes and fired off another question. "Is there anything you can tell me? I know Mark probably got involved in something he shouldn't have, but my gut says Trudy's murder was totally unconscionable."

  Dorothy got up and topped off her coffee then poured in a bit more half 'n half. She stood in front of the coffee maker, her back to me, and squared her shoulders. "Trudy's murder enrages me, but I won't say anything I don't absolutely know for sure, and I won't make any assumptions."

  "Fair enough." I held my breath and waited for her to continue.

  She cleared her throat. "Late one evening when I was checking a few luncheon details for the next day's Get
Motivated seminar, Mark and Cassidy left in Reece's BMW. The following morning when Mark came in to give his talk, he was very upset."

  I stood, reached out, and touched her wrist. "When was this?"

  She pivoted to face me. "Two days before he died, or rather, was murdered."

  "Do you know where they went?"

  She shook her head and her blond hair swirled at her chin. "Not a clue."

  "Why is everyone so frightened at the spa?"

  She tossed off a bitter laugh, lurched away from me, and the coffee sloshed in her cup but didn't spill. She returned to her seat at the table. "Maybe you face this type of thing as a matter of course, but we don't. One day our professional lives, though not perfect by any means, were calm, safe, and lucrative. Then the next, two individuals we worked with end up murdered."

  "And there's nothing else that frightens you at the spa?"

  She pushed the cup away. "One night when working late, I saw a man that frightened me."

  Her head had dropped into her hands, muffling her voice. I sat next to her so I could hear better. "Go on."

  "A Hispanic man dressed in a pastel polo shirt and designer jeans. There was something dangerous about him…. like a violent kind of magnetism. For a moment I thought he might be the guy who works for Cassidy Renault. Then I thought not."

  In a court of law, a good defense attorney would make her sound like a paranoid and ethnically prejudiced white woman. Still, my heart rate pulsed in my throat. I wanted so much for the murders to be a connected to Cassidy. "Are you sure it wasn't Cassidy's employee?"

  She looked straight at me and shook her head. "It wasn't him."

  Chapter Twenty

  Arroyo

  Day Eleven, Evening

  Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

  I made it back to the Chuck Wagon in time to take Bertha's dinner shift.

  The bell rang. "Bacon wrapped scallops… two orders up." Chet slid the plates onto the service shelf and grinned at me. Scallops, resting in a light sour cream sauce, were laid out next to a generous scoop of wild rice. The dinner shift was firing on all cylinders and Chet was chanting some type of rap song having to do with food and cooking procedures.

  Hoot had agreed to let Chet add the two specials he'd created as his final project at Star Academy Culinary. "All three customers I served the scallops say they're great."

  Chet pushed his Baltimore Orioles baseball cap back and ducked his head. "Salmon in a brown sugar and mustard glaze, working."

  I brought the scallops to the same middle-aged couple who had been in for breakfast. Their smiles when I placed the seafood in front of them communicated anticipated culinary delight.

  "Salmon up." The bell dinged.

  I set the fish in front of Doug, along with a side of buttered peas and a glass of sweet tea."

  "That kid sure brings a little gourmet excitement to the place."

  "I'll tell Hoot you approve. Too bad for us Chet's graduating at the end of the month and will go on to a permanent job."

  "Oh, yeah, where's he goin'?"

  "Some fancy place in Houston."

  "I wish him the best." Doug took a bite of his salmon.

  "I'll tell him you said so." I moved on to make sure my other customers were content and noticed a highly accessorized couple waving me down.

  At the woman's neck hung three matching ropes of colorful beads and her wrist accommodated similar bangles. A scent wafted on the air resembling a certain shampoo and conditioner my mother once used. Then I realized it was the man's cologne and he'd applied it liberally.

  She smiled at me, pushed a stray strand of platinum-blond hair off her face and her bracelets jangled. "Honey, could I have another iced tea and I'd like to see the desert menu."

  Bertha had gotten up earlier than usual and baked extra due to the influx of visitors. "We don't have a desert menu. Everything we serve is made fresh according to the best ingredients available. Today we're offering pie: blueberry, apple, and lemon meringue. Also a pan of homemade rice pudding and we have a desert special… a brownie with walnuts and semi-sweet chocolate chips inside." They went for the brownies.

  As soon as he'd arrived, Chet baked two pans of brownies and they were going nearly at the speed of light.

  A twenty-something couple took the front booth and ordered the pulled pork platter. They finished up with pie.

  It seemed like all the customers were ordering dessert. Well they could afford to with all the dancing they'd be doing. Suddenly, as if on cue, there was a rush for the door as the place emptied out. Only Pete remained.

  He scratched the scar running across his chin and looked at me kinda funny. "Uh, Ronnie, think it was somethin' I said?" Then he grinned.

  Chet stepped out of the kitchen and his gaze searched every booth. "I don't think they like my cooking anymore." His voice was soft, resonant, and slightly southern. He could talk street jive if he wanted to, could even throw in a little lean to the side in his stride, but just a hint of an upper crust accent seemed to slip through.

  I glanced at the wall clock. "It's almost eight. Time for the Morris Dancing exhibition and after that the line dancing till midnight. Guess we can relax for a while."

  Chet removed his baseball cap, wiped his sweaty brow with a sleeve, and returned it to his head with its bill pointing backwards. "I'd give just about anything to be a fly on the wall and see Hoot do-si-do Bertha around that dance floor."

  I grinned at him. "They don't do-si-do in line dancing."

  Pete picked up his check and stood. "Naw, that's square dancin' you're thinkin' of."

  I turned toward Chet. "You should know that, coming from this area."

  Chet tapped his cap. "I'm from Baltimore and proud of it."

  Pete paid his tab and left.

  The busboy cleared tables and Chet slid onto a stool at the counter.

  I picked up the coffee carafe and two cups. "Care for some?"

  Chet tipped the back end of his cap. "Don't mind if I do."

  I filled the cups, then slid one toward him. He took his black. I could take mine any way, but preferred a splash of milk. "So, Chet, what brought you to Texas?"

  "I might ask you the same thing."

  Evasion. I sensed a story. "And I'd tell you, though I suspect you already know. I think most of Arroyo knows my sad tale by now."

  "My dad's a partner in a mid-size accounting firm in Bulletmore. The folks sent me to a top, black prep-school to keep me from getting shot up on the playground." He tossed me a wicked grin proclaiming there was a lot more to this story.

  "Wow, I had no idea."

  He lowered his eyelids. "One of my best friends got killed during recreation period. That was all it took. My folks pulled me out of public school."

  "Schools are dysfunctional in Brooklyn too, but kids don't get shot. I mean it could happen but a beating's much more likely."

  "No lie? Even in the hood?"

  "Seriously, but then some schools have metal detectors at the front door. So, they'd confiscate any weapons coming in."

  He nodded his understanding, then his gaze became intense. "So, listen up and I be tellin' you da real deal… de folks had Hahvad and Yale as de master plan. Dey sent me to dat wack prep school so's I be a credit to dem. Got it?" He laid the street talk on with corresponding wagging and jerking of his head.

  "But you didn't want to go there."

  He shrugged. "The Ivy League schools… not on your life. It wasn't even their myopic reason for wanting to send me. I'd simply holed up in my room one too many times as they went at it tooth and nail. I had to strike out on my own. Get away." He drained his cup.

  "They got physical?"

  "Naw, verbal destruction, rending heart and soul."

  "And you landed in Abilene." I sipped my coffee.

  "Yep, and y'all found me and added a bit of local color to my life… murder, intrigue." He barked out a laugh that stopped abruptly. "So, what's your story? Behind the murder I mean."

  I got
up, walked around the counter, and poured myself more coffee. "How do you know there's more to the story?"

  "Takes one to know one."

  I turned around with the pot in my hand. "More coffee?"

  He nodded and I topped off his cup. "Let's hear it."

  I refilled my cup, though it didn't need much, and added milk. This, I hoped, would be an undetectable effort to slow things down while I calculated how much to tell. "I appreciate my mom's way of dealing a lot more now than I did when I was a kid."

  He ran a finger around the rim of his cup. "How'd you see it as a kid?"

  "I thought she was weak and I vowed never to be like her. And I blamed her for stuff I should've held my dad accountable for." My wrist jerked, I spilled my coffee on the counter, then grabbed a rag and mopped it up. "Ah, yes, the F-word."

  "Excuse me?" Chet swiveled on his stool to face me.

  "Oh, sorry… the F-word. Father." I'd lowered my voice.

  He grabbed the crown of his cap, scrunching it, and replaced it on his head. "Got it."

  "Well, he left, so it was kinda hard to take things out on him."

  "Another woman?"

  "Yeah one… and one is two… and one more is three... and one… who knows. He married one of the ones I knew about. Moved on and created a whole new family. Never looked back." I let out a laugh that was nearly a screech. "I changed my outside. Made myself appear nothing like my mother, but I married a man just like my dad."

  *****

  Arroyo

  Day Eleven, Evening

  Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

  The squat clapboard structure seemed to throb. I imagined it swaying from side to side in time to the music the way buildings sometimes do in cartoons. Couldn't help but push my Stetson back and laugh.

  Inside, a good size crowd, mostly couples, formed a circle around the dance floor as the exhibition Morris Dancers pranced and twirled. The men in white shirts and knickers, sporting green vests and hose clinked two-foot long dowels together, one held in each hand. The women wore white long-sleeved blouses and pantaloons with green vests and hose and waved white kerchiefs. Atop the heads of both the men and women were brimmed felt hats adorned with a variety of colorful silk flowers. They made a jolly appearance.