MARRY IN HASTE
AN ENDURANCE MYSTERY
MARRY IN HASTE
SUSAN VAN KIRK
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2016 by Susan Van Kirk
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Van Kirk, Susan, 1946– author.
Title: Marry in haste / Susan Van Kirk.
Description: First edition. | Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc. 2016. | Series: An Endurance mystery
Identifiers: LCCN 2016007118 (print) | LCCN 2016012670 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432832339 (hardcover) | ISBN 1432832336 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432832377 (ebook) | ISBN 1432832379 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432834821 (ebook) | ISBN 1432834827 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3237-7 eISBN-10: 1-43283237-9
Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Abused wives—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3622.A5854938 M37 2016 (print) | LCC PS3622.A5854938 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016007118
First Edition. First Printing: November 2016
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3237-7 ISBN-10: 1-43283237-9
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Printed in the United States of America
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For my mom and dad, who taught me about kindness, love, and courage. Lucky enough to meet in this huge world and fall in love, they were never parted except by death.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Bringing Grace Kimball, her friends, and the tiny town of Endurance to life was a labor of love, and it was also helped along by many other friends and experts through multiple stages of development.
Research was the first phase. Doug and Jeff Rankin, former students and later colleagues, gave me advice about old-house renovation, copyright questions, and the history of our small town. I’d like to think I taught them those things, but I fear they learned them on their own. Lockwood House is based on memories of a Victorian home I shared with a number of people living in various apartments. I am thankful to Dale Unverferth for his accurate memory of this house, right down to the mahogany woodwork.
Stan Jenks, President and CEO of Security Savings Bank in Monmouth, was very patient in explaining bank policies and practices and answering questions, sometimes more than once. While I promised him a banker in my novel, I don’t think my fictional banker, Conrad Folger, was quite what he had in mind.
As always, I am grateful to Bill Feithen, Monmouth Police Chief, and Suzy Owens, Ames, Iowa, police detective, who helped me on many occasions with questions about police procedures and crime scenes. I believe Detective Owens took gleeful pleasure in telling her former English teacher, “No, it isn’t right. Rewrite. Again.” Marcum Spears, attorney, helped me with town history, legal questions, and the interpretation of old property notations. Thank you, Marcum.
Libraries have always occupied an acre of my heart. In researching this book, I used the facilities and helpful people in these places: the Warren County Public Library, Hewes Library at Monmouth College, the Galesburg Public Library, the Seymour Library Special Collections and Archives at Knox College, the Warren County Courthouse, and the Warren County Genealogical Society.
Four beta readers gave me feedback and helped in the first draft stage. All are senior citizens, and they provided advice about my plot. Thank you to Dorothy Behnke, Hallie Lemon, Christie Meldrum, and Marilyn Van Hoozer. Ageless brainpower and experience win.
In the next stage, I worked with Lourdes Venard, my freelance editor. She has been far more than an editor to me. She smoothed the rough edges, asked the right questions, and kept me in focus. She has also been my “chief encourager.” It was a very fortunate day for me the first time she turned up at the other end of my email program.
A special thank you to my proofreaders, Hallie Lemon and Jan DeYoung. Former educators and lifelong readers, they did the close reading because we all hate typos.
I would like to thank all the people at Five Star/Cengage who have worked on or helped with my Endurance series so far. This would include Tiffany Schofield, Nivette Jackaway, Alice Duncan, Tracey Matthews, Erin Bealmear, and Deirdre Wait. And thank you to all others who work tirelessly behind the scenes, setting up the printing, compiling the catalogue, and dealing with legalities. I appreciate your help in making my books a reality.
Throughout this process I had my cohort of friends—Judy Brinkmann, Jan Gebauer, Hallie Lemon, Dee Long, and Eileen Owens—who often tolerated my absence from our adventures because I was writing. And thank you to the kind people in our small town of Monmouth. Many of you encouraged my writing and kept me going. You know who you are.
CHAPTER ONE
The heavy glass and metal doors of the Second National Bank of Endurance swung open silently, and Grace Kimball nudged her way in, checking each footstep. Her scarf hung lopsidedly, mostly to the left, and her purse strap dangled at an odd angle from her right arm. One hand was mittened, the other was bare, and her coat was covered in snow and slush, some of which dripped from her hem and onto the floor. As Grace tried to catch her balance, her boots slid unpredictably. She watched out for people brushing past her, maneuvered right along, and concentrated on her footing. Anyone familiar with her usually composed face would have been surprised to see it so flustered.
The receptionist rose from her chair and rushed over. “Oh, Ms. Kimball, what happened? Are you all right?” Frantically, she brushed snow off Grace’s coat, all the while clutching her arm as if both women might end up in a pile on the floor.
“Nothing a little cleaning won’t fix,” she said. She struggled to unbutton her coat with frozen fingers. “I hate to be late.” Grace shook her head in frustration. “I slipped on the ice as I got out of my car, and fell down.” She sighed. “My dignity is all that’s hurt.” She shrugged off her coat and held it out and away from her clothes in disgust. Then she looked at the receptionist, and asked, “What’s going on? Why are so many people out and about?”
“I suppose they’re still taking back Christmas rejects and using gift cards,” the receptionist answered. “By January third you’d think that would be over, but the weather’s kept most people inside.”
“Whew! Well, I’m here, I guess. Finally.” She checked the hands of the grandfather
clock near the front door, and her eyes scanned the bank. “Any idea where Jeff Maitlin might be?”
“He’s over in the loan department waiting for Mr. Folger. I’ll walk over with you. We have coffee and hot chocolate to warm you up.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Grace followed her, shaking off snow as she went. She remembered the receptionist. Sylvia Lansing. Years ago in high school she played a main role in the class play, How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. Guess she’s made it this far. If she can work so long for a man like Conrad Folger, she’s quite a successful woman.
That was the thing about Endurance. Grace had taught high school English in the small Illinois town of 15,000 for twenty-five years. And even though she had retired last year when she was fifty-six, she often ran into former students who still lived and worked in the area. She supposed it was good those students-now-adults couldn’t read her thoughts because Grace remembered ridiculous, trivial details from their shared high school histories. It was her curse—the high school teacher curse—that those details stuck in her head as if they had a direct line to the “door of yesterday” part of her brain. At the same time, current details she needed to remember eluded her, often returning at two in the morning.
“Here’s Mr. Maitlin.” Sylvia pointed Grace to an attractive man sitting in a brown leather chair. Jeff Maitlin stood up, his six-foot frame unfolding at a slow pace, and he grasped Grace’s cold hands, a warm smile spreading across his face. His graying brown hair fell back in a gentle wave behind his ears. She, of course, noticed his blue eyes immediately—cornflower blue. He had moved to Endurance the previous year to take up a part-time, semi-retirement job as editor of the Endurance Register, and only recently had he and Grace begun to date. He grinned like a snowman, and Grace gave him a quick hug. As always, she almost came up to his chin.
“I’m sure it won’t be long now,” Sylvia promised, and she smiled at their hug. Then she turned and left.
“How long have you been waiting?” Grace asked. She shook her brown hair back into place and finger-combed it after its snowy beating.
“Not long. You look like you’ve been through a blizzard. You have a cute—but red—nose. Can I get you some coffee? Hot chocolate?”
“Ah, hot chocolate would be grand.” She sat down in the chair next to Jeff’s and looked ruefully at her wet boots. “Why does it keep snowing?”
“Because it’s January in the Midwest. When I spent all those years in New York City, I was simply preparing to survive Midwest winters. Obviously, some universal plan is at work.” Jeff turned and wandered a few steps to a round table filled with coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and cookies, and he came back with a paper cup of hot chocolate. “Here you go. Say, I had several people in for a meeting this morning—town advisory members—and they raved about your latest history article. We should put more of those pieces in the newspaper.”
Grace sipped her hot chocolate. “I already have in mind an article about the Victorian house you’ve almost bought. I’m going over to the courthouse to trace its owners. After all, ‘Newspaper Editor Decides to Stay in Small Town’ is such big news. At the least it would fit on page three, wouldn’t you say?”
“More like back in the ‘Bits and Pieces’ section. Maybe you should wait until I sign the loan papers for sure. Who knows? The bank might pull out.”
“I’m glad you invited me along. Coming with you gives me a chance to grill Conrad Folger about the old Lockwood house you’re buying. I’m sure he knows a great deal about its history since his family goes back several generations in town.”
Jeff smiled and put his hand on hers. “I missed you while you were in the desert.”
“Good to be back from seeing my kids, but it’s sure an enormous change from sixty-five degrees and sunshine to twenty-five degrees and snow. It’s as if people in Arizona live in a parallel universe, and when I was out there, the Midwest weather was often the lead story on the evening news. I began to wonder if my plane would be able to get me back here with so many flight cancellations.” She sipped her hot chocolate and glanced up at him. “Any big news while I was away?”
Jeff took a last drink of his coffee and said, “A new restaurant debuted downtown—The Depot—but you knew it was opening before you left. Your former students—I forget their names for the moment—started the place a week ago, but I think they’re waiting to have a grand opening. Oh, and the Christmas tree lighting was an unmitigated disaster, but quite humorous. It was Mayor Blandford’s big moment to shine, and he was primed and ready to deliver the spectacular tree lighting on the public square to kick off the Christmas season. After a few chosen words about the pioneers and the town, he pulled the switch, and several bulbs didn’t light at all, but a few other bulbs exploded with a glass-shattering bang, and the breaking bulbs spooked at least five dogs in the crowd. They got loose, made a frenzied leap at the tree, and knocked it over, pinning Emily Dunsworthy against the historic fountain the mayor had so eloquently just described. But after we brushed Emily and the tree off and stood them back up, all was forgiven, and the crowd sang, ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’ ” He shook his head and chuckled at the remembered sight of the elderly former postmistress pinned against the fountain.
Grace was laughing at the Christmas disaster when suddenly a voice exploded from behind the closed door of Conrad Folger IV’s office. A second angry voice rose in disagreement—a woman’s voice, Grace thought. Then it grew very quiet again, as if the arguers realized people might hear them. She looked at Jeff, barely able to conceal her concern, and he smiled and patted her hand. “That must be why he’s running late. I deduced from people’s reactions that an unplanned appointment is in my time slot. Must be a loud, disagreeable, unplanned appointment.” His eyes softened, his shoulders relaxed, and he changed the subject. “So, tell me about Phoenix. How are your kids? Still dropping huge hints you should be out there full time?”
“Roger Junior wants me to move there and be a nanny to my granddaughter, Natalie. He calls her ‘Little Pumpkin’ because she loves eating plain pumpkin pie filling. Crazy kid. And said granddaughter, who is only four, has decided I am at least ten years old and can’t be trusted. Daughter Katherine wants me there because I think she misses me, and James hasn’t rendered his reasons. Now that I’ve retired from teaching, they think I can pull up stakes and move. I must admit I’m torn.” She paused and collected her thoughts. “But I enjoy the newspaper, and I like to write and research, as long as it doesn’t get me into another life-or-death situation. Last summer’s murders are still fresh in my mind. After that happened, my kids decided I should stick with ‘safe’ topics, so I explained I’d be researching the historic old house you are about to buy and fix up. It should be safe enough.”
She searched Jeff’s eyes for several seconds, and then she said, “Isn’t that what the guy says in the movie before he’s squashed by a giant, flame-breathing lizard? On the other hand, the town’s murder quota should be met for another hundred years after last summer. Maybe two hundred.” She looked down at her hot chocolate, cradled in her hands on her lap. Then she turned, relief in her voice, and said, “The decision about where to live has been temporarily tabled.”
Grace had just stuffed a dropped mitten into her coat pocket when, again, passionate voices rose behind the bank president’s door. Both Jeff and Grace listened intently. She caught a word or two like, “can’t” and “regret it,” and they were quickly followed by the sound of a heavy object falling hard on the floor. Then silence. Folger’s assistant, shocked, started to rise from her chair, thought about it, and sat down again. Grace turned to Jeff as they both heard the sound of glass crashing and breaking.
“Oh, dear,” said Andrea Dunning. This time she rose from behind her desk and took a few tentative steps toward the office door. As if the door sensed her anxiety, it opened, and a furious Conrad Folger motioned her over. He focused on her and ignored the other inquisitive faces, and Grace watched him whisper something.
Andrea left and returned with a broom and dust pan. The door closed. A few minutes later the executive assistant came out, broom at her side and dust pan horizontally squared. Focusing on the dust pan, she marched past Grace and Jeff and disappeared through a door near the back of the reception area.
Jeff looked at Grace, his expression puzzled. “Well. Maybe this isn’t such a good day to sign loan papers.” Then they were both silent for a moment. Jeff spoke first, asking, “So, teacher lady, what do you know about Conrad Folger IV, bank president?”
Grace thought for a moment. “I heard he had quite a temper in high school, but I doubt that he throws objects at his customers. You understand, I never had him or his brother Will as students, but I hear things. I try to be fair, but I’d have to say he wasn’t terribly likable. He was smart enough, but not a genius. He was a bit arrogant—well, more than ‘a bit’—and usually got his way. And if he didn’t, his father made sure he did. Went to an Ivy League school.” She lowered her voice. “Though he hardly had the grades to get in. My guess would be his father arranged that also. And, of course, he had the bank waiting for him if he managed to graduate, which, somehow, he did. But you must understand I heard much of this secondhand. Roger, my husband, had dealings with Folger’s father and certainly heard a great deal about his son’s temper. Folger married Emily Petersen. Never could figure out how that happened. But he must have some good qualities for Emily to marry him. Maybe he’s changed.”
“Why? What was so puzzling about his wife?”
“Emily? She was a clever girl who found her footing when she left for college. Don’t get me wrong. In high school she was quiet, but she had friends and graduated near the top of her class. I worked with her closely on class plays, and I got to know her well. She was wonderful—I thought of her as my other daughter. College was where she gained her self-confidence. Can’t think why she married someone like Conrad. Maybe it’s that ‘bad boy’ syndrome—you know, nice girl attracted to bad boy.”
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