RCMP officer Winston Windflower’s rare afternoon off gets interrupted when a hit and run turns into murder and he must pull together a team of Mounties from Newfoundland to resolve the crime. Following the money and fentanyl— and bodies—Windflower and his team join forces with police officers in southern Ontario to take down an international drug-smuggling ring.
Windflower must face personal doubts and fears when fellow Mountie Fil Romano is kidnapped. While the higher-ups at HQ make plans to give safe passage to the drug lords in return for Romano’s life, Windflower worries Romano will get caught in the crossfire. Windflower again looks to his friends and allies for help in the difficult hours and days ahead.
First Chapter:
Summer was nearing its end in the small town of Grand Bank on the eastern shore of Canada. Winston Windflower, husband, father and RCMP officer, was enjoying some quiet time while his wife, Sheila Hillier, and their two girls, Amelia Louise and Stella, were in St. John’s for their annual back-to-school shopping spree. He was alone except for his four-legged friends. Lady, an eight-year-old collie, was still frisky and ready to go for a walk as always. Molly, the cat, was ageless and just about lifeless as she sat in her bed waiting for the next treat to fall in front of her.
It was a fine, sunny day as Windflower looked out of their home onto the Atlantic Ocean. Because it was so nice, he had taken the afternoon off for picking berries. The summer had been unusually hot and sticky, and that meant the berries were out a little earlier than usual. His fervent hope was that his special picking spot had not been disturbed by early pickers trampling down bushes and limiting the harvest.
If things went well, he could pick a gallon of berries in a couple of hours, and if he was super lucky, Sheila would make something fabulous with the blueberries when she got back. Maybe a pie or even one of her blueberry specialties. Windflower salivated when he imagined all of that deliciousness. He grabbed a couple of Tupperware containers and a bottle of water and then headed for his favourite spot.
There was a congregation of berry pickers at the closest picking location, just past the clinic. Bent over, they paid him little attention. He didn’t mind being ignored. The area was too busy and crowded for him. He took the trail down by the brook and then up the hill to the lookout. He paused for a moment to take in the majestic view of Grand Bank. Windflower glanced over the brook to the town and the wharf, all the way to the craggy outcrop that the locals called the Cape. Then he continued on up over the hill and towards the other side.
He veered off the path about halfway down and was very pleased to find his desired location calm and untouched. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Creator and began his task. Some people would have thought of this as work, but Windflower found berry picking both meditative and spiritual. It reconnected him to the land and made him think of his early days growing up on the reserve in Pink Lake, Alberta. His Cree family would all go berry picking for the day, bringing a lunch and a kettle to make tea.
He soon had one container filled and was working on the second when his pocket buzzed. He checked the number on his phone. It was Corporal Samira Gupta, his right-hand assistant, calling from the bigger community of Marystown. He had made arrangements with his boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, that he would take the job as acting inspector for the region as long as he could stay in Grand Bank and have an assistant in Marystown. Gupta filled her role perfectly.
“What’s up, Corporal?” asked Windflower.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Gupta. “Betsy said you were off. But I thought you should know. We had a hit and run in Marystown. Over near Walmart. A woman in her forties is in hospital. Sergeant Tizzard is on the scene.” Eddie Tizzard was one of Windflower’s long-time friends and co-workers. They’d been working together for the last 10 years in one way or another.
“That’s a dangerous area,” said Windflower. “How is the woman?”
“She was unconscious when they brought her to the hospital in Burin,” said Gupta. “But no other information so far.”
“And the driver?”
“We’re working on it. Tizzard has a team doing interviews from the scene.”
“It’s busy around there. Somebody would have seen something.”
“That was our thinking, too,” Gupta agreed. “If we don’t get anything back soon from the canvass, we’ll do a media hit.”
“Perfect. Keep me posted.”
Now that his reverie had been disrupted, Windflower packed up his stuff and headed back down to his car. He was driving towards home when he noticed the driver of a passing car flashing their headlights at him. He slowed down and pulled over and then went to see if they were okay. As he got closer, he squinted to see Moira Stoodley, co-owner of the Mug-Up Café, the best and only diner in Grand Bank, in the driver’s seat. She was also the wife of his best friend, Herb Stoodley, who was tutoring him in two very diverse subjects—classical music, about which Windflower knew next to nothing before he met Herb, and trout and salmon fishing, which he thought he had mastered but now realized he was only a beginner.
He assumed Moira had stopped him to say hello or to pass along a message from her husband. But it was much more serious.
“I saw Mike Winger, that crazy-looking guy, back on the road,” said Moira. “It looked like his wheelchair had tipped over. A few young fellers were helping him get back up. But he looked in bad shape. Had a cut over his forehead. I asked him if he was okay. He told me to mind my business and went on home. You might want to check in on him.”
It wasn’t exactly his job to look after wandering locals, but it had become expected of the lone police officer in the community. He may have the high and mighty title of acting inspector, but his day job consisted of part-time social worker, youth counsellor and senior companion when he wasn’t solving crimes or directing the limited amount of traffic that Grand Bank produced.
Helping citizens in distress certainly fell into his ‘other related duties’, and Mike Winger seemed to be in constant need of assistance of one kind or another. Mostly of his own doing.
Windflower knew a little about the man from his many interactions with him. Winger was an American and a veteran of the Gulf Wars. After he left the military, he got certified as a refrigeration mechanic and started wandering around, first in the United States and then into Canada. He ended up in the Grand Bank area working for fish plants and discovered a place where nobody really knew him but welcomed him anyway.
Mike Winger finally felt at home. He bought a house and found a girl who eventually moved in.
His life seemed perfect until… the crash that changed his life. His girlfriend was killed instantly as his car slid off the highway to avoid a moose one late spring morning. He was left with one leg paralyzed and the other badly damaged. Stuck with his feeling of loss and grief, he turned to alcohol and then drugs. Then he became mean and isolated. His scooter was his only escape, but even that turned out to be another source of problems.
Windflower had rescued him and the scooter more times than he could remember. From ditches by the side of the road. From a farmer’s field. From the pub, more than once, when he had been asked to leave, none too politely. One time from the cemetery, although Windflower wasn’t exactly sure how that happened. Mike Winger was certainly one of Windflower’s pet irritants in Grand Bank. But since neither of them were going anywhere soon, they had figured out how to survive, if not get along, together.
The biggest issue that Windflower had with Winger these days wasn’t that he smoked weed. Heck, that was so legal that Windflower could imbibe if he chose to. He didn’t, of course, and didn’t really care who did, as long as they were at least 19. That’s where he and Winger had an issue. Winger always had some young people hanging around to do his errands, and in return they could often get a beer and a joint. And they were often under Newfoundland’s legal age for drinking alcohol or possessing cannabis. Windflower had warned Winger several times about this and had even fined him, but nothing seemed to change.
That was a problem. For Windflower. For the parents of these young people. Even the town council got involved. But like many problems in small towns, the solution was not an easy one. There were only so many options for the RCMP to explore, and Windflower had tried nearly all of them. The next step was jail, and while Winger had told him several times that he didn’t care if he got locked up, Windflower was trying to avoid that. He knew it wouldn’t be good for anyone involved, including him.
Windflower hoped he wouldn’t have to jail Winger today. He waved goodbye to Moira Stoodley and swung his vehicle around. It didn’t take him long to find Mike Winger. He was stopped on his scooter by the side of the road, smoking a cigarette and yelling at some youngsters across the street.
About the Author:
Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.
He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 17 books in this light mystery series with the publication of A Change in Plans.
A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawnwon the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.
Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.
Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.
Title: Friends Are Forever (A Sgt. Windflower Mystery Book 16)
Author: Mike Martin
Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Pages: 318
Genre: Mystery
Format: Paperback, eBook & FREE on Kindle Unlimited
BOOK BLURB:
As
Winston Windflower, his police colleagues and their families gather in
Marystown, Newfoundland, to celebrate those being promoted up the RCMP
ranks, a sophisticated heist by international mobsters and local biker
gangs unfolds in multiple cities and towns throughout the province,
robbing banks and businesses of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The
Mounties soon realize more than money is being lost.
In this,
the sixteenth novel in the Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, author Mike
Martin continues to craft intrigue in the cultural and geographical
setting unique to Newfoundland and Labrador. Readers new to the
Windflower mysteries and those returning will experience the joys of a
close-knit community that thrives on the simpler things in life: por’
cakes, a lighthouse in serious need of a facelift, TV movie nights and
the warmth of get-togethers with family and friends.
Sergeant
Winston Windflower couldn’t be happier for his friend and colleague
Eddie Tizzard. On Windflower’s recommendation and with the approval of
the big boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, Tizzard was being promoted to
sergeant in the Mounties, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But in
terms of being proud, Windflower might have to stand in line because in
the crowd that was gathered at RCMP Headquarters in Marystown,
Newfoundland, were Tizzard’s partner, Carrie Evanchuk, and his dad,
Richard Tizzard. Both were beaming from ear to ear as they juggled Eddie
and Carrie’s two children in their arms.
Carrie
had the easier task as little Sophie had been fed and was now snoozing
in milk heaven. Hughie, on the other hand, would try and make a break
for it every now and then, so Richard had to hang on tightly. He finally
gave in and handed the little boy over to his Aunt Brenda, who was
sitting farther back in the audience with the rest of Tizzard’s extended
family.
Eddie
looked down over the assembled RCMP officers and his family and smiled
when he saw Hughie trying to get up closer towards him. He could also
hear Hughie yelling “Daddy, Daddy” whenever the little boy got pulled
back into the crowd. He smiled again as his superintendent called him to
the podium and asked him to take off his corporal’s uniform jacket. Ron
Quigley then handed him his new jacket with three chevrons pointing
down and a crown on top on the right sleeve of his dress uniform, the
RCMP’s famous red serge.
There
were no speeches. That wasn’t the RCMP’s style. So, the two men shook
hands, and Tizzard walked back to his place to thunderous applause from
his fellow officers and family. Next on the agenda was the promotion of
Windflower’s assistant in Grand Bank, Constable Samira Gupta, to
corporal. This time Windflower did the honours, and Gupta exchanged her
old uniform for one with two chevrons pointing down that indicated her
new rank. She didn’t have any family in the crowd but was very popular
with the troops, given the nice round of applause that she also
received.
Some of
those were special cheers from Windflower’s wife, Sheila Hillier, and
his daughters, Stella and Amelia Louise, who had come over from Grand
Bank for the occasion. All three loved Sam Gupta. They loved Eddie
Tizzard, too. But they all had also made a strong connection with
Windflower’s new sidekick and now brand new corporal.
There
was a small reception afterwards with coffee and a large cake with the
RCMP insignia on it. Both girls had a large piece of cake while
Windflower and Sheila visited with Richard Tizzard and Carrie. It was a
great celebration day for the Force, as the members called it, and there
was plenty of good cheer all around.
But
while the Mounties and their families were celebrating, something far
more sinister was happening a short distance from the hotel where they
were eating their cake.
A group
of men had ambushed an armoured truck, and two of them had managed to
somehow get inside and now had both armed guards hostage. They ordered
the guards to undress, took them to another vehicle, a large panel van,
and shoved them inside. As someone else drove them off, the first two
men stripped and put on the security guards’ uniforms.
As the
reception continued at the hotel, the fake security guards resumed the
route that the real guards had been on and made stops at a number of
local businesses before making one last visit to the bank in the
shopping mall. They looked like the real deal as they walked into the
branch. But instead of making their usual stop at one of the tellers,
they asked to speak to the manager. A few minutes later the manager was
left tied and muffled in the safe, and the false security officers
walked out through the bank’s main doors with bags of loot from their
efforts.
By the
time the alarms were sounded and the bank manager released from the
safe, the robbers were long gone. Gone from the bank and gone from
Marystown. The real security guards were found out on the highway where
they had walked to after being dumped in a deserted area. The day after,
when the police started looking for suspects, they were not only off
the Burin Peninsula, but they were waiting for a flight at the airport
in Gander to take them completely out of the province. Of course, none
of that would be known for days as the investigation into the boldest
crime in Marystown history began.
After
the ceremony and reception, the parties went their separate ways. Eddie
Tizzard and his family went back to their house for a quick visit with
everybody before his father and sisters and their crew headed back to
Grand Bank. Windflower made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone
before loading the girls into Sheila’s car and driving back home to
Grand Bank himself. It was springtime, or some facsimile of spring in
that part of the world.
April
meant not just showers but any combination of rain, snow and sleet.
Often you got all three on the same day. Today it was cool and clear.
Not quite sunny, but close enough, thought Windflower as he watched the
urban setting of Marystown melt into the barren wilderness of the
highway back home. He also thought about how lucky he was, lucky not
just because he’d seen two of his favourite people in the world get
recognized but because of his life in general.
He had
recently moved back into the RCMP after a period away for reflection
about what to do next in the world. He had been a Mountie all of his
adult life and was tired of the time away from his family and the
increasing dangers of the work. Plus, it was an organization that seemed
resistant to change, and that meant it was hard to grow. Windflower
tried a few other things but gradually and steadily came back to the
RCMP and police work. At the urging of another old friend and now
superintendent, Ron Quigley, he agreed to take over as inspector of the
whole southeast coast section of the RCMP.
There
were some conditions. First of all, he could continue to live in Grand
Bank and not have to transfer over to Marystown. That was a deal breaker
for Sheila and so for him, too. He could work out of the old Grand Bank
detachment that had been shuttered during the last round of funding
cutbacks. He would travel back and forth and be available to meet with
staff in Marystown on a regular basis. Eddie Tizzard, now a sergeant,
would be his second-in-command and oversee the operations over there on a
day-to-day basis.
Secondly,
he would need his main admin person, Betsy Molloy, back again. She had
been his right-hand person and eyes and ears in the community as long as
he had been in Grand Bank. And he would need an assistant to help him
in the police work. At one time that had been Carrie Evanchuk, but she
was quite busy with two small children at the moment. So, Corporal
Samira Gupta had been brought in to fill the breach. She had proven
quite capable as well as personable, and Windflower had added her to his
gratitude list.
But his
true gratitude was for the joys of his life, Sheila and their two girls,
Stella and Amelia Louise. Sheila was his foundation and his rock in
life. He knew that no matter what happened during the day, he would come
home to her love at night. And the girls kept him young and youthful.
His late Uncle Frank had told him that we think we are here to teach the
little ones, but if we listen carefully, we will learn far more about
life from them. He was right, thought Windflower, peeking into the back
seat to see them playing together as he took the first exit into Grand
Bank that would take them to their house.
They had all just gotten inside when his cell phone rang. It was Gupta.
“You better come back over,” said Gupta. “There’s been a robbery. More than one, in fact.”
“What’s going on?” asked Windflower.
“Hard to
say right away,” said Gupta. “I’m at the bank where the bank manager
was trapped in their safe by two armed security officers. But we’re now
getting more reports from local businesses that they are involved as
well.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Problems?” asked Sheila.
“A robbery in Marystown,” said Windflower. “Sorry, I have to go back.”
He
kissed Sheila and gave both the girls a hug. He patted his collie, Lady,
on the head. She looked surprised and disappointed that he was leaving.
Without her. “Sorry, girl,” he said as he left to get into his cruiser
and drive back out of Grand Bank.
About the Author:
Mike
Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now
lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer
and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and
online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.
He is
the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery
series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 16 books in this
light mystery series with the publication of Friends are Forever.
A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawn won the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.
Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.
Mike is
Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national
organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member
of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.
Marlene
M. Bell brings distant friends together in the rural South only to have
one of them become the victim of a brutal crime of passion.
Once
celebrated for her show-stopping pastries and irresistible desserts,
former celebrity chef Laura Harris is now making headlines for a far
darker reason.
Laura has been accused of murder.
How
could this petite chef have brutally smothered the beloved small-town
matriarch, World War II ferry pilot veteran, Hattie Stenburg? Hattie
wasn’t just a pillar of the community; she was Laura’s confidant and
mentor. The shocking twist? Hattie had made recent changes to her will,
bypassing next-of kin and leaving her entire fortune and historic estate
to Laura.
As
Laura scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers sinister secrets
lurking beneath the town’s idyllic surface. The real murderer is always
one step ahead, leaving taunting clues and threatening Laura to leave
Texas—or face deadly consequences. With time not a luxury, Laura must
untangle the web of deceit before the killer makes her the next victim.
A killer sunset plunged toward the horizon, casting its tangerine glare on the Stenburg Estate’s green metal roof and aging bricks. Since her hasty arrival from the Los Angeles area last year, Laura Harris had sought out the renowned East Texas skyline for its towering thunderstorm clouds and the lemonade-pinks at twilight.
The colors gave her a sense of calm before the inaugural trip to see her elderly mentor and dearest pen pal, Hattie Stenburg. Laura last visited with her in California—over a decade ago.
As Laura skirted a large puddle in her Subaru and stopped along the shoulder of the roadway, she parked the car, turned off the engine, and exited the driver’s side. She breathed in air filled with pungent smells of wet pine needles and dampened leaves. Laura had passed through the April shower a few miles east of the Stenburg town limits sign. Leave it to the Stenburgs to live in a town named after themselves.
Snaggled grapevines across the road on Hattie’s property sat stoic and graying in long horizontal rows from the oil and gravel highway road to the classic red brick two-story at the top of the hill. The vines showed no signs of new growth even though T-posts held the outstretched limbs twisted within wire and sagging driplines. Gnarled stumps had been left behind from a time when the Stenburgs had added varietal grapes to their company’s wine processing vats prior to Warren Stenburg’s death nearly eight years ago—before Laura’s dad took over as the Texas corporation’s chief executive officer.
Neglected grapevines aside, the sight made her homesick for the old days with family. Laura leaned against the outer door and marveled at the vibrant wildflowers alive and welcoming between the lifeless vines covering at least twenty acres. Texas bluebonnet spikes in brilliant cobalt shades, fiery orange Indian paintbrush, and Drummond phlox in salmon and variegated pinks splashed the land, possibly in conjunction with the Highway Beautification Act of 1965, thanks to Lady Bird Johnson’s care of the state as First Lady, during LBJ’s term in office. Laura had heard that wildflower seeds were sown along Texas highways each spring to enhance the countryside.
The white stucco house built on the slope looked like a newer addition next to the colonial belonging to Hattie. Acreage stretched between driveways, the vines dividing two homes from different eras. Hattie’s vineyard could’ve served as a makeshift property line if the 1970s ranch-style residence belonged to a neighbor.
Laura had no idea what arrangements the Stenburgs had with others on their hill overlooking the town. She hadn’t visited Hattie’s place before. Perhaps another Stenburg family member lived there. She’d ask about the house if they didn’t get sidetracked on other subjects. A face-to-face conversation spanning Laura’s eleven-year absence would take time. She’d been away far too long from someone who felt more like her grandmother than a casual friend.
If memory served, the last time she’d met with Hattie was during the Decade of DeeDee, Laura’s younger sister. It was a tumultuous time for the Harris kids trying to keep their winery, tasting room, and restaurant afloat during a down economy. Laura was thirty-six back then, and tired of the heated sibling arguments by the time she left the Celestemore Vineyard Restaurant in Northern California to strengthen her chef’s career. The celebrity chef opportunity in Los Angeles had saved a pending disaster between two hot-tempered sisters and a brother who preferred to stay neutral. When Laura headed south, she felt that her move had preserved the family winery named for their mother, Celeste.
Laura shoved aside bitter memories and sighed.
She’d left a great job and moved to Texas to be with her parents, and she would do it all again.
Laura scanned the neighbor’s rocky driveway as steam rose from the wet stones. The parcel of land in front of the mid-century-modern with dark brown trim had nothing planted on it. Instead, it featured numerous ruts made by rain pelting the sandy soil season after season. Where the vines ended, a wide driveway long enough for a semi-truck and trailer to pass led to the residence. Not one fence separated the properties nor lined the county road as a boundary, which seemed strange to Laura. She’d come from a community with manicured yards and well-marked concrete drives.
She turned her focus on the long entrance leading to Hattie’s American Civil War-era home, not actually seeing what was there. Instead, Laura’s heart thumped with longing. She’d left a comfortable life to begin a new chapter with her parents in the woodlands of Texas, but now that her mother had lost her battle with cancer, Laura felt lost. She questioned the emotional decision to uproot herself with such finality when friends and colleagues had stayed behind. The wedge was as real as a stake driven deeply into Texas soil.
Laura returned to her bucket seat and drove toward Hattie’s place, absently checking for the earring backing, which had a habit of falling off. She glanced at the time on her dashboard, hoping Hattie had finished her evening meal. She was anxious to taste the custard-filled profiteroles Laura made for her.
Light struck the old two-story home at odd angles, projecting vertical shadows on the wraparound porch from four ornate pillars on either side of grand steps fit for royalty. She slowed to gaze at the sinking colors of a dying day as if she could absorb their final warmth and quell her many insecurities. Leather driving gloves did little to soothe her cold fingers wrapped around the Subaru’s steering wheel.
On her right, halfway between the county road and Hattie’s estate house, the vineyards were gone. A weathered old barn about the size of a small cottage stood alone, tractor disks and other implements rusting outside. Missing exterior planks in eight-foot lengths exposed a dark loft space. There were no visible windows for light or air, from what Laura could see. A tin Texas star and an oxidized roof lifted at its peak, leftover damage from storms throughout the decades. Meandering pine and pecan trees, some dying with absent leaves, lined the driveway entrance on either side leading away from the barn. Long ago, someone had planted the mature magnolia for shade in addition to the flowers it produced. Snowy petals formed huge blooms the size of formal charger plates. The trees were as ancient as the barn, marked by their awesome height, broken branches aloft, and trunk circumference.
As expected, the grounds were meticulously cared for, as Laura remembered Hattie liked. Everything about the Stenburgs’ preferences included order and symmetry. All had their proper place in the scheme of things. A white panel van from Stenburg Nursery had parked near the home, and a man in a logoed black polo came out of the back carrying a full flat of pansies in the fading daylight. A variety of baby blue forget-me-nots and multicolored snapdragons already lined the flower beds, and low-growing sweet white alyssum flanked the outer borders, giving Laura the feeling she’d entered a conservatory for Texans, and not a residence.
Landscapers working at dusk for Hattie made Laura smile. The ninety-three-year-old wanted things just so and at a time of her choosing. Her World War military training had a way of bleeding through all situations and personal preferences. Laura admired her friend’s habits.
Tall flagpoles flew the red and white with a single star on a blue field. The Lone Star flag of Texas. The Stars and Bars crisscross flag flew next to it, reminiscent of the American Civil War Confederacy. A fitting tribute to the property’s history—in modern-day 2010. Between the flagpoles, a gray chiseled rock displayed a faded metal plate too small to read from the car. Undoubtedly, a Texas historical marker because the builder of the Stenburg Estate had post–Civil War connections. Hattie had remarked on the history of the home, which was built between the 1860s and 1870s Reconstruction period.
Laura swerved around the van and rolled to a complete stop several yards from the porch, taking in the magnificence of the house belonging to the elderly widow she assumed still lived alone. The home reminded her of a giant breadbox made of brick and mortar, with three visible fireplaces. White dormers shot through the rooftop, breaking up the flat surface.
She spotted a pair of rocking chairs on the porch with a woman sitting in one of them. Hattie had been spry and mobile under her own power while in her eighties. When Laura had mentioned her upcoming visit with Hattie to her dad, he warned of new developments and to prepare herself for the decline. Of late, Hattie used a cane or a wheelchair to get around the house.
Laura leaned closer to the windshield and squinted for a better look. The hair’s shorter and whiter, but I’d recognize her narrow face and inquisitive stare anywhere.
Other than the landscaper, no person or corgi dogs wandered the grounds. The Stenburgs loved their short-legged corgis. The passing storm could’ve sent them indoors, but it didn’t seem likely Hattie would be left unaccompanied if that were the case.
Laura waved through her open window and caught a glimpse of the gaunt face in the side mirror. Her own reflection. She should’ve used concealer to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes, a result of middle-of-the-night bakery duties, but at least her shoulder-length, highlighted hair had kept its shape in the humidity and her lipstick was still intact. She’d take two out of three.
When she removed her driving gloves and stepped out to close the car door, Hattie made no acknowledgment at first. Then, she donned a pair of glasses and gave a timid wave back.
Hattie was also hard of hearing, which made her constant letter-writing much more enjoyable for her and Laura. The telephone only frustrated Hattie. That, and she thought cursive writing and good penmanship to be a dying art. She would never give up handwritten letters because it was a more personal way to communicate, and writing gave an aging woman so much pleasure. As long as she could hold a fountain pen, Hattie had sworn a solemn oath to write every day and never wear anything “as distasteful as a hearing aid or use a confounded cellular phone,” as she’d put it.
As Laura mounted the concrete porch steps, her tongue tasted foul from the quick cup of coffee she’d downed prior to leaving Coldspell. And she’d forgotten Hattie’s desserts on the floorboard.
She briefly turned to go back, changed her mind, and decided to retrieve them from the cooler box later.
“Laura? Good gracious; have you gotten taller?” Hattie’s blue-veined hand clutched the cane, wobbling the handle as she lifted herself out of the chair with difficulty.
“Let me help you.” Laura dropped her purse clumsily and jumped to Hattie’s side, snagging her lap blanket from the chair and saving her from a topple.
The soft crocheted piece against Laura’s face and shoulder smelled of Hattie’s fragrance. Laura savored the warm, penetrating scent that combined hyacinth and jasmine flowers. Hattie’s husband, Warren, had sent her the Southern Kiss perfume when he found out she’d volunteered her aircraft ferrying services during World War II. He asked her to wear it and think of him marching in Europe. Laura’s heart welled with pride, knowing how their harrowing yet fascinating beginning helped win a world war years before Laura was born.
“It’s so good to see you.” Laura’s eyes misted as she took Hattie’s frail hand in hers and squeezed. She feared a hug might break a bone or knock her off balance. “What you must think of me taking so long to visit.”
Hattie stood a little hunched, resting on her four-toed cane. She appeared awe-struck by Laura’s presence. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined Laura would ever come to Texas and thought her fading vision had deceived her. Hattie’s light denim-blue eyes gazed into hers as if trying to decipher Laura’s thoughts. In her nineties, the fragile limbs looked hardly capable of carrying Hattie without the help of something more substantial like a walker or wheelchair.
“Two visits from the Harris clan in the same week. Your father was here a few days ago.” Laura had missed Hattie’s infectious smile. “Come. Let’s be on our way before Moon Pie returns from her evening walk with Jordan. She’ll muddy up your jeans and those cute boots.”
Moonie, the resident Welsh corgi, had been mentioned in many of Hattie’s letters but not a peep about a person named Jordan.
The door to the estate house magically opened, and stale air followed the ponytailed brunette in a gray sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants standing there. She wore no makeup but had an enviable clear complexion and natural glow about her cheeks. Laura thought she looked about forty, maybe older. The harshly dyed hair seemed too strong a color next to her creamy light skin. Were they being watched by a care worker or a relative? It would make sense that Hattie needed an extra pair of eyes on her most of the time.
The woman swooped in wearing a serious frown and rudely seized Hattie’s upper arm away from Laura. “Watch your step,” was scarcely audible.
“Hey, be careful with her. Can’t you see she’s fragile?” Laura wanted nothing more than to push the newcomer aside and guide Hattie through the entrance cautiously. “Is she hurting you?” Turning toward Hattie, Laura waited for a reply.
“I can get along myself, Nicole.” Hattie tugged free and shifted more weight onto the cane, raising the small suction cups toward the kitchen. “Please make us a fresh pot of coffee and bring my pastries.” She stopped and faced Laura standing behind her a few paces. “That downpour gave me a chill. How about a nice shot of whiskey to warm you up?”
No matter how much Hattie had changed physically, thankfully some things stayed the same.
“I’d better pass. It’s a long drive to Coldspell.” Laura grinned at the whiskey reference she knew all too well. Hattie had a custom of eating sinful desserts and following them with the unusual whiskey chaser. It was something she and the other fly girls had done between trainer and bomber ferry flights during the war. Hattie’s mission during the conflict had been ferrying planes in Texas after they were assembled at their aerospace facilities and needed at military bases.
“Okay, I’ll make another pot, but I wouldn’t drink more than a cup. You know how coffee keeps you awake at night.” The woman referred to as Nicole was now standing next to a coffee maker perched on an oversized island in the middle of a blue-tiled kitchen. From there, she had an excellent view across the island into the large room where Laura and Hattie stood. She ignored all but her duties—including introductions. Her occasional glance toward Laura reminded her of an overprotective parent on guard around a stranger. The unfriendly vibe coming from Nicole was as thick in the room as a crème brulée. Laura doubted that she was a relative because of her unemotional coolness toward Hattie, or perhaps they’d recently had an unfinished disagreement before her arrival. And the barometric pressure change probably had everyone grouchy or preoccupied.
Laura stroked the soft shawl on her shoulder as she stood in the huge great room, with its vaulted ceilings and a winding staircase leading to the second floor. From the comfortable living space with a recliner, rocker, and overstuffed couch situated at the window, to the overly blue kitchen, she suspected some renovations had been made to the interior since the home was built. Those changes would no doubt include the mahogany paneling, white painted surfaces, and bright tile in a remodeled kitchen with a center island. Hattie liked to cook and would’ve demanded updated counters and cabinets.
Five generations of Stenburgs had raised their children in the estate house. The Stenburg women, all except Hattie, had large families to carry on their treasured lineage. In the thirty-nine years she and Hattie had been friends, Laura knew of no kids in the Warren Stenburg household, whether by choice or having sustained a personal loss during the marriage. Laura always thought they would’ve made magnificent parents.
All ninety pounds of Hattie slowly ambled over to the vintage rocker and plunked down in it. Next to the rocker stood a large black leather recliner, made for a big man’s frame like Warren’s. The dark and dreary living area redeemed itself with a collection of porcelain statues and natural purple amethyst clusters. Every spare nook and crevice held painted, posed animals, and Victorian figurines wearing nineteenth century period dress—all of them watching over Hattie.
Laura suspected they were mostly Staffordshire, collected during vacations to the UK and Europe. Hattie’s amethyst geodes were known to strengthen intuition and imagination, in addition to their healing properties. The glistening violet crystals must have been significant to the many Stenburg trips to South America.
Laura spun in a circle, digesting the space she’d only read about in Hattie’s letters. “This is an amazing home. I came close to imagining what it looked like, and I love the personal mementos from trips abroad.”
“I hoped you’d see it one day, Laura.” Hattie swiped at a tear. “God granted me one of my wishes.”
Of note, the living area was void of devices such as a television, a turntable for records from their youth, or anything computerized. Instead, the end table next to Warren’s recliner held old classic books with gilded edge pages, from the few titles Laura could read.
Hattie had told her that their evenings, spent next to the fireplace, were for quiet reading and discussions about Warren’s days at the office—a catching up of sorts on their activities.
All picture windows had been draped shut, and the house smelled of wood paneling in need of a cleaning; sickly sweet tobacco still permeated the room from a lack of ventilation. Hattie’s late husband had smoked big cigars and favored a pipe in the afternoons, as she recalled. Laura abhorred smoking of any kind because tobacco smokers reeked of ashtray odor.
Her dad had smoked cigarettes while he worked himself up the ranks of the Stenburg Corporation. She’d begged him to stop the habit, and when he finally did, she rejoiced. He had finally taken responsibility for his health, albeit too late to save her mother from suspected secondhand smoke lung cancer.
The angora lap robe grazed Laura’s ear as she placed it over Hattie’s polyester pants. She received a weak thank you followed by a deep, syrupy cough.
Hattie patted her chest and coughed hard for some time to clear her lungs before she was able to breathe normally again, which scared Laura.
“What can I get you?” Laura glanced at the side table for a glass or pitcher of water but only found a tray holding one orange prescription bottle, a box of valerian root sleep aid, dog treats, and a pack of tissues. Laura’s dad had commented on Hattie’s bouts with pneumonia earlier in the year. Her lungs were still heavily congested.
Nicole reappeared next to the rocker with a bottle of cough syrup and a teaspoon. “She’ll be right as rain in a minute. Here ya go, hon.” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear and set the syrup on the tray. She then forcefully pulled Hattie forward to fluff the flattened pillow at her back. “There. That’s better.” And just like that, the caregiver sped off to the kitchen to add more donuts to a plate.
“There’s something special for you in the car,” Laura said, leaning close to Hattie’s ear. “I’ll just be a minute.” She crouched toward her at eye level. “Is it possible to talk in private?” She sent a glance over her shoulder to Nicole, who continued working steadily at her task.
Hattie patted Laura’s hand, indicating that she understood. “I’ve missed you, dearie,” she said in a stage whisper.
The super short bangs and brittle white hair were long enough to reach Hattie’s jawbones. Her flat hairstyle and translucent complexion made her look less sophisticated and so much older than the last time they’d visited in person. How long had it been since someone had taken Hattie for a manicure to clip her long nails, or sit for her hairdresser?
Hattie had a standing hair appointment with her beautician each week—a decade ago. Her hair was so long and laid at odd angles, as if Nicole or someone else had taken a set of pinking shears to it. Worse yet, the defeated look of surrender written in sorrowful eyes came from a woman unrecognizable as the vivacious person she used to be.
The drastic change was a sober reminder to Laura of losing her mother and how close Hattie was to the same ending. She stifled a cold shiver. No one was immune.
“How long before coffee’s ready?” Hattie asked Nicole. “I need more cough medicine, and… take my grocery list to your mother. Go with her.” She pointed to the door. “You know what I like.”
Nicole wordlessly walked to the rocker and removed the tray with the meds by its handles. She set it on the coffee table and replaced it with a pile of glazed and candied donuts, enough to feed a small family.
“Is there anything else? It’s late. I’ll go shopping for you another day.” Nicole smiled sweetly at Laura, possibly to avert the heat from Hattie’s glare.
“Tonight,” Hattie said authoritatively. “You know how I hate backtalk. Laura and I have lots to discuss. In private.”
Laura motioned Nicole over to a corner away from Hattie. “I’ll stay until you get back. She’ll be fine.”
Keys rattled in Nicole’s sweatpants pocket as she walked to the kitchen and removed a slip of paper from the refrigerator door. “I won’t be long.” She shot Laura a sideways glance and marched in an awkward gait out the front door.
“Thought she’d never leave.” Hattie giggled. “That girl hovers over me and won’t take a hint. Now, tell me what’s new at the bakery and all about that pilot of yours. I want all the juicy details. Don’t leave anything out.” Hattie straightened the white blanket over her knees and clasped her hands together.
“We have a nuisance brewing at the bakery but we’re busy.” Laura moved toward the hearth to hide her feelings about a workaholic guy. Hattie could read faces well. “Nothing earthshattering on the Lucas front. I’ll see him again on his next layover. He had to slide in for another pilot this weekend. An aviator’s life. Unpredictable. You know how it is.”
A monumental sepia-toned picture hanging over the brick and stone fireplace caught Laura’s eye, and she moved closer to investigate. She flipped the wall light switch to brighten the print’s details. A youthful Hattie in an oversized shirt and pants stood next to a four-engine bomber with a pin-up style girl painted on the fuselage.
“An iconic shot. Tell me about this one.” Laura pointed to the woman in the photo. “That’s you next to the bomber, isn’t it?” She’d remembered that particular aircraft from descriptions in long talks with Hattie. The girl standing in the photo resembled how Hattie would’ve looked in her twenties. Forties pageboy hairstyle and all.
“Me at Avenger Field in Sweetwater. That was ol’ Sheila Mae, the big girl. One of the biggest birds I’ve ever had the privilege to ferry. Did you know that B-17s take ten people to fly them on a mission?”
Laura scrutinized the giant silver aircraft and how small Hattie looked standing next to the wing.
“If you’re wondering about my baggy clothes, the girls had to wear military-issued men’s gear because all the clothes were made for men. Women flying trainers and bombers were unheard of until the WASPs, which stands for Women Airforce Service Pilots. Flying in theater was a men-only job back then. The girls asked to fly in combat, but General Peterson turned us down. He wouldn’t be responsible for women drivers getting blown out of the sky or something like that.” Hattie sighed. “The only things that kept our pants from falling around our ankles were extra wide belts and lots of elastic.” Hattie slapped her thigh and grinned, followed by a cough.
“How did you reach the pedals to fly something that huge?” Laura couldn’t imagine that petite women like herself had an easy time of it in the plane’s cockpit that Hattie had referred to as a Fortress.
“We rigged the seats with pillows so we could see above the instrument panel. We had to work out other things, but a few of us put our heads together and got it done.” Hattie reached for a glazed donut and held it up. “Try these with your coffee; they’re delish.”
“I have something you might like better. Will you be okay for a couple of minutes? I left the cooler in the car.”
“If it’s something made by your hands, I can’t wait.” Hattie set the donut on the plate and licked sugar from her fingertips. “Go ahead.” She flipped her hand toward the door. “Surprise me.”
Laura and Hattie ate the chocolate-glazed profiteroles and drank coffee for at least half an hour, catching up on so much lost time. Although writing letters was a nice pastime, it couldn’t replace a personal interaction where facial expressions said more than reading words on a page. Laura was glad she’d listened to her dad’s advice about driving a couple of hours to see her old friend. How Laura had longed for Hattie’s sense of humor and hearing the crazy recounts about her flying days.
Their near-fatal accidents were terrifying and the tales about frying donuts in their rooms and getting thrown out of the men’s local bar made Laura temporarily forget her irritation with Lucas Olsen, her latest companion of six months.
“Is Nicole a close friend of yours?” Laura asked. “You’re lucky to have someone staying with you.”
“She has her own place with Edith next door.” Hattie took another sip from her third cup of coffee. “Nicole lives at home to help out her mother and comes here to fix my meals and straighten the house. All but Warren’s office beneath the staircase. I keep his door locked with a special key.” Eating the last of her pastry had left custard on her lip. “Nicki’s a good kid. I don’t know what I’d do without her and Jordan, my groundskeeper.”
Two questions answered. Jordan cut the grass and did general maintenance on the property outside, while Nicole took care of Hattie’s indoor needs from the white house next door. Laura wondered what lay inside Warren’s office.
“Is there something I can clean or move for you in his office while I’m here?”
“All in good time.” Hattie held one eye in a wink longer than needed. “The Alamo’s behind that door.”
A conflicting statement if there ever was one.
Laura laughed as she worked through the puzzle. “Don’t tell me; Warren collected Texas battle memorabilia and you, the Staffordshire pieces?”
Hattie nodded. “Right-e-o. I’ve gathered almost every piece of Staffordshire made, large and small. The bigger specimens are upstairs.” Her eyes swept the staircase as she gripped the rocker armrest, then turned her pinpoint gaze on Laura. “I’m glad you stopped by, Laura.” She held up one bony finger. “You do look taller, though.”
A smile stretched across Laura’s face. “I wish. Still four-foot-eleven inches in bare feet.”
Hattie whisked crumbs from her lap blanket. “I adore French pastry, and your profiteroles were crackerjack. Time for a potty break.” She rocked forward with the help of her cane, tossing the throw blanket aside.
Neighbor Nicole banged through the front door with bags of groceries on a trolley cart, traipsing to the kitchen. She pulled along her heavy burden on squeaky wheels.
“I’ll help you to the bathroom. Point me in the right direction.” Laura set her coffee cup down, taking Hattie’s arm.
Hattie chuckled. “Did I ever tell you how I found Jordan trespassing in my barn?”
“What?”
“A few years ago, when I could still check the outbuildings in the mornings, I caught him sleeping in there and helping himself to the drinks in the little fridge. He was stranded on the road between towns. Poor fellow. He needed a job, so I put him to work.”
Laura was surprised at how easily Hattie had offered the stranger a job.
“I had the vacant guesthouse in back and needed the help. Mutually beneficial, as Warren would say. The guest’s quarters are over there around the corner.” Hattie pointed to her left and began coughing. “Sometimes, he takes Moonie.” Another deep-seated cough. “It keeps the little nubbin out of trouble.” Hattie’s coughing grew in intensity, and she had trouble taking breaths in between.
“Hattie, catch your wind.” Laura planted her feet, catching her friend as she lost her balance and swayed on her cane. Her coughing could bring about an embarrassing accident, and Laura knew how prim and proper Hattie would hate that. “How far to the bathroom?” she asked Nicole.
“Just go. I can handle her.” Nicole arrived on the cane side of Hattie with a fresh bottle of cough syrup. “Take a swig.”
Laura’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding. Let her breathe normally first. She’ll choke.”
Hattie patted her chest and cleared her throat as she brushed Nicole’s hand away. Between coughs and gasps, Hattie managed a goodbye wave for Laura.
“I’ll stay with Hattie tonight,” Laura addressed Nicole. “Leave the groceries for now. Hattie needs her rest. I can sit with her.”
Laura’s dear pen pal managed a smile and a short wink.
Nicole folded her arms. “She doesn’t need you. I’ll even sleep on the couch if that makes you feel any better.”
Laura was shocked by the neighbor’s wisecrack in front of Hattie.
“You aren’t making me feel better.” Laura turned to Hattie. “Will you be all right if I leave now? I’ll stay if you want.” Laura hoped that Hattie would ask her to stay, but it was up to her.
Hattie paused, looked sadly into Laura’s eyes, then nodded. “We’ll talk again soon, my girl. I’m fine.”
Grabbing her leather bag from the floor, Laura’s tears welled, spilling down her cheeks. She hated to leave Hattie with someone as uncaring as Nicole. Laura made one last turn to watch the pair move along the hardwood floor and around the staircase.
She exited into chilly blackness on the porch amid a chorus of croaking toads and nighttime crickets.
Almost to Coldspell and full of misgivings, Laura couldn’t shake her feeling of dread for Hattie’s sake. Why did she allow Nicole to steer her away? She should’ve stayed with her mentor and not bowed to the will of a neighbor she knew nothing about.
Laura had to drive back to Stenburg no matter how late it was.
She glanced at the clock on her dash, beyond caring what anyone thought about an after-midnight visitation. Even if she had to nap in her car to make the trip back to Coldspell, she wouldn’t rest until she knew that Hattie was okay.
An inky blanket hung over the property when she arrived. Not a single porch or barn light shone from the Stenburg Estate. Living this far out from town, Laura couldn’t imagine why a dusk-to-dawn light hadn’t been installed. She’d mention it to her dad. Her headlights beamed on the front door and bay window, bright enough to wake someone sleeping on the living room couch. Laura left her Subaru in park with the engine running and jogged up the steps. She knocked quietly on the huge glass pane. If she could rouse the neighbor without waking Hattie, better yet.
A dog barked in the distance. The only sound for miles. Moon Pie should’ve been with Hattie, but Laura picked up no sound from inside the estate house. Surely, Hattie’s pet would notice visitors.
The barking continued, perhaps from a nearby shelter for stray animals.
Laura cupped her hands and peered through the window but was unable to see past the dark glass cloaked by heavy curtains. She knocked more firmly with her knuckles. Other than raising goosebumps on her arms, no one inside rose to open the front door.
Nicole had lied about staying with Hattie and sleeping on the couch.
Laura’s heartbeat quickened as she pounded on the massive door, calling for Nicole or Hattie to let her inside. No human or pet could sleep through the noise she was making. She tried the door and found it as it should’ve been. Locked.
“Hattie! Is anyone in there?” Laura kicked her boot at the door in frustration.
She checked the kitchen and bedroom windows that were too high for her to climb through even if she were lucky enough to find one unlocked. She ran along the wraparound porch, calling for Hattie—her car’s right headlight spotting the way from porch to grass.
The further she went toward the back of the house, the louder the barking became.
Hattie had mentioned that Moon Pie stayed with Jordan in the guesthouse.
Wake Jordan. He’ll find Hattie.
Laura ran to her car and drove behind the building to where the guesthouse connected to the estate via a concrete breezeway. There, she found a sharp-eared corgi with her nose pressed against the window, scratching with her claws and raising all kinds of ruckus.
Where is Jordan, and why is Moon Pie alone in the guesthouse? Laura’s tingling senses told her the scene was all wrong.
She slammed the Subaru into park and faced the dog from the other side of the narrow four-foot window near the guesthouse’s entrance. Laura tried to open the locked metal door by the knob, then gave a strong shove with her shoulder. All she received for her trouble was a sore arm. When she made eye contact with Moon Pie once more, the dog wriggled its rump, whining and whimpering. Crouching to Moon Pie’s level, she placed the flat of her hand on the outside screen, trying to soothe the irate dog with her words. A small gap below the sash showed her that Jordan had left the window slightly ajar for the dog.
Laura caught a whiff of something she couldn’t describe.
Moon Pie had her red nylon lead attached at the collar, as if she’d been dropped inside abruptly.
“Sweetie, I’m coming in.” Laura removed a driving glove, pried the screen from its runners with her nails, and threw it aside.
Moon Pie stuck her nose through the opening and sniffed.
“Don’t bite my fingers.” She replaced the glove on her hand and with all her might, lifted the sash from the gap, sliding it up and open. Enough to squeeze her small frame through sideways.
Moon Pie jumped out then came back to follow her inside, barking madly at her feet. Her boot caught the dog, throwing Laura headlong into the wall. “Honey, quiet. I can’t think.” Laura groped the painted surface with her palm until she found a light switch and flipped it on.
She stood in a bedroom.
Someone lay still on the mattress. Deathly pale.
A crawling sensation moved up her spine. Jordan. As she walked closer to the person, she realized the body was that of a female, partially obscured by a bed pillow. Laura took several labored breaths and sped around the footboard—watching for the rise and fall of the woman’s chest.
A fleeting thought of Nicole went through her mind, quickly dashed by the person’s hair color. Bitterness filled Laura’s mouth and she swallowed hard. Her worst fears had come true.
About the Author:
Mystery at a killing pace.
Marlene
M. Bell has never met a sheep she didn’t like. As a personal touch, her
fans often find these wooly creatures visiting her international
romantic suspense, thriller, and cozy mystery books as characters or
subject matter.
Marlene’s
multi-award-winning Annalisse series boasts numerous Best Mystery
honors for all installments including the newest IP Best Regional
Australia/New Zealand, and Global Gold Award for the fourth cozy mystery
from down under.
Her
children's picture book, Mia and Nattie: One Great Team! written for
the younger crowd, is based on true events from the Bell’s Texas sheep
ranch. Suitable reading for ages 3 - 7 years and beyond, a Mom's Choice
Gold Award winner, and Eric Hoffer Award Grand Prize Short List winner.
In Is Truth Stranger than Fiction . . . You Decide, J.B.
Miller takes readers on a captivating journey through the world of
storytelling. The three stories in volume one explore the fascinating
intersection of fact and fiction.
With her trademark wit, Miller poses thought-provoking questions
about the nature of reality, the power of imagination, and the enduring
appeal of a well-told tale.
Each story is a mystery for the reader to decide. Is it truth or is it fiction?
Hint: There is truth in every story.
Challenge: If you can figure out how the stories connect you can be acknowledged in volume two for being spot on.
Email miller.jody@icloud.com to enter your answers and your name. By doing so, and if you are correct, you agree to have your name mentioned in volume 2.
Whether you’re a fan of literature, film, or simply mysteries of
human experience, this book is sure to enlighten and entertain. A
must-read for anyone who has ever wondered where the boundaries of truth
and fiction truly lie.
In a quaint town in New Jersey, where
traditions and golf clubs are as revered as family heirlooms, our
family’s narrative took an unexpected turn.
The Golf Club, with its manicured greens
and old-world charm, was more than just a leisure spot; it was the
setting where our lives intertwined with secrets and revelations.
My father, a charming man with a
penchant for golf and warm laughter, was a well-known figure at the
club. He was the kind who could strike a conversation with anyone, his
charisma as effortless as his swing on the course.
But beneath this affable exterior lay a web of secrets that would soon unravel our family’s seemingly idyllic life.
It was the summer of ’75 when whispers began to circulate among club members.
My father, often seen in the company of the club’s elite, had grown particularly close to one family.
They were the epitome of society; their legacy etched into every corner of the town.
The daughter of this family, a woman of
elegance and grace, was often seen walking the course with my father,
their laughter echoing across the fairways.
As children, we were blissfully unaware
of the undercurrents of adult relationships. Our days were spent in
innocent play, the complexities of love and betrayal far beyond our
comprehension. But that summer, the veil of innocence lifted.
One fateful night, the truth came crashing down like a poorly hit golf ball.
My father, in a moment of unexpected
candor, gathered all of us in my parent’s bedroom and confessed to my
mother. He was leaving her for another woman.
The room spun as the words sunk in, each
syllable a dagger in the heart of our family. It wasn’t just any woman;
it was the golf family’s daughter, the same woman he had known since
our days in Michigan and Chicago; the woman who visited her parents in
our small Jersey town.
The revelation sent shockwaves throughout our household.
My mother, a woman of strength and resilience, crumbled under the weight of betrayal.
With tears that reflected a mixture of
anger and heartbreak, she gathered us into our old, yellow wood-paneled
station wagon. The car, a symbol of our family’s humble life, contrasted
sharply with the opulence of the golf family’s residence where we
headed.
Arriving at their doorstep, a mixture of emotions coursed through me. Anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of injustice.
I was only 12, but I had all the nerve of a full-fledged adult as I confronted the woman who had turned our lives upside down.
“You’re a horrible person,” I blurted out, my voice a mix of rage and sorrow.
She looked at me, her eyes a calm sea, and replied with a dismissive, “I don’t really care.”
Her words, cold and detached, cut through the warm night air, leaving a chill that lingered long after.
In the wake of confrontation, the world
seemed to slow, the sound of our departure from their doorstep echoing
hollowly, like the final putt in a lost game.
That night, the reality of our fractured
family settled around me like a heavy fog, the familiar shape of a
family obscured by sudden change.
Meanwhile, my eldest brother, driven by a sense of familial honor, went to the town train station to confront my father.
But the sight of our father’s eyes, filled with sad resolve, stopped him in his tracks.
There was something in that look that
conveyed a deeper, more complex emotion than just guilt or regret. It
was as if my father was torn between two worlds, resolute in his
decision, yet aware of the deep pain it caused.
ΔΔΔΔ
In the days that followed, our family oscillated between reconciliation and separation.
My parents would get back together, only
to part ways again. It was a dance of love and hurt, a pattern that
continued for two years.
My father asked to move back in after that seesaw blur.
I was elated.
My mother was cautious, but she still loved him completely, so she agreed.
He said the affair was over.
Over the next two years our home became a patchwork of strained smiles and silences filled with unasked questions.
It was during this time of quiet tumult that the idea of moving to San Diego first surfaced.
My father spoke of it not with
excitement, but a reserved hope, as if the very mention of the city was a
delicate spell he was afraid to break.
San Diego was presented to us as a
chance for a fresh start, a new chapter waiting to be written far from
the rolling fairways that had borne witness to our family’s most tender
and painful moments.
The reason for this radical move was
shrouded in mystery, the details obscured behind my father’s weary eyes
and my mother’s forced optimism.
It was the summer after my sophomore
year of high school, and as the day of our departure drew near, the
house that had once echoed with laughter now seemed to whisper with the
ghosts of what had been.
Packing up our lives, I couldn’t help
but feel we were also trying to box up the past, seal it away like old
photographs in the attic of our memories.
What lay ahead was uncertain, and as the
sun set on the Jersey town that had been our world, its last light held
a flicker of something unnamed, a question that hung in the air,
unanswered.
Little did I know that years later, a
confession from my father would reopen old wounds and reveal a truth
that would change everything…
About the Author:
JB Miller is a best-selling author of many books of fiction and
non-fiction. Miller has a background in television, is a TEDx speaker,
top podcast host and writer of numerous articles and blogs. She resides
in Oregon and California.
The MISOGI Method
From Drift to Shift
Hired!
No Time for Love
The Perfect Gift
The BIG Little Book of Happiness
The BIG Little Book of Work Happiness
Psyche (coming soon)
Nike (coming soon)
Victory (coming soon)
Praise for J. B. Miller’s work
“Miller is a master storyteller, weaving together complex characters and compelling plot lines with ease.” – NY Book Reviewer
“Miller’s writing is intelligent, engaging, and always thought-provoking.” – Online Book Review
J.B. Miller is an accomplished author, TEDx speaker, thought leader,
podcast host, and founder of Reel Media Agency. Contact her at:
miller.jody@icloud.com
Title: The Edison Enigma Author: Thomas White Publication Date: February 29, 2024 Pages: 196 Genre: Scifi/Mystery
Edison, a Chicago physicist, manages to successfully transport an
object through time. Almost immediately following this success Dr.
Edison is shut out of the facility and told by benefactor Raphael
Barrington, to take a vacation. He is contacted by Don Rivendell, a
grizzled old man with a secret. Rivendell explains to Tom that he is not
the first person to discover time travel. Someone else went back and
changed history by saving a young girl from dying in an internal
combustion engine explosion.
Dr. Edison is tasked with going back and fixing history. He travels
back to 1904 to find the younger version of Rivendell and stop him from
saving the girl.
You can purchase your copy of The Edison Enigma at Amazon at https://t.ly/_NOoo.
Chapter One:
The sun reflected off Lake Michigan, projecting a silvery shadow on the buildings along the shoreline as a serene Spring breeze drifted in from the lake. Southbound Lakeshore Drive was as it always was at 8:15 AM: bumper to bumper and moving along at a torrid three miles per hour. Dr. Tom Edison checked the dashboard clock, banged his palm against the steering wheel, and hit the phone button under his left thumb.
“Call the lab.” He barked at the car computer. The number dialed, not fast enough for him, and he heard the chimes through his car speaker.
Off to the side of the road, about five cars ahead, he saw a dark gray sedan with the hood popped and smoke billowing out. Clearly, this was one of the reasons for the traffic jam, but he could hardly blame this everyday occurrence on that poor vehicle. The fire department was approaching on the Northbound side, lights flashing.
“Barrington Scientific Research Center. How may I direct your call?” The male operator asked with professional precision.
“Dr. Bruce Reeves, please.”
“I’m sorry. Dr. Reeves is unavailable. Can I take a message?”
Tom took a deep breath and reminded himself that this fellow was just doing his job.
“This is Dr. Edison. I need to speak with Dr. Reeves.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. One minute, Dr. Edison.”
The big fire engine stopped opposite the concrete barrier separating North and South bound traffic. Eager firefighters jumped out and began to set up their gear on that side of the highway. Tom could see that this action would completely stop the flow of traffic. He could only hope to move past the car fire before the fire department shut down the drive in both directions.
The on-hold sound was the local radio station WBBM-Chicago. Lizzo was finishing “It’s About Damn Time,” and the station shifted to a news report.
“The EPA reported today that air pollution from auto emissions has continued to rise. Despite legislation, it has been estimated that each of the one billion automobiles on the road today emits 12gm of pollution per mile. In the greater Chicago area alone, that amounts to nearly 5 million tons of pollution daily. The EPA also reports that petroleum by-products continue to clog up our landfills by resisting the natural bio-degradable break-down process. Citizens are urged to use less plastic whenever possible and are encouraged, as always, to recycle. Meanwhile, on a more upbeat note, a twelve-year-old Evanston boy won the National Spelling Bee yesterday. He correctly spelled “annihilation” to capture first place and the ten-thousand-dollar prize.”
The phone buzzed, and Dr. Bruce Reeves was on the line.
“Tom. Where are you?” The harried scientist said.
“I’m on Lakeshore and there’s a car fire. Spewing smoke everywhere. It’s sinful.”
“What the hell are you doing on Lakeshore?”
“Good question. Maybe I had an aneurysm. I should have just hit the 90. I’m coming up on Jackson. I’ll jump off here and take the 290. Look, I should be about another thirty minutes. Get the advance work prepped and I’ll be as quick as I can. It was stupid. I should have just stayed there.”
“No. You needed the break. You can only go so many days without quiet and a shower, particularly the shower. You aren’t in here alone, you know.”
Tom chuckled. “Yeah, it did feel good. Okay, just finish the prep, and I’ll see you soon. I have to check some data in my office, and then I’ll be with you in the lab. It’s a big day, Bruce! All the marbles are on the table.”
“Yeah, so is the watermelon. See you soon.”
The phone went dead just as Tom rolled past the burning car. In the rearview, he saw firefighters leap the center divider and begin closing down the road. He let out a grateful sigh as he rolled past the obstacle on his way to making history.
Twenty-two minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot at the BSRC. The BSRC was on 47th St. between Central and Hyman in Cicero. The building was a refurbished refrigeration factory, built in 1948 and acquired by the Barrington Corporation a decade earlier. Tom made his way to the front of the building and pulled into the third parking spot from the front door. The concrete bumper had a large chunk chipped out of the left corner, and the name, Dr. Tom Edison, that had been painted on it ten years earlier was now faded and worn.
Dr. Tom Edison was thirty-nine years old, stood a hair under six feet, and, while not having an athletic body, had been able to maintain a slim waist. He had been the recipient of the Barrington Scientific Research grant a decade ago and was on the precipice of taking his theories to fruition. The funding provided by The Barrington Research Facility allowed him to develop a technique that could easily change the world as we knew it. Today was the day he would find out if his theories worked.
Tom entered through the electronic door, slid his ID card into the turnstile reader, and crossed to the elevators. Once inside, he placed his palm against the glass pane mounted on the wall and leaned in for his retinal scan. He saw his reflection in the glass scanner and noticed that, mixed with his black mane, a few grey hairs had popped out. A nano-second passed while the AI operating system, known as the Quint, verified his identity. “Welcome, Dr. Tom Edison. You may push the button for your desired floor.” Tom reached out and hit the LB button on the bottom of the panel.
The elevator door opened and Tom moved confidently down the long, white corridor. The fluorescent lights, apparently mandatory in any industrial facility, adequately illuminated the hallway, even if the irritating glow made him wish he had his sunglasses.
Tom’s office was down the hall to the left. It had a spacious reception area where his secretary held court. His name was Jerzy Bartley. He was astoundingly proficient with scientific jargon and held a unique understanding of quantum physics, not to mention being the most organized individual he had ever met. Jerzy held a master’s in physics and was, without a doubt, overqualified for this job. His deep loyalty to Dr. Edison, his dedication, and his fascination with the good doctor’s work kept him attached to Tom. He had refused three different promotions, and Tom had been so very grateful each time he did. In his early thirties, Jerzy was an African American male who stood six feet nine inches tall with a shaved head and a short, trimmed beard. He dwarfed everyone in the facility. However, his affable smile never failed to start Tom’s day on a good note. Tom entered the office.
Jerzy looked up from his computer.
“Hey, boss. Glad you were able to make it.”
“Very funny. It was stupid to go home last night. I should have stayed. Anything new happen in the last couple hours?
Jerzy shook his head as Tom moved past him.
“Nope, I got in about an hour ago and everyone was just sitting on pins and needles waiting. How’s it looking?”
Tom zoomed into his office, yelling over his shoulder, “I’ll know in a few minutes.”
Tom sprang into his chair and opened his computer. He saw his reflection in the dark screen. His black hair needed a cut, but who had time? His hazel eyes were a tad bloodshot from over-work, but the dark circles that resided under them were less pronounced thanks to a shower and five hours of sleep in his own bed.
There were several last-minute equations to confirm. Precision was everything if this project was to succeed. Tom immediately became engrossed in his work, and the rest of the world slipped into his rearview mirror.
Absorbed as he was, Tom failed to see or hear the subtle noises coming from the ventilation shaft that sat at floor level behind him. Had he turned around, he would have seen a beam of light periodically flashing across the back of the vent. As Tom worked, the light grew closer and closer.
Inside the vent, she moved as stealthily as she could. It was cramped, but she was comparatively slight, so she moved with little resistance. In her hand was a small uplink device called The Quince. It was a remote device connected to The Quint. The Quint ran everything in the facility, and she was using The Quince to bypass the security within the ventilation system. The BSRC was a full-security building with redundant security protocols. These shafts were part of the original design when the building was constructed in 1948. Large metal tunnels that webbed throughout the facility carried cool or heated air to every part of the building. In each room, an ornate bronze vent cover sat at floor level. When the BSRC retrofitted the building, the decision was made to install electronic barriers along the shafts rather than replace the entire ventilation system. Because they were electronic barriers, she could use the Quince to override each one as needed. The fact that she had managed to get this far was no small feat. The journey had started one flight down and on the east side of the building. She had to climb up one flight and maneuver to the west side to get here.
A holographic image floated above the handheld, detailing her route and giving her data on her position and distance to her destination. She approached the next gate, read the number from the top of the frame, and entered it into her handheld Quince. The gate swung open. She continued her crawl forward.
Three gates later, she peered through the vent that would open into Dr. Tom Edison’s office. She could see the light from the computer casting a silhouette around Tom’s head as he fixated on his screen. She read the number at the top of the vent cover and entered it into the Quince. The vent silently swung open. Now was her most significant moment of danger. As she entered the room, she would have to be completely silent; the tiniest scrape or bump could alert this man, and her jig would be up. Inch by inch, she slithered forward, remaining completely quiet. She managed to get out of the vent without alerting the subject and lay on the floor directly behind the clueless scientist. Placing the Quince on the carpet next to her, she slowly moved her legs under her and stood up, careful not to sway into his peripheral vision. She stood straight up and took two cautious steps forward. Raising her arms over her head, she placed both hands over his eyes and yelled, “Guess who!!!”
Startled, Tom jumped from his seat. He spun around, preparing to defend himself from whoever had just broken in. As he leapt, his fist raised, and just before he swung, he had that moment of recognition.
“Oh, for Chrissake, Lori! What the hell?”
Dr. Lori Pellitier was the scientific officer on this project and one of the country’s sharpest computer/mechanical minds. She was in her mid-thirties, had a slight build, thin but curvy, with dark black hair pulled back into a ponytail. At five foot three inches tall, with blue eyes and an olive-brown complexion, she perfectly complimented her multi-racial background. She had a quirky sense of humor, and this stunt was well within her wheelhouse. She wore baggy, gray overalls that she acquired for her trip through the ducts. There were dirt stains on her elbows and knees, and was overall, just plain dusty from the crawl through the vents.
“Just checking out the security protocol in the ventilation systems while we all wait for you. This one needs work, obviously.” She unzipped her overalls and let them drop to the floor. Underneath, she wore a blue silk shirt, black designer jeans, and red, bedazzled tennis shoes. Knowing her destination, she had prepared accordingly, and her subtle yet effective makeup had been undisturbed. She attempted to brush off the dirt with her palms, creating a small cloud of dust that swirled around her. She pulled the scrunchie out of the ponytail she needed for the crawl and shook her head. Her black hair cascaded around her glowing face.
Tom didn’t notice. “Yeah, sorry about that. For some reason, I thought I had enough time to go home. Stupid.”
Lori folded the overalls, picked up the Quince, and wandered around to the front of his desk. She walked a bit slower than usual, accentuating her hip movement.
“I told you Montrose Beach was too far. So, how’s it coming?”
Tom smirked at her reference to his home location, unwilling to address this topic again, and said, “I just need to input one more piece of data, and I’m there.” Tom continued typing while he talked. “So, you can override all those vent protocols remotely? Seems odd; why would they want that to happen if the intent was to keep people from crawling through?” He looked up at her as she slightly tilted her head and smiled.
“Well, it could be a way in, which no one wants, but it could also be a way out in the case of emergency and they wanted to be able to control who’s coming and going.”
Sitting in the chair, she put her feet up on the edge of his desk. She opened the Quince and was searching through a variety of sites. Holographic images began popping up. Some were schematics, and others were pictures and graphics.
A picture of a couple on the beach making out popped onto her screen. She looked at Tom to see if he noticed. He hadn’t.
She decided to be a bit more obvious.
“This Quince can access the vents, the elevator shafts, and the hallways. I can see the entire security video feed through this little baby, and it comes with some interesting attachments.”
A video popped up, and the audio caught Tom’s attention. He raised his head and saw a couple falling onto a bed as they began to make love. He chuckled and turned back to the screen.
Frustrated again, Lori turned the video off and said, “So, this thing gonna work? Or are we all just prepping for a picnic lunch?”
“Well, if it doesn’t, we can use your skills to become industrial spies. I hear there’s money in that.” He leaned in quickly toward the screen.
“There it is,” cried Tom. “I’ll send this down to Bruce and we are good to go. Are you all set?”
“Darlin’, I haven’t been awake for thirty-six hours for nothing. Let’s do it.”
Tom and Lori both stood and looked at each other. Tom took a deep breath as a moment of clarity struck him. He started to sweat slightly and leaned on the desk as though he was about to pass out.
“Whoa, you okay there, cowboy?” Lori came around to steady him.
He leaned against his desk, hands clenching the edges, overwhelmed. “We’re not messing with Mother Nature, right?”
Lori took his hand and held it tight. Her nails were surprisingly short but well-manicured. Tom squeezed her hand, and its sheer warmth calmed him. It felt good to have someone who understood. He noticed her nails and was gratefully distracted. Looking at the hot pink, he said, “It always seemed incongruous that your nails are so short. For whatever reason, I’ve always expected long, dangerous, and bejeweled.”
She chuckled, “With as much time as I spend on a keyboard, I don’t have a choice. But if I did, I can’t tell you the wonders you would see on the ends of my fingers!”
They both laughed. A moment passed between them. He looked into her blue eyes, felt better, and then anxiety smacked him across the face.
Tom said, “We can accomplish so much good if this works. I just want to be sure we’re not mixing the pasta and the antipasta.”
“Kinda late to be asking that question, and it’s antipasto, but okay, no, we are not messing with Mother Nature. If we can accomplish this, then we have to see it through.”
Tom squeezed her hand again, now doubting every decision he’s made. “Is it really best to send a watermelon through first? I mean, is that the best choice?”
Lori chuckled. “Hell yeah! What could be better? Whatever we send has to be organic. We don’t want to use an animal, too messy with the activist groups. Using an orange would be cliché’. Watermelons have size and weight. I’d say it’s perfect, and if we succeed, we can throw a picnic and eat it afterward.” Lori indicates her stomach and traces a line down to her crotch, “Or we could play connect the dots with the seeds?”
The computer beeped behind them. Tom turned and looked at the screen. “Bruce has everything ready. Time to go.” Tom raced out into the outer office. Lori took an exasperated deep breath and followed. Jerzy turned to them as soon as the door opened.
Tom smiled at him and said, “Want to see history in the making?”
Jerzy laughed, “You know I do!” He began to gather up his notepad and phone.
“Then let’s get moving. History waits for no man!”
They all headed to the lab to attempt to send a watermelon through time.
About the Author:
Thomas White began his
career as an actor. Several years later he found himself as an Artistic
Director for a theatre in Los Angeles and the winner of several
Drama-Logue and Critics awards for directing. As Tom’s career grew, he
directed and co-produced the world tour of “The Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtles: Coming Out Of Their Shells”. The show toured for over two
years, was translated into seven different languages and seen by close
to a million children. Tom served as President and Creative Director for
Maiden Lane Entertainment for 24 years and worked on many large-scale
corporate event productions that included Harley Davidson, Microsoft,
Medtronic Diabetes, and dozens of others. The Edison Enigma is Tom’s third novel following up Justice Rules which was nominated as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2010 Literary contest, and The Siren’s Scream.
