by Carly Winter
Dearly Departed
A 1960s Cozy Mystery
Carly Winter
Edited by
Divas at Work Editing
Cover Design
Mariah Sinclair: TheCoverVault.com
Westward Publishing / Carly Fall, LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Carly Winter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover Designer:
Mariah Sinclair | TheCoverVault.com
This book is for my mother. As a young woman in the 1960s, she longed to become a stew to see the world. Her family forbade it.
So, here you go mom.
Love you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Also by Carly Winter
About the Author
About this book
The year is 1965 and Patty Byrne is flying high as stewardess… until her life crashes when she finds her neighbor murdered.
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While cooperating with the police, she meets FBI agent Bill Hart, who shows an interest in both her and the victim's activities. When he asks Patty to introduce him to a couple of the suspects she knows, she immediately agrees, harboring groovy visions of leaving her stewardess job behind and becoming the first female FBI agent.
But as they dive deeper into the case, it only becomes more confusing. When Patty's life is threatened, she realizes murder investigations aren’t for the faint of heart. Can she untangle the web of clues to find the killer, or will she be the next victim?
Chapter 1
Pushing my way through an anti-war protest in the streets of San Francisco carrying a suitcase was not my idea of a good time. All around me people yelled, One, two, three four! We don't want your stupid war! as they marched down the street, their fists in the air. However, there were hundreds of them, and somewhere in the crowd up ahead there seemed to be a traffic jam. I was caught in a sea of angry demonstrators.
“Excuse me,” I said as I became jostled between two men. “Just trying to get through, please.”
They ignored me. For people who said they only wanted world peace, they sure were low on manners. Forced to become more aggressive, I gave one of them an elbow to the ribs, and he finally stepped aside and allowed me to pass.
My cab had dropped me off a block away from my building due to the protests jamming the streets. I had the option to either attempt to move through them to get to my apartment or wait them out. Considering I'd just gotten off work, I really needed to get home to replenish my supplies and do a load of laundry before returning to the airport first thing in the morning for another flight. A bubble bath and a glass of wine wouldn't be a bad idea, either.
“Excuse me,” I yelled again, trying to maneuver my way through. “I need to get home!”
The woman glanced over at me, then nudged her companion. They had a few brief words, and the hulking man standing over six feet muscled his way over to me. His long brown hair hung down the sides of his face, John Lennon style.
“You a stewardess?” he asked as he studied my uniform, a navy-blue pencil skirt, matching blazer, white blouse and a red and blue scarf.
“Yes. I have to get home! It's just down the block a bit!” Someone knocked into me from behind and I teetered on my heels and almost kissed the pavement until the John Lennon wannabe grabbed my elbow and set me upright.
He took my suitcase and kept his grip on my arm, then pushed through the crowd with me in tow. When we broke through the swarm of people and he deposited me on the sidewalk, I sighed in relief. “Thank you so much,” I said, taking my suitcase from him. “I really appreciate your help.”
“Sure. Things can get pretty riled up during the demonstrations.”
I nodded and tucked a lock of black hair behind my ear just as someone shoved me from behind once again. “They certainly can,” I muttered as I caught my balance.
“Are you for the war?” he asked and I answered with a grin. I had a strict policy in place not to discuss politics or religion with anyone, especially strangers.
Just as I was about to thank him again and give him a non-answer, a group of people came around the block, marching right toward the anti-war demonstrators.
Right on!
Take Saigon!
Victory to the Vietcong!
Uh-oh. A clash of pro and anti-war protestors that would most likely dissolve into violence. It had been happening all over the country.
“I better get inside,” I said as the huge man turned to his enemy, raised his hand in the air and began yelling.
I hustled into my apartment building and almost choked on the smoke in the lobby. A metal garbage can had been set ablaze and our super stood over it with a fire extinguisher.
“Mr. Killian!” I shouted as I covered my nose and mouth with my hand and started to cough. “What in the world happened?”
“The anti-war protestors came in here and lit it on fire,” he said, spraying the can once again.
“Oh, my goodness!”
“Dang kids don't know what the heck they're talking about with all their chants and destruction,” he growled with his cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. After setting down the fire extinguisher, he strode over to the door and glanced out, muttering under his breath. “You better get yourself upstairs, little lady,” he said, turning to me. “Things are getting a bit wild outside and may spill indoors again. Get yourself to safety.”
I nodded and headed for the stairs, not bothering to take the elevator. The crackling of fear up my spine drove me to hustle as fast as my tired feet could carry me. If Mr. Killian thought I could be in danger, I wanted to remove myself from the area as quickly as possible.
On the third floor, I fished my keys from my purse as I kicked off my shoes and picked them up. Once inside my apartment, I locked the door and sighed in relief, until I noted the mess.
The smell of cigarettes still hung in the air, beer bottles littered the coffee table, and dirty plates sat in the sink. Nylons and bras had been laid over the lampshades and the back of chairs to dry. I shared the one-bedroom apartment with another stew named Donna. I loved her like a sister, but she definitely had a problem with her drinking and partying. Thankfully, our schedules rarely overlapped, but I oftentimes came home to evidence of her chaotic life.
After dropping my suitcase, I went to the window and opened it, hoping for some fresh breeze to air out the place. Unfortunately, I also had a birds-eye view of the demonstrations. The two groups yelled and screamed at each other, and after a moment, the fists flew and the blood flowed from a few noses. Sirens howled in the distance, and I suspected Mr. Killian to have called them. I cringed at the hand-to-hand fighting and quickly shut the window once again. It only drowned out a bit of the noise, so I walked over to the record player and dropped The Beatles on the turntable, set the arm to the beginning of the album and turned it up.
As I surveyed the apartment, I decided the first thi
ng I needed to do was get out of the uniform and girdle. I dug through my drawers and located my gray sweats and red sweatshirt then disrobed, tossing the girdle on the bed. I hated the wretched thing. Since I really watched my weight, I shouldn't have to wear one, but the airline mandated it on all stews. We represented them, and flat tummies and slim hips were an absolute must in order to keep working.
On the bathroom mirror, I found a scrawled note from Donna.
Ringo is next door with Charles. Sorry about the mess. I overslept. Hope to see you soon. Love, D.
Ringo was our cat. Before retrieving him from our neighbor, I decided to clean up a bit first so I could give all my attention to the tabby. Besides, he also liked to knock over bottles and chew on cigarette butts. Having him partake in making the mess worse would only anger me.
As The Beatles crooned, I sang along as I dumped the empties into a garbage bag and dusted the tables. I soaked the dishes as I unpacked, then laid my own bras and nylons into a tub of soapy water. After picking up all of Donna's undergarments, I folded them and set them in her drawer. Every now and then I'd glance at the surreal site outside. The police had finally arrived but seemed to be having trouble breaking up the melee. Personally, I hated the very idea of war, yet, I understood sometimes it was necessary. I didn't know if the Vietnam conflict would fall under that category, but I certainly didn't like the way the veterans who came home were treated by the anti-war protestors. Yes, one had rescued me from a pickle today, but spitting on someone who has served his country did not sit well with me.
I quickly scrubbed the dishes and set them to dry next to the sink. After rinsing my clothing, I hung them up around the apartment, just as Donna had done. I couldn't wait to change the sheets on the bed and get some sleep.
With the apartment in order, I took out the trash to the shoot, then headed back inside and looked out the window. The protest had been broken up. A few demonstrators sat on the sidewalk in cuffs, their faces bloody, while the police chased the other stragglers away. I opened the window once again to air out the apartment and hoped the violence had remained on the street and hadn't oozed into our building.
It was time to fetch Ringo.
I hurried next door to Charles' apartment, who happened to be a war vet himself and suffered from some mental issues, but I'd never asked him for the official diagnosis. It simply wasn't my place. What I did know was that spending time with Ringo helped calm him, and he loved taking care of our cat when we were out of town. I wondered what he thought of the demonstrations? Did I want to ask, or would that only upset him?
After knocking gently so as not to distress him—loud noises often did—I waited patiently for him to answer. Chances were high he was home as he didn't go out much. Oftentimes he asked Donna and me to pick up a prescription or groceries for him, and he had other friends who dropped by on a frequent basis, but I’d never formally met any of them. Honestly, I found that quite strange. Yet, I’d never questioned Charles about it. Live and let live was my motto. If Charles didn’t want his friends acquainted with me, that was fine. He was kind to us and loved Ringo like his own. We helped each other and I had no reason to stick my nose in his business.
“Charles?” I yelled, then knocked again.
I pressed my ear against the door and thought I heard voices. Perhaps the television? Then Ringo's distinct meow came through. The cat sounded like he was right on the other side of the door.
“Hi, Ringo!” I called, hoping Charles would hear me. “You okay, buddy?” The cat meowed again, and I once again rapped my knuckles on the wood. “Charles?”
Maybe he'd gone to sleep? He’d often complained that he was up at all hours of the night due to his mental issues from the war. When he did sleep, he'd told me it was like he was dead.
I knocked one final time. “Charles?”
My only response came from Ringo and I figured Charles couldn’t hear me over the television.
With a sigh, I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I stepped inside and called for him once again as I scooped up Ringo. “Charles, it's Patty! I just came for Ringo!”
A John Wayne movie blared from the television perched on a small table in the living room, but no one sat on the sofa to watch it. A desk sat in the corner piled high with newspapers and books. The smell of something burning also caught my attention, and I hurried into the kitchen to find a pot on the stove, the ingredients caked to the bottom. At one time, it may have been chicken soup. After removing the pot, I turned off the burner. At least it hadn’t caught fire.
An IBM Selectric typewriter sat on the kitchen table with a stack of papers next to it. I picked one up and after glancing over a few paragraphs, I realized Charles had been writing a memoir of sorts, but he couldn’t spell worth a darn.
“Where's Charles?” I asked Ringo as I stroked his head, worry now sitting heavily in my chest. The man may have had mental issues, but he'd never have forgotten food on the stove.
Gunshots went off in the living room, causing me to gasp and just about jump out of my skin. “It's that stupid television,” I muttered, shaking my head. Hurrying over, I turned off the T.V. and an eerie silence fell over the apartment. A couple of sirens wailed in the distance, and I heard the neighbors walking down the hallway.
Yet, something was wrong. I could feel it in the chill that traveled up my spine and the goosebumps that crawled over my arms.
Holding Ringo close to my chest, I slowly walked toward the bedroom. The door lay half-way open, and I stared at it a moment. “Charles?” I called.
As I pushed open the panel, my heart thundered and my knees weakened. A scream escaped me when I found Charles lying on the floor, a knife protruding from his stomach, his blank gaze staring at the ceiling.
Chapter 2
Rightfully so, my plans for a quiet evening flew out the window when I found Charles dead.
I immediately hurried back to my apartment and called the police, and because so many were downstairs breaking up the protestors, they arrived within a minute or two.
With shaky hands, I lit a cigarette while the cop sat down on the opposite side of the couch from me. I didn't usually smoke but finding a man dead with a knife in his stomach seemed to be a good reason to fire one up.
“My name's Officer O'Malley,” the policeman said curtly. With his thinning hair and the fine lines around his cold blue eyes, I pegged him to be in his forties. A huge beast of a man standing well over six feet and weighing in over two hundred pounds. He took out a pad of paper and I imagined he'd seen a lot of horrible things in his career to be so brusque. “I'll be sitting with you until the lead detective arrives. What's your full name, miss?”
“Patricia Byrne,” I said, stroking Ringo's back as he sat on my lap. He must have realized I needed him for moral support.
I had always been terrible with names. Someone could introduce themselves to me and I couldn’t recall their name fifteen seconds later, especially when I was nervous. I’d started to give people little nicknames to help me out—usually something that described their personality, a physical trait, or while flying, what they were drinking. Sometimes it took me weeks to remember a moniker, but my little trick seemed to help.
Ogre O’Malley.
“And how did you know the deceased?” he asked.
“Well, he was our neighbor,” I said. “He watched our cat for us when we were out of town.”
“We?”
“Yes. My roommate Donna and me.”
“What do you do that takes you out of town?” he asked, jotting down some notes.
“We're stewardesses for Cross Country Airlines.”
He glanced up at me, then shook his head and I had an idea of what he was thinking. Stews had a reputation as easy party girls, and for some, like Donna, that was true. Even the airline's advertising played up this rumor. However, I had become a stew simply because I wanted to travel, see new places and experience new things. I wasn't quite ready for marriage, and college wasn't an opti
on for me.
“And can you tell me how you managed to find Mr...”
“Mr. Bernard,” I replied, blowing a cloud of smoke above me. “Charles Bernard.”
“Why were you in his apartment?”
“Like I said, he babysat our cat for us. I'd just gotten home, and I went to retrieve Ringo. I noted his door was open, so I walked in, thinking he might not have heard me with the television on.”
“His door was open? As in ajar?”
I shook my head. “No. Unlocked.”
He furrowed his brow as he continued to take notes. “Did you often barge into his apartment like that?”
As I stubbed out my cigarette in irritation, I wished I had poured a glass of wine. “I didn't barge in on him. I knocked many times and thought he couldn't hear me. When I realized the door was unlocked I went in and found him.”
The cop seemed to be making something nefarious out of my innocent actions, and it grated on me. However, I'd been taught to respect authority, so I'd hold my tongue. Instead, I smiled sweetly, hoping to hide my annoyance.
“Okay. What can you tell me about him?”
What did I know about my neighbor? Actually, quite a bit, and I didn't like speaking of him. It felt like gossip to me and it was rude to gossip about the dead.
“Anything you can tell me may help solve the case,” Officer O'Malley said gently.
A knock sounded at the open door, and I looked over his shoulder to find another man dressed in a brown trench coat and matching fedora, looking like he’d just walked off the set of Dragnet. “May I come in?” he asked as he held up a badge.