Mayhem Takes a Dare: The Second Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 2) (6 page)

“But not all.” Dreamus was regretful.

“No, not all,” admitted Tara. “So, you slipped into the group tonight to try and figure out who is contacting the boys?”

“Young guys who think they have the chance to meet hot women, who then get tricked by a predator.”

Alex frowned. “Why don’t you just run down the user name and the IP address? Wouldn’t that be easier than dressing up and lurking among us on Friday nights?”

“The user name was deleted. The internet provider address took me to the public library. Since the library does not use surveillance cameras, it was a dead end. I decided to go undercover and ferret out the person by setting up the user name ‘King of the Cougars’.”

“But if the user name you were tracking was deleted—oh,” Marisa realized, “all they have to do is create a new one. Duh.”

“Has anyone approached the King of the Cougars?” Tara asked.

“Not yet, but I just started online a little over a week ago. I am hoping that by posting comments in the forum and showing myself in the gatherings, someone will approach me. And when he does, I’ll let him incriminate himself. Then, the judicial system can have him.” His smile was the baring of teeth, one predator on the trail of another predator.

Marisa and Tara both shivered.

“I noticed Bryce Walker was there tonight.”

Marisa pounced on Dreamus’ statement. “I bet he’s a smarmy quasi stockbroker who sells phony stocks!”

Dreamus twisted around in surprise. “No, actually the opposite. He went undercover a few months ago, and helped us catch a group of people who were fleecing elderly ladies out of their life savings. The leader of the scammers would even join the ladies in prayer, once they’d written their checks to him. It was Bryce’s testimony that sent them to jail.”

“Did you have him on a leash in court?”

Dreamus was thoughtful. “You know, Marisa, if I pictured you with a guy, it would be Bryce. He’s smart, educated, successful, and very good looking. His credentials are impeccable, and he’s scrupulously honest. He’s also extremely funny, in a quirky sort of way.”

Marisa didn’t think the last part was complimentary. “Hey—”

“But anyway, I know you and Parvis have something going.” Dreamus and Tara exchanged glances.

“Stop that, you two! Parvis and I are....” She frowned. “Maybe not friends, we just email back and forth, and that is all!”

Tara smirked. “You’re in relationship denial. You don’t want to admit you’ve contracted Parvo-virus.”

“Parvo-virus! Parvis is not a disease!”

“As much fun as this is,” Dreamus chuckled, “let’s get back to business. What was Brandon Proctor, the busybody trauma hospital receptionist, doing there?”

“Brandon was promoted to director of guest relations, although he does still spend some time at the front desk.” Marisa exchanged a glance with Alex. “He’s pursuing another user, Queen of the Classroom. I think he really has feelings for her.”

Tara whistled. “Taylor and Brandon? Taylor is a radical change from the worldly Widow Cranston. She’s an innocent high school teacher.”

Marisa shook her head. “Her name is not Taylor. It’s Sarah. She’s an exotic dancer at the club. She found the web address of the group in her abusive boyfriend’s web browser. Brandon doesn’t know any of that. I think he is truly in love with Sarah’s online persona.”

“Holy shit!”

Alex grimaced. “And Marisa and I have a date to play racquetball with them tomorrow. I think the holy shit will hit the fan.”

Should she tell Clay Napier the truth about her life? He thought she was just a retired schoolteacher. He didn’t know about her secret life as the writer Seretha Ranier. In her quiet room, Althea Flaxton shook her head. She’d asked herself the question hundreds of times since meeting the handsome and mysterious man. Her answer had always been no.

Althea asked herself why she refused to confide in him. Since they were both in their sixties, they were far from skittish teenagers. Why did she continue to hesitate? Was she afraid he would feel differently about her? Would he be angry with her? Would he think she should have told him sooner?

To distract herself from the ongoing, inner dialogue, Althea looked around in serene pleasure. Her suite was small, with a tiny bedroom and bathroom, and a miniature sitting room. The far door in her bedroom led to a balcony not much larger than her bathmat.

Althea sighed. She scooted her chair closer to her desk, and removed the cover from her ancient typewriter. She rolled a clean sheet of paper into the machine, and flexed her slightly stiff fingers. Her fingers moved on the keys, transferring the story from her imagination to the paper.

Cross to Bear

By Seretha Ranier

Part One

“The Roadside Cross Ninja had better keep his thieving mitts off Martin’s cross. So help me, I’ll smack the Ninja on the head with it!”

Her father’s strident, slightly slurred voice, thick with his Kentucky backwoods accent and Kentucky bourbon, snapped Tina Stovall out of her conflicted reverie. Just when she thought her brother’s funeral visitation couldn’t get more miserable, it did. She shifted, causing the uncomfortable folding chair to creak. Her eyes inadvertently met Chris Hanson’s solemn ones across the crowded funeral viewing area.

Chris responded to her glance by weaving his way through the groups of standing mourners. The subtle lighting caught the golden highlights in his short, light brown hair and the understated gray pinstripes in his navy jacket. His lean, muscular build drew a few admiring looks from females of all ages, in spite of the solemn setting.

Tina was trapped in her chair by a group of quietly chatting women dressed in their Sunday best dresses and shoes.
I have to stand my ground,
Tina thought. Firmly extinguishing the electric spark of attraction buzzing across her skin, she slumped back into the hard chair in resignation.

Chris perched on the chair next to her. His face had lost its boyish curves. In their place, his face was all hard planes and curves, too thin and intense to be handsome. His mouth curved in compassion. “Hello, Martina. I am so sorry about your brother Martin.”

Tina drew an angry breath. She promptly choked on the heavy, mourning smell of carnations and roses. “I had my name legally changed to Tina. I refused to keep the derivative of my brother’s name.”

“The youngest child, I think her name was Martinette, died when she was a baby, right?”

“Yes.” Tina didn’t add that her little sister’s cause of death was most likely shaken baby syndrome. She believed it was inflicted by their father during a drunken rage while their mother lolled in a whiskey-induced stupor on the ratty recliner they’d dragged back from the town dump.

“I heard Martin was on his way to the Crossroads Bar to burn it to the ground!” The excited whisper came from the woman seated behind Tina. “He was driving, and took the hairpin turn too fast. His big buddy Jason, who followed Martin around like a frisky puppy, was in the truck with him.”

Chris turned his head. Tina was sure he intended to tell the couple behind them that Martin’s sister was sitting in front of them. She squeezed Chris’ arm to silence him.

“My cousin Herman was one of the paramedics at the scene. Jason was a gibbering mess. He told the paramedics that Marin was on his way to show Nancy what happened to any woman who tried to end a relationship before he was ready to say it was over.”

“Who is Nancy?” The man next to the woman sounded bewildered.

“I’ve only mentioned it to you about a million times. You never listen. Nancy was his girlfriend. Or, at least, she was one of his girlfriends. Martin liked variety in the females. At the same time, he expected his women to be true to him, and stick around until he was done with them.”

“Nancy decided she was done with him? And Martin was mad because he was the one who got to say when it was done?”

“Bert, I swear, I’m going to quit talking to you.”

“Cindy, I can only hope that you quit talking—”

“What?” Cindy was outraged.

Bert backpedalled. A loud creaking came from behind Chris. “These chairs are so uncomfortable,” the man grumped. “That’s what I said.”

“We are here to mourn, not get comfortable.” The woman sounded smug and self-righteous. “Anyway, Nancy put everything she owned in the Crossroads bar. She couldn’t afford insurance, not to mention she lived in a room above the bar. If she heard that Martin was on his way there to burn down her life savings because she broke up with him, I bet she’s rejoicing his death, not mourning.”

Tina leaned nearer to Chris and whispered in his ear. “That was my brother Martin. It would take a well digger burrowing his way toward the center of the earth to find any scrap of humanity in Martin.”

“Regardless, Tina, he was your brother and he’s dead. I’m sorry you heard that conversation.” Chris put his hand over hers.

Tina was surprised to feel the roughness of Chris’ palm, as if he had been working at hard labor since she’d left town over a decade ago. She slid her hand from between Chris’ arm and hand.

“Wake up, you old goat!” Cindy sounded furious. “Don’t you be thinking you’ll get a nap when you get home, either. You have to fix the leaking sink.”

“I don’t have time to fix a sink. I’m going hunting with Herb.”

“I don’t know why I married you, Bert. I could have married Jonathan Hanson. I’d be living in a beautiful farmhouse, looking out the window at rolling green hills, expensive horses, and fertile crops in the fields.” She sighed.

“Did you forget your glasses again, or are you just too vain to wear them? There’s Chris Hanson right in front of you.” Bert raised his voice. “Chris! Call your father to come and get Cindy.”

“You old coot! I ought to divorce you. I can get on one of those dating sites and find myself a rich man to marry and take care of me.”

“You don’t need a dating site. Chris can take you to his dad right now—since you were almost his mother and all—”

Tina turned around in time to see Cynthia thump Bert’s large ear.

“Ow!”

“Bert, you are embarrassing me. This is no way for you to behave at a funeral visitation.” Her rotund body shaking with anger, she grabbed her purse. Without a backward glance, she stomped through the mourners.

Bert followed her, his steps dragging and his shoulders slumped under his tight jacket.

Tina met Chris’ dancing eyes. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. She hadn’t thought she’d find anything funny about her trip back to her hometown.

Althea stretched. She put the completed pages in her desk drawer. She carefully locked the drawer, and dropped the small key into her dress pocket. She rose and made her way downstairs.

When she saw the woman with Clay Napier, Althea paused.
Who is this beautiful stranger?
At least sixty years old, the unknown woman practically in Althea’s suitor’s arms was beautiful. Her creamy white skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, like a ponytail pulled too tight, highlighting the gorgeous bone structure. As she looked up into Clay Napier’s shuttered face, with its aggressively hooked nose and strong jaw line, the stranger shook her long, sunset red hair out of her face with a practiced twitch of her head.

The woman put one small, delicate hand on his arm, and she moved her petite body closer to his. With a slight twist of her hips, her large, perky bosom moved whisper close to his strong chest. One deep breath would close the microscopic space between the two.

With a frown of annoyance, Clay shook off her hand and backed up.

Partially hidden behind a curio cabinet in the lobby of the assisted living center, Althea hissed. The woman was putting the moves on Clay!

Straightening her spine and firming her jaw, Althea ordered herself to stop lurking in the corner like a lovesick teenager, and enter the room like a normal human being. If decades of teaching elementary schoolchildren had not broken her spirit, nothing would. Including this painted, pampered product of a cosmetic surgeon, with her impossibly large breasts and wrinkle-free sly face.

Before Althea could move from her impromptu hiding place, the woman spoke to Clay. “I am your lawfully wedded wife, and I want to take up where we left off thirty years ago. You know you want that, too, You’re afraid to admit it, even to yourself.”

Althea’s hand flew to her mouth. The sensation of being hit by a blow was so real, her other arm covered her belly, as if to protect her from a physical shock. In distress, she wilted against the wall.

Clay gripped the woman’s arm tight enough to bruise the white skin. “I have nothing for you now but loathing and disgust. You chose your path thirty years ago.”

The woman threw back her long red hair and laughed.

The reckless power in the laugh sent chills down Althea’s spine.

“You will do whatever I tell you to do. Remember the nursing home? You should, since you came here straight from there after the murders. A man was found dead in his bed. Given the events, an autopsy was performed. He was killed with an overdose of a narcotic. Since it was the same narcotic used to kill the other victims, the police have assigned the responsibility for the killing to one of the murderers in custody. However, they don’t know what I know.”

Clay pushed her away from him and threw up his chin in disdain. “What do you think you know?”

The beautiful woman stumbled, the triumph her face never faltering. “I know you committed murder and you think you got away with it.”

Althea felt paralyzed. She loved Clay. This woman referred to herself as his wife. The stranger also accused Clay of murder.

The longer she stood there, the greater the chance one of them would turn and see her. She did not want to be caught in the embarrassing position of eavesdropping. Althea squared her shoulders.

As a result of physical rehabilitation, Althea swept into the room. Her gait was smooth and graceful, with not even a limp to remind her of the hip she’d broken many months ago. With the full skirt of her new emerald dress, a perfect match for her eyes, swirling around her knees, she walked straight to Clay.

As he glanced away from the other woman’s intent face, Althea could have sworn she saw a fleeting emotion cross his face. She wasn’t sure if it was concern or chagrin. In the next instant, his barely lined handsome face was smooth and welcoming.

Clay turned to Althea, his thick white hair like a halo in the afternoon sun slanting in though the long windows lining the wall of the comfortable lobby. Thinking of the irony of a halo on the devil-may-care Clay, Althea smiled slightly.

“Thea, my dear, you look lovely as always.” His pure gray eyes glowed with admiration.

Taking in Clay’s pristine white shirt, perfectly pressed and neatly buttoned, and the pleated navy trousers accentuating the slim waist, Althea nodded her thanks. “And you are flawlessly debonair as always.”

A trilling laugh came from Clay’s companion. It skittered down Althea’s spine, like the old days in teaching, when fingernails sometimes scraped on chalkboards.

“Clay, my darling, introduce me! Is this your charming mother?”

A bark of laughter came from the doorway.

Althea twisted in surprise.

Her short, stout body military straight in her normal uniform of polyester smock and matching pants, Clara Eastwood paused in the doorway like a battleship checking its longitude and latitude readings. Every afternoon after lunch, the old lady firmly marched into the lobby and lowered her bulk into the largest and most comfortable chair. From her command post, she could see anyone entering or exiting the lobby, watch television, quiz the staff of the assisted living center, talk to other residents, and entertain her frequent visitors.

To Althea’s knowledge, Clara was never absent from her self-appointed post in the hours between lunch and dinner. With the same iron fist with which Clara had ruled the elementary school lunchroom for several decades before her retirement, she ruled the assisted living center lobby.

Mrs. Craft, her long red wig similar in shade to the stranger’s hair, always accompanied Clara like a permanent aide-de-camp. Pausing at the doorway with Clara, she pulled at her low-cut, bright red dress. Teetering a bit on her impossibly high heels, she carefully crossed the lobby in Clara’s wake.

Fleetingly, Althea wondered if Mrs. Craft would use the awkward situation to make a smart-ass remark at Althea’s expense. With her hearing aid turned up, Mrs. Craft missed very little. At the nursing home where she, Clay, and Mrs. Craft had been residents four months ago, Mrs. Craft had been in dogged pursuit of Clay. Now, however, she seemed to be perfectly happy with Sonny O’Brien. Although Mrs. Craft didn’t know it, her romance was the result of Clay’s desperate matchmaking attempt to push her away from him and into Sonny’s admiring arms.