Death by Association

by Paula Darnell

  Death by Association

  A DIY Diva Mystery

  by

  Paula Darnell

  Copyright © 2019 by Paula Darnell

  This book is fiction. All characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Cozy Cat Press

  To my daughters Andrea and Sara and my husband Gary with love and appreciation for their support

  Chapter 1

  “Bear, no!” I warned, as my chocolate Labrador retriever lunged toward a rabbit that had suddenly popped out from under a leafy bush and landed on the sidewalk just a few feet ahead of us. “Stay here, boy.”

  Bear wanted to chase the bunny, but I grabbed his collar, holding him back until the little rabbit hopped away, across the street and onto the manicured, green fairway of Hawkeye Haven’s golf course, which meandered through our walled, guard-gated community.

  Although Bear would have liked nothing better than to follow the bunny and have a chance to explore the verdant expanse of the golf course, if I were seen walking my dog there, I’d be slapped with a huge fine by Hawkeye Haven’s aggressive homeowners’ association.

  The golf course was reserved strictly for players, so neither residents nor their dogs were allowed to walk there. (HOA Regulation 101 states that “only golf course employees and golfers cleared through the golf course pro shop or starter station are allowed on the course, and all others are in violation and will be subject to fines and penalties or arrest for trespassing.”) Although we were banned from walking on the golf course, and we always walked on the sidewalk, rather than on the neighborhood front lawns, at least Bear could enjoy the grass in our backyard, where he loved to romp and play fetch.

  Bear stared longingly at the rabbit as it stopped and, teasing, looked back at him before bouncing away across the golf course.

  “Come on, Bear,” I urged, releasing his collar while keeping a tight grip on his leash, and we resumed our walk. When the rabbit’s appearance had startled us, I’d been thinking about the do-it-yourself jewelry class that I’d be teaching later in the morning.

  The rabbit forgotten, Bear trotted happily along while I mentally reviewed the project that I would present to my DIY Crystal Necklace class later at the community center. Although the project was a relatively simple one, the crystal necklaces that the students—all residents of Hawkeye Haven—would be making qualified as true dazzlers with plenty of sparkle. Each student would be stringing three strands of faceted Swarovski crystal beads to make a necklace in the color of her choice, each necklace featuring a large crystal pendant in the center. When I previewed the project, there had been plenty of oohs and aahs, and I’d been sure that the women in the class would be well pleased with their showy necklaces.

  I had accidentally stumbled into my job by turning the DIY craft, fashion, and home dec projects that I loved to design into cash, first with a blog, which had attracted a book editor’s attention, and then with a series of books, each with a different DIY theme. I supplemented my writing income with design jobs for crafts’ manufacturers, and now that I was teaching DIY classes at Hawkeye Haven, I had the perfect way to test my projects and instructions by presenting them to my students, who just happened to fit the profile of my books’ readers.

  Bear’s ears perked up as a dog, sensing Bear’s presence in his home territory, began to bark frantically in a neighbor’s backyard as we passed by on the front sidewalk. Bear acknowledged the other pet with a short courtesy “woof” and continued on his way, unperturbed.

  Much as I hated to rouse the neighborhood with our early morning walks, dawn remained the best time of the day for a big furry dog like Bear to take a walk in the summer. Even though the humid heat of late August would soon fade into more tolerable autumn weather, we were experiencing record-breaking high temperatures, and the hot spell was forecast to last several more days.

  Sometimes I couldn’t quite believe that I had chosen to live in the central Iowa town of Center City and in a guard-gated community to boot. The summer sunshine would burn my pale skin to a lobster red if I weren’t so diligent about constantly applying sunscreen before I ventured outdoors, and I never had become accustomed to the high humidity that usually accompanied the summer heat. Iowa winters, with lots of snow and frigid weather, were even worse than the summers. I had traded the mild climate of Seattle for the more extreme weather of Iowa.

  My cousin Tracey, my best friend from the time we were toddlers, had moved to Hawkeye Haven on the outskirts of Center City a few years before I had because a new job opportunity had come her way. After my husband was killed in an auto accident, everything about Seattle reminded me of him and our life together. Tracey convinced me that a change of scenery would do me good. Since I could work anywhere, I had decided that she was right, so three years ago I had moved, too. Still, at times, I missed the misty rains and moderate weather of Seattle, where I had lived the first thirty-five years of my life.

  By now, we’d come about a mile from home. Normally, Bear and I would have encountered at least a couple other pet parents walking their dogs, but it was unusually quiet, especially for a garbage-collection day, when a lot of residents set out their trash early in the morning. (HOA Regulation 34 states that “trash containers shall not be put out for collection more than twelve hours before scheduled collection time and shall be removed out of sight no more than twelve hours after collection time.”)

  As we turned right at the next intersection, Bear began pulling on his leash, and I knew the reason. On weekdays, our route took us to the back gate of Hawkeye Haven, where Bessie, the daytime security guard, worked during the week, and Bessie always had a homemade treat, shaped like a dog bone, waiting for Bear when we stopped by the guard’s station, which stood on a wide median between the lanes leading in and out of Hawkeye Haven. On weekends, when Bessie didn’t work, I took a different route so that Bear wouldn’t anticipate receiving a treat during his walk, although I always had a snack waiting for him at home so that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  As we approached the guardhouse, I saw that the side door was open, inviting us to join Bessie inside, where a large desk and control panel took up most of the front of the small room. Usually Bessie was outside or at the desk when we arrived each morning, and although I didn’t see her there today, Bear and I both spotted his treat waiting for him on a paper towel at the edge of the desk. Without further ado, Bear took the snack gently, almost delicately, in his soft Lab’s mouth and then chomped it with relish.

  “Bear,” I scolded, “you’re supposed to wait for Bessie to give you your treat.”

  I looked toward the back of the guard house, down a short, narrow hallway that led to two smaller rooms—a restroom and a tiny kitchen that contained only a microwave, a dorm-sized refrigerator, and a coffee maker.

  That’s when I saw her.

  Bessie, her face ashen, her curly gray hair askew, and a trickle of blood oozing from beneath her head, lay motionless on her back. I gasped and called her name, but there was no response, and I realized that Bessie, who was in her mid-seventies, must have had a heart attack or a stroke and fallen, hitting her head on the concrete floor. Was she alive?

  “Bessie, Bessie!” I exclaimed. Beside me, Bear whined nervously, sensing that something was wrong.

  I knelt beside Bessie, and I felt relief when I could see that she was breathing, but she lay as still and silent as before. I jumped up and punched in 9-1-1 on the desk console phone. In the few seconds it took for the emergency operator to answer, I noticed that Bessie’s gun wasn’t in h
er holster, and I didn’t see it anywhere else either. Come to think of it, I’d never seen it any place other than in her holster. I pulled open the bottom desk drawer, where I knew that she stored her purse while she was working, and although her handbag was there, its contents were strewn about the drawer. I didn’t see her wallet among them. I groaned. Bessie hadn’t suffered a heart attack or a stroke. She’d been attacked!

  “9-1-1; what is your emergency?”

  My voice sounded hoarse as I hurriedly explained the reason for my call.

  “Help is on the way. Is she conscious?”

  “No.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “Yes, she’s breathing, but it seems kind of shallow.”

  “Do you see any signs of injury at all?”

  “Yes, she . . . .” Already, I could hear sirens screaming, and within seconds, a Center City Fire Department rescue truck turned into the short stretch of street leading to the gate.

  “They’re here,” I told the operator. With the local CCFD station less than half a mile from the back gate of Hawkeye Haven, I wasn’t surprised by the speed of the firefighters’ arrival.

  “All right. Please wait there so that you can give a statement to the police when they arrive.”

  “I will.” I hung up the phone and went outside to signal the firefighters, who quickly stepped into the small guardhouse to examine Bessie. Whimpering softly, Bear lay beside her.

  “Come on, Bear, let’s go outside and give them some room.” I tugged his leash, and he jumped up. With Bear in tow, I backed out the side door and into Luke Johnson, the head of security at Hawkeye Haven, whom I often saw at the community center on the days I taught my DIY classes there. Luke was a tall man who had short, sandy hair, a freckled complexion, and the best posture I’d ever seen. Although I didn’t know him well, he’d always seemed like a pleasant man who was interested in doing his job efficiently. I’d heard that he’d been in the military before he’d taken the job at Hawkeye Haven.

  “Oh, Luke, I’m sorry.”

  “Laurel McMillan, right?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Well, Laurel, can you fill me in on what happened here?”

  “Oh, sure—uh, oh,” I hesitated as a car approached the entrance and stopped behind the rescue unit. I recognized the driver as Alice Sandstrom, a ninety-year-old resident who sometimes took one of my DIY classes. I shuddered to realize that she still drove a car because I knew that her vision wasn’t very good.

  “Just a second—I need to get those residents to detour around to the main gate,” Luke said as another car pulled up behind Mrs. Sandstrom. Luke sprinted over to divert both drivers.

  Alice seemed confused, but, in a moment, I saw the passenger of the second car, a young woman wearing bright fuchsia yoga pants and a rhinestone-studded, white tank top, step out of the car she was riding in and go to Alice’s car. I heard the yoga lady volunteer to drive Alice around to the main gate and then home. Nodding in agreement, Alice slid across the bench seat to the passenger side of her ancient black Cadillac. She definitely looked relieved.

  In the meantime, one of the firefighters had rolled a gurney into the small room, where there was barely enough space to place it next to Bessie, but somehow he managed. Bessie was hoisted onto the gurney and wheeled to the rescue truck, just as two Center City police vehicles arrived, each manned with one officer. After a brief conversation with the policemen and Luke, the firefighters loaded Bessie into their unit and quickly departed, sirens screaming.

  Suddenly I began shaking. Although I hadn’t realized it earlier, the incident had unnerved me, and my legs began to feel wobbly. Just as I started to sway, Luke grabbed my shoulders and eased me to the ground. Bear sat beside me, licking my face as I lay on the sidewalk, and I could hear Luke urging me to lie still. My head was swimming, and I knew that Luke had caught me right as I had begun to faint.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled as I started to get up.

  “Take it easy, Laurel. Don’t try to get up just yet. I’ll bring you some water.” In a minute, Luke returned with a cold bottle of water, which he must have taken from the tiny refrigerator in the guardhouse’s mini-kitchen. Taking the bottle, I sat up. Gratefully, I took a few sips of water.

  What a wimp I was! I felt extremely foolish, especially because I wasn’t the person who’d been attacked. Fortunately, the back gate of Hawkeye Haven wasn’t a high-traffic area, and nobody else was around to witness my humiliating fainting spell except for the two cops, who looked slightly impatient, and Luke, who seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Thanks, I’m okay now.”

  After I reported everything I could remember about what I had witnessed to the Center City officers and Luke, I just wanted to go home. His morning routine interrupted, Bear had been panting and pacing around nervously as I talked to the police. When he began whining, I knew it was time to leave.

  “Well, if there’s nothing more, I should head for home.”

  “Thanks, Ms. McMillan,” one of the policemen said. “A detective may be contacting you.”

  I nodded. Luke, who had been manning the gate in Bessie’s absence, awaited the arrival of the substitute guard he had called to take over the day shift. “Laurel, if you can wait a few minutes until Toby takes over, I can give you and your dog a ride home,” he offered.

  “No, thanks, the walk will do us good. I’ll check with you later to find out how Bessie’s doing. Let’s go, Bear.”

  Eager to resume his walk, Bear needed no further encouragement, and we trotted home at a record pace. I fervently hoped that Bessie would recover. She’d looked frail and helpless lying on the hard cement floor, and she hadn’t regained consciousness while the firefighters were attending to her. Even though she was a woman in her mid-seventies, her gruff manner probably made her appear tougher than she was. Although some of the residents thought it odd that an old lady packing a sidearm guarded the back gate at Hawkeye Haven, and some of them weren’t shy about expressing the opinion that it was not the right job for the “old gal,” I’d always thought of Bessie as a woman who could take care of herself, but she’d been no match for whoever had attacked her and stolen her gun.

  At ten o’clock, my DIY Crystal Necklace class would be meeting in the classroom at the community center, and I planned to arrive early so that I could try to find out what I could about Bessie’s condition. I had overheard the firefighters saying that she would be transported to Center City Regional Hospital, but I doubted that anybody at the hospital would be willing to disclose her condition to someone who wasn’t a relative.

  Fortunately, I had assembled my class supplies already and packed them in my DIY-collaged roller suitcase—a bag I had decorated with copies of old travel photos in sepia tones—for easy transport. I was still so shaken by the attack on Bessie that my stomach was doing flip-flops. Hoping to calm myself before class started, I sipped some weak tea, rather than my usual coffee, and nibbled some dry toast. Bear’s baritone “woof” reminded me that it was time for his breakfast, too. With his tummy full, Bear would be ready for his morning nap by the time I left for class.

  Although I normally dressed casually when I taught my DIY classes at the community center, especially because some of the projects could be rather messy, for this class I decided to wear a jade-colored silk jersey dress with a deep scoop neckline so that I could show off my crystal necklace. Seeing me wearing my own DIY necklace might encourage the students to complete their necklaces in the two-hour class time. I’d made my necklace with aurora borealis clear crystals. Not only did the flashy beads look really spectacular, but my necklace also complemented the scooped neckline of my green dress. Green has always been one of my favorite colors because it looks good with my shoulder-length auburn hair.

  I stepped into a pair of high-heeled, strappy ivory sandals and decided that, although they weren’t the most comfortable shoes I owned, I should be able to wear them for a few hours without crippling myself. Even though
I could have walked the few blocks to the community center, I certainly wasn’t going to do it in high heels, and, besides, I needed to take my suitcase full of class supplies with me, so I loaded it into my old silver Honda SUV, told Bear to be a good boy, and left him to his morning nap.

  As I drove to the community center at the excruciatingly slow speed of fifteen miles per hour (HOA Regulation 81 states that “speeding, careless, or reckless driving are health and safety violations and will result in the maximum fines and penalties allowed by law.”), I planned to find out whatever I could about Bessie’s condition. Anger welled up inside me as I wondered what kind of monster would attack an innocent old lady who was just doing her job. My chest felt tight as I thought about how she had looked when I had found her unconscious, sprawled on the hard concrete floor of the guardhouse. I remembered wondering at first whether she was dead or alive. Although I had been relieved when I could see that she was breathing, I was still worried because she had been unconscious the last time I had seen her. Was Bessie recuperating from her injury now or was she struggling for her life?

  Chapter 2

  As I drove up the wide boulevard leading to the complex where the community buildings stood, I appreciated the recreational facilities that were available to the residents of Hawkeye Haven. At the end of a circular drive, the Olympic-sized swimming pool’s water gleamed in the bright sunlight, with striped yellow and green, canvas-covered cabanas set on each side. As inviting as the pool looked, there were no swimmers or sunbathers in sight yet.

  The community center building was located to the left of the pool. This building housed the HOA’s administrative offices, meeting rooms, classrooms, gym, racquetball court, and an indoor swimming pool. The golf course, its pro shop, and restaurant were on the pool’s right.

  Outside the pro shop, a lone golfer was making chip shots on the perfectly maintained practice putting green, the only part of the golf course that could be seen from the road although it stretched in back of the facilities. The landscaping around the community center was dominated by maple trees that lined the circular drive. Purple and yellow pansies decorated a little island in the center of the drive, and neatly sculptured hedges framed the sidewalks leading to Hawkeye Haven’s community center and the building that housed the golf course’s pro shop and locker rooms as well as a restaurant.