Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Lake Murder Mystery (An Accidental Lady Detective, A Private Investigator Crime Series Book 3)

by Danforth, Niki

  A Note from the Author

  Thank you very much for taking the time to read Searching for Gatsby: A Ronnie Murder Mystery. If you have a moment to spare, please consider writing a short, honest review on the page or site where you bought the book. Your help in spreading the word is greatly appreciated. Reviews from readers like you make a huge difference in helping others find stories such as Searching for Gatsby. Thank you.

  I can’t even count the number of times that my work has been read and reread, but please email me at nikidanforth5@gmail.com should you spot a typo!

  To be notified of future Niki Danforth books, please sign up at http://nikidanforth.com/ for an occasional email.

  Thanks,

  Niki Danforth

  To see where it all began, please turn the page for samples of Stunner: A Ronnie Lake Mystery #1 and the short story Delilah: A Ronnie Lake Cold Case #2.

  STUNNER

  A Ronnie Lake Mystery

  By

  Niki Danforth

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Stunner: A Ronnie Lake Mystery

  Copyright © 2013 Niki Danforth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic, digital or any other form without permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 1984 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP).

  Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

  Publisher: Pancora Press

  Cover Design: KT Design, LLC www.kristaft.com

  Chapter One

  The fist explodes in a punch toward my stomach. Like most women, I would have folded in panic not that long ago, my only move to throw out my arms protectively in front of me, shielding myself from the blow while cowering like a trapped animal.

  Not now. Even though this attack happens in a split second, time really does seem to slow down. First, I take in the whole of my opponent, never fixing my gaze on any one point. Without a doubt, this person means to finish me off.

  As the strike travels toward my abdomen, I strategically move aside with a quick shifting of my feet, simultaneously grabbing my adversary’s wrist, my fingers applying the force of a steel trap. With rapid speed, I turn my opponent away from me as if I’m opening a gate and swing this assailant right off balance.

  Then I quickly step in and plant my feet close to one another while lowering my torso under my aggressor’s center. I reach around my opponent’s waist while turning my hips to load this individual onto the small of my back.

  Hold that image! Hey, the decade of my twenties with my body feeling immune to injury was ages ago. So why would I even consider acting like Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan and stack an aggressive attacker onto my fifty-five-year-old aching back? Commmme onnnn.

  The key is not to struggle and attempt to muscle this person onto my spine. It’s all about the correct stance, the correct posture, and finally the correct hip turn from my core that together combine into a force of leverage powerful beyond belief. This set-up allows me to execute a flawless hip throw, and my attacker breaks a freefall through the air with an arm-slam onto the ground.

  I hear a quick exhale of air and then a soft groan from the floor. Grinning, my attacker pushes up from the mat and tells me, “Good job with the koshinage, Ronnie. Your stance and core were rock solid.”

  “Thanks, Isabella. I think I’m getting better at koshinage.” We use the Japanese name for the technique we’ve just practiced in the martial art of Aikido.

  Isabella Romano is my sensei, or teacher, and she’s a sixth-degree black belt. I’m a humble first-degree black belt newbie, and I’m in awe of her. When Isabella performs that hip throw, well, I sure wouldn’t want to be some idiot-guy in a bar picking a fight with her. I’d bet on this fifty-something, small brunette any day of the week.

  We wrap up our weekly private lesson before Isabella’s noon class starts at her dojo where we train. “See you in class on Friday?” she asks.

  “Absolutely. Thanks for the lesson, Isabella.” We bow out to O’Sensei, the founder of Aikido, whose picture hangs on the spacious front wall of the dojo. I enter the dressing room to change into jeans and a tee-shirt and then head home.

  Driving a little too fast, I glance down at the black belt neatly folded in the top of my Aikido bag on the front seat of my car. Not bad for an AARP broad, I muse. I feel the pride of recent accomplishment and love the time I spend at the dojo studying with Isabella Sensei. At least for the moment, my confidence and attitude register a one-hundred-eighty-degree shift from six months ago when my divorce became final.

  The sun sparkles through a canopy of overhead branches as I maneuver the woodsy back roads close to home in my post-divorce, adorable red Mustang. With the top down, I fully enjoy this scenic route—although it still jars me to glimpse the flashes of trees tossed on the ground like random clusters of pick-up sticks, the result of a raging Superstorm Sandy.

  I click on Bruce Springsteen, and his voice blasts at me through the car speakers.

  …Glory days, well, they’ll pass you by

  Glory days, in the wink of a young girl’s eye

  Glory days, glory days…

  It only takes a little Springsteen to remind me that being a Jersey girl, or better yet, a single Jersey woman, is not so bad.

  My phone rings as I turn the Mustang onto the dirt road leading to the house. I press the button on my steering wheel and answer, “Laura? Hi!”

  “Hi. Where are you right now?” my niece asks on speakerphone. I hear an uncharacteristic tension in Laura’s voice.

  Concerned, I tell her, “Almost home.”

  “Can I come over?” She waits a half-beat. “It’s important.” Her voice quivers. “An emergency.”

  She scares me with that. “Is everyone all right?” I ask.

  “It’s Dad. You know he just got back, and he brought this girlfriend with him—I think they want to get married. Oh, Aunt Ronnie, I’m worried. Some weird things are happening here since they came home.”

  Oh well, if that’s all it is… “Slow down, Laura—”

  “All I know is my watch-out-for-Dad radar is on high alert and going off way more than usual since Mom died. I’m not kidding. Something’s wrong.”

  “Sweetie, get over here. I’ll have coffee waiting for you.” Maybe my niece has reason to worry.

  Chapter Two

  My German shepherd, Warrior, rubs the soft coat of his head against my bare ankle as I search among a half-dozen opened but not-yet-unpacked dish boxes stacked on the kitchen countertops. I find two mugs, fill them with coffee, and then hear a car door slam. That noise is followed by the sound of a car engine roaring by, and I catch a glimpse of a van spewing gravel as it races up my dirt road. Metallic blue or grey, I think.

  “Aunt Ronnie, I’m sure that guy was following me,” Laura says as she dashes into the kitchen, a little out of breath.

  I truly doubt it. “Probably just a repairman or delivery for the big house,” I say and pour milk into both our coffees. “Hey, by the time I got the police over here, he’d be long gone through the back gate, anyway.”

  Before Laura can manage another word, I give her the time-out signal. “Stop. Take a deep breath.” I extend our filled mugs, and she takes them with a grateful smile.

  “Follow me,” I order. Holding the coffee pot and a small pitcher of milk, I lead her into my garden.

  Warrior trots out behind us into the hedged enclosure that’s backed up by fencing so my dog can be off his leash without my having to worry about him.

  “Not working today?” I indicate a table wit
h an open umbrella to shield us from the sun, and we sit down.

  “Mrs. McCann doesn’t need me to look after the girls this afternoon, but I’ve got some tutoring sessions later on.” Laura is a recent college graduate working various summer jobs. In two months she leaves for Australia, a graduation gift from Daddy.

  My niece is a welcome sight with her wild red locks flying out every which-way. While I usually brush my straight strawberry blonde hair into a quick ponytail, lovely Laura bounces out of bed every morning, long mane loose, looking nonhairdo perfect. We do have the same green eyes and toothy smiles, however, so there’s no missing we’re family. Today though, her beautiful, gentle eyes look panicked.

  “OK. Tell all.” I reach down to scratch Warrior’s head. “Forget about that van. What’s going on with your darling dad?”

  “Well, you know it’s already been four months since he went out to California.” Laura puts her elbows on the table, steeples her fingers, and taps her mouth. I nod in agreement, remembering her oh-so-serious father gesturing the exact same way when we were in our teens.

  I snap back to the present to listen to Laura. “…except for the weekend of my graduation a month ago, he’s been out there the whole time, you know, working with his new CEO at that Santa Clara tech company he bought last year. He was only supposed to be there a month. Remember?” She gives me a significant look.

  “I do remember. All of us thought it’d be a great change of scenery for Frank.” I adjust my chair so that it sits totally in the shade of the umbrella. “How long’s it been?” Poor Frank. “Ten months, almost a year, since Joanie died?”

  “Nine months, thirteen days.” Laura’s eyes tear up, and she quickly blinks back the threatened drops.

  Poor Laura, too. “Oh, honey, I know it’s hard. To lose your mother is a very big deal, and it takes time to grieve and mend.” I reach across the table and squeeze my niece’s hand. “So tell me about this person your dad met. Does she work for his company?”

  Laura shakes her head. “No. He met her at a country club out there. She’s widowed, too, and they started playing golf and then dating…” Her creased brow broadcasts her distress.

  Though I’m somewhat wary, myself, on hearing the news, certainly Frank couldn’t be expected to avoid eligible women for the rest of his life. “When did they arrive?” I ask.

  “Two days ago.” Laura picks up her steaming mug and inhales the aroma. “But you just came back this morning, and we haven’t had a chance to talk. How was the shore?”

  “Great as always.” I reach for my coffee. “Her name?”

  “Juliana Wentworth. She’s gorgeous, too. Long, dark, perfect hair. Great figure,” Laura says, and I reflexively sit straighter and pull in my tummy as I lift my mug. She adds, “Late thirties. No way forty yet.”

  I stop mid-sip. Laura lowers her head and raises her eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little young for Dad?”

  I ponder the reality. “Frank is two years older than I am, so that makes him fifty-seven. So, yeah, I might have to agree.” I quickly do the math and smile. “Although, when he’s almost ninety and she’s seventy, it won’t matter.”

  My niece now has a death grip on her mug and a faraway look in her eyes. “Laura?” Her head jerks slightly, and she looks at me. “I feel as if something else besides the age difference is bothering you,” I say. “What is it?”

  “I’m definitely picking up a bad vibe.” She says that with both her voice and her eyes.

  “I’m listening.” Warrior nudges my knee with a ball in his mouth. “Not now, Warrior.”

  Laura sighs. “OK. Since they arrived, we’ve been getting hang-up calls at the house. When I pick up, no one answers,” she says. “We never had those before. It’s weird.”

  I’m definitely interested. “How many hang-ups have you had? And when?”

  “Nine calls in two days, and it’s any time of the day,” she answers, quickly spitting out her words. “Caller ID shows some of the numbers are blocked, and the rest of the hang-ups come from or around Scranton, Pennsylvania. Aunt Ronnie, do we know anybody in Scranton?”

  “Don’t think so,” I say and slowly drink my coffee. Sounds like more than annoying telemarketers since if you answer, they—or their recordings—start their spiel. “That is strange, all those hang-ups.”

  Laura nods and sips her drink. “And then something even more bizarre happened. A box arrived for Juliana this morning. Dad was out. I put it on the front hall table and noticed it had a funny smell. I told her about the box when she came downstairs.”

  “OK. What’s so odd about that?” I ask.

  “First, I saw her pick up the box and read the postmark,” Laura says. “Right away, she got this very upset look on her face, like she wanted to cry, and then she rushed back upstairs with the box.”

  Well, that could be anything. “Maybe you’re reading too much into this.”

  “Come on. Usually if you get a box in the mail or from UPS or whatever, it’s because you’ve ordered something you want, or somebody has sent you a gift. And that’s a nice thing, right? You wouldn’t look horrified, the way she did.”

  I drink from my mug. “Sweetheart, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Maybe she got something for your father and was concerned he’d walk in before she could put it away.” Is Laura being an alarmist, or do her worries warrant attention? I try to decide.

  “Maybe,” she answers. But my niece presses on. “What has me really worried is that Dad’s been dropping some funny hints…” Her voice rises in pitch. “…like maybe he’s going to marry this Juliana. God, he barely knows her. It’s way too soon.”

  She definitely has a point. “I would agree.”

  “And why would some young babe marry Dad, who’s almost sixty, anyway? No offense, but hey.”

  I chuckle a little. “No offense, but your dad’s a handsome, sexy guy—”

  “TMI, Aunt Ronnie.” Laura puts her hands over her ears, and I laugh again.

  “Too much information?” I ask. “How so?”

  “You do know kids don’t think their parents are supposed to have sex.” Laura now covers her eyes in mock horror. “But Juliana Wentworth would enjoy other benefits if she wants to become Mrs. Franklin Livingston Rutherfurd.” Her fingers flick air quotes when she says her father’s formal name.

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “There’s the money…”

  “It’s not about the money. I’m worried that Dad will make a terrible mistake the way Uncle Pete did.” My niece once more looks as though she wants to cry. “And then we’ll never see him again, just like Uncle Pete.”

  “Take it easy, Laura. This is about your father, not Peter,” I say, but I also feel a wave of sadness wash over me. You’d think I’d be done with that after so many years.

  That’s when Warrior walks over and plops his big head on Laura’s lap. I smile. “Hey, you need a dog. The world always looks better when you have a dog.”

  “Aunt Ronnie,” Laura practically wails. “This is your brother. I love Dad, but he’s gone head over heels for a woman who should be dating George Clooney, not him.”

  “Why is George Clooney any better? He’s not that much younger than your father. What’s really going on?”

  She clamps her hands onto her mug. “We don’t know anything about her,” Laura adds. “I tried to Google her. Not much out there. And I don’t know what to do, because Dad looks so happy for the first time since Mom died.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I say firmly.

  “But what if she does only want Dad’s money?” Laura taps her mug against her chin, deep in thought. “…or I guess it’s possible she might be a nice person. Oh, Aunt Ronnie, don’t you think we should hire a private detective, the way they do in the movies, to check her out?”

  The idea doesn’t strike me as being a good one. Too many negative possibilities leap to mind—such as Frank finding out and wanting to disown both his daughter and his sister. “One step at a time. First I want to
meet her.” Definitely that.

  “Done.” My niece almost smashes her mug on the table to make her point. “So sorry. I’m just so worried about this.” Horrified, she quickly examines the tabletop.

  “OK,” she continues. “Dad’s organizing a little get-together tomorrow evening, and I’m helping him. Six-thirty. Come meet her. See what you think.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I answer. “Count me in.”

  I refresh our coffee, and we sit quietly for a moment. I breathe in the smell of fresh-cut grass, while gazing at a bed of astilbe perennials anchored on each end by blossoming white Annabelle hydrangeas.

  Sitting in the garden of my old house always gave me great joy; the same now holds true in this smaller garden. I spot several weeds and can’t resist hopping up to pull them out.

  The sound of childish laughter distracts me, and Laura and I look in the direction of the dirt road. “Ah, those kids love riding their bikes back and forth,” I say.

  “You don’t miss living in your big house?” she asks me. “I mean, you’ve really downsized.”

  “Nope. Don’t miss it at all,” I say, a little too quickly, remaining focused on the weeds.

  She looks at me for any clues that indicate otherwise. “Even though you’ve only been here a couple of weeks, don’t you wander up your road every now and then to check out your house? And maybe wish you were back there instead of living in your tiny guest cottage?”

  I look up at my charming two-story stone cottage with its new split-shake cedar roof and smile. “No. Mostly I got tired of all those empty rooms, especially now that Brooke’s working in the city, and Jessica’s doing the internship out West. That big house needs people, and the Lattimores have five kids running around the place. Plus, they’re good tenants, so it’s great.”

  Laura looks at me skeptically. “Really?”

  “You’ll find out later in life, kiddo, once you’re married, have children, and then one day, way in the future, become an empty-nester like me. You end up living in the same three or four rooms, no matter the size of the house.”