Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

  Chasing the Case

  The First Isabel Long Mystery

  Joan Livingston

  Copyright © 2018 by Joan Livingston

  Artwork: Adobe Stock © mslok

  Design: Soqoqo

  Editor: Miriam Drori

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2018

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  For my family

  Acknowledgements

  I extend my appreciation to anyone who encouraged me to write. You know who you are.

  Also, I offer special thanks to Laurence and Steph Patterson, of Crooked Cat Books, for taking a chance on me, and Miriam Drori, my editor who helped make my novel better.

  About the Author

  Joan Livingston is the author of novels for adult and young readers. Chasing the Case, published by Crooked Cat Books, is her first mystery and the first in a series featuring Isabel Long, a longtime journalist who becomes an amateur P.I.

  An award-winning journalist, she started as a reporter covering the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. She was an editor, columnist, and most recently the managing editor of The Taos News, which won numerous state and national awards during her tenure.

  After eleven years in Northern New Mexico, she returned to rural Western Massachusetts, which is the setting of much of her adult fiction, including Chasing the Case and its sequels.

  For more, visit her website: www.joanlivingston.net. Follow her on Twitter @joanlivingston.

  Praise for Chasing the Case

  “Written with meticulous attention to the details mystery readers relish and a welcome playfulness, this novel zips along like a well-tuned snowmobile.”

  Anne Hillerman

  Author of the New York Times bestselling

  Chee-Leaphorn-Manuelito mysteries.

  “A smart, fast-paced mystery, with a savvy and appealing protagonist who knows her way around the backwoods of the New England hilltowns.”

  Frederick Reiken

  Author of Day for Night,

  The Lost Legends of New Jersey,

  and The Odd Sea

  “An intriguing, clever plot, witty dialogues, a quaint setting, and believable characters, this novel is a page-turner to the very end.”

  Teresa Dovalpage

  Author of Death Comes in through the Kitchen,

  A Girl Like Che Guevara,

  and The Astral Plane

  “Chasing the Case is a fascinating look at a small-town mystery with rich memorable characters weaved masterfully into a yarn that could only be told by someone who lived that life once upon a time. Fortunately, the story stays with you long after you finish the last page. An enjoyable and satisfying read.”

  Joseph Lewis

  Author of Caught in a Web and the Lives Trilogy

  “Take a trip to the land of pot roast and murder. I did, and I liked what I read.”

  Craig Dirgo

  Author of The Einstein Papers,

  The Tesla Documents,

  and The Eli Cutter series

  Chasing the Case

  The First Isabel Long Mystery

  Dead Cat

  My name is Isabel Long. You may know of me, at least if you live in these parts. I was the managing editor of the local paper, the Daily Star, for almost fifteen years until the bastard who owned it sold out to a big chain. I shouldn’t really call him a bastard. He’s a decent enough guy. But he walked away from the newspaper that had been in his family for three generations with a couple of million bucks in his bank account, lucky him, and abandoned us to a corporation.

  I remember the morning he called everyone into the pressroom to give the news. He claimed nothing would change. We had nothing to worry about. I turned to my assistant editor and muttered, “Open wide. You won’t feel a thing.”

  I was right. He was wrong.

  A month in, we were told by the publisher, who still had his job then, we all had to reapply for ours. He pulled us into his office one by one. Of course, these things are always done on a Friday. They don’t like ugly scenes in the middle of the workweek.

  I sat across from George at his desk. I looked him in the eye. He had a hard time doing the same.

  “Isabel, I hate to do this to you,” he said.

  “Then don’t.”

  “I know it’s been a bad year for you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Please, Isabel, you’re not making this easy.”

  “Why should I? I worked my tail off for this paper for thirty-one years, as a reporter then an editor. I ran the newsroom for the last fifteen. Now I’m getting the heave-ho.”

  “No, you’re not. You just have to reapply.”

  “So, what are the odds they’ll hire me back at what I get paid now?”

  “Do you want me to be honest or lie?”

  “What do you think?”

  His head moved in a slow sideways roll.

  “God’s honest truth, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Be straight with me, George. What’ll happen if I don’t reapply?”

  “You can kiss this job good-bye.”

  That’s what I liked about George. Being an old Yankee, he never tried to make bad news sound good. I’m the same way although I grew up in the eastern part of the state, and unlike George, I may be a New Englander, but I’m not a Yankee. My grandparents came over on the boat from the Azores and Madeira islands. My last name before I got married was Ferreira. George’s folks were on the Mayflower or some other Yankee vessel. My folks fished and worked in sweatshops. His bled blue when they got a paper cut.

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “You can collect unemployment for a while.”

  “Any severance pay?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “I believe there’d be a, uh, modest payment considering your length of service here.”

  “Enough to buy new shoes?”

  “Depends on where you buy them.”

  “I am guessing more like Payless than Versace.”

  George’s head was rolling still. He knew my humor by now.

  “No, not Versace but a lot better than Payless.”

  I thought it over. If Sam, my husband, were still alive, we would’ve talked it over that night. But he’s part of my bad year, the start of it really. He died in his favorite chair while watching a basketball game on TV. That was November 8, twelve days from today. No one suspected the skinny guy would go from a heart attack. I couldn’t do anything to get him back when I found him. Too bad. He’s one of the good ones. I miss him like hell.

  I was too ticked off to accept the deal.

  “Tell them I said no.”

  “You sure?”

  “Have you ever known me not to be sure?”

  He smiled one of those smiles that leak sadness from inside.

  “Okay, go see the ladies in the office. Consider this your last day.”

  “So soon, eh? I get it. They don’t want me poisoning the pool. Let me get my stuff, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Uh.”

  “What is it now?”

  “I have to go with you to your office when you do it.”

  “They’re afraid I’ll take some pencils
and a pica pole? Jesus, I’m glad I’m not gonna work here anymore.”

  George frowned. “I know.”

  Later, George tried not to make me look too criminal when he accompanied me to my office. He sat in my chair while I went through the drawers and shelves. I already had a box I snagged from the pressroom when the HR director thought I went to the women’s room. As I took what belonged to me, I kept getting interrupted by my staff, who said nice things and even hugged me, all for the first time. I liked things to be at a professional distance. No drinks after work with the underlings or anything like that. But I was touched they wanted to say good-bye. I was a decent boss. I treated my staff fairly, and they knew I had their back. I was the mother wolf of the newsroom. No one touched my pups.

  I wasn’t about to ask any of them if they would be reapplying for their jobs. I bet the ones with young families and college debt would, but I didn’t want to know. And I didn’t want them to think I’m the only one with convictions.

  I made cleaning out my desk seem as boring as possible. I wanted George to lose interest in what I was doing. I already stashed the photos of Sam, our daughter and two sons, and our granddaughter who was born in May, the only happy thing that happened so far this year. I had some desk art, silly stuff like pinecones, shells, and a jar of sea glass. I’m nuts about stuff like that. There wasn’t much in the drawers I wanted to take home: my lunch bag, thermos, and purse. I’m not a hoarder. I opened each drawer, gave their contents a quick assessment, and then let them slide shut. I didn’t even take a pencil or pad although I should’ve out of spite.

  George woke up a little when I removed a couple of manila folders from the bottom drawer.

  “What’s that?”

  “Clippings. I’m gonna have to get a new job sometime.”

  He nodded. I was pleased he believed me. He wouldn’t want what was in those folders to leave the newsroom. They were for cold cases like the one that happened twenty-eight years ago in Conwell, the hilltown in Western Massachusetts where I live. A woman, Adela Collins, disappeared, and the cops were too incompetent to figure out what happened to her. I shoved the folders in the box.

  That happened four months ago. I can’t even read the Star and what the new owners have done with it. At least, I don’t think about the paper all the time or get pissed off about it, just some of the time, like right now while I bury this cat.

  The cat’s called Marigold. My husband named her because she’s an orange tabby. I prefer black cats because they’re mysterious and talk a lot. But one of the kids, Matt, brought her home when he found her on the side of the road, and of course, he left her behind when he moved out. Marigold was definitely Sam’s cat. I fed her before I left early in the morning for the newsroom. I cleaned her litter box and let her in and out whenever she wanted. But that cat would see Sam, and she’d jump in his lap like she was in love. She decided to hang around for a while after he died. She didn’t give me the same love, but enough love, so honestly I didn’t feel slighted.

  This morning, I found Marigold beneath a bush where she went to die after I let her outside. There were no marks on her. I don’t think it was from a broken heart, just old age.

  I dig the shovel’s point into the earth. I chose a spot in the backyard away from my vegetable garden. Damn, it’s cold for late October. The ground isn’t frozen yet, thank goodness, or I’d have a problem today. I’m in a sweatshirt and wearing gloves. I swear I see snowflakes when I glance up from my digging.

  I hear a tap at the kitchen window. My mother’s face is in the glass. Ma came to live with me this summer. Her name is Maria Ferreira. She didn’t want to be on her own, and I’m her kid with the most room, lots of room, actually. She’s been a widow a few years. Having your ninety-two-year-old mother move in could be a pain, but not my ninety-two-year-old mother. She hasn’t lost her edge. She stays up past midnight, later than me, watching TV and doing puzzles. I got her interested in some of the stuff in our dinky town, plus there are the kids and granddaughter.

  Ma still drives. She’s got a heavy foot like she’s behind the wheel of the getaway car in a bank robbery.

  The other day I told her, “Ma, you’re moving a little bit fast.”

  She joked, “No, it’s the car.”

  I laughed.

  I let her drive me around, so she doesn’t forget. That will change this winter. My commute to the newsroom was at times an adventure, snow, and the worst, ice. Sometimes I had to find a place to sleep in the city. The road crews do their best, but the weather can be unpredictable and fast.

  Ma checks my progress. I asked her not to come outside because it’s so cold. I give her a wave and keep digging.

  I bend to chuck rocks from the hole. I’m about two feet down and aiming for four. I don’t want anything getting to Marigold like coyotes or coy dogs, whatever in the hell they are. At least, she’s on the small side, so I aim for depth and not width.

  It’s moments like these when my body is doing something that I start thinking. Like I said, I stopped reading the paper because it’s turned into a bona-fide rag. George lost his job after all even though he dutifully reapplied. Some of the others, too, are gone after the new owners shrunk the staff. They don’t cover the little towns like this one anymore. Conwell is a one-stoplight, one-church, one-school, one-store, and one-bar kind of town with about a thousand people. But even so, a lot goes on that’s newsworthy. I should know. My first job was covering it.

  I didn’t grow up in Conwell, but I’ve always taken an interest in what goes on here, but not in that obnoxious way most newcomers adopt. They want to shut the gate after they’ve moved here. But back to the topic, the one bar and one store don’t advertise. So, why bother writing about the town unless something really big happens, which is hardly?

  I met George for coffee one day. His job only lasted a couple of months before they brought in someone from the corporation, a relative of the CEO. George is trying to find something else. He has a daughter in college. I told him to use me as a reference. He said he would do the same.

  “By the way, Isabel, what was really in those folders you took?” he asked when we were about to leave the coffee shop.

  “Like I told you, clippings.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He chuckled. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I just knew it.”

  My unemployment checks will run out soon. I have to find something else, too. I probably should’ve started earlier, but things got complicated with my mother moving here. Besides, I always work close to deadline, an occupational hazard to being a journalist, I believe. Ma chips in, and Sam did have life insurance, so I have money in the bank. The house is paid off anyway. I could likely do some freelance, but now that I’m out of the news biz, I don’t want anything to do with it. I could even file early for Social Security in a few years, but I’d like to hold off if I can. Uh-huh, I don’t look my age, do I? Neither does my mother. She looks maybe seventy-two. That makes me hopeful I inherited her genes.

  Damn, it’s cold. I’m repeating myself. The snow falls steadier. I have a sizable pile of dirt. I dip the shovel into the hole and eyeball the depth. I figure I have at least a foot to go. I’ve reached a rocky patch, but if I need to, I’ll get the crowbar from the shed. That’s the way Sam would do it, so I follow his advice. The crowbar is hanging where he left it.

  Sam was a master woodworker although he was too humble to say that about himself. Anyone who hired him to build a staircase or do finish work in their house always got more than their money’s worth. He did the same when he built this house.

  His workshop was in the basement. I could hear him banging around down there, building something beautiful. I haven’t had the heart to do anything with his tools. Sometimes I take my coffee down there, especially the first months after he was gone, just like I used to when he was alive. I’d bring him a cup. He’d light up a cigarette, the only place in the house he smoked, and tell me what
he was doing.

  Yes, I miss him like hell.

  We met in Boston, got married pretty fast, and started having kids. We moved to Conwell with the first, Matthew, because we wanted to raise him in the country, and then had two more close together. After taking a break to be with the kids when they were little, I started writing for the Daily Star as a correspondent, covering my town and the ones around it. I got paid, first by the inch, and then by the story. I used to be a reporter in Boston, not the Globe or Herald but something a lot smaller and now nonexistent – a victim of the big crash in 2008 and the rise of online news. At the Star, I went from correspondent to staff reporter to editor, and as I joke, clawed my way to the top, where I liked it until the paper got sold.

  Sam and I made a good life here for our kids and us. He was a trustworthy guy, a little deaf from the power equipment and used to keeping things inside. But he was kind, hardworking, and a great dancer.

  Yup, it still hurts.

  The crowbar does help. I’m making progress. It’s a good thing because the snow hasn’t let up. The flakes still melt when they hit the grass, but that won’t last if the snow keeps going. I didn’t know it was supposed to snow, but then I stopped watching the weather report. When I was commuting into the newsroom, forty minutes in the morning, when there’s no traffic, and fifty in the afternoon, when there is, that is, when the roads are clear, I was a fanatic about the weather. I left at 6:10 a.m. because I knew the highway crew had made the first sweep of the hill in front of our house at 6 a.m. for the early morning commuters. The next town over did the same because of the steep hills there. I traveled through four towns. I knew every bump and grind on that route.

  If this snow amounts to anything, it could be a pain for the nighttime commuters, especially if the temperature drops and ices the roads. The first winter storm is always the worst. Everyone forgets how to drive in the stuff. The last storm is the second worst. The snow is wetter because it’s likely spring and the road crews are sick of plowing. But they’re hardworking guys, mostly rednecks. I see them at the one bar in Conwell. It’s called the Rooster Bar and Grille. I always say hello.