9 Hell on Wheels

About the Author

Like the character Odelia Grey, Sue Ann Jaffarian is a middle-aged, plus-size paralegal. In addition to the Odelia Grey mystery series, she is the author of the paranormal Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series and the Madison Rose Vampire mystery series. Sue Ann is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

Other titles in the Odelia Grey series include
Too Big to Miss
(2006),
The Curse of the Holy Pail
(2007),
Thugs and Kisses
(2008),
Booby Trap
(2009),
Corpse on the Cob
(2010),
Twice As Dead
(2011),
Hide & Snoop
(2012), and
Secondhand Stiff
(2013).

Visit Sue Ann on the Internet at www.sueannjaffarian.com
and
www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com.

Copyright Information

Hell on Wheels: An Odelia Grey Mystery
© 2014 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2014

E-book ISBN: 9780738732343

Cover design and illustration by Ellen Lawson

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

For Heide van den Akker.
Thanks for being such a great friend.

One

The crash was not
a surprise. I saw it coming, steeling myself for the inevitable sound of metal hitting metal at a high, reckless speed. The final impact rattled my teeth and took my breath away. It always did.

Shouts and mild profanity filled the thick air, yelled with both anger and excitement. Next to me, on my left, my husband, Greg Stevens, was pumping his fist high as he cheered. His favorite team, the Laguna Lunatics, was ahead.

It’s called murderball.

The official name is quad rugby. It’s a game played by quadriplegics in wheelchairs on a regulation basketball court. It’s also an official Paralympic sport. The object of the game is to get the ball past the other team’s goal. It’s fast, brutal, and exciting. Using special wheelchairs that look like modified
Mad Max
bumper cars, players slam into each other with no thought of injury. Sometimes they tip and the occupants, usually secured by a safety belt, go down with them onto the hardwood floor. Think sacks of flour from a tipped hand truck and you get the picture.

My name is Odelia Patience Grey, and until I met Greg, I didn’t even know the sport of quad rugby existed. Now every November we pilgrimage down to Balboa Park in San Diego for the Best of the West tournament. Greg would love to play. Even if he hadn’t told me so many times, I can see it in his eyes. They light up like high beams on a dark road whenever we attend the tournament or go to any of the regular games and practices.

My husband is an excellent athlete. He plays basketball, golf, and tennis; he surfs and sails, and he has taken self-defense courses. He doesn’t let being in a wheelchair stop him from doing anything he wants to do. He even jumped from an airplane on his last birthday. It was something he’d always wanted to do, and I reluctantly had given it to him as a gift. I went to watch and get it on video, but the whole time my heart was in my throat, along with my breakfast.

But quad rugby is something Greg can’t do. It’s a sport only open to quadriplegics—men and women who have impairment to some degree in all four of their limbs. Greg is a paraplegic, with full use of his hands and arms. Who knew that the one sport he’s dying to try would be something he’s too able-bodied to play?

Greg has lots of friends who play quad rugby. A few of them—players with more mobility in their upper extremities—also play on some of the wheelchair basketball teams in Greg’s league.

The Municipal Gymnasium at Balboa Park was like most any gym found anywhere in the world. It’s a huge no-frills building reminiscent of an airplane hangar and large enough to hold two full-size basketball courts, with a generous middle section for bleachers facing both courts and a wide open space for mingling. The floors are hardwood, the walls scarred, and the air a mix of sweat, wood polish, and rubber that no cleaning product or room freshener could ever abolish. Defeat, competition, and triumph filled the room like the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

We were watching the Laguna Lunatics take on the Fresno Flash. Our friend Richard Henderson, better known as Rocky, played for the Lunatics. His wife, Miranda, sat next to me on the bleachers to my right. Two years ago after a tournament, she’d confessed to me that she hated quad rugby. She’d been drunk at the time. We were in the ladies’ room at the hotel where several of the players, along with their families and friends, had been celebrating the end of the tournament and the Lunatics’ win. I had been holding Miranda’s hair while she knelt on the dubious floor in one of the stalls and puked. She all but pinkie swore me to secrecy after—not about the vomiting but about her feelings toward the game her husband loved second only to her. But she need not have worried. I’m a firm believer in the sanctity of the ladies’ room. If someone trusts you enough to hold her hair while she pukes, then you’d better not screw her over by divulging any secrets she spills along with her dinner, even if some of that dinner splashes onto your new blue shoes that you didn’t buy on sale. It’s like a priest hearing confession, but messier.
I didn’t even tell Greg.

Crash!
Kevin Spelling, a California golden boy with curly blond locks, wide shoulders, and upper arms thick as redwoods, smashed into an opposing player. He flashed a toothy grin of perfect white teeth as the ball came loose and was regained by the Lunatics. He’d been injured in a surfing accident when he was barely twenty-one and was now in his early thirties.

A few rows behind us, Samantha Franco jumped to her feet and screamed with enthusiasm as her husband, Jeremy—one of the new players on the Lunatics—took the ball down the court for the score.

Almost as soon as the ball was back in play, the jarring sound of collision filled the air, battling with the shouts and crashes coming from the other court for attention, as if the noise was a competition. Each crash rattled my teeth. I could only imagine what it felt like on the court. Another crash, and next to me Miranda jumped to her feet. On the court in front of us, Rocky was on the floor. Strapped into his tank of a wheelchair, he floundered on his back like a flipped sea turtle. A whistle sounded, and the game stopped. The coach of the Lunatics, Able Warren, and his assistant, his
college
-aged nephew Ian, ran onto the court from the sidelines. Ian was holding a very large piece of cardboard, like a large appliance box that had been dismantled and flattened. They stuck the cardboard under the wheelchair, wedging it under the small back wheels used for spinning and quick turns, and righted Rocky. The crowd cheered. As soon as he was stable, the cardboard was removed and the whistle blew to resume play. The whole exercise took about ten seconds. A NASCAR pit crew could take lessons.

Seeing Rocky upright again, Miranda plopped back down on the bench. “I’ll never get used to that.” Her face was stony with worry. “Never.”

I reached an arm around Miranda and gave her a quick motherly hug. She was young, not even out of her twenties, and on the flighty side. Rocky was in his late thirties. Being in my mid-fifties, I was closer in age to the parents of many players than to their significant others. Even Greg, at ten years my junior, was long in the tooth next to most of the players.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “A little fall is not going to hurt him. Considering what Rocky and these other players have been through, this is nothing. They’re made of steel.”

Which was true, considering how many of the players had undergone multiple surgeries following the various accidents and injuries that had placed them in the chairs in the first place. Some of the players had lost limbs to illnesses, like one star player who played without all four limbs. Using rubber sleeves on the stumps of his arms, which had been amputated just above the elbow, he could smoke most of the players as he headed down the court. He could catch the ball and even throw it a short distance with accuracy. Any scrapes and bumps received playing quad rugby were child’s play compared to what these people had already been through. Even Greg had gone through hell and back in his rehabilitation after injuring his spine during a bad fall while in his early teens. When we first started dating, I had been concerned about him injuring himself further, but in time I had learned to go with the flow—or at least not to voice my worry. Miranda hadn’t quite gotten there yet even though she and Rocky had been married several years.

It was almost as if these men and women, after being thrown against the wall and physically broken, were looking fate in the eye with all the brass and balls they could muster and yelling, “Is that the best you’ve got?” They were courageous, with an ain’t-got-nothing-to-lose cockiness that most people could never command—certainly not me.

When the game was over, Greg and I caught up with Rocky and some of the other players in the middle of the gymnasium. Miranda wasn’t there. She was probably in the ladies’ room, hopefully just to pee and not vomit. Using my smartphone, I took several photos of Greg with the players, Rocky with his team, and the gym crowd in general.

Today was Sunday, the last day of the tournament. At the end of the last round, it was down to just four teams. Two would play for third and fourth place, two for first and second. The Lunatics had won their game, putting them in the finals for first or second place.

We were standing around chatting in a large, boisterous group when my phone rang. The ringtone was that of an old-fashioned phone—the ringtone I’d assigned to my mother. In fact, both Greg and I had that sound set on our phones for Mom. For his mother we both had the tinkling of bells. At the sound Greg turned his attention to me, curious about the call. I shrugged in his direction and excused myself, stepping just outside the gym to hear better.

“Hi Mom, everything okay?”

Mom was staying at our house to look after things while we were in San Diego. Usually we would bring our golden retriever, Wainwright, with us to the tournament. Many of the players had dogs, and many were goldens. Wainwright loved the canine camaraderie. But this year Greg and I had decided to leave Wainwright at home with our cat, Muffin, and treat ourselves to a longer weekend and a romantic hotel on the beach. Even with the crisp air of November, we loved the beach and made our home in Seal Beach in north Orange County.

My mother, Grace Littlejohn, had moved from New Hampshire to California this past year and made the perfect house and pet sitter. She’d bought a condo in a nearby retirement community that was far enough away for us to lead separate lives.

“Everything’s fine here,” my mother confirmed in her clipped voice, “but Steele called and said he needs to talk to you. He said he tried your cell but it wasn’t working.”

Michael Steele is my boss, a real pain in the ass who had studied the fine art of arrogance along with the law. We both work for a firm called Templin and Tobin, better known as T&T, in their Orange County office. I serve as their corporate paralegal. Steele is the managing partner of the office. Mike Steele calls everyone he works with by their last name, so I’m Grey, and I call him Steele. It’s like we’re in the military or part of a sports team. My mother calls him Steele also, much to his amusement.

“My phone is working just fine, Mom. I just didn’t answer it when he called.”

“He said he tried Greg’s phone too.”

“Greg and I are out of town, having a mini vacation. Steele knows that. We are both ignoring him.”

“Well,” Mom said, drawing out the short word into a three-syllable extravaganza of disapproval. “Steele is your boss, and you wouldn’t want to get fired if something went wrong.”

I sighed. “Don’t worry, Mom. Steele is not going to fire me, and I doubt he has an emergency. But tell you what: if he calls again—and he will—tell him I’ll call him back tonight when we get to our hotel. Is everything else okay at the house?”

While I chatted on the phone, I saw a man in a wheelchair making his way from the far end of the parking lot to the gymnasium. He was dressed in the uniform of the Ventura Vipers—the team that would play the Lunatics in the playoff for first place. It seemed odd that he’d be out here instead of getting ready to play, but I didn’t have the time or the brain cells to think much more about it with Mom talking on the other end.

“Everything is just fine and dandy,” she reported. “Wainwright and I walked down to the beach a little while ago. Oh, and you’re almost out of treats, both dog and kitty.”

“Yeah, I forgot them when I went shopping, but they’ll live until we get home. Besides, you tend to spoil them rotten with treats.”

I knew that last comment would fall on deaf ears. Mom loved Muffin and Wainwright almost as much as she loved her real grandchildren by my half brother Clark. She’d grown attached to our old cat, Seamus, last November on her visit, and when he passed away she took it very hard and started spoiling our other two fur babies as a way of overcompensating for the loss. She’s been talking about getting a cat of her own, and both Greg and I think it would be a great idea. For Christmas we might take Mom around to the pet adoption places and let her pick one out.

Mom was yammering again about Steele, reminding me not to forget to call him, but I was only half listening. I wanted to get back and settle in for the big game. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll get in touch with Steele when I can. I have to get back now.”

As I stashed my phone back into my bag, I turned and collided with the man I’d seen crossing the parking lot, nearly landing my two hundred twenty pounds in the poor guy’s lap. As if he didn’t already have enough injuries.

Quickly, I righted myself. “I am so sorry,” I told him in an embarrassed rush. “I should pay more attention to where I’m going.”

“That’s okay, pretty lady.”

Using one curved hand and arm, he secured some sports bottles nestled in his lap. Using his other arm, he tried to steady me as best he could. He was handsome and well built—an Asian with coal-black eyes, shiny black hair, and a smile just crooked enough to be rakish instead of odd. And the way he looked at me told me he knew he was the total package and I should be honored to be in his presence. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. He was sitting in a regular wheelchair, not a rugby one. I’d seen the Vipers play before but didn’t recognize this guy.

“Name’s Peter Tanaka.” He looked me up and down, appraising the goods. “And I love me some chubby cougar.”

“I’m Odelia.” I flashed my left hand in his direction, showing off my impressive diamond ring and wedding band. “And I’m married.”

He shrugged. “Most of the good ones are.” He maneuvered even closer and gave me a smoldering look. “But you haven’t lived until you’ve had a gimp. Trust me. We know how to treat a lady.”

“Back off, Tanaka,” came an angry and familiar voice. “She already has a gimp in her life, and I treat her very well.”

Greg rolled up and forced his chair between Peter Tanaka and me. I stepped back to make room. Peter didn’t budge an inch. Around us, people who’d come outside to catch some fresh air between games stopped to watch the confrontation.

“Well, if it isn’t Greg Stevens. It’s been a long time.” Peter glanced at me. “So this is your lady?”