Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer

THE MOM ZONE MYSTERIES
By Sara Rosett

MOVING IS MURDER

STAYING HOME IS A KILLER

Staying Home Is a Killer

Sara Rosett

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

To Edna, Faye, and Marguerite
The three best grandmothers a girl could have.

Frost Fest

February 19–26

Dreams Take Flight

Beat the winter doldrums at the Vernon, Washington, twelfth annual Frost Fest celebration This year Frost Fest salutes Vernon’s rich aviation history

EXHIBIT: Retrospective of Flight in Vernon Historic photos and memorabilia capture the role men and women from Greenly AFB played in aviation from WWII to the present

ART SHOW: local artists’ work featured in downtown galleries

STUDENT ART SHOW: Artwork from Vernon public school students displayed throughout the Sky Mall and Sky Walk

Free hot chocolate Discounted ice-skating at Memorial Plaza Pond Sales at downtown retailers and restaurants

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter One

A
s soon as I opened the door to the 52nd Air Refueling Squadron I knew something was off. Penny Follette held open the inner door at the top of the incline, her smile radiating like a beacon in the dim light.

Penny didn’t radiate. In fact, she was usually unnoticeable. “Penny, are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Penny said as frigid wind sliced across the back of my neck before the squadron’s outer door thudded shut. I lurched up the steep hallway to the squadron. The incline was a safety feature left over from the Cold War. The squadron, located in the old alert facility at Greenly Air Force Base in eastern Washington State, had once housed rotating shifts of aircrews ready to respond to nuclear threats. I guess the steep walkways had been designed to slow down Communists raiding the building. They certainly slowed me down.

And I’m not that fast to begin with since I lug a small arsenal of toys, diapers, wipes, and snack food in a diaper bag, not to mention my twenty-month-old daughter, Livvy.

I squeezed through the inner door, dropped the diaper bag and my purse, a fuchsia Belen Echandia shoulder bag I’d snapped up from eBay, at my feet.

I’ll admit it—I’m a bagoholic. I’m addicted to purses. They’re my one indulgence. Well, that’s not strictly true because I indulge in chocolate, too. But that’s it. Only two indulgences. My fuchsia bag provided a nice bright spot on an otherwise dreary day, just like my purses provided the only stylish accent in my typical Mommy ensemble of sweaters, sweatshirts, jeans, and snow boots. I was too tired to coordinate outfits. All I could manage right now were purses with panache. Later, maybe when Livvy went to kindergarten, I’d try to accessorize. I shifted Livvy to my other arm. She wiggled and said, “Pen! Pen!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked again.

Penny was practically glowing. She pushed her dull brown braid over her shoulder and reached for Livvy. “Hello there, little Livvy,” she murmured. Even in the dim hall, in her droopy gray sweater and sagging broomstick skirt, Penny looked luminous. “I’m wonderful.” Her smile’s wattage edged up another notch. “The most amazing thing has happened. I’m dying to tell you.” She sighed, “But I can’t. I promised.”

She handed Livvy back. Her petite size forced her to look up at me as she grinned mischievously. “I’ll call you this afternoon and tell you.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. In the year and a half that I’d known her, I’d never seen Penny look mischievous. And I’d gotten to know her pretty well since Penny and her husband, Will, another pilot in the same squadron as my husband, lived down the street from me. She was one of my most dependable babysitters for Livvy.

She slung her scuffed backpack off her shoulder and pulled a small gold bag out of a webbed side pocket. A crossword puzzle book fell from the pocket to the floor. “Here. Won’t be eating these anymore.” She shoved the gold bag at me, then picked up the book and put it away. “You take them. Then I won’t be tempted.” The curly font on the bag read
Chocolate Covered Espresso Beans.

I tried to give them back. “I don’t even like coffee. You love coffee.” My hands were full enough with Livvy squirming, but I knew better than to set her down. She’d motor away around a corner and I’d have to chase her down.

Penny continued to paw around in her bag. “I don’t want them. Throw them away if you don’t like them.”

“I’ll drop them off at Mitch’s office. Someone will eat them.”

Penny paused in her search of her backpack. “There is one thing I need to talk to you about.” Her face still glowed, but her brown eyes were serious. “The thing last year.” She hesitated, tucked a strand of wiry hair back into her braid. “Well. You figured it out.”

I’d been embroiled in a search for a murderer in the squadron. “I didn’t really…” I said.

“Yes, you did. You knew something was wrong and didn’t let it go. I think I need someone to—”

The outer set of doors clanged open. Icy air gusted up the incline and snaked through the cracks under the inner doors. We shifted to make room. Penny stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the flight crew laboring up the incline. Livvy went still in my arms, her attention on the heavy tread and voices that echoed up the vaultlike incline. Penny’s face shuttered. She zipped her backpack, heaved it up on her shoulder.

I blinked at her abrupt change. Penny was back in her usual lurk mode, fading into the wallpaper. Captain Zeke Peters, the pilot, led the crew. His tall figure filled the doorway as he said, “Come on. I’ve got to be out of here in an hour.”

The next guy, Staff Sergeant Rory Tyler, strolled through the door. “She’s not going to leave without you,” he said. His round glasses reflected the light from the hallway, and I couldn’t see his expression as he held the door open for the last crew member.

Zeke smiled at us and strode down the hall, saying over his shoulder, “Yeah, but you don’t have to ride all the way to Seattle with her if you’re late, so get a move on.”

First Lieutenant Aaron Reed, the copilot, didn’t look at us, just ducked his head with his thin blond hair as he stowed his hat in the ankle pocket of his flight suit, then hurried to catch up with the other two men as they continued down the hall. Their heavy flight bags and pub briefcases bumped against their legs, giving them an exaggerated swagger.

As she watched the departing men, I caught a change in Penny’s expression that I couldn’t identify, a flicker of fear or anger in her eyes? “Are you sure you’re okay?” I’d never seen Penny’s mood zigzag. Her emotions were usually as straightforward as a ruler.

“I’m fine.” Penny pulled her gaze back to me. “Later? Can we get together?”

“Sure. I’m going to lunch with Mitch, but I’ll be home this afternoon.” With Mitch scheduled to leave in two weeks for a forty-five-day deployment to the “sandbox,” the nickname for the desert, we were trying to spend as much time together as we could. “What have you been doing today?” I asked.

“I’ve been over at the Mansion interviewing General Bedford for an article about Frost Fest.” The Mansion, a large antebellum-style building complete with portico, held the wing commander’s office and various base VIPs.

“You’re interviewing the wing commander about Frost Fest? Is he on a committee or something?”

“No. It’s a human interest story. Bedford’s dad was stationed here in the sixties and flew B-52s. Interesting angle, from military brat to wing commander.”

“What does that have to do with Frost Fest?” I was still confused.

“Every year the organizing committee tries to showcase some aspect of Vernon. Last year it was the River. This year it’s the base. The theme is ‘Dreams Take Flight’ and there’s going to be an exhibit about Greenly along with an art show with local artists. I’m putting together a press kit with human interest write-ups for the media.”

Maybe her volunteer job was the source of her sudden animation? “So you like being on the committee?”

“It’s fine. Volunteer work to keep me in touch.” She shrugged. Obviously not the source of her excitement, from her bland response. “Still no openings at the universities,” she continued. “What can I say? Middle Eastern art archivists are not in high demand.” With Penny’s fadeaway personality it was easy to forget she held a doctorate in ancient Middle Eastern art. “At least it gives me something to put on my resume.”

“And you’re teaching art appreciation, too.”

“Just continuing ed, though.” Her mouth quirked down. “Not very impressive.”

“Teaching is teaching,” I insisted, trying to encourage her. We’d been over the woes of being a trailing spouse. Wonderful designation, trailing spouse. Makes spouses sound like we have a chronic disease that causes lethargy, but it meant we were trying to get a job at the new duty station. It was even harder for Penny because her skills were so specialized.

“Oh!” Her lips twitched up and her energy level zoomed up again. “I meant to tell you. Guess who showed up last week at my class? You’ll never guess. Clarissa Bedford.”

“The wing commander’s wife?” I transferred Livvy to my other arm and leaned in closer. “Ms.
Cosmo
? Why?” I’d met Mrs. Bedford during a spouse orientation flight, a flight that lets the spouses go on a local sortie to see an AR, an air refueling. It was hard to think of her as Mrs. Bedford, since that name brought to mind a middle-aged matron. Clarissa Bedford was anything but matronly.

When she arrived for the orientation flight she’d glanced around, said a vague hello to everyone in the vicinity, and then commandeered one of the airline seats. She’d tossed her brown curls over her shoulder and spent the rest of the time flicking through a
Cosmo
, red nails flashing each time she turned a glossy page. I couldn’t imagine her being interested in art appreciation.