Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1)

by Nancy G. West

  I flopped on the edge of my bed. Maybe I should stop dwelling on myself. Aunt Novena would have reminded me that focusing on my shortcomings led nowhere.

  Curiosity usually got me into trouble, but maybe I could put my inquiring mind to good use. Wasn’t seeking truth a higher calling than helping people stay young? Wasn’t seeking truth the same as sleuthing? With a little snooping, maybe I could find out who wanted Holly dead.

  My feet itched. With my determination rising like floodwater, I clomped to the bathroom and scoured my teeth. I would find out who’d wanted to kill Holly Holmgreen. If I had to socialize with perfect women and egotistical men and punish my body on metal machines to smoke out the person who wanted to kill that girl, my agony would be worth it.

  I marched to the living room and paced around the sofas. Holly had suffered more than enough. If I could unmask her attacker and uncover his motive, I could find redemption for the sad girl who made questionable choices but harbored no malice. Exposing Holly’s enemy would be therapy for me. My monument to my daughter. The quest might even revive my faith.

  I felt ready to help the depressed mom who’d written me.

  Dearest Pflugerville Mom,

  Tell your favorite doctor you’re depressed. They have great medicines for postpartum depression that increase the efficiency of the chemical messenger, serotonin, in your brain. These meds lift your mood. You’ll feel hopeful enough to begin exercising. A side effect of exercise is WEIGHT LOSS. You go girl!

  Been there,

  Aggie

  Writing Pflugerville Mom made me feel better. Before I could concentrate on sniffing out Holly’s killer I had to get my mind off my grief. I was too distraught to attend class, but I simply couldn’t fail Aspects of Aging. Grad school was my chance to start over. I had to study.

  I plopped on the sofa, yanked the binder from the coffee table and flipped to Theories of Aging regarding Mr. Izumi’s 120-year lifespan. If he hadn’t succumbed to illness, could he have lived longer? Or had he approached some built-in, biological limit?

  Scientists split into two camps: Programmed Theorists believed Izumi had a biological limit. His cells either stopped dividing and died, or his immune system or hormones declined, leaving him susceptible to disease and death.

  I was already worried about my hormones. I cuddled the sofa’s throw pillows. Maybe the other group of scientists had a cheerier outlook. I straightened up and leafed through pages.

  Error Theorists thought people aged from wear and tear on vital parts of their cells and tissues. Quitting my bank job had undoubtedly helped me avoid wear and tear.

  These scientists also said that the faster an organism used oxygen, the shorter its life span. So I stood, inhaled and walked around breathing slowly to regulate my oxygen consumption. I grew bored and floated back to the couch.

  Error Theorists worried about cross-linked proteins and genetic mutations. Poor Mr. Izumi: his cells were subject to a variety of glitches. None of the scientists understood how he reached 120 years, but once he did, they agreed something was bound to get him.

  Maybe he’d planned to live 119 years and take a year to repent.

  Sinking back into the sofa, I flipped listlessly through the notebook, searching for keys to delay aging, and stopped at antioxidants. Some researchers thought vitamins C, E and beta-carotene fought oxidative damage, which hardened people’s arteries and led to heart disease. But other studies showed that when antioxidant vitamins invaded cells, cells stopped producing their own antioxidants, leaving free radical levels unchanged. Cells were stubborn. I might as well forget about taking antioxidants and stick to eating decent food.

  Ten

  Focusing on my studies had helped ease the shock of Holly’s being hit by a car, but I suddenly realized I was famished. Grace and I had discussed going to Las Tapitas. Living in San Antonio taught me nothing was more therapeutic than Mexican food and Margaritas. I called her to confirm and stood on her porch within the hour.

  “Come on in while I put Boffo in the backyard. The yardman filled his escape hole.” I peeked in and watched the pooch follow her out the kitchen door. Maybe the mutt would bark the whole time we were gone and be too pooped to attack me when we returned. If I got lucky, he’d abscond permanently. Grace came back, apparently read my expression and put her hands on her hips.

  “Terriers and dachshunds were bred to hunt vermin in their native lands—to chase fox, otter, weasel, badger and rats out of earth dens. Your feet remind him of vermin, so he’s inclined to attack them. He can’t help it.”

  “I think I heard him in my yard last night.”

  “Really? Let’s check your side of the fence.” We traipsed outside her fence line to see where he’d escaped, while he howled from inside her yard. About six feet over in my yard we found a round hole where Muttface had probably surfaced.

  “He actually dug all the way through that tunnel into my yard?”

  “Looks like it. There must be a varmint in the tunnel, probably a rat. People who own this breed actually hold Earthdog competitions where dogs chase rats through tunnels and rout them out.”

  Boffo was a pest, but his digging prowess was amazing. With Earthdog training, this mutt might be a leading competitor.

  “His opening is blocked. I doubt he can get back in the tunnel. Next time Ernesto comes, I’ll ask him to fill the hole in your yard.”

  “No hurry.” This dog possessed incredible talent. How many dogs burrowed through tunnels? Grace could rent him out to prisoners trying to escape. I wished I could train him to root out the weasel who hit Holly.

  Once we’d finished dealing with Boffo, I noticed Grace’s red two-inch heels and ankle-length skirt. It had vertical stripes of red, orange, purple and fuchsia and reminded me of a porch umbrella, but I liked the bright colors. To ward off our 45-degree Texas winter, she wore a red turtleneck and purple woolen shawl, a Mexican serape. I wore my navy blue turtleneck with matching pants, a red boiled-wool jacket and navy boots with one-inch heels in case Chicago’s winter blasted south.

  Grace had smoothed her hair. White streaks threaded back to her bun like marshmallow tendrils. Her skin looked moist. She wore blush, shiny lipstick and plenty of black mascara. She was ready to party.

  We took Hildebrand across Highway 281 to McCullough, turned south and drove past abandoned buildings toward town. Businesses still operating had bars on the windows. When we reached Main Street, Las Tapitas greeted us like a beacon, defying the odds against neighborhood decay. Grace said a new restaurant owner had bought the establishment a while back, restored it and added a lighted patio on the back.

  I let her out and parked in the lot across the street. When I entered the restaurant, she was perched at a table by a window overlooking the patio, sipping one of the Margaritas she’d ordered.

  Outside the window, two levels of patio decking surrounded the trunk of a huge oak. Fans on down rods hung from the tree’s mighty branches. Grace said customers enjoyed the patio all summer, even when temperatures skyrocketed to over a hundred degrees. Now the fans were off, and the owner had placed vertical heaters around the patio.

  Having embarked on a healthy eating regimen, I ordered chicken fajitas and a guacamole salad. Grace ordered three Tex-Mex cheese enchiladas with sour cream and chili and asked the waitress to leave the menu so she could study the desserts. I doubted I could interest her in whatever I learned about diet and nutrition. I couldn’t tell my Dear Aggie readers how to order healthy Mexican food, either. The revelation might give them a clue to my location.

  I wanted Grace to talk and distract me from thinking about Holly. “How’s your tile work going?”

  “Good. I’m at the imagination stage. I spread tile pieces on the back porch coffee table, rearrange them, play the piano for thirty minutes and go back to reposition the tiles. Once they fall into a pattern that appeals to me, I start gluing and grouting. I love the permanence of tiles.”

  Permanence would hold strong appeal for a woman
who’d lost three husbands. I thought about Charlie Livermore dying so young. After I downed half my Margarita, my curiosity about Grace’s other husbands bubbled up.

  “After Charlie died, how did you manage with your girls?”

  “I went back into advertising. Charlie believed in life insurance, which helped. When I turned forty-one, I met George Ball. He was forty-five and had two boys, Patrick and Michael. When George and I married, we created a conglomerate.” She retrieved a photograph from her purse and handed it to me. “Here’s a picture of the six of us.” She stood smiling at George Ball and his teenage boys, flanked by her dark haired girls, Linda and Kim. Our food arrived and she dived into her enchiladas.

  “The children all got along?” I spread guacamole on my fajitas. Her food looked better.

  “Oh, sure. Linda was nineteen and had switched from theatrics to science. She completed her basics at San Antonio Community College and was reading scientific books to get into UT Austin’s Pharmacy School. She helped Kim with chemistry. By seventeen, Kim had morphed into our resident Martha Stewart. She loved fashion design and managed to get Linda interested in fabrics. They both fussed over George’s boys, which made him happy.” She paused. “As soon as we married, George really settled in.” She gazed outside. “Look at that sunset. The patio lights will come on soon.”

  I blinked outside at the dropping fireball and recognized the man ascending the steps to the patio. Harry Thorne. It seemed strange he’d go out to eat, alone, so soon after a tragic event occurred at his club. I remembered his angry scowl after I left his office and didn’t relish facing him again. Slumping in my chair, I picked up the menu and blocked my face in case he glanced our way. “That sun is really bright. Too much light for my eyes.”

  She stirred her drink and peered into the liquid. “My girls babysat the infant of a neighbor girl. Her grandparents were helping their son raise this girl and her sister, but raising yet another generation, their great-grandchild, would be hard on them. After the girl delivered the infant, my girls grew so fond of her baby, they begged George and me to adopt her.”

  “Hmmm.” I turned slightly toward the patio. “So many people long for babies. So many others give them up.”

  With the eye not covered by the menu, I searched for Harry Thorne. He sauntered between tables, pausing near space heaters, like he was looking for somebody. A waitress walked toward him, and they chatted. She gestured toward our dining room, probably telling him he needed to come through the front entrance to secure a table.

  “I wasn’t totally against raising the girl’s baby, but George decided we were too old. He did seem old. Every night after dinner, he’d plop in his recliner to watch TV and fall asleep.”

  Even now, Grace seemed too young for that ritual. Shielding part of my face with the menu, I watched cheese ooze from her enchiladas. My healthy fajitas were dehydrated.

  I sipped my Margarita and willed the sun to set. Once the patio lights came on, diners outside could see each other instead of being drawn to watch diners inside. We were lit up like targets. Harry might have entered through the patio so he could peruse people in the dining room without being noticed. I hoped he wasn’t looking for me.

  “After Charlie, weren’t you, well … bored?”

  “Sometimes. Then George would perform an admirable act, a deed that reflected his kind nature, and I’d get physically stirred up.” She tented her hands and rested her elbows on the table. “We women heat up slowly, you know, like water put on to boil. Sex is mostly in our heads. At least, that’s where it starts.”

  I crunched a tortilla chip.

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know how men turn on like flashlights? Respond quickly to any hint of sexuality?”

  I nodded, although I didn’t really know that much about men. When Lester left me, I was barely eighteen. Years passed before I wanted to date anybody. Then I got picky. I wanted somebody stable who cared for his family and valued his work, somebody without conceit who had a keen sense of humor. Somebody like Sam.

  “Anyway” she said, “I’d get hungry for George, but he’d conk out in front of the TV. Fortunately, the four children kept me so busy I usually collapsed by nightfall.” She put down her fork and leaned back in her chair. “You know, we never expected instant or prolonged happiness. We believed we earned our happiness.” She sighed. “George and I enjoyed three years together. He was forty-eight when he died.”

  I gasped. “What happened to him?”

  “His blood pressure was high and his heartbeat was irregular. He went on a weekend hunting trip with some old college friends. They did a lot of walking. George wounded a deer and got excited. They tracked it. His buddies said he just keeled over. After so many years of being sedentary, I guess the excitement was too much for him.”

  Imagine. She’d lost two husbands before she was fifty, one from alcohol and one from inactivity. I was glad Sam stayed in shape. I was still debating about whether to subject myself to further indignities in the weight room. If I could just persevere, I’d have more to tell my readers.

  The sun finally set. Lights strung through massive oaks twinkled to life above tiled patio tables. Harry Thorne sat facing our dining room. He’d apparently talked the waitress into seating him outside.

  Someone dimmed our overhead lights. The waitress glided over and lighted the candle on our table. I blew it out.

  “Let’s enjoy the darkness. We’ll have a clearer view of the patio.”

  “Tell me about your second day at the health club,” she said.

  “It was terrible. A hit-and-run driver smashed into one of the members walking into the parking garage.”

  “No!” She dropped her fork.

  “It was Holly Holmgreen, the girl shocked unconscious in the pool just before I got in the day before.”

  “Somebody tried to kill her!”

  I gulped water. I wasn’t absolutely sure, but I couldn’t deny it.

  “You got in the pool only minutes behind her.” We swigged Margaritas.

  “You’ve got to be careful at that club. You shouldn’t go back. As close as you were to the murder attempt, the killer might think you saw something. Did you?”

  “No.”

  We sipped.

  Harry Thorne kept staring in our direction. Our table was dark, but when we rose to leave, he might spot us.

  “You called the detective, right? Sam, isn’t it?”

  “Well, actually …”

  She put down her drink and folded her hands on the table. “What are you trying to do, Aggie?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that Sam still grieves from losing his family. He’ll suffer even more if he has to solve this girl’s murder.”

  “Then who’s going to solve her murder? You?”

  “No. SAPD will send other investigators. Besides, the officer who works with Sam is on vacation.”

  She pinned me with level eyes. “Tell me about this detective. Tell me about Sam.”

  I shrugged. “I knew him in Chicago. He and his family were my best friends. I attended a banking convention here and told them about the climate, the slow pace, the river. Six months after he lost them in an auto accident, he moved here.”

  She waited.

  “When I quit my bank job and was free to live anywhere, I realized he was the only person I knew outside Chicago.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “He’s a good man. Smart. He’s a lawyer who likes detective work. He’s a Shakespeare fan. Reads a lot.”

  She gazed at the patio. I hoped Harry didn’t think she was staring at him. He would focus on us.

  I got her attention. “Are you going to have dessert?” I wanted to get the check so we could leave, but she ordered another Margarita.

  “Sam sounds like Ray, my third husband.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He read a lot, too. He was smart … inquisitive … observant. He liked to tell me about ideas or incidents that intrigued him. By the time I met
Ray, George’s sons, Patrick and Michael, were at USC. Patrick was about to graduate. My daughter Kim had married and moved to Oklahoma. She and Steven had their first baby girl.” She smiled. “Kim decorated their house and everybody else’s house right down to soaps for the bathrooms.”

  “Linda went to pharmacy school?” I searched for the waitress.

  “No. She still read science books, but after George died, she seemed to lose her motivation. When Patrick and Michael left for California, Linda quit school and opened a health food store near USC. She gave the boys jobs and a stake in her business. I think she wanted to hold our family together.”

  I caught the waitress’s eye and motioned for the check. Grace had nearly finished her drink. As we rose to leave, I thought about all the joy and pain she’d experienced—how her life contrasted with my life at the bank where I was merely marking time.

  “Do you get to see your children?”

  “Not often. They came home when Ray died two years ago. My girls adored him, but none of them could stay long. Kim and Steve had three children by then and needed to return to Oklahoma. I see them more often than I see Linda and the boys, since Oklahoma is closer than California.”

  I didn’t ask her how Ray died. As soon as we paid the check, I speed-walked to the front door of the restaurant, slipped through waiting customers and peeked out front before crossing the street to my car. Grace followed. We climbed into my Wagoneer, and I drove out of the lot as fast as I could without squealing the tires. As we turned north on Main, I peered in the rearview mirror.

  Harry Thorne burst out of Las Tapitas and ran for the parking lot. He wouldn’t recognize my car. Fortunately, my windows were tinted. I set my jaw and drove to Highway 281, pushing the speed limit. “Tell me about Ray.”