Today's recommendation is a cozy mystery
D.W. Thompson
Chapter One
A feeling of dread squeezed my soul in its dark grip. I bolted upright in
bed and searched the darkness for the source of my discomfort. Was it a sound,
real or imagined? A consequence of my first week’s stay in a new home? I was
chilled to the bone, and goosebumps rose on my flesh. Too many of my premonitions proved well founded to ignore…something was wrong. My thoughts
went to my estranged family. Nana, in the sunset of life, was in a battle with the demon possessing
her—Dementia. Her curse weighed heavily on my brother, Daniel, his wife, and
their relationship. If something
was as wrong as my churning
gut indicated, was it Nana?
No, if it was Nana, Gwen would have called to let me know.
Wiping the crud from the corners of my eyes, I crawled out of bed. Last night’s
mystery novel fell from its hiding place between my flannel sheets. The day’s
traumas and the two-hour drive to gather the last of my possessions from my old
digs had overwhelmed my curiosity about the fictional “who-done-it.” My brother
used to mock my choice of literature. I considered it professional reading.
I glanced out of my bedroom window. Raindrops slithered down the glass,
and the filtered dawn cast its shadowed light. I wished the window faced east
for the sunrise, like my childhood bedroom
in the old house. Nana is staying there now. It was
the closest one to Daniel and Gwen’s bedroom. I hoped Nana would find more
peace there than I had.
Sliding my feet into cheap imitation fur-lined slippers, I set the book
on my nightstand and made my way to the kitchen, and the coffee pot. The old-
fashioned percolator began its flirtatious dance, and the scent of the fresh
ground coffee teased my nostrils. I glanced around the room, noticing all the
work needing to be done. The condition of the place made it affordable for me.
The paint was chipping from the walls, and the kitchen cabinets were stained
with decades of accumulated grease. The sink’s
constant drip kept time with
the ticking of the kitchen clock, a throwback black cat with rolling eyes and a
swishing tail. But it was home, and it was mine. Well, mine and Old
Joseph’s—the name I gave to the source of falling objects and bumps in the
night. What I only somewhat jokingly referred to as my resident ghost.
I wasn’t sure I
believed in ghosts, but I was a firm believer
in my vivid imagination.
As I poured my first cup of the day, the phone rang, and my teeth clenched. I hated the sound, the
nerve-rattling jangle, and the irrational call to immediate action it demanded. I wished the telemarketers would
at least allow me to enjoy my morning coffee. Who else would call so early?
At the second ring, I felt an ice-cold trickle creep up my spine, like
the time Sammy Mattingley threw ice cubes down the back of my blouse. My hand
trembled, hesitating to answer when I recognized the number. It was my brother,
Daniel.
At the third ring, I wished he hadn’t discovered I was home. Last month, Gwen spotted
me leaving the crappy hotel I used as my temporary local residence
while I house-shopped. This phone
call meant the cat
was out of the bag. I felt disloyal anyway,
not letting Gwen in on my secret return, but Daniel? My ten years away
hadn’t healed all the old wounds. Creating a new life and forging my independence provided
a much-needed salve to my soul. Still, I wished he didn’t know.
By the fourth ring, I’d convinced myself his call was to bitch at
me—feigning hurt for not telling him I was back. My finger brushed against the
phone’s “ignore” button…but what if it was about Nana? And he was my brother…the DNA test said so.
I answered before the fifth jingle when the voicemail would kick in.
Might as well get it over with—in case it was about Nana…
“Hello?”
“Emma, I need you at the house as soon as you can get here.”
“Daniel? How about ‘Good morning, Emma. Did you pass the test and get
your license, Emma? I’m so glad you’re home safe and—’ ”
“Not
now, Sis. Please get here as soon as you can. It’s important. I need you.”
“Is something wrong with Nana? Is she—” But the line was already dead.
Typical of my brother. His needs
came before anyone else’s.
Pouring coffee in a go-cup, I threw on a pair of well-broken-in jeans and
a sweatshirt, hopping toward the door as I pulled on my soft rubber clogs—as
fancy as I get to go to the family farm. They needed me, and from Daniel’s
perspective at least,
they needed me now.
He must figure even the black sheep
of the family is handy in bad times. I brushed my hair
with one hand and backed my old soft-top Bronco down the driveway with the
other.
My recently purchased cottage on the outskirts of Newtowne was seven
miles from the farm. The home place was a sprawling
acreage with a creek bed running along one border and a pond at the bottom of
the hill from the main house—what some called Love’s
Manor. Many of those same folks claimed the place was haunted. At times
when I lived there, hearing the scratching in the walls and the bumps in the
night, I almost believed the stories to be true. Locals claimed the hauntings
were from the deaths occurring in the house over the past century—not least of
which were my parents, my older sister, Maya, and her best friend, Jessie. Others
widened its haunted
origins to include
the entire town. These candidates included Benjamin Hance, the young
black man who was lynched on June 17, 1887, for allegedly attempting to assault
a white woman. An even older tragedy was that of the legendary witch, Moll Dyer, whose cabin was set ablaze on the coldest night of the winter
of 1697 by village vigilantes. Moll froze to death. It is rumored she still
roams the area and wishes to reclaim the lands she once walked. I put little
stock in such things. It wasn’t the supernatural that had pushed me away from
my ancestral home, nor was it the reason for my return.
The half-mile driveway
followed the contour
of old tobacco fields—now
covered with stubble from this year’s crop of soybeans. Not much appeared to
have changed in the years I was away.
Driving past the pond,
I smelled the honeysuckle vines, and an unexpected tear slid down my cheek.
“Miss you always,
Maya,” I said to the ghost of my
sister claimed at Love’s Manor.
Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the trees as the Bronco
sputtered up the hill toward the house. Cops were everywhere. Three squad cars
and a lone ambulance were parked in front of the house.
The car groaned as I slapped it into Park and raced to the house to beat the rain. Daniel
met me, holding
the front door open.
“What
the hell’s going on?” I
asked.
“Emma, it’s Gwen. I don’t know what’s happened. The house was broken
into, and she’s nowhere to be found.”
“What’s Sheriff Wathen saying?”
“Just what I told you. The glass in the side door was broken, and that’s
how they got in. There’s no note from Gwen saying she was going anywhere, and
if she was taken against her will, there’s nothing from the kidnappers.”
“The
sheriff thinks she was kidnapped?”
“I don’t know what he thinks, but he suspects me of something, the way he’s putting me through the third
degree. That’s why I called you. You’re a private investigator now, right? You
passed your test?”
“Where were you and Maria when the house was broken into? You didn’t hear
anything?”
“No, but we weren’t in the house, Emma. Maria can vouch for that. She heard me driving the tractor to check on
the cover crop in the backfield. I offered to take her along as Gwen suggested.
She said a break from Nana might be good for her, but Maria wanted to weed
Nana’s flower bed. She said she’d promised her.”
“When
was this?”
“Last evening. I got back around dusk and parked the tractor
in the barn. Maria was still in the backyard
in the flower beds. We came in together through the back and went up to
check on Nana. She was agitated about something, but I couldn’t make much sense
of it and didn’t pay her much mind. You know how she gets. After I calmed her
down, I went to bed. Gwen wasn’t there, but she often stays up late. She curls
up by the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book. I tried to wait up for
her, but I must’ve passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up this
morning, and she wasn’t in bed. I
went through the house calling for her. That’s when I saw the broken glass.”
“So, after you came home, you never saw her before you went to bed?”
“No, I told you—”
“Have they found anything yet?”
“They found blood on a broken necklace outside in the grass, Emma. The clasp
snapped like it was ripped from her neck. It was the one I gave Gwen on her
birthday last year.” Daniel’s face was pale, bloodless, and his eyes swollen.
“Deep
breaths, brother,” I said.
“Right. So, did you pass your test? Did you get everything unpacked in
the new place?”
“I did, and I have. Thanks.”
“What do you think happened to her, Emma?”
“I don’t know, but here comes the sheriff. Maybe he found something new.”
“He’s been grilling Maria for the last hour as if she would know
anything…”
Sheriff Wathen stepped toward us. His footfalls were as silent as our father taught us to be when stalking game, like a true predator.
John Wathen was Daniel’s age, but young to be sheriff—even in a community as
small as ours. It helped that he ran unopposed in the last election and that
his family went back as far as ours. His ancestors were also passengers on the
Ark at Maryland’s beginning. They’d lost some local standing in recent times
over a scandal involving his younger brother Robert and drugs. The family’s
wealth and social standing meant Robert got off with less than a slap on the
wrist, but it did rub some muck on the family’s name. I heard Robert was
running for County Commissioner next year. He’d probably win too.
“Emma,” the sheriff said. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I felt his
nails dig in through my sweatshirt. He twisted me around to face him.
“How have you been, girl? I’ve heard good things.”
“I’m doing well, Sheriff.” I grabbed his hand, lifted it off my shoulder, and dropped it
as if it were repulsive, rotted
flesh. I wiped my hands on my jeans.
“Same
old Emma, I see.”
The sheriff smiled as if it hurt his face, and his jowls shook at the
effort. He was a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of man and kept his dark receding
locks slicked back like he owned stock in several hair products. His girth had grown proportionate to his arrogance since I’d last seen
him.
“Congratulations on winning the election, Sheriff. Do you have any clues
about what happened to my sister-in-law? This isn’t like her at all.”
“I’m hoping your brother can help me with that. What do you say, Mr. Love? Would you like to chat here or back at the Newtowne station?”
****
I knew better than to ask the sheriff’s permission to sit in
on the “chat,” AKA interrogation. There was bad blood between our families as
far back as anyone could remember. My school years with the younger Wathen
brother, Robert, did nothing to dissuade me from my family’s low opinion of the
clan.
Deputy Sam Mattingley (yes, that same Sammy Mattingley—he of ice cube
notoriety) was a different story altogether. Sam was a tall lanky man with a
face full of freckles and an aww-shucks way about him. Despite our childhood pranks on each other, we became
good friends over time. It only took a wink and a smile, and Sam had a chair
set up for me just outside of the door. I could hear every word…
The sheriff started
slow, and I’ll give him the credit due—he knew how to get an
interviewee to open up.
“Can you give me a description of your wife, Mr. Love? Or a picture for
our case file? I knew her, of course, but a detailed description with any
unusual identifying features, that sort of thing, would be helpful.”
“Okay. Gwen is five foot, five inches tall, and weighs about a hundred
thirty pounds. I know because she was just saying the other night that she’d
gained a few pounds and needed to go on another one of her crazy fad diets. She
has shoulder-length wavy black hair. Two weeks ago, she had two pink streaks
put in the front of her hair at Brandy’s beauty parlor out on Route 235. She
said it framed and accentuated her face or something. I thought it was a little
strange at first, but it looks good on her. She has a small
mole at the base
of her neck that she wants Doc Johnson to look at on her next appointment. The
only other thing is a birthmark. Where I won’t say…”
“It could be important, Mr. Love, if we need to identify…Never mind.
We’ll let that go for now. Mr. Love, what do you think happened to your wife?”
“I wish I knew, Sheriff. I’m afraid for her. There’s the blood on the
necklace, and her purse is still here. I think she’s been taken.”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mr. Love. Ordinarily, we wait
twenty-four hours to follow up on a missing person’s case when it’s an adult, but for now, at least, her disappearance appears to be
involuntary. I understand your pain, Mr. Love, and we’ll do everything in our
power to find her. I’d like to monitor your phones in case any ransom demands
are made. Is there anything else the sheriff’s office can do for you during
this horrible time? I know, I know—catch the perp—but would you like a police
presence at night,
for instance? You know, to keep an eye on the place? I can spare a
deputy…”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“That’ll be fine then. Mr. Love, besides the broken door glass, did you
notice anything else different in the house this morning?”
“No, except my wife wasn’t anywhere to be found. Otherwise…wait, there
was a half-empty glass of milk on the kitchen counter. That wasn’t unusual for
her though. Do you think she got up in the middle of the night and that’s when
they nabbed her?”
“It is certainly possible. How long have you known Miss Maria Clements?” “A year or
so, maybe. She was recommended by a family friend. Honestly, we couldn’t ask
for a better live-in companion for Nana. Maria’s been a godsend. She sees to
all of Nana’s needs…and our grandmother can be a handful in her condition. Why
do you ask?”
“Did she get along well with your wife? Any tension between the two of
them? You know what they say about two women not being able to live peacefully
in the same house. Was there anything like that?”
“No. They got along well.”
“I’m surprised. Miss Clements is quite a looker. I’m sure you’ve noticed,
and you know how women can be. Young Deputy Abell got all tongue-tied when she
opened the door this morning. Young and shapely, yes sir…not that your wife
wasn’t a lovely woman herself. But no jealousy there at all?”
“No, Sheriff, and I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“So, she’s just an employee of your family? Nothing more? Ever tempted to
stray a bit, Mr. Love? Nobody could hardly blame you.”
I heard my brother’s sharp intake of breath and a soft growling sound.
The sound he learned to make to control his ill temper. “No, I have not. What
are you implying, John?”
“Well. It’s just that the both of you live here but were conveniently
absent when the break-in occurred and you’re each the other’s alibi.”
“My wife is missing, Sheriff. There’s nothing convenient about this
situation. Is that all or is there another bee in your bonnet?”
“I reckon that’s about it for now. You know what they say
in the movies,
Mr. Love—‘don’t leave town.’ ”
I heard the sheriff’s chair scrape against the floor. I gestured to Sam
to grab mine before the sheriff cleared the door.
“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Love,” the sheriff said. “Did you know Miss
Clements has a police record? Seems she was picked up over in Chapman County
for prostitution ten years ago.”
David W. Thompson
https://www.david-w-thompson.com
David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.
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