Anne began spewing invectives again as the authorities politely, but firmly escorted her and Bill handcuffed out of the cellar.
Martha hugged me hard. “After Tony’s phone went straight to voicemail, we figured you were together and needed our help. I guess that extra tape paid off after all.”
I grinned. “I used it in case I caught up to our benefactor to catch his story and record it. When I woke up here, I was hoping the battery wouldn’t die. That’s why I bugged Tony for a timeline on how long we might’ve been knocked out. I was hoping my battery and tracker would last until you found us.”
“Was being tied to Tony entertaining?” she asked slyly.
I smiled. “Oh, we had our give and take and back and forth.”
“I think it was more give on Sam’s end and take on my end,” quipped Tony. “She’s one tough, but hot, broad.”
There was no way in hell my trio was hearing that tape.
Chapter 58
Closing The Case
Apparently, Phil was cooperating with the investigator, the younger Marilyn, and that’s why he called to give me her last name so I’d make the phony connection. Phil promised he wouldn’t interfere, but with one stipulation: he could help me in some way if he felt I was in danger.
Having his rehab center caught up in an investigation wore on his nerves and that was why he broke up the two Marilyn’s verbal scuffle. His was concerned with how the investigation would play out. Phil and I had formed a genuine friendship and he didn’t want that put in jeopardy along with his rehab center’s reputation.
His rehab center was never the core of the investigation.
Thankfully, none of us were the worse for wear now that it was finally over. Another few weeks of rehab for me and I’d be on my own. I heard a day later, Earl’s had a kitchen fire of unknown origins the night Tony and I were abducted out back. Luckily Martha had retrieved my cape, phone and purse just before it happened. Was it set too late by Bill and Anne as a cover for our abduction in the parking lot, or was it purely coincidence? I guess I’d never find out the answer to that one, having no interest in talking to them again.
Phil’s final parting words to me were, “I hope you’ll stop by now and then to let me know how you are doing. I’m thinking of dedicating a rehab table with a plaque in your honor. After all, you suffered through two mysteries here.”
“Phil, I’m just hoping I can go back to the boring and mundane from this point forward and nothing more.”
Tony was with me when I told Phil that. Both of them looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“What am I missing here?” I asked.
“Me,” said a voice from behind us.
I pivoted, grinned, and flew into Clay’s arms, relief flooding me. “I’ve solved another mystery!”
“I heard it was close at the end,” he said, eyeing Tony.
My eyes flitted between Tony and Clay. I even managed a smile when I finally said, “It was very close.”
Tony smiled. “You can say that again.”
“That close, huh?” Clay asked, arching his brow.
I sighed. “It was...”
Too close for comfort.
This ends Too Close For Comfort
For a preview of my most recent book in the Samantha Jamison Mystery Series, Book 10, Saving Sindia, please continue reading right after this:
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Other Books by Peggy A. Edelheit
The Samantha Jamison Mystery Series
The Puzzle Book 1
Without Any Warning Book 2
86 Avenue du Goulet Book 3
A Lethal Time Book 4
Mouth of the Rat Book 5
Death Knell in the Alps Book 6
No Hope In New Hope Book 7
The Lush Life Book 8
Saving Sindia Book 10
Memoir: The Riviera is Burning
Visit my website: http://samanthajamison.com
Please read on for the preview excerpt of my most recent book in the Samantha Jamison Mystery Series, Book 10, Saving Sindia
Saving Sindia
A Samantha Jamison Mystery
Book 10
by
Peggy A. Edelheit
Copyright © 2016 by Peggy A. Edelheit
Chapter 1
Foreshadowing 101—Trapped
The constant, thrashing surf and cool sea breezes roused me from a deep sleep. Instead of my room reflected in the hues of the amber light filtering from the boardwalk, all I saw in front of me was black.
What was I doing wearing an eye mask?
But it couldn’t be that. I never used one. That didn’t stop me from reaching up to take it off though. Then something rock-solid abruptly trapped my arms and body from further movement, holding me in place, which didn’t make sense.
I tried to sit, but the effort was impossible. Something unyielding had me pinned in an extremely dangerous and vulnerable, horizontal position and wasn’t letting up.
Disturbing, sinister implications hit me hard.
What would happen next?
I was immobilized, restrained, helpless.
...And all alone in the house.
Don’t panic, Samantha.
Alarmed, my breath quickened and I began sweating.
Before my second round of physical rehab, the doctor had requested an MRI for my lower back. Five weeks in a wheelchair, after one of my mysteries, had done its damage. But this felt different. Instead of an MRI closing in on me, causing claustrophobia, something was pinning me down, bordering on suffocation.
Don’t freak out. Think. Could this be a nightmare?
If it was a nightmare, why couldn’t I wake up and shake it off? The much dreaded alternative, that it wasn’t, was unimaginable, as cold reality sank in fast.
This wasn’t a nightmare...
My pulse rate was off the charts as my heart thumped wildly in my chest, while I desperately fought for air from the oppressive weight pressing down on me. I had to stop whatever this was. Now, before it was too late, nightmare or no nightmare.
My hands formed into fists as I struggled to free myself, twisting against whatever was crushing me. Despite the constant flow of chilly sea air, I was sweating and gasping for air. I couldn’t breathe. About to give up, both mentally and physically, I shoved hard, broke free, and shot upright, breathless, panting, and somewhat dazed.
I glanced at the clock on my night table. 3AM. Cool sea breezes prickled my skin. I turned to my balcony door. It was still open, the curtains fluttering and the boardwalk lights were filtering into the room like they should.
It was nothing but a horribly, too realistic, nightmare.
I raked my fingers through my hair, blew out a sigh of relief, smiled, then flopped back to my pillow heavily and closed my eyes, resting easy.
But then my eyes shot wide open as my breath caught.
...Wait.
Hadn’t I locked that sliding glass door earlier?
I shakily fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, but a hand abruptly clamped hard over mine, and then another covered my mouth, while a knee restrained my other arm. I now caught sight of the frightening, dark-clad, hooded figure roughly pinning me. I struggled to extricate myself, but couldn’t get free. I couldn’t scream because of the hand painfully crushing my mouth. I was helpless.
This was a real live nightmare.
My retreat to the beach wasn’t turning out as I had planned.
*****
Who was this?
Chapter 2
Taking You Back: The Recap
My Journal
I thought keeping a new journal while I was alone at the beach was exactly what I needed: some self-perspective to find out more about me. After digging up my old one from ten years ago and reading it to help solve my last mystery, Too Close For Comfort, I realized how perception was everything. ‘What we think we see isn’t necessarily what we actually see.’ So this was supposed to be a week of my stepping back, observing, and reflecting. A mental break to touch base with me, myself, and I. What did I see in me?
But then good intentions can turn on a dime, can’t they?
“So, repeat why you are back here again,” Martha said from the other end of the chaise lounge as we carried it out onto the second level deck of the three-story beach house.
I had signed a four-week rental and didn’t want to waste any time to feel the fresh sea air on my face and get some sun. The patio had just finished being pressure-cleaned for our arrival. The patio furniture movers? A no-show. I should have called the realtor, but by the time they would’ve arranged for someone else, we figured we could move it faster. It was lightweight wicker furniture. Hazel and Betty were out on the boardwalk, buying pizza for our lunch to eat on the top level deck, a reward for our labor.
“What do you mean, ‘repeat’?” I asked, then became momentarily distracted by an elderly gentleman wheeling what looked like his diminutive and incapacitated wife in a jogging carriage that was big enough for a small adult. He was singing a tune from the 1940’s. Martha had pointed his songs and the pair out to me earlier, when they were going in the opposite direction. I found his devotion and positive attitude intriguing, yet sad, as they both passed us by.
I bet their backstory was...
It seemed I saw a potential story everywhere I looked.
I tore my eyes from the couple and refocused on Martha, who was still hung up on my motives for staying alone.
“Why should I repeat my reasoning?” I asked, slightly defensive, but I knew the rationale for Martha’s line of questioning and her good intentions behind it: concern for my safety.
“Because it doesn’t make sense why you would return after what happened your last time here at the beach when those unsavory characters latched onto you like glue.”
Obviously, Martha meant mob-connected slugs and the FBI: individuals we’d dealt with in Without Any Warning, the second mystery in my series.
Martha always worried about me, which was touching.
“Not to mention your old college friend, Mona, and the trouble she brought,” she said, shaking her head.
“I’ll be fine, Martha. I need time alone, that’s all.”
After setting the chaise lounge down facing the ocean, I visually scanned the boardwalk, bikes, joggers, and beach-goers. Another season was underway in Ocean City, New Jersey, and there was no time to waste trying to rationalize my decision to come here again. I only knew I needed some downtime, an emotional recharge, so to speak.
One Romeo, Tony, and my honey, Clay, were on hold.
Those two and the rest of our sleuthing team, which included, Martha, Hazel, and Betty would just have to do without me for the next several days, then they’d join me.
No roses, no lethal ramifications, no rehab, no nothing.
My last mystery was finished and had been sent off to the publisher.
I needed this break.
I breathed in the briny air, knowing this time around it would be much easier to be here. I wasn’t running from myself, as I had been after I’d solved my husband’s death, met my team, and wrote my first mystery, The Puzzle. This time around, I was running to myself, by recalling what shaped me as a youth into what I am today. This was strictly for my benefit only.
I rented the same beach house using an alias.
With a low profile, no one out there would be the wiser.
By the time we had the long table and high-top table, their chairs, cushions and umbrellas out on the kitchen-level deck set up, Hazel and Betty had returned with pizza and four large iced teas.
We sat at the round high-top table so we could see over a small wall to view the boardwalk below as people passed by. But on the other hand, that half stucco wall surrounding my deck made it very hard for passersby to see me completely sitting at the lower table and chairs. It gave me an advantage over the house next door. It had wrought iron railings, so you saw everything and everyone on that deck from the boardwalk below at any time of the day or night.
Many beach houses at the shore have three levels. The ground level usually contains a bath, cabana with outdoor patio, and garages. The second level of the house has all the bedrooms and their baths that service them with a laundry area. Then the very top level has the main living, dining, and kitchen area, along with an outdoor deck. This reverse living is done to maximize the views for the main living areas, which you spend most of your time in. Elevators help for carrying groceries.
In my rental, the upper deck overlooked the beach and ocean. The other beach-side deck was on the second level and directly off the master bedroom suite, which also faced the beach and ocean.
A favorite pastime of my seventyish senior trio was critiquing the assortment of beachwear people sported.
Martha always said style speaks volumes. Hers did.
I eyed Hazel and Betty, my two librarianish friends, as they quickly settled at the table with us. Betty was thin, and tall, her steely hair pulled back in a tight bun. Hazel? Shorter, somewhat plump with short, curly gray hair.
Martha was thin like me, about my height, her spikey white short hair pointing in all directions, very similar to her quirky personality and fashion-challenged color sense.
They were valued friends. Crazy ones, but friends.
Betty and Hazel initially fooled everyone, including yours truly, by their ever-so-proper behavior at first blush, which counterbalanced perfectly the impulsive and in-your-face Martha, who defied age through her attitude, bravado, and acerbic wit with, I might add, much aplomb.
Bottom line: the trio was adept at sleuthing and I trusted them implicitly. I thought we made a great team and, according to our healthy bank account, so did everyone else who had hired us so far.
My name is Samantha Jamison. I’m a novelist who has become semi-famous for stirring up trouble by falling into unusual mysteries. I’ve learned to go with the flow, and accept my mysteries for what they are: life lessons in solving the insolvable and of course, once we solved them, I was always thankful for their popularity with my readers.
Hey, like Martha says, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Chapter 3
Things Change, But Not Really
“Did you get this pizza at Mack and Manco’s like I instructed?” Martha asked, salivating over the savory pizza after opening the box.
“As a matter of fact, we didn’t,” said Betty, smirking.
About to bite her first slice, Martha paused and turned, eyeing Betty suspiciously. “And why not, may I ask?”
“Because it’s not called Mack and Manco any longer. It’s been changed to Manco and Manco,” said Betty.
Hazel clarified further. “After being together since 1955 in Trenton, and then expanding here to Ocean City and other locations, the two families parted ways.”
“The employees wouldn’t comment,” said Betty. “So I Googled it. According to Ralph Grassi of the Wildwood Crest newspaper, a local historian, and longtime friend of the Mack family, it was said to be an ‘official separation of both parties.’”
“But the locals we spoke to in the line waiting for pizza still referred to it as Mack and Manco,” Hazel added.
“Everything changes, I guess,” I said, wistfully.
&nbs
p; After her first bite, Martha said, “Still good.” Then she eyed me pointedly. “You can’t go back, remember that.”
Used to her always throwing tidbits of advice at me, I merely nodded to her, reading between the lines.
Don’t go looking for what used to be, accept the now.
I smiled in her direction, acknowledging that I got it.
My cell phone rang. I wiped my hands, fished it out of my pocket and answered, “Hello?”
“You’re the lucky winner chosen...” said a shaky voice.
“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number,” I said, then hung up the phone, staring at it.
Blocked. No identifying number flashed on the screen.
I shook my head. “What a pain. I’m on the no-call list.”
Martha laughed. “That’s just a 1-800 feel-good scam.”
“You’re probably right,” I replied. “I don’t know why I bothered enrolling in it. I still get annoying phone calls.”
“It’s the robo-calls that drive me crazy,” said Betty. She then eyed Hazel.
Hazel tinged a bright shade of pink. “I should recognize those calls for what they are, intrusive, but I always try to talk back, then realize I’m talking to a computer recording that sounds exactly like someone is actually calling me up live.”
“They can sometimes sound sneakily human,” I assured her.
Martha asked me, “What did yours say?”
I fanned myself, feigning excitement. “Mine? Why, I was chosen as the lucky winner...”
Too Close For Comfort (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 9) Page 14