Sharpe Mind, Hanging by a Thread Read online

  Sharpe Mind: Hanging by a Thread

  Cozy Suburbs Mysteries, Volume 3

  Lisa B. Thomas

  Published by Cozy Stuff and Such, 2016.

  Copyright

  SHARPE MIND: HANGING BY A THREAD

  Copyright © 2016 Lisa B. Thomas

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  SHE WANTS TO WRITE A MYSTERY. | INSTEAD SHE’S EMBROILED IN ONE.

  Works By Lisa B. Thomas

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Usually the last gulp of hot coffee would chase away all of Tonya Webber’s worries. Not today. In all her twenty-seven years on earth, this was the worst mess she had ever gotten herself into. And she had been in plenty of messes.

  Pushing aside the dirty plate and chipped coffee mug, she cleared a space on the diner’s red vinyl tablecloth. It was hard to find a spot that was neither sticky with a week’s worth of maple syrup nor torn from a lifetime’s worth of wear. She pulled a manila folder out of her tote bag and laid it open. Thumbing through the glossy photos, she found the one she wanted. Tears threatened to well in her bottom lids, but she willed them back the same way she had learned to keep back fear and anxiety and regret.

  What a beauty. Some would call her stunning. She had a love-hate relationship with her stage costumes. She loved the admiration she got from the audience, especially the jealous women who were second-guessing themselves for agreeing to let their husbands see the show. But she hated how her calves ached at the end of a two-show night.

  She had discovered that the real trick of being a Las Vegas showgirl was not the ability to dance. It was learning to balance the heavy headpieces laden with plumes and jewels while strutting around in six-inch heels. Unlike the one-piece costumes of the sixties when Las Vegas was in its heyday, the only thing that distinguished her from a stripper was the headpiece.

  Her body looked fabulous in the deep blue rhinestone bikini. Every little girl’s dream was to play dress-up. To strut around and be admired. And for a handful of years, she had lived that dream. Then she fell in love, blinked, and it was all gone.

  She never thought she would miss it this much.

  Just a month ago, she was a star. Men adored her. Woman despised her. Now, brushing back her long black hair, knowing it had lost its luster, she glanced down at the old t-shirt and faded jeans she had thrown on when she and Roscoe snuck out of the flea bit motel they’d been staying at the past week. Dumb jerk, she thought, remembering how easy it was to convince the pimple-faced boy at the front desk not to make her pay for the room in advance. All she had to do was flash a little cleavage, lean over the counter, and bat her fake eyelashes.

  That was her real talent—manipulating people. Many times, it had gotten her what she wanted. Other times, it had gotten her in trouble. That’s how she ended up here in this run-down dive on the outskirts of Maycroft, Texas. If only she hadn’t listened to Roscoe. She’d still be in Vegas instead of running from a bounty hunter in the middle of Hicksville, USA.

  Clara walked up with a fresh pot of coffee. “Can I refill your cup, miss?”

  Tonya jumped, her thoughts clouding her vision. She hadn’t seen the gray-haired waitress teeter up to the table.

  “No thanks.” She quickly shut the folder, but not before Clara got a glimpse of Tonya wearing her plumes and rhinestone leotard.

  “Say, are you one of them ladies?” Clara pointed a bony finger to the folder.

  Tonya reached for her bag and stuck the folder back inside. “I was. Not anymore.”

  Clara brightened as she set down the coffee pot and stuffed her plump body into the booth across from Tonya. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along these parts. Last one we had here left about ten years ago. She was awfully mys-teeeeer-ious.”

  Tonya stared back, confused as to why the old woman was showing such an interest in her.

  Clara reached into the pocket of her stained white uniform and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. She slid it across the table. “Here. Will you do it?”

  Tonya’s confusion quickly turned up a few degrees. “Just what is it you think I’ll do for twenty dollars, lady? I’m not a—”

  “Tell me my fortune, of course. You’re a fortune teller, ain’t ya?” She motioned to the folder.

  Tonya looked down at her bag. The old kook must have seen the picture of her and assumed she was a psychic. She tossed a mischievous look across the table. “Sure, I’ll tell you your future. Close your eyes.”

  Clara did as instructed, wiggling with anticipation and clasping her well-aged hands in her lap.

  Tonya glanced around to make sure no one was looking and leaned over to pull a five spot out of Clara’s pocket. It had been dangling there since the woman had gotten out the twenty. Tonya crinkled it into her hand. “I see money.”

  “Oooh,” Clara squealed. “Am I getting rich?”

  “No. Lost money.” Tonya stifled a laugh at her own cleverness. “You’ll lose money today.”

  “Oh dear.” Clara sat with her eyes still squished tight. “Don’t you see anything good?”

  Tonya glanced out the window. Her boyfriend Roscoe was walking toward the diner from the mechanics shop just down the highway. “Yes. I see a tall, handsome man. He’s just your type.”

  “Really? That’s better.” Clara opened her eyes and blinked.

  Tonya grabbed her bag and slid from the booth. She headed out the door, leaving the five-dollar bill on the table. It was barely enough to cover the coffee and toast, much less a tip.

  She leaned against the side of the building and lit a cigarette. When Roscoe walked up, she moved in close, whispering instructions. He waited for her to walk around the back of the diner so she could peek through the window on the other side. She rubbed a clean place on the glass and watched as he opened the door and walked straight toward Clara. He leaned down to kiss her cheek and then gave it a little pinch.

  As he walked out the door, Tonya blew out a long stream of smoke. She could see the poor, pathetic waitress blushing, a stupid grin wrinkling up her face. She hadn’t even noticed Roscoe slip the five-dollar bill off the table and into his pocket.

  Chapter 1

  The five members of the Maycroft City Council listened as Bob Chessman presented the Chamber of Commerce’s latest plan to increase tourism and bring new business to the small town. As usual, Mayor Bradl
ey Thornhill wore a dark suit and tie along with a paisley pocket square to complete his upper crust, overdressed look. The other members—all men—wore plaid button-down shirts and jeans, a Texan’s uniform, of sorts. All had on cowboy boots. It was spring, after all, and no one liked getting their socks soaked trampling through mud puddles along rain-drenched roads.

  Deena Sharpe sat on the far aisle in one of the metal folding chairs used to convert the conference room into a meeting hall when the council convened twice a month. Her reporter’s notebook looked more like an artist’s sketchpad as she doodled faces, birds, dogs, cats, and horses, waiting for something—anything—newsworthy. This was definitely not the exciting life of an investigative reporter she had imagined when she quit her teaching job after thirty-three years.

  As the rookie political reporter for the Northeast Texas Tribune, she quickly learned that long, tiresome meetings were part and parcel of the job. She had developed quite a skill for appearing interested in the proceedings, a trick she’d picked up watching her students in her former career as a high school journalism teacher. First, she would look up from her notepad, tilt her head and bob it a few times. Then she’d scribble out her grocery list, honey-do list for Gary, or inventory list for her booth at the antique mall. Only after all her lists were complete did she resort to mindless doodling.

  She stifled a yawn.

  Finally, after several failed attempts at Robert’s Rules of Order, the mayor let Bob Chessman get on to “new business.”

  “We feel it’s time to put a fresh face on Maycroft,” Chessman said. “Jazz it up a little. Therefore, we propose a change to the town’s slogan.”

  “I didn’t know we had a town slogan,” Marty Fisk said.

  Mayor Thornhill banged his gavel. “You’re out of order, Councilman Fisk. This is not the time for open discussion. Also, both of you owe a quarter to the donation jar for calling Maycroft a ‘town’ instead of a ‘city.’ How will we ever raise our standing if we don’t think big?”

  “Pipe down, Brad.” Before the mayor could slam his gavel again, Fisk added, “I meant ‘Mayor Brad.’”

  Deena chuckled under her breath. This kind of contentious banter was par for the course in small-town meetings. She looked around the room to see if others in the audience were amused. Turnout today was even smaller than usual, probably because of the rain. Several elderly women were working on their crochet pieces, and a man with a wooden cane was reading a paperback novel. No one appeared to take much interest in the meeting itself.

  Chessman cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we propose to change the city’s slogan. Currently, it is, ‘Maycroft: The Capital of Quaint.’ By the way, Marty, it’s on the big sign when you drive into town on the highway. You can’t miss it.”

  Fisk shrugged his shoulders.

  Chessman continued. “We have three choices to present. The Council can vote on the one they like best. Your first choice is, ‘Maycroft: Quaint We Ain’t.’”

  Deena watched the reactions of the council members. Blank stares seemed to indicate confusion. She had learned to discriminate the “confusion” stares from the “apathy” and the “I wish I were anywhere else but here” stares.

  “That’s a joke, right?” Mayor Thornhill asked.

  “No sir. Like I said, we want to spruce up our image. Make it more modern.”

  The mayor glanced down the row of members.

  Deena made a note of the first suggestion. First time this group has ever been unanimous on anything.

  “Well, maybe you’ll like this one.” Chessman paused for effect. “It is, ‘Maycroft: Better, not Bigger.’”

  “Next!” Mayor Thornhill yelled, without even bothering to poll the panel.

  “I saved the best for last. This is my personal favorite.” Chessman picked up a roll of butcher paper and removed the rubber band. He unfurled the banner. “Here it is. ‘Maycroft: The Funshine Town.’ Get it? Fun shine, not sunshine?”

  Mayor Thornhill slammed down his gavel a second time. “There you go calling it a town again, Bob. How many times—”

  “We didn’t think ‘Funshine City’ sounded as good!” He waved the banner from one side of the room to the other, looking at the council members for support.

  “More like ‘The Town Where Fun Goes to Die,’” Fisk said under his breath.

  The man in the audience who had been reading let out a low chuckle, banging his cane on the floor. One of the councilmen picked up the sentiment. Soon, almost everyone in the room was laughing so loudly that the mayor’s gavel was barely audible over the din. He blustered out, “Order!” over and over.

  Bob Chessman quickly rolled up the paper and wadded it into a ball. He, too, was not laughing.

  Mayor Thornhill finally gained control. “Mr. Chessman, we appreciate the efforts of you and your staff, but I don’t believe the Council is ready to vote on this matter.”

  “Can I say something now?” Fisk glared down the table at Thornhill.

  “Not yet. I want to make a motion.” Mayor Thornhill sat up straight and fluffed his pocket hankie. “I propose we hold a contest for a new town slogan—city slogan,” he said, correcting himself quickly. “Let’s ask the residents to submit suggestions. We, the Council, will ultimately make the final decision, of course. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  A few of the members nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Is there a second to my motion?” The mayor stared at Councilman Dwyer, who nodded like a dashboard dachshund.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I got something to say,” Fisk said, his tone defiant.

  “You may proceed. The matter is now open for discussion.”

  “How in tarnation is any of this going to do a darned thing to bring more money into this place? I got several businesses to keep afloat and no rinky-dink slogan is going to make one bit of difference. The Chamber of Commerce is supposed to bring in business, not write jingles. Now if you would just approve my plan to re-zone the south side of town—”

  “You’re out of order, Councilman Fisk. This is time for discussion on this motion only. Besides, we’ve voted down your re-zoning plan three times now. You can’t make people sell their homes and move if they don’t want to. We’re not that kind of town.”

  The other councilmen grinned at the mayor’s faux pas.

  He stood up, reached into his pants pocket to retrieve a quarter, and plunked it into the jar on the table. “Besides, a new business opened up a month ago. Maycroft now has its very own mind reader. Or is it fortune teller?”

  Fisk banged on the table. “That’s not a business! That’s a con artist and his sister trying to scam people out of money. I should know. They’re working out of one of my rental houses.”

  “You’re out of order again, Councilman Fisk! Now, if there is no more discussion on the motion to hold a slogan contest, we’ll call for the vote. All in favor, say ‘aye.’”

  A less-than-enthusiastic majority cast their vote.

  “All opposed, say “nay.”

  “Not just nay, but h–”

  “Marty! There are women present!” Mayor Thornhill waved his gavel toward the audience.

  Marty Fisk nearly turned over his chair as he stood up and walked out.

  Thornhill ignored him. “The ‘ayes’ have it. Meeting adjourned.”

  As the mayor banged his gavel one last time, Deena felt a new level of tension in the air. She had a feeling a story was brewing, and it just stormed out the door.

  FIVE STRAIGHT DAYS of rain had put a damper on most everything in Maycroft. Tuesday’s city council meeting wasn’t the only place with low turnout. Businesses saw fewer customers as most shoppers stayed indoors.

  After leaving the meeting, Deena pulled up to her friend’s thrift shop. There were no signs of life inside. But Sandra’s car was out front and the “Open” sign beckoned Deena to slosh through the rain-drenched parking lot to go check it out.

  The jingle of the bell on t
he door brought Sandra out from the storeroom to greet her customer. Then she saw Deena. “Oh, it’s just you.”

  Deena grinned and walked back to the counter. “Well, that’s a fine howdy-do.”

  “You know what I mean,” Sandra said. “I was hoping for a flood of customers. No pun intended.”

  Deena was in her late fifties; Sandra was fifteen years her junior. Still, they had a lot in common and had become good friends. Since retiring from teaching, Deena often stopped by on her way to the newspaper office. The shop was a great place to find treasures for her antique booth, and Sandra always had a pot of hot coffee brewing.

  “Where’s your umbrella?” Sandra asked.

  “Sadly, another one bit the dust. That wind we had on Sunday turned it inside out and broke it. Got any here?”

  Sandra led the way to the display of accessories. “I think there’s a few left. Just don’t–”

  “Open them inside. I remember. Last time you nearly passed out when I did that.”

  Sandra laughed as she picked up a child’s umbrella featuring Dora the Explorer. “Then you know I’ve tested them, and they all work.”

  Sandra’s cell phone rang, and she headed back to the counter to answer it.

  Deena debated her choices. One was a black stick model with a curved handle. The other was a white fold-up with skulls and crossbones. She looked around for any others that might have been set down on another shelf. No such luck. She picked up the white one and took it to the register.

  “That was Ian,” Sandra said. “He has to work late. Looks like soup-for-one tonight.”

  “I thought lawyers kept bankers’ hours?”

  “He used to before he left the firm. Now that he’s on his own, he sometimes has to work crazy hours.”

  “He’s a good man. Defending the rights of the little guy. So, why don’t you come out with Gary and me? We’re breaking tradition and going to Las Abuelas tonight instead of on Friday.”

  Sandra furrowed her brow. “Are you sure that’s wise? You’re not only breaking tradition—which is bad luck—but you’re buying that evil looking umbrella.”