CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After thanking Bingham for his time, I returned to the car. With Heidi’s death still in the back of my mind, I turned my attention toward Dr. Claremont. As I pondered my complete ignorance (or oblivion) of my parents lives’ before I came into the picture, I noticed a red Nissan pulling out some distance behind me. Way to vary things up! I kept an eye on it.

After a mere ten-minute drive, I arrived at an apartment complex so new even its bland tan and brown color scheme managed to sparkle. When I turned into the lot, the red compact continued down the road. Might have been following me, or maybe not.

The doctor must work from home. All part of the “new normal.”

I checked my notes. Unit 5A. I gathered my things and left the car.

You know that feeling you get when someone’s watching you? As I approached the doctor’s front door, I got that feeling deep in my bones. I scanned the many windows facing the lot. I checked all around me. Nobody evident. No one in any of the cars that I could see. I took a breath. All good. Even so, I shivered a bit as I moved forward.

Upon my arrival, I knocked on the door. The woman who answered was dressed in white from head to toe. You could have mistaken her for a Vogue model, if she hadn’t had purple streaks in her graying brown hair. Her scoop neck top revealed a set of tats stretched from clavicle to clavicle to put Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel to shame. I judged her to be a young-ish mid-40s.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

After sealing the deal with a handshake and a buck’s payment in full, I decided on the direct approach.

I didn’t have time to fuck around. “What if I told you someone is blackmailing my father?”

Bingham glanced at the floor. “I’d say I know a hypothetical question when I hear one.”

I described the highly ambiguous demand note, including the mention of Warner Mannix.

“Why would his name appear in such a note?” I said. “Any idea, at all? Dad’s been somewhat closed-mouthed, to say the least.”

The room fell quiet as a church full of mimes. Bingham frowned at the floor.

It was more than I could stand. “Why would someone demand ten thousand dollars from my father? What’s he hiding?”

He raised his gaze to meet mine. “I could tell you, but that would be breaking a client confidence.”

I wondered which client he meant.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I got the 411 from the woman who told me her name was Phoebe Mitchell. Her sister’s name was Flora. Flora Mitchell.

“Flora’s been handling the estate details. I’ve been trying to clear out the house.” Phoebe shook her head. “I still have to get rid of the furniture or store it. Not to mention her photos.”

“Doris was your aunt, then?” I hoped my question would prompt her to tell me more, perhaps a lot more given that she clearly felt put upon.

“Great-aunt, actually. My grandmother’s sister, on my father’s side.” She shook her head again. “I hardly knew her. Flora probably knows more. Aunt Doris was more involved with the family back when Flora was a child.”

“I see. So Flora’s older than you.”

“Ten years older. With three brothers in between us.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Anything else you wanna know?”

The next question was risky. “Was your great-aunt related to someone named Warner Mannix?”

Phoebe gave me a side eye glance. “I have no idea.”

“Ever hear of him?”

She shook her head, no doubt impatient to finish her task here and get on with things. “Nope. Now, if there’s nothing else.”

Oh, there’s plenty, I thought, but didn’t want to press my luck.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for your help.” I wrapped up our conversation by giving her a card and asking her to get in touch if she could recall anything interesting about what Aunt Doris did.

Flora Mitchell lived closer to me, in Silver Spring, near the District line. My trip to see her could wait until I’d visited Martin Bingham and Dr. Claremont.

The addresses for both were in Crownsville, a roughly 20-minute drive. As I motored toward Bingham’s house, the price of the gas I was spending on all this seemed less important than the time I spent on the road. Money was a renewable resource, but time spent was gone forever.

Plus, my four-day deadline would soon turn to three.

Martin Bingham, Esq. lived in a cozy brick ranch-style house fronted by a sweep of grassy lawn, littered with pink petals from a large flowery tree. I made my way to the door and knocked.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As I hustled up to the ground floor, the sound of a car door’s slam alerted me to trouble. Rather than head to the front door, I hurried to the back, slid out of the house, and made sure the door was locked before easing it shut.

With quiet, deliberate steps, I retraced my way back toward the front of the house, keeping close to the wall. With a deep, calming breath, I moved down to the corner nearest the driveway, which gave me a view of the recent arrival.

A compact car, gently used, sat in the driveway, the passenger side door ajar. Through the windshield, I made out the faint outline of what might be a paper bag in the front seat.

The muted clack of the front door opening drew my attention to the woman who appeared and moved toward the car. Her hair, light brown, curly, slightly mussed, framed the somber expression of a woman not much older than me. She could very well have been a matured version of one of the kids in the photos I’d seen inside.

Hugging the wall, I kept her in view as she grabbed the bag from the car, which bulged with bottles and canisters of Mr. Clean, Lysol, Windex, and other cleaning products. She hip-checked the door shut and moved back into the house.

I waited to see if she’d reappear, and when she didn’t, I ran to the car and retrieved a clipboard with a survey I’d created, based on surveys in various magazines. One of many forms I’d prepared when I started doing on-the-ground research.

As I approached the front door, a murder of crows gathered in the near woods struck up a screeching chorus. Was this why a group of crows was called a murder? Sounded like they were all being murdered.

I pressed the bell and waited. The cawing stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving only faint tweeting amid the low rumble of distant traffic.

I sensed rather than heard movement behind the front door. The peephole darkened and I waited. A deadlock clacked and the door opened. The brown-haired woman’s gaze settled on me—her expression dull.

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Hi everyone. Today I have a review of this book. I think the cover says it all. I love the cover of this book. I love this book, too. Imagine that you are a single mom with two daughters, young daughters and you’re struggling financially, but girls just got to have fun, right? I mean, at some point you got to let loose.

So she takes a pole dancing class and when the book opens, it’s after a night of celebration after her first pole dancing class and there’s a lot of female solidarity in this. It’s great. It’s wonderful. But she finds this dead body in her trunk, doesn’t know how it got there, has a complete blank as to what happened the night before, other than a few small details about being in a bar and this guy being there at some point. Well, I won’t say much more.

I will just say that complications abound when you have a dead body in your trunk and you don’t know what happened the night before, how it got there or anything.

Well, it’s just a really great concept, a great setup, a very compelling story and very, very witty. I found myself laughing out loud at parts. Just great, great stuff.

If you’re a mother, you will love this book, I think. I think you will love it. I’m just guessing. I’m just guessing based on the cover, the concept, the whole single mother trying to get some sort of something in her life that sparks joy other than her joy for her children, which of course she has. She loves her children, but for heaven’s sake, she’s overwhelmed. I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed and I don’t even have kids. So yeah, I mean, at some level, I can totally appreciate that. And I’m second to none in my admiration for mothers. I got to tell you, especially working mothers. I don’t know how you people do it.

Anyway, I mean the stories I hear, it’s like, oh goodness, why are you subjecting yourself to this? At some point you have to say, there are limits here. There are limits, but this book will help maybe ease your mind. I don’t know. Maybe just bring back bad memories. I don’t know, but it’s just really, it’s a wonderful read. I loved it and highly recommend it. Yes. For anybody who wants to get a better understanding of the pressures of being a single mom and trying to have a life as well. (While keeping a dead body hidden. And refrigerated.)

Okay, that’s it then. So be seeing you. I think that’s it. I was going to talk about my weekend, but it was such a horrible weekend in certain ways. Maybe I’ll save that for another video. Yeah, I’ll do that. All right, be seeing you.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention the name of the book. Last Night Was Killer. Leave it to me to leave out some of the important parts, like the fact that the book is named Last Night Was Killer and it’s by ... Oh, hell. Look at me. Look at how unprofessional I am. I’m terrible. I’m a terrible, terrible person who does terrible, terrible videos with my phone. Mary Pauline Lowry. Nice job, Mary Pauline Lowry. Thank you very much. Be seeing you.

PS: I forgot to mention her failed stalled career as a stand-up comedian in L.A. Circumstances have led her to move from L.A. to Boise, Idaho. Otherwise known as the California Suburbs.

You can get the book from this retailer: https://mybook.to/LastNight-Ebook

You can also get it from Bookshop.org and support indie bookstores.

PPS: I’m a Bookshop affiliate. Should I explain what an affiliate is again?

Here’s a free excerpt from the novel!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Scarcely daring to breathe, I strained to hear more.

But nothing more came. Deep breath. More nothing.

Okay, I thought. Move it.

After moving the box atop the one I needed, I pulled it out from the rest without straining my already aching back. Must hold relatively little. The dust cloud it stirred up, however, made me cough and gag.

Inside I found a set of papers establishing club rules and a tax form. A filing for Daedalus. And an old-fashioned 8-inch floppy disc—bingo.

I took photos of all the paperwork. As for the floppy disc, I could borrow it and bring it back, once I’d figured out how the hell to access what was on it.

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Actually, that would be a great task to hand off to Two-Bit Terry, who could tell you a thing or two about 80s technology and what came before it (whether you were interested or not).

Given the situation and the massive dust storm my moving the box had caused, it seemed unlikely that anyone would miss the disc, if I took it.

I grabbed it before closing the box. Then, I noticed another smaller box marked “Daedalus” tucked further in. Reaching for the box, I latched onto it and wriggled it out.

Inside was a thick folder of paperwork, a USB stick, and half a Canadian driver’s license. The section of passport revealed it had been issued to Warner Mannix. The picture was gone. The expiration date was there: 1979.

I snapped a photo of the license, then decided to borrow the lot with the implied promise to mail it back or leave it on the doorstep after I’d examined it all. I stuffed the box’s contents into my backpack, replaced the lid, and put both boxes back where I’d found them.

Flush with excitement at the appearance of potentially relevant evidence, I moved back toward the stairs. Then, the low growl of a car engine, faint in the background, reached my ears.

Go, go, go.

I charged up to the first floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

En route to the rear of Doris’s house, I noted two window wells. The place had a basement. Not that I would attempt entry. I’m a Marine vet, not a contortionist.

A visual sweep of the surroundings revealed no windows or other obvious observation posts. Once I reached the back entrance, I pulled on my set of cotton gloves.

The door had a multi-paned window. Easy to smash and reach in to unlock the door, but I had a bump key to save effort and unnecessary property damage.

The back door opened into a small Florida room, with one wall jalousied. I entered. I waited. The house was quiet as a tomb, until the refrigerator kicked on—with a resounding click which made me jump. So, the house was presumably being used.

But if not as a residence, then as what?

I crept into the dining room. My only options for moving forward were through the kitchen to my left or the living room, straight ahead. I ducked into the kitchen and found a mug holding the remains of coffee in the sink.

Obvious signs of human activity.

I felt the mug. No warmth to it. So, not used … recently.

Plus the air felt stale. An almost suffocating kind of stale, as if the oxygen had been sucked from it. I thought of my dream. My lungs filled with sand. Breathe, I thought. One breath, in, out. Again. Better.

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COMING JUNE 6 TO THESE ONLINE RETAILERS!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The call ended on a cordial note. I offered a partial refund, Margaret refused. “Keep it,” she insisted. “For your trouble.”

I suspected there’d be plenty of that coming.

So much for that client. The whole thing stank.

I couldn’t believe Margaret would change her mind. Unless I’d read her wrong. In which case, I’d be even more determined to keep going. But if she’d been sincere in her concerns over Heidi’s death, the only way I could picture her dropping the matter was if she was coerced in some way by something or someone.

And as time passed, any leads or clues or witnesses that could provide answers would fade away, like in any other cold case.

In my father’s case, I had a deadline. Less than four days. Time to get my ass in gear.

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Hey. Hi. Today I'm reviewing The Girlie Playhouse by V.N. Alexander. I really enjoyed this book. Great book. It's interesting because it just occurred to me now as I was thinking about what to say that the narrator in this book, Pixie, reminds me a little bit of ... is it Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby who narrates the story of Gatsby, what happens to him. That's kind of, oddly enough, a parallel there in this story, but it's basically about ... Pixie is her stripper name. She's a stripper. She thinks that's fine. She's fine with that. She loves doing it and it gives her attention. She expresses herself in the way she expresses herself best, through dance.

Trixie is kind of this free-spirited Daisy Buchanan type. Well, no, she’s not Daisy Buchanan because she’s not rich. She’s the poor version of Daisy Buchanan, I guess. She thrives off the attention of men. Really, I mean, she does. There’s no two ways about it, but she’s also a person who loves to do the dance. It’s about the dance for her, even if men look at her or even especially if men look at her. That’s really one of those issues that come up in here. It’s like, where do you draw the line between exploitation and self-expression? Is that the right way to say it? Trixie wants to express herself in a certain way that attracts the attention of men. Is she to be vilified for that? Hell, no. And yet that issue eventually does come up in this book. The blue-nosed types who would not have strippers in their fancy, gentrifying neighborhood.

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So anyway, there are certain parallels between this book and The Great Gatsby. I urge you to read it and think about it. And what’s interesting is the blurbs on the back are all from men and they all seem quite surprised. One guy says, “Full of surprises, The Girlie Playhouse subverts cliché. Alexander is a serious stylist who is not afraid to ruffle feathers.”

Whose feathers are being ruffled here? Personally, my feathers weren’t ruffled. I was loving every bit of this book. The ending, well, I won’t talk about it. But yeah, there’s a noir twist in there, and sexual dynamic, gender issues, all of these things are in there. It’s well worth reading. I loved it and I hope that you will enjoy it too if you read it. That’s it. It would probably make a really great series or movie even. Definitely. All right then. Be seeing you.

You can buy this book and support your favorite local bookstore by buying it through Bookshop.org, which also carries the ebook.

BONUS QUESTIONS FOR PAID SUBSCRIBERS

See below! :)

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I left my card with Della and asked her to let me know if she stumbled across anything.

Having finished with business for the day, I pointed the car toward home and hit the gas. The roads held light traffic, and now and then, I’d glimpse a dark compact sedan, much like the one I’d thought was following me before. But the glimpse winked out, and the car I thought was there just wasn’t.

When I got home, I finally called it quits for the day. Collapsing into bed, I fell into a deep sleep.

Sand blows in my face. I’m beside a military truck, as I wait for her to emerge from where’s she’s half-hidden behind the vehicle’s open back door. Heidi appears and gazes at me, smiles. I can barely see her through the torrent of sand.

Heidi tries to talk, but her words are inaudible beneath the roar of the wind and sand. She’s barely visible.

I try to yell, point to my ear. But I can’t make a sound. I can’t move. What’s wrong with me?

Heidi cups her hands around her mouth, as if to amplify her voice. But it’s not enough to overcome the howling wind and sand.

I try to open my mouth, but the wind and the sand pummels my face. Anything I try to say will fill my mouth, throat, lungs to the point of choking. Heidi’s image fades out as the sand swells around us.

Then, there’s nothing but sand blowing by.

I woke with a start, gasping.

It took about ten minutes for my heart to stop trying to beat its way out of my chest. With a bit of deep breathing, I managed to keep it together.

A glance at my clock revealed the time to be 0625 hours or 6:25 a.m. Forcing myself out of bed and into the kitchenette in my efficiency, I once again pondered the wisdom of taking Margaret’s case as I made coffee.

For that matter, how much was my own father not telling me?

Between the weird dream and these concerns, I had enough on my mind to see the need to plan a careful approach to these cases as I consumed my usual toasted muffin with butter and Marmite.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

After I told Della about how Heidi and I had reconnected briefly before her demise, she better understood my own doubts about the likelihood of a suicide. As for accidental overdose, I pretty much had to rely on Margaret’s word that Heidi was no longer using.If there was evidence to the contrary, I needed to know about it.

After retrieving the key, Della and I entered Margaret’s place. The entrance opened into a small foyer, a living room furnished for stylish comfort off to the left with a hallway extending the length of the place. Rooms jutted off to the left, starting with the combined kitchen and dining area, the latter part defined by a small, square, distressed wood table abutting the wall with three chairs parked around it. Past that point, there appeared to be one bath and a couple of bedrooms.

Della stuck with me as I considered my approach. You never knew where you might find interesting information. I started with the living room.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

I finished my business with Highsmith as politely as my sorely tested patience would allow and left my card with him before departing the house. For all I knew, he might later wish to tell me more. Not that I’d bet on it.

Once I got back to my car, I did a quick search on my phone. The state’s records confirmed that Daedalus LLP was a long-defunct Maryland entity. Dennis Mitchell was listed as resident agent. The address was in the Four Corners section of Silver Spring. That was roughly forty years or so ago.

Apparently, the club or the LLP hadn’t lasted long.

Before I drove off, I checked my phone for a response from Margaret. Nothing. What was up with that?

Any further plans I’d harbored to that point got scrapped in favor of finding my client.

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Hi there! :) It’s been a minute and half while since I last blogged here. So, in case you’ve been wondering where I am, I’ve been getting ready to publish Book 3 in the Erica Jensen Mystery series!

I’ve been making a few appearances at actual book signing events, including an appearance at the Terp Book Fair on the College Park campus of the University of Maryland. I’m an alum of the School of Journalism (now called the Philip Merrill College of Journalism), where I got my B.S. degree, but later returned in 2000, to get a Master of Library Science from what’s now called the College of Information. You can read about both right here. Scroll down a bit and you’ll see them.

Earlier that very same week, I appeared on a panel of mystery authors at Leisure World, organized by Sisters in Crime, Chesapeake Chapter.

Otherwise, in between organizing my office, celebrating Star Wars Day, and having a very interesting weekend, I’ve been looking at possible covers, sending out ARCs, and thinking about how to sell books and make another short film.

Further, I participated in the Make ‘Em Laugh Blogathon, where I reviewed The Cheap Detective. An awesome oldie! :)

I also eavesdropped on a conversation that never happened. :)

Have I mentioned that I’m also on Substack, which is kind of a blog/newsletter/podcast host/video thingie where ... I don’t know. All the journos are going there. That’s all I know. I’m just trying to connect with readers and writers and be part of the creator economy, right? :)

I’m also on Patreon, which (honestly) is starting to look better all the time.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

I followed Highsmith into the living room, where he offered me a choice of seating: floral-patterned sofa or faded blue side chair. I chose the sofa.

“Coffee?” Highsmith asked. I was struck by how quickly he’d gone from wary to obliging host.

“Sure.” As he moved toward the kitchen, I got up and followed. “Let me help you.”

“No need,” he said, over his shoulder. “Just relax.”

Yeah, “relax.” While you put something in my coffee? And thank you for inventing roofie, scopolamine, and all that other crap, whoever you were.

We puttered around together in the kitchen, which looked like an ad from a magazine that came out in the 1960s. When we finally sat down in the living room, I was reasonably sure I had procured an untainted cup of coffee.

“What was it you and my father did?” I asked.

“He didn’t tell you?” He peered at me, before taking a sip of his coffee.

“Oh, he told me a little. But I was hoping to get more details.”

He held himself straighter. “We were business associates,” he said.

“Weren’t you also treasurer of the Appalachian Club?”

“Correct.” His eyes turned to slits. “What’s this about?”

“Just trying to get a better understanding of my dad’s life back then. You know, friends, activities. His life.”

He nodded, relaxed a fraction. “We were founding members. A bunch of us from the Rotary started it, but once it grew, it was acquired by an LLP.”

“Who set up the LLP? Do you remember the name?”

His mouth twisted and nose wrinkled as if smelling a rotten stench.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Since I hadn’t yet heard from my client who was convinced Heidi had been murdered and only had less than a week to resolve matters in my dad’s blackmail case, I started by searching the online criminal records for Warner Mannix.

Not a thing. If Mannix had a record, it wasn’t readily available online, which either meant allegations or convictions against him predated online records—or they were protected as juvenile records. These limits to the database meant court record searches could be a real pain in the ass.

My search on the name unearthed a few possibly relevant, but most likely not, hits. One seemed to indicate an old brand of some product.

I tried online phone directories. A search for “Warner Mannix” in an online phone directory produced a handful of hits. Two of them in Maryland.

I started with them.

One definitely wasn’t the right age, and the other was closer, but not close enough. However, there was one down in Georgia even closer in age to my father. He was the likeliest candidate.

While I was poking about, I got a listing for Henry Highsmith with a different number than Dad’s. Also found Martin A. Bingham, a residential listing in Maryland. The lawyer had probably retired.

No listing for Doris Richards. There was a D. Richards. I took down the contact info.

With notepad and pen at the ready, I placed a call to the fellow down south who went by the name Warner Mannix. On the third ring, a young-sounding woman picked up.

I sincerely hoped this wasn’t a bad sign.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

An interesting dinner. I expected it to be awkward, but not that awkward.

I returned to my humble abode and made out a new set of diagrams. I would treat my dad’s request as I would any other client’s case, which meant that I had to iron out who was who and what they had to do with one another.

With my father, as the central hub, I sketched in the other players: Henry Highsmith, Martin Bingham, and Doris Richards. And, of course, Warner Mannix, potential thug. A mysterious presence, at best.

Then I sat with my head in my hands. I’d worked out a system that had sufficed when I was just starting out. Separate files for each case, organized by type. A folder for collections and a process for dealing with them. A folder for surveillance jobs. One for document retrieval. One for digging up archival records.

Two cases had suddenly landed in my lap, each with a set of interesting leads to pursue, one of which involved my own father, and all I wanted to do was head straight to bed.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A number of questions crowded my mind. After a quick mental triage, I settled on just a few.

“What is it about Warner Mannix that’s worth paying someone ten grand?” I asked my father. “Any guesses who would demand it?”

He shrugged. “We were closely associated for so long. He may have done a few legally sketchy things that he may try to pin on me.”

“Based on what evidence?” Who was this guy and why would the mere mention of his name create this response in my implacable father?

“Operating a men’s club in the D.C. area put us briefly on the federal radar during Abscam.” My dad looked me in the eye. “Enough to where my association with Warner Mannix could hurt me.”

“What happens if you don’t pay whoever $10,000?”

Dad hedged again. “I think Warner may have used me to get a loan for Daedalus without my permission. We’d gone in on the investment together, and he might have taken advantage of that.”

“What’s Daedalus?”

“The club was owned by Daedalus LLP. A few of my co-workers created it. Warner and I were silent investors.”

“You found discrepancies in the club’s books. Did Daedalus own other assets?”

Dad gazed ahead as if the answer lay slightly beyond reach. “Not that I know of.”

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Hi. Today I’m reviewing Five by Ilona Bannister. Quite a cover, isn’t it? Kind of gives you a feel for the tone of the book, which is interesting, both slow and fast in a sense. You get to learn about five people. I’ll just read you the back cover text.

“Five lives, five stories. Five minutes until the London bound train pulls into the station and one is gone forever. Who would you choose to die?”

Judgey much? Who would you choose to die? Interesting how we talk of somebody who didn’t deserve to die, as if anyone gets what they deserve. Am I right? We all die in the end. Let’s face it. There’s another thing about this. Everybody in this book is proof. Well, not proof, but it is a wonderful demonstration of how eyewitness testimony is so unreliable. Why it is so unreliable.

Because everybody has a point of view and a lot of times what they perceive is not exactly the whole truth or even accurate. And the things they remember. You’re not going to notice every detail. You’re not going to be able to give a completely accurate first sketch, on being first asked, “What does this guy look like? Did you notice the color of his eyes? Did you notice what color tie he was wearing? Was he wearing a tie?” Things like that. Anyway, I’m just not going to bang on about that, but I will say that this is a very, very good read. Wonderful character studies of the different characters. And then just the most breathtaking finish at the end. I literally had to, when I was finished, I just had to catch my breath.

It is so gripping. And I have to say that I wasn’t surprised at the choice of who died on the whole. But it was a very satisfactory sort of ending.

And yeah, you make your choices, you perceive things a certain way, things come out, maybe the way they should. Sometimes they don’t. That’s life. “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” I think that’s what John Lennon said. Something to that effect. Yeah. Good book. Excellent. Excellent. With an ending that will just gut you a little bit. Did for me anyway. And I was breathless there at the end. And just like, “Oh my God, I have to find out if it’s who I think it is. “ And I won’t say that I absolutely predicted it, but no, not predicted so much as thought “Possibly? Definitely? Maybe?” That’s it. I enjoyed this book very much. So until next time, be seeing you. Take care.

You can get the ebook from these retailers.

You can also get it in print from Bookshop.org and support indie bookstores.

PS: Yep. I can hear the whistle ... :)

Hello, it’s me. I hope you’ve been enjoying these excerpts. I’ll keep on posting them, if that interests you.

As I write this, the real cover for this book is in development.

At some point, I hope to share those with you.

Onward …!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Despite the inauspicious start to our Mother’s Day meal, my mother seemed almost human during dinner.

We limited our discussion to the most benign of matters. Talk so small I needed a microscope to make out the words.

Once we finished dessert, Mother excused us from the table. I offered to help clear the dishes, but she waved me off and said, “Go. Talk to your father.” So my father and I, in the manner of two scolded teenagers, skulked off to his den.

Before he could open his mouth, I said, “Dad, I need to know all the details. Why all the interest in this person? Why now?”

For a moment, my father looked almost panicked. Then he heaved a great sigh. “Okay,” he blurted. He walked over to his desk and fished a piece of paper from out of a drawer. “Found this in our mailbox yesterday.” Reluctantly, he handed it over.

As he spoke, I was already pulling the cotton gloves from my backpack. I put them on and took the paper from him. On it was the following note, in cut-out letters:

BRING $10K TO LAUREL RACEWAY ENTRANCE
BY NOON FRI THE 13TH
YOU KNOW WHY

WARNER MANNIX

That gave Dad just five business days to decide on a response.

“Is it supposed to be a blackmail note?” I asked. It seemed a bit vague, amateurish, but then again, I wasn’t in the blackmail business, so I wouldn’t know how a professional blackmail note should look. Was there an online template for these things? “What is it you’re supposed to know?”

“A situation. An investment.” My father spoke each word in a deliberate, almost grudging, manner. “A mistake.”

“Gonna need you to be a bit more specific.”

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I arrived at 1600 hours or 4 p.m. on the dot for Mother’s Day late lunch/early dinner like a good Marine and a good daughter. I could pretend to be at least one of those things for a little while.

After pulling into the driveway, I climbed the steps crossing the green expanse of lawn to reach the front door.

After knocking, I pondered the no-doubt lengthy pre-dinner chat with my elders before the appetizer was served. Half an hour of Mom regaling us with tales of the garden club or how her friend from church just became a grandma might send me into diabetic shock.

But it was Dad who opened the door.

Taller than myself by only two inches, he faced me, his expression unreadable as ever. But his voice gave him away.

“I’m so glad you came, Erica.” The low growl of his tone was edged with fear. I’d never once heard my father sound afraid … of anything.

He cleared his throat and added, “Come on in. We’re almost ready.”

Thank God, I thought. My next thought was, Dear God, what now?

As usual, Mom had set a proper table. I would sit in my usual place, assigned to me for life when I graduated from a high chair to adult seating. On the left side from where Dad sat at the head. There, along with his plate and a multitude of flatware, was an open space reserved for the main dish.

Mom sat closest to the kitchen. Not that she needed the access. Anytime she forgot something, she’d send me to go get it. I got pretty good at taking that order, until I reached my teens and said, “You get it. You could use the exercise.”

That did not go over well. There were consequences to be paid for that response. I suppose you could say Mom was my first drill sergeant.

Dad always just seemed implacable, no matter what Mom did. Now, he seemed on edge.

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