Keeping Promises Can Be Murder: A Lexi Taylor and Ray Jansen Mystery

by Susan Goslak

  Keeping Promises Can Be Murder

  Copyright

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without the permission in writing from its publisher, Susan Henke Goslak

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. I am not associated with any product or vendor in this book

  Published By Susan Henke Goslak.

  Cover design by Susan Henke Goslak

  For Ray.

  We’re still having fun and you’re still the one.

  Acknowledgements:

  Once again I want to thank my wonderful editor, Pat Farkas.

  She has been instrumental in helping me to grow as an author.

  He ain’t heavy. He’s My Brother

  . . . His welfare is my concern.

  From the song by Bobby Scott and Bob Russel

  « Chapter One »

  “Happy New Life!” I said to Ray as I brushed the sand off of my hands and threw my arms around his neck. We were on an isolated stretch of beach. The sky was overcast and a warm wind was blowing my hair into my eyes. Ray had just helped me bury a small box covered with flowered paper and tied with a pink ribbon.

  “Don’t you mean Happy New Year?” asked Ray and isn’t it a little late for that? New Year’s Eve was three months ago. It’s almost Easter.”

  “Well, burying this box means that I’m putting the past behind me and looking toward the future,” I answered.

  “In that case, Happy New Life!” said Ray as he pulled me to him and gently brushed a lock of hair from my eyes. “No more sad eyes.”

  “No more sad eyes,” I agreed.

  Ray gently lifted my chin up and gave me a sweet, gentle

  kiss.

  The box we’d just buried contained mementos of David that

  I’d been hanging onto for two years Things like the dried corsage that he’d given me on the night he proposed; a little teddy bear he’d given me on the first Valentine’s Day we’d celebrated; and the letters he’d written to me when he was so far away fighting for our country. Such sweet letters they were, so full of love and hope for the future. While David was writing those letters I was at home planning our wedding, but the future that David and I had envisioned was not meant to be, because David was killed in the war.

  My name is Lexi Taylor. I am five foot two, average build, have long blonde hair and light blue eyes. I vividly remember the day David’s parents broke the news to me about David’s death and I still have nightmares about that day. That’s an odd phrase. Don’t you think? David’s parents didn’t break any news. What happened was that the news broke me. I took David’s death very hard. I had planned not only our wedding, but also our future life together. Every thought I had, every emotion I felt centered around David. My plans were complete down to the smallest detail. What I hadn’t planned on was fate intervening to take David away, and leave me alone, so terribly alone. I became so depressed that I quit my job as a teacher because I couldn’t concentrate. I lost interest in things that I had once enjoyed. I stopped seeing my friends. I didn’t want to go on living without David. I wanted to die so I could be with him. I was a mess. To this day I feel awful about how pitiful I acted then. I wish I’d been stronger, more courageous.

  Fortunately, my sister, Pat, and her husband, Jack, stood by me. About a year ago the company Jack worked for, C. Smithton

  Inc., asked him to relocate from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Los

  Angeles, California and they took me with them when they moved.

  That move brought me out of my depression and gave me the opportunity to start a new life. And what a new life it is. I’m a stronger person now. You know what they say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’ve gone from sitting in the dark wallow-

  ing in self pity to a life full of so many surprises and new experiences that I feel like I’m on a roller coaster. What a thrill! I love roller coasters!

  When I arrived in Los Angeles I took some time to find an apartment to rent and to explore my new city. Having heard so much about how wonderful California is, I was eager to check out my new home state. My sister, Pat, and I had a lot of fun doing just that. She is just an inch or two taller than me, with short brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. We laughed and laughed when we went to the La Brea tar pits because my sister has a silly joke about them, but the place I liked best was the ocean.

  In Pittsburgh we have three rivers. If you stand on the observation deck on Mount Washington, across the street from my grandfather’s house, you can see the Allegheny River and the Monongahela River coming together to form the Ohio River. There is a fourth river underground. It is used to create a huge fountain at the point. I used to enjoy taking the incline to the top of Mount Washington to visit my granddad and to look out over my beautiful city.

  The ocean is beautiful, too. It’s so majestic, so powerful. I love to walk along the beach listening to the surf pounding the shore,

  and the gulls crying overhead; feeling the breezes blowing through my hair. I try to paint the ocean, but I just can’t seem to capture its beauty and majesty. I hope with time and practice I’ll be able to do that one day.

  Since I don’t have an endless supply of money, I soon decided that I needed to find work; not teaching, which was what I’d done in Pittsburgh. I didn’t feel emotionally strong enough to handle the problems that children face and be of any help to them. I wanted a simple job that wouldn’t require any emotional input from me. I evaluated my skills and decided that I had enough computer skills to apply for a secretarial position. One day, when I was feeling courageous, or was it silly that I was feeling, I put on my best suit, wound my hair into a French knot, stepped into a pair of sensible heels, and, drove into the city. I chose a building at random planning to enter each of the offices in the building and simply ask if they needed any help.

  The building I chose was the Harold P. Lennox office building. It was an older building with gray stone facing and decorative trim along the roofline. The ground floor was occupied by stores, a bank and a restaurant/bar. There was a revolving door flanked on both sides by glass doors for those who didn’t want to use the revolving door. There were also large glass display windows where the stores could show what they had for sale.

  I stood in the lobby looking at the board that displayed the names of the companies that occupied the upper floors of the building. The doorman saw that I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do and asked me if I needed some help. I smiled at him and thanked h

  him as I entered the elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor.

  Six is my lucky number so I decided that starting on the sixth floor would be lucky. Six is my lucky number because when I was in grade school I took a chance on a game at our church bazaar, number 6, and I won the doll I had my eye on. I decided then and there that six was my lucky number.

  The first office I came to was the Woods Detective Agency. Was it fate or luck that led me there on a day when one secretary was out sick, one was on vacation, and a third handed in her resignation? The HR person hired me on the spot.

  My first few weeks on the job were hectic. I had to help pick up the slack left by the missing workers while learning what was expected of me. I didn’t meet the person responsible for the turn my life has taken for three weeks because he was out of town on a case. His name is
Ray Jansen. He is one of the detectives at the agency. I still remember the day I first saw him. He is one of those people who stand out in a crowd. He walked into our office and heads turned, including mine. I leaned toward the secretary next to me and asked, “Who is that hunk?”

  She grinned and said, “He’s your boss, you lucky duck.”

  Did you ever notice that most people are average looking? There’s nothing notable about them. Every now and then you see someone who stands out in the crowd. That’s Ray. He has movie star looks. Of course here in L.A. we have an abundance of those types, but not in our office. We all look pretty average except for Ray. He’s the best looking man at the agency. If you don’t believe me, ask any

  of the other secretaries. He’s tall: six foot three. Dark: he has dark brown hair that is so dark it’s almost black, and brown eyes that can be soft and caring one minute, cold and hard as steel the next. And, he’s handsome: slim waist, wide shoulders. He’s fit and strong. He always looks good whether he’s wearing a tuxedo or jeans and a tee shirt. In my opinion, Ray isn’t just eye candy. He’s the best detective at the agency. He works tirelessly for his clients. He’s clever, and courageous. He’s also kind and caring. If he didn’t care so much for his clients he wouldn’t be willing to put his life on the line for them. He likes to help people by solving their problems. No, it’s deeper than that. He actually needs to help people. It’s part of who he is.

  Now when I see him my heart skips a beat, just as it did the first time I laid eyes on him. I think maybe I was attracted to Ray from the moment I first saw him. I say maybe because I’m not sure. You see I was still feeling sorry for myself; and I was also feeling guilty about being alive when David was dead. I kept a photo of David in my top right-hand desk drawer and every time I glanced at his smiling blue eyes and his curly blonde hair I felt that in order to honor David’s memory I should remain single forever. Yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense, but I wasn’t thinking rationally. When some of the men in the office asked me out, I turned them all down. I probably should have seen a psychiatrist at the time, but I refused that kind of help. In some convoluted way it made me feel better when I felt bad. Is that what they call survivor’s guilt?

  In our office each detective works primarily with one secretary. I was assigned to Ray. Right from the beginning he made it clear that our relationship was to be all business. He treated me

  with the same respect and courtesy as everyone else, but nothing more, until my brother-in-law, Jack Farmer, turned up missing and I asked Ray for help.

  Our relationship changed as we worked together to locate Jack and find the killer of the body that Jack and Ray found in Tennessee. I finally realized that if I wanted our relationship to grow I’d have to put my memories of David into the past where they belonged. That is how we wound up burying a box on the beach. It was a symbolic act. I was putting the past behind me. Ray dug the hole for me in the sand, and then we wished each other “Happy New Life!” My symbolic act didn’t represent a new year. It represented more than that. It represented a whole new life.

  Now spring was here. We would celebrate Easter next week. On the balcony of my apartment I was growing geraniums in three shades of pink, my favorite color. I enjoyed sitting there listening to the birds chirping. Of course, it was hard to hear them, what with all the traffic noise on the nearby freeway.

  Speaking of the freeway, that’s where this case began. But I don’t want to confuse you. The actual case didn’t begin on the freeway. It was an accident on the freeway that brought Ray into the case

  It was a rainy April day. Ray was driving back from San Diego where he’d met with executives from American Mutual Insurance Company, one of the Woods Detective Agency’s biggest clients. The car in front of his drove too fast through a puddle, hydroplaned, lost control, hit the guard rail, bounced back into the roadway, and came to a stop in the center lane facing oncoming

  traffic.

  Ray’s reactions are quick. He was able to accelerate and avoid hitting that car. He pulled onto the berm and stopped, intending to give help to the driver. However, a car in the center lane, in an effort to avoid hitting the stopped car, wound up in the curb lane. The car in the curb lane that had been behind Ray swerved right to avoid the car that was coming into his lane and rear-ended Ray’s car. Ray was thrown forward, his air bag deployed and Ray swore.

  When the police, the paramedics and the tow trucks had cleared the scene, Ray got a neck brace and a rental car and continued on his journey. He was due in the office that morning, but he didn’t arrive until just before quitting time.

  In the brief time that I’ve worked at the Woods Detective Agency, I’ve seen Ray come in with cuts, bruises, bandages, and crutches, but those times he was working on cases that involved bad people who didn’t want to be apprehended. Nobody expected Ray to get hurt during a meeting with some insurance executives.

  I was just putting on my raincoat, getting ready to leave when I saw Ray walk into the office wearing a neck brace. I set my purse down on my desk and ran over to him. “Oh my God, Ray, what happened?”

  “I’m okay. I was involved in a traffic accident,” he said as he reached up to brush back the curl of dark brown hair that tends to fall on his forehead. As he did that I noticed that his wrist was bandaged.

  Before I could comment on that Paul Woods, our boss, came out of his office. He’s a tall, thin man with medium brown hair and

  blue eyes. “You mean the fourteen car pile-up on the freeway?” he asked. I just saw it on the news. It’s a miracle that you’re walking. A lot of people were hospitalized.”

  That information didn’t make me feel good at all. “Just how badly are you hurt?” I asked.

  Ray put his arm around my shoulders and drew me toward him. He looked down into my blue eyes with his soft brown eyes. “Stop worrying, Lexi. I’m fine. I have a little whiplash and some bruising from the airbag.” He glanced at Paul as he continued, “The car in front of me started the whole thing. I got out of his way, but the guy behind me rear ended me, my damn air bag deployed and I got whiplash. I guess, considering the mess that was made, I am lucky.”

  “Give me your briefcase, go home and rest up. Come in late tomorrow, or not at all if you don’t feel up to it,” Paul said.

  Ray handed his briefcase to Paul. “Lexi, you’d better drive me home,” Ray said with a mock grimace. “I feel weak. I might need you to help me get into bed.

  “Oh, poor baby, you do look like you’re in pain.” I turned toward Paul. “Paul, will you please hire a nurse for Ray, After all, he did get hurt in the line of duty.” I turned back toward Ray, “Ray, you go home and rest till the nurse gets there. I’ll be here in the office tomorrow if you still feel weak.”

  Paul laughed out loud at my teasing. Ray tried to look stricken, “Don’t I get any sympathy at all?” He touched his neck brace with his bandaged hand and whined, “Is there no comfort for the injured?”

  “Go on, get out of here, both of you,” said Paul through his laughter. Paul was an old friend of Ray’s. In his opinion Ray had been single for too long, so Paul was doing his best to help Ray and I become a couple, a married couple, or at least a couple who live together.

  I stood on tiptoe to give Ray a peck on his cheek, picked up my belongings and pranced out of the office listening to Ray calling, “Hey!” as he ran after me, and to Paul guffawing.

  « Chapter Two »

  The day after the accident on the freeway occurred Ray received a call from the man who had rear-ended his car, a Mr. Logan. Ray thought that he was calling about the insurance claim from the accident, but Mr. Logan wanted to make an appointment.

  The next morning, promptly at eight, Mr. Carl Logan arrived. He was an ordinary looking man. He wouldn’t stand out in any situation. He was around 5 foot ten; average build; brown hair cut short, brown eyes and he wore jeans, a polo shirt and a beige light weight jacket. I met him at the reception desk and ushered him into Ray’s office.

>   Ray’s office isn’t very big, but that’s okay because he isn’t in it very often. He prefers to be out in the field. His office has no windows. The walls are white, with no pictures on them. The floor is the original tan vinyl tile that was put in when the building was built.

  Ray was the first person hired when Paul Woods opened the

  Woods Detective Agency and yet Ray still hasn’t personalized his office. The only two things he’s added are a plain wooden chair for clients and a wooden coat rack which he only uses when he hasn’t

  draped his coat on the back of his desk chair. He still uses the same cheap metal desk that Paul gave him when the agency started up. The desk is always crowded with papers, files, and things like a coffee cup half full of cold coffee.

  Ray rose and walked around his desk to shake hands with Mr. Logan. He seated Mr. Logan in his uncomfortable client chair and asked me to bring both of them a cup of coffee.

  I brought in a tray with two mugs, a carafe, cream and sugar and set it on one corner of Ray’s desk. The men exchanged pleasantries while I fixed their coffee: light, no sugar for Mr. Logan; black, one sugar for Ray. Both men took a sip of their drinks as I sat next to Ray’s desk and opened my computer.

  Ray said, “My secretary, Miss Taylor, will take notes.”

  Mr. Logan looked at me and nodded, and then he spoke, “Mr. Jansen, I hope you can help me. I don’t know who else to turn to. I saw on the card you gave me that you are an investigator so I decided to ask you for advice. It’s a simple matter. At least I think it’s simple.”

  Mr. Logan paused, sighed, “Well, actually, maybe it isn’t that simple.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what your problem is then, I’ll see if I can help you,” said Ray.