Mayhem Takes a Dare: The Second Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 2) (8 page)

Janine pulled herself to her feet. She jabbed a finger at her own mouth. “You see this insatiable maw? It eats everything in sight! I had to have an operation to slow down its sucking up of food!”

As Marisa rose and put her arms around the trembling shoulders, the door creaked open. Marisa twisted her head to see who it was. As a group, they had to be careful. Since their meetings were held in one of the Sunday school rooms of the church, they didn’t want church members who were in the building after hours to accidentally wander into their group and overhear their discussions.

The figure at the door hesitantly poked its head into the room. The face was covered by a dark ski mask. The torso and arms were covered by a baggy gray sweatshirt.

Confused, Marisa thought,
Ski mask and sweatshirt? Could it be Henry Worthington, head of the Church of the Eternal Devotion, who always attended meetings in disguise?

The figure slipped into the room. Below the ratty shirt, he was naked.

Definitely a “he,”
thought Marisa, her fingers tightening on Janine’s shoulders.
But definitely not Henry Worthington.

He ran gracefully around the circle of frozen men and women.

Like children playing duck, duck, goose
, thought Marisa in shock as he skipped past her.

The long, white legs were bony, the hips nearly fleshless. His manhood was jiggling as his legs pumped up and down.

Marisa couldn’t seem to move. Her eyes involuntarily flicked to Fred. Since he had been the hero of the dramatic conclusion of the incident involving Marisa and a crazed murderer, Fred had been carrying himself more confidently, walking straighter, and he had a new glint in his eye. She was also fairly sure his belly, while still large, had shrunk.

Fred’s blue eyes, rounder than ever with shock, met hers.

She found herself expecting him to do something.

Fred must have felt it. In a single fluid motion, Fred rose from his chair and hefted the heavy suitcase from its place at his feet. In the suitcase was The Library.

Marisa was fairly certain The Library defied several laws of physics. The battered case held all of the literature associated with the group. Addiction books, newcomer notebooks, and pamphlets were all neatly housed in The Library’s compartments. Marisa had seen the contents spread out on tables on several occasions. The stacks of books and papers were three times the size of the suitcase. Therefore, she was certain The Library had to be larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. She wondered if Fred stood inside the open case, would he be folded up neatly and completely in one of the compartments?

As the half-naked man passed the half-way point of the circle, Fred cut directly across to intercept him.

Through the holes in the ski mask, the intruder saw the older man headed for him. Breaking into an energetic sprint, he outran the lumbering Fred and his Library and sped out the open door.

Increasing his pace, Fred followed him out into the hallway.

Several people surged from their chairs to follow Fred.

As everyone started talking at once, asking one another questions to which no one knew the answers, Marisa ran over to the small, high windows set in the concrete wall. She hopped up on a chair.

Although it was nearly nine o’clock, it was still faintly light outside. She watched as the nearly naked man jumped into a car, revved the engine, and squealed out of the parking lot. Although it was too far for her to read the license plate, she was fairly certain it was a plain, Kentucky plate. It wasn’t one of those farm plates or specialized plates with pictures of deer or butterflies or children’s handprints.

Through the window, Marisa could see Fred. He stood in the parking lot, The Library locked and loaded, shaking his fist at the disappearing car.

“Wow, what a freak!” Cindy settled back into her chair.

Jason, his earrings catching the light and his arms dark with intricate tattoos, raised one brow at the irony. “He should have sat down and joined us instead of running off. I’d hazard a guess he has an issue with exhibitionism.”

Fred jogged back into the room. He plumped into his seat, panting and sweating. “God knows I’ve seen a lot of things in these meetings in the past twenty odd years. But I have never seen anything like that!”

 “Clay, how do you know Moira Peters?” Althea’s voice came out as a wheeze.
After all that energetic dancing
, she thought,
it’s a wonder I can get out more than gasps.

The loud beat of the music reached them out on the patio. Light from the huge dance hall spilled out, with the glittering diamonds of the spinning disco ball painting the dark shrubs and trees with a dizzying round of colorful lights.

Althea practically reeled into the metal patio chair.

His exertion level seemingly on a par with a leisurely stroll around a garden, Clay slid into the chair across the table from her. Even though it was dark, the umbrella was up.

Althea glanced around the deserted outdoor sitting area. There were a few other people, disguised by the darkness, sitting at various tables. She could see the glow of a cigarette at one end, and hear the muted laughter at another. Just beyond the patio, she could see the parking lot. It was filled with empty buses and vans, which transported the folks of the area assisted living centers and the senior citizen’s center for a huge dance.
A mixer it would have been called in the old days,
she thought.

Althea continued to wait. She knew Clay had heard her and would answer her question when he was ready. In the darkness, the warm breeze touched Althea’s heated cheeks and arms, fluttering strands of her dark hair with its gray streaks and her silky green dress. Surrounded by trees, the community center gave the illusion of a country setting. Only the occasional sound of a car reminded her that the center was actually quite close to the city.

“Thea, I knew Moira many years ago. What we had between us died a—” Clay paused, and looked around him. Because of the widely spaced tables, the other dancers enjoying a respite were well out of earshot. “—fiery death many, many years ago. Moira Peters is toxic. I don’t want what you and I have to be contaminated by her.”

Althea placed her thin hand on top of Clay’s warm, solid one. “From what I saw earlier this afternoon at the assisted living center, and here at the dance tonight, Moira Peters is poisonous. Even though she has her pick of the unattached men, and has even collected a fairly large group of them, she still tried to lure Sonny O’Brien away from Mrs. Craft.”

Clay nodded. “In the wake of her sarcastic attacks and her willful disregard for others, she leaves wreckage and debris.”

Althea wondered if and when Clay would tell her about Moira’s outrageous claim of being married to him. She was torn. On the one hand, the great risk of eavesdropping was hearing only a fragmented part of the story. On the other hand, she did not want to be associated romantically with a legally married man. Althea sighed. Regardless, a disco dance was neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter. Resolutely, Althea tried to push her doubts from her mind.

As a figure strode through the open door to the patio, Althea looked up. The set of the shoulders and the ambling gait were familiar. “Fred!”

In the moonlight, Fred’s smile flashed. “Hello, Mrs. Flaxton!”

Although a city bus driver by day, Fred also moonlighted driving vans and buses for the various senior organizations. Tonight, he’d brought a load of patients from the rehabilitation wing of the trauma hospital. As a former patient of the hospital, Althea knew the nursing staff referred to outings as POOP…Patients Out On Pass.

“You looked great out on the dance floor a bit ago.” Althea smiled at the sweat on Fred’s forehead and his slight panting.

“Mrs. Ryder’s a great partner. She’s out of her wheelchair now, and even with her walker, she’s the ‘dancin’ queen of the disco’ tonight.” As the beat of the next disco song reached them, Fred executed his version of finger points and hip swinging.

“I’m surprised at the temerity of that young DJ, playing disco hits for a bunch of senior citizens. For most of us here tonight, disco was after our time.” Clay shared a smile with Althea.

“And most of us thinking, thank God for that,” Fred laughed.

“Could be the DJ’s passive-aggressive payback for getting stuck playing music on a Friday night for a bunch of oldsters,” mused Althea, sparing a fleeting thought to the sullen young man, his deft, expert hands manipulating his sound equipment in the huge dance hall.

“I tried to talk Clara into coming tonight, but she’d already made plans with her daughters and grandchildren.”

Since the incident several months ago which had resulted in the subsequent relocation of several residents from the Home Away From Home nursing home, Fred had visited the assisted living center several times. Althea believed the night Fred had loaded up a city bus of addiction support group members to ride to the rescue and save them all from a crazed killer was not on the highlight reel of Fred’s life, it was the highlight reel of his life. At the wistful note in his voice, Althea also guessed Fred was covertly courting Clara.

“Fred? Fred Wilkins?” Mrs. Craft, crossing the patio on her stilted shoes, stopped so suddenly she nearly tipped over.

Stringing their way across the patio, Moira Peters and her laughing entourage of elderly men bumped into Mrs. Craft.

Mrs. Craft stumbled on her pencil-thin heels. Wildly waving her arms, she began to fall.

“For God’s sake—” Moira tried to evade Mrs. Craft’s clutching hands.

With the same reflexes that kept The Library deftly away from people’s feet, Fred leaped forward and caught Mrs. Craft.

The moonlight was full on Fred’s face as Mrs. Craft looked up from his arms. “It is you!”

Althea noticed that, at the note of fearful accusation in Mrs. Craft’s voice, Moira stopped and abruptly turned toward them.

In slow motion, Fred put the elderly woman back on her feet. “Greta Craft. What are you doing here?”

Mrs. Craft’s laugh was bitter. “Living life to the fullest, that’s what. Did you think I’d curl up and die after Barton was murdered? Or maybe that’s what you hoped.”

“Murdered?” Fred’s normally affable voice was whip sharp. “That is so freakin’ funny it should be on one of those stand-up comedy shows. Murdered! Is a rabid dog murdered when it’s shot?”

“Regardless of how he died, did you think my life would just continue on as before?”

Fred’s face twisted in anger. “It couldn’t continue on as it did before! I wouldn’t let it!” He reached out to grab her. At the last moment, he seemed to realize they were not alone. His hands fell to his sides. Without a word, he turned abruptly on his heel and left.

Moira cocked her head. “I sense a mystery, Mrs. Craft. Who is Barton and what happened to him?”

Mrs. Craft seemed to shake herself free of her emotional stasis. She met Moira’s eyes squarely. “You and I are alike, Mrs. Peters. We’re both women who have done whatever it takes to get what we want.”

At what she saw in Mrs. Craft’s eyes, Moira moved back a step.

“Barton was a vicious, desperate man who put his fingers where they didn’t belong, and subsequently had them cut off. Don’t make the same mistake, Mrs. Peters. Not with me, and not with Clara.”

* * * * *

Back in her room, Althea wondered about the meaning of the scene she had witnessed. Given the raw comments she’d heard, there was a shared history between Fred and Mrs. Craft. And of course, given the pain and suffering, Moira Peters was right in the thick of it.

Althea pushed away her thoughts, and uncovered her typewriter. She fed a sheet of paper into the machine, and turned the knob to position it with a one-inch top margin. She placed her fingers on the keys.

Cross to Bear

By Seretha Ranier

Part Two

Tina wiped her eyes. A mourner paused briefly next to her chair to pat her shoulder. She must think I'm crying for Martin, Tina thought. In her peripheral vision, Tina saw the whip-thin funeral director making his way through the clusters of mourners. He stopped to speak to each person. In his wake, he left shocked expressions. As the director leaned over an older man with a wild shock of brown and gray hair, his thin body curved over the shorter man reminded Tina of a weeping willow tree. “Of course! Harrison Forsythe the Third!”

Following her gaze, Chris smiled, revealing a dimple. “Harry took over the family business when his father had a heart attack.”

Tina frowned in concentration. “The man with him looks familiar.” Mentally, Tina removed the gray from the hair and wrinkles from the face. “Phil McInk, our old bus driver!”

Across the room, Harry patted Phil on the shoulder of his school-issued uniform. Harry’s hands rose in consternation when Phil pulled away and strode toward the exit.

Tina wondered about the interaction. “What did my father mean by the Roadside Cross Ninja, Chris?”

Chris surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “You’ve seen those crosses grieving families erect at roadsides for victims of car crashes?”

Tina shifted closer to hear him. “Of course I’ve seen them, both on back roads and interstates. They’re ubiquitous.”

As the funeral director worked his way closer to Tina and Chris, she noticed her parents’ eyes avidly tracking his progress. When Tina saw her mother rub her blue-veined hands together in barely suppressed glee, her heart sank.

“The Roadside Cross Ninja has made it his mission in life to remove those crosses in the dead of night.”

Tina’s head snapped from her parents to Chris. “Why does he do that?” She thought for a moment. “They’re distracting, but if they make the family feel better—”

Chris shook his head. “I’m with the Ninja on this one. Remember my baby sister Diane?”

“Oh, Chris, I am so sorry. I didn’t hear about it until after the funeral. Diane and I were inseparable as girls. I think I spent more time at your house than I did at home.” She met his solemn brown eyes. “I always thought she looked like an angel with her curling blonde hair and her beautiful, clear blue eyes.”

“I remember driving the tractor one time, with you two bouncing along behind me on the tobacco setter. You were chattering as much as getting the tobacco plants in the plowed rows.” He winked, causing the skin at the corner of his eye to crinkle. “I slowed down. That way, you and Diane could talk and work!”

“What happened to Diane? The online news report just said she lost control of the car.”

“My sister and I were headed into the city. She was driving along the interstate and she saw one of those crosses at the side of the road. Diane was craning her neck, trying to read the inscription.” His face whitened. “I told her to get her eyes and attention on the road. It was too late. When she swerved off the shoulder and tried to get back on the road, she overcorrected. The car crashed. I had a few scratches. She didn’t make it.”

“Chris! I am so sorry!”

The funeral director sidled up to them and held out his hands to Tina. His long face was as white as alabaster above the solid black suit and tie. “My dear Martina! I am Harrison Forsythe the Third. We were in high school together, more years ago than I care to admit.” A subdued cough of laughter didn’t dislodge his solemn expression. “And I spent a few rebellious years as your brother’s friend. Along with Chris, of course.”

Chris rose slowly from his seat. Harry slapped his shoulder.

Tina noticed Chris inched away from the funeral director. Her body pulled unwillingly upright by courtesy, Tina briefly shook the funeral director’s freezing hand. “Mr. Forsythe.”

“Harry, please!”

Chris eased closer to Tina. “Hello, Harry.”

“You remember our bus driver, Phil?” Harry craned his head. “Where did he get off to? Perhaps he’s grabbing coffee in the lounge. We were just talking about how he used to take the snaky turns on the back roads so fast, students would be thrown from one side of the bus to the other.” The funeral director hacked softly, like a cat with a fur ball stuck in its throat. “It didn’t help when he used to take swigs from his hip flask! Remember how we all tried to call dibs on the very back seat? When Phil hit the dips in the roads, it was just like a rollercoaster.”

Oblivious to his audience’s silence, Harry turned to place a stiff, bony arm on Tina’s shoulder. “I was just telling Phil about the program we’ve established in Martin’s honor. You remember how much he loved to play pool with his buddies?” When neither Tina nor Chris responded, he continued, “Everyone is contributing money toward the funeral expenses based on billiards. The donations which correspond with the solid balls, numbered one through eight, are in denominations of one hundred through eight hundred dollars. For the striped balls, donations for numbers nine through fifteen range from nine hundred to fifteen hundred dollars.”

Harry pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from inside his jacket. “Martina, shall I put you down for fifteen hundred dollars, since you’re the deceased sister with a high-powered city job?”

Tina was appalled. “Mr. Forsythe—”

The funeral director raised his voice. “And you, Chris, or should I say Dr. Hanson, you earned your doctorate degree in agriculture and snagged some juicy research grants. You’re the most prosperous farmer in the county, if not the state.” With an ingratiating smile, Harry produced an expensive fountain pen. “Or perhaps you’d like to ‘run the table,’ so to speak, and donate twelve thousand dollars?”