Cozy Mystery
Date Published:10/11/2016
Publisher: 4-D Publishing
Roberta
Sedgewick is stuck in a house that is too empty without her beloved
Burton—the rat died and left her with his dog and rooms that rattle. She
convinces her three golfing buddies, all in their seventies, to sell
their homes and buy adjoining condos. The widows intend to spend the
rest of their days golfing, gambling at the casino, and having fun. Oh,
the heaven of it. But then they all hire the same maid who uncovers
long-hidden criminal secrets kept by each woman. Oh, the horror of it.
The reputations of their deceased husbands, a banker, a minister, and a
respected farmer, will be tarnished forever. Three of the widows could
face jail time, and the fourth fears for her life. Whatever will they do
with the conniving, blackmailing maid?
EXCERPT
I catch my breath. This could be it. To make sure, I draw the newspaper almost
to my nose and read the listing again. Right here in the real estate section of
the Vista Harbor Chronicle is the
answer. The date in the corner reads July 7, only four days ago. A happy dance
springs within me, but I control the urge. No customer sitting at a high table
in a bistro needs to witness a lady past her prime make a fool of herself.
Instead, I jig my fists below the table in a silent yes, yes, yes. I’ve found the condos. Life at age seventy-two is
about to change. I slide from the stool and head for the door, hoping no one
notices the newspaper tucked under my left arm.
“Thank
you, Mrs. Sedgewick,” the coffee gal calls after me. She saw the paper, and
that’s her way of letting me know. Without looking back, I waggle my right hand
above my shoulder and push open the door.
Outside,
I dig through my Gucci for my phone. I love my hobo bag, but don’t like
searching for whatever drops to the bottom. I need to figure that out. I also
don’t like the dark face of the phone in the bright sunlight. Phone people need
to figure that out.
I
move under the umbrella of a red maple. In filtered light, I send a text to my
three buddies. Meet me at the clubhouse.
I have a surprise. I shuffle a little smart-step, unable to hide my joy.
I’m still light on my feet even though my hair has turned soft white. I avoid
coloring it but fight other signs of aging with a diet pill once in a while and
wrinkle cream rubbed in nightly. Like most Pisces, I’m proud, a bit vain, and
not afraid to admit it. I hop into my reliable Subaru.
A
hand grabs the top part of the car door.
I
gasp and brace against the seat.
A
careworn woman stands there like a waif. “I did naught mean to startle you. I noticed you did a jig step before
getting into your car and wondered if you are from Scotland. I’m so homesick
for the heather.” She’s medium height, medium weight—medium all the way around.
Her flyaway hair is sandy, and her sad eyes show more burnished gold than green.
She removes her hand from the top of the door. “I’m sorry for intruding.”
“No
need to be. I’m not from Scotland, but some distant relatives were. They mixed
with my English ancestors, so I’m blessed with a good dose of Highland
merriment and English good sense that battle each other. I hope you find your
way back to the heather.” I close the car door. It thuds softly, not a hard
slam to show dismay. So often anymore I’m prone to sharpness and a quick
tongue, followed by guilt. Or else I rattle on about nothing and don’t worry
about it.
The
Scottish woman walks away, spine stiff, head high. An odd, lonely woman, but
likable.
A
sense of uncertainty chases around my shoulders. I banish it with a glance at
my watch. There’s enough time to run by Jones Realty and arrange for a showing
of the condos this afternoon. I tilt the rearview mirror and apply a boost of
blush, lip gloss, and a dab of liquid concealer by my left eyelid—the dang
droopy thing. There. All is repaired
well enough to see Ned Jones, the realtor.
Before
I swing into the late morning traffic on Harbor Drive, a white-knuckle thought
smacks into my gray matter. The newspaper is only a few days old, but what if
someone already bought one of the units? What a terrible thought. I press
harder on the accelerator and zip through Vista Harbor, the alpine resort
community I call home. It’s a small town compared to Aspen or Big Sky, but it’s
more than big enough to accommodate tourists and newcomers. I don’t mind
sharing the beauty of my valley, my mountains, and my lakes. Sure, there’s room
for all, and yes, I claim ownership. This part of Montana belongs to me.
Ten
blocks later, after having to slam on the brakes to avoid the rear end of a
showoff car, I park next to a chalet-style house with a readerboard announcing
homes or acreage for folks to buy. Big black letters read, New on the Market. Four Single-Story Condominiums in the Harbor Hill
Area. Perfect. And no more stairs to climb.
I
straighten my skinny jeans, smooth my top, and walk inside the office. A clock
chimes the half hour . . . plenty of time before lunch.
Behind
a glass counter, inlaid with prize listings and a Sold banner across each, a young man thumbs through a stack of
listings and thoroughly ignores me. He must be the new assistant, and the talk
of the town, like any new buck. No cure for small towns and gossip.
“Is
Ned in?”
“No.”
The young squirt doesn’t bother to look up and continues to scan a paper,
nimble finger flying down the page.
I
lean a little onto my right side and place my jewel-covered fingers on the
counter, thrumming them on the most expensive listing. “Just tell your boss our
mom called from the nursing home and wants more money.”
The
kid makes eye contact. “You’re his sista?”
“No,
but you should treat me like I am. Do I hear Boston in your accent?”
“Yah.”
“Moving
to a small town is an adjustment. Attitude counts.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
Satisfied I have his attention, I say, “I
would like to see those newly listed condos at 2:00 this afternoon.”
“The
ones out on Harbor Hill?”
I
nod. “The ones with the same name as the golf course, ski mountain, and every
other place that isn’t called Alpine or Vista. What’s the street number?”
“101.
Ned is showing a unit now.” The kid tries not to smirk. He doesn’t make it. His
brown-flecked eyes shine with mischief. They probably always do. He’s a young
devil, I can tell, and figure he’s teasing me.
“Please
inform him Roberta Sedgewick will be at the condos at 2:00 this afternoon. If
he can’t make it, have him call me. He has the number.” Halfway out the door, I
lean back inside. “Oh, by the way, I’m interested in buying all four and may be
interested in listing four pieces of prime property. Like the kind you have
there under glass on your counter. Tell him not to sell any of the units until
we talk. Understood?”
I
chuckle to myself as the door closes. I’m bad.
Marie lives in a fertile valley at the base of the Rocky Mountains. She enjoys a quiet life where laughter comes easy, love easier. She invites you to join in her rich, rural memories on her website where she has posted a memoir of her early childhood and raising her family of four children.
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