Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1) Page 3

  Deena could not believe what she was hearing. After nearly 40 years, the Great Meade Family Mystery was finally solved. Her long lost Uncle Matthew had been found.

  “We are going to have services for him on Saturday in Bingham so he can lay to rest with his papa. I can tell you more about it then. I don’t suppose your mother will fly back here, but will you call her?”

  “Absolutely.” Deena walked into the den and wrote the information on a memo pad. “So how is Aunt Cora taking the news?”

  “Not very well. She has been in bed for the past two days.”

  Deena promised to be there and thanked her for calling. “One more thing,” Deena asked before hanging up. “Do they know how he died?”

  “Bless his heart. He was shot in the head.”

  *

  Russell Lancaster was three years older than his sister Deena. He was high spirited and well-liked. At the age of nineteen when the Vietnam War was in full swing, he was drafted into the army. He rarely talked about the time he spent in Southeast Asia, at least not to Deena, but it was obvious that the experience changed him beyond his physical wounds.

  He was discharged four years later. He tried to get on with his life, despite the limited use of his left arm and total hearing loss in his left ear. He went to college, but had a hard time concentrating. That’s when he started getting migraines so severe that he would lay in bed for days at a time. Eventually, he found work with a buddy from high school who owned an appliance repair shop.

  Deena worried the stress of the news about Matthew would trigger one of her brother’s spells, so she was relieved to see his car pull up to the house right on time the day of the funeral.

  “You look nice,” Deena said. “I was afraid you’d be wearing shorts.”

  “I pulled out my ‘good’ jeans just for this occasion.” Russell rarely wore anything other than cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip flops. People thought he looked like Jimmy Buffet. He took after their mother; Deena took after their father.

  Their mother, Margie Sinclair, was the restless type. Unlike others of the World War II generation, she never took to settling down and living the June Cleaver life. She was cursed—or blessed— with wanderlust. She sought adventure and dreamed of faraway places. She seized the opportunity to abandon her chicks and leave behind the empty nest just as soon as Deena entered college. Deena’s father was a pleaser who would follow her anywhere. They ended up in Maui, opened a souvenir shop, and never looked back. At first, they would visit once a year at Christmas and come to family funerals. After a few years, the funerals went by the wayside and holiday visits became bi-annual.

  Sometimes Deena envied her mother’s free spirit but knew she was more of a pleaser like her father. One of the things she loved about her own husband was the stability he offered.

  Deena insisted Russell sit in the front seat so he and Gary could discuss baseball and politics on the drive to Bingham. “By the way, sis, how did your interview at the newspaper go?”

  She leaned forward from the back seat so Russell could hear her better over the road noise. “It wasn’t really an interview. They don’t have any openings now. He said I should write articles for online sites to brush up on my skills.”

  “So are you?”

  “Oh yes,” she said sarcastically. “Fascinating stuff. If you want to know the twenty most popular fireworks shows or how to host a backyard barbeque, just let me know.”

  Russell snickered and she leaned back against the seat. It wasn’t long until the front seat conversation turned to sports. “If the Rangers don’t pick up a better closer, this season is pretty much over,” Russell said. “They can’t just rely on their big hitters to score runs.”

  “That’s true,” Gary said, “but there’s just nobody out there. Hopefully, we’ll get Garcia off of injured reserves before we head to Detroit.”

  Deena stared out the window, lost in her memories. Her mother’s branch of the family tree had not been the heartiest or the luckiest. Before Russell and Deena were even born, both her mother’s parents had died, possibly from heart disease or cancer or tree wilt. When friends would ask Deena if she felt bad not having all her grandparents around, she would just shrugged and say, “I guess.” As she got older, she realized you never really miss what you never had. Her great aunts and uncles served as surrogate grandparents, Cora being her favorite.

  She loved visits to Cora and Frank’s house. She recalled the faint odor of moth balls mixed with the strong scent of Estee Lauder. Green wallpaper with sweet red roses covered the walls of both bedrooms—even Matthew’s. His room was not a shrine, per se, but rather a place where he could walk in any moment and return to the way things were when he went off to join the army. It always appeared freshly dusted, the bed made, the curtains opened. From what she could tell, Cora kept secret treasures in an old cedar chest in the corner of the room. There seemed to be an unspoken rule that no one was to open that chest. As far as Deena knew, it stayed that way even when Cora moved in with her sister Lucy.

  In conversation every now and again, Aunt Cora would slip and refer to her son in present tense. “Matthew likes his clothes hung up this way” or “Matthew likes brown gravy more than cream gravy.” Upon the urging of her sisters, she finally had her son officially declared legally dead four years after he disappeared so she could redeem his insurance policy and stop being bothered by their incessant letters. In Cora’s mind, that was just paperwork, something to satisfy the hunger of the IRS.

  As the years crept by, Cora began giving away some of her prized possessions: her carnival glass punch bowl set, her porcelain figurines, and even her brightly colored Fiestaware dishes. However, she never gave away any of Matthew’s belongings.

  “You’re doing it again,” Gary said, interrupting Deena’s train of thought. He was looking at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Doing what?” she asked.

  “Staring out at the road looking for you-know-what.”

  “Actually I wasn’t this time.”

  Russell turned in his seat so he could see his sister. “Looking for what?”

  Deena sighed.

  “Didn’t you know your sister searches the highway for dead bodies?”

  “What, like dogs and armadillos?”

  “No, people.” Gary shot a grin back at Deena.

  “And they call me the nut job in this family.” Russell shook his head in wonder.

  “It’s not like that,” she said leaning forward again. “I think I do it subconsciously most of the time. I think it’s because of Matthew. I hear stories on the news about two drunk fishing buddies hanging out by the lake and ‘lo and behold’ they come across a dead body. I want that to be me—the finder, that is, not the body.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I guess after watching Cora and Frank worry and wonder all those years with no answers, I just wanted to be the one who could bring news and maybe closure to some suffering family. I can’t even imagine how they survived not knowing what happened.” The front seat slipped into silence, and Deena leaned back again. Before she realized it, she was staring out the window, searching the sides of the road.

  *

  The graveside service was awkward at best. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors showed up out of respect. Matthew’s father, Frank, had died of a heart attack about eight years after his son’s disappearance, proving it is indeed possible to die from a broken heart. Matthew’s mother, Cora, was the strong one who never gave up hope she would one day find her missing boy. Unfortunately, she was not strong enough to make the trip to the funeral and stayed behind in Ft. Worth.

  Aunt Lucy had said she would give more information to Deena at the services, but she couldn’t. There were no more details to give. Everything she knew matched the article Deena had read in Tuesday’s Dallas newspaper.

  “I have some pictures of Matthew and your momma I could send you when I get back home. There are also some of Cora and your family.” Aunt Lucy had
become the family docent. She and Cora had two brothers: one dead and the other might-as-well-be-dead living in Oklahoma.

  Who knows the origin of the rivalry between Texans and Oklahomans—Indians, cattle, land—but in modern times it was all about one thing: football. Everyone knows that in Texas, football is king. If a friend or loved one moved north to that unholy land, you might as well hold a wake. They were now arch rivals and nothing short of an exorcism could redeem their lost souls.

  “I should do more to stay in touch,” Deena said. “You know my heart just aches to think of Aunt Cora and Uncle Frank having to wait and worry all those years when Matthew’s body had been found just five months after he went missing.” They stood beside the car as others started arriving.

  Lucy shook her head. “I know dear, but learning he had been killed like that? Shot in the head?”

  Deena flinched just as she had the first time she heard those eerie words. “At least maybe they could have found out who did it. And they wouldn’t have wondered if their son had just abandoned them.”

  “That’s true. You know there were all kinds of ugly rumors about him, like him being a gangster in the mob. Some people even thought he might be homosexual and had run off to New York City or California with another fellow. Dreadful rumors.”

  Deena and Lucy walked over to the awning-covered grave site. There was no casket, only a raised area under the green grass-like turf that draped the headstones of other members of the Meade family. Uncle Richard said a short prayer and invited others to share memories they had of Matthew. Because he had enlisted at age seventeen and then moved up to Maycroft upon discharge, most of the family had little contact with him the last few years leading up to his disappearance. There was a long, awkward silence as people fanned themselves and lowered their eyes as if lost in quiet reflection. Finally, Russell broke the tension by telling a story about Uncle Matthew taking him to the circus as a young boy.

  “This was one of those small traveling circuses with one tent and the stench of manure. I begged Uncle Matthew for some cotton candy, and he finally gave in. When he was coming back from the concession stand, a clown with a monkey on his shoulder came up right next to him. The monkey grabbed Matthew’s hat—he always wore a hat—and threw it into the bleachers. Matthew made a quick turn to follow his fedora and ran smack into one of the tent poles. The cotton candy went all over his face and into his hair.” Everyone chuckled as Russell continued. “The tent wobbled a moment like it was going to fall, but the clown grabbed the pole to steady it. Next thing you know, the monkey jumps into the stands, grabs the hat, jumps back on the clown’s shoulder, and puts it back on Matthew’s head. Cotton candy and all!”

  Whether a tall tale or not, everyone laughed and shook their heads in appreciation.

  Mark, Matthew’s cousin, recounted a less adventurous childhood memory as well. Mark’s younger sister Gloria had driven in from Baton Rouge. She stood next to their mother and father.

  These vague recollections shed little light on the man they were memorializing forty years after his death. It was as if they were burying a ghost who had no real form or presence. No one cried, but all took solace in knowing the family was all together now in a “better place.”

  For a moment, Deena wondered if a graveyard in Bingham, Texas was indeed a better place to be. Picturing the well-manicured cemetery where her own grandparents lay to rest outside of Dallas, she made a point to talk to Gary about where they planned to be buried when their time came. Funerals tend to do that to people.

  Outdoors late June in Texas is no place for the living or the dead. It is the kind of heat that literally leaves your skin feeling seared like a piece of raw meat on a sizzling griddle. No one lingered around the cemetery for small talk. Friends and family got on the road, back to their safe existences where people did not disappear without a trace and did not get shot to death. Deena, on the other hand, could not so easily let go of the uncle she had barely known. She had watched her great-aunt Cora suffer too long to just erase him from her mind.

  After everyone else left, she stood under the awning, sweat running down her face in place of traditional tears, and said a private prayer. As she walked to the car to join Gary and Russell, she knew then that the life and death of Matthew Meade would haunt her. She never imagined, however, it would be so soon.

  Chapter Four

  Something about the urgency in Aunt Lucy’s voice sent a cold chill through Deena. Her voice had a combination of fear and confusion, as if being awakened from a deep sleep by a frightfully loud noise. The calm, sympathetic demeanor Deena had witnessed just three weeks earlier at Matthew’s funeral was gone.

  Assuring Deena that Cora was fine, Lucy asked her great-niece to make the drive up to Ft. Worth the next morning but offered little in the way of a reason. Without hesitation, Deena agreed and set about closing down the computer file she was working on.

  The next day she hit the road early. Never had she seen so many 18-wheelers on one stretch of highway. The drive north was always more backed up than the southbound lanes. Her mind wandered as she slowed down, stuck behind one huge truck after another. She could smell the lemon pound cake she had bought, unpackaged, and then wrapped it in foil to look homemade. Her momma had taught her never to show up empty handed when you go calling.

  Glad to be away from her computer, she thought about the tedious and boring article she was slaving over for Post-It-Here Pages, one of the online writing sites that Lloyd Pryor had suggested. So far she had written twenty-two articles on topics ranging from “Top 10 Places to Visit in Texas” to “How to Keep Rabbits Out of Your Garden.” Her latest article was titled, “Twenty-five Facts About Labor Day.”

  Who even gives a rat’s ass about Labor Day, Deena thought when researching information for the article. Only reason anyone cares about it is because they get a day off from work. Still, she had pressed on, hoping one of her articles might strike a chord with the editor.

  She passed several antique shops and had to force herself to keep driving. Besides having her own booth, she collected pottery and porcelain figurines. Vintage junk was like heroin; she was definitely an addict.

  After almost two hours on the road, Deena finally parked her blue Explorer in front of Aunt Lucy’s house. As always, yellow and pink roses trailed along the fence despite the hot Texas sun. It’s a wonder anything can survive around here, she thought.

  Lucy opened the front door and welcomed Deena inside.

  “Come on in,” she said and gave Deena a hug. “Cora is sleeping, so we’ll be a little bit quiet.” They walked past the living room straight to the large country kitchen with its round oak table and bay window. A pitcher of sweet tea and a plate of sandwiches were set out on the kitchen table. Uncle Richard set aside the newspaper and stood up to welcome Deena. Lucy thanked her profusely for coming down to see them as she unwrapped the pound cake and put it on a plate. After a bit of small talk, Lucy became more serious and folded her hands on the table.

  Is she about to say a blessing? Deena wondered as she swallowed down a bite of chicken salad sandwich.

  “Deena,” Lucy said slowly, “We asked you here for a favor. Several years ago I made a promise to Cora. She knew her health was failing and was worried she was going to die. She asked me to look after Matthew if he ever came back home. I told her I would. She asked me to think of him like my own son and take care of him.” Tears began to well in her eyes, and she reached in the pocket of her house dress and pulled out a handkerchief. “I promised her I would.” Deena reached over and touched her aunt’s arm.

  “A few days ago, Cora woke up in the night all in a terror. She said she had seen Matthew’s ghost in her room, rummaging through the cedar chest. She thought it was a sign that he was not able to rest in peace and needed help.” Lucy wiped back more tears.

  “A ghost? Bless her heart. I’m sure it was just a bad dream.”

  “I know, but now she’s been asking me to try to find an explanation for h
er son’s death. She doesn’t think he’ll rest until then. I don’t know what to do. I feel I owe it to her to try.”

  “I understand,” Deena said, patting her on the arm. “Have you thought about hiring a private investigator?”

  “We have,” Richard said, “but something happened last week that kind of spooked us. There was a man come by here asking us all kinds of questions about Matthew. He said he was an investigator, but he didn’t seem like any investigator I ever knew. I asked him what he was investigating, and he said ‘the murder of Matthew Meade.’ We assumed he was a detective helping to find Matthew’s killer.”

  Lucy picked up the story. “He seemed to know all sorts of things about Matthew and his mama and papa,” she whispered, as though an intruder waited in the next room. “He wanted to know about Matthew’s old friends and people he worked with. He had some pictures of Matthew when he was in the army. He even asked us about people with Russian-sounding names.”

  Richard stood and took something off the kitchen counter. “That’s when I asked him which police department he worked for. He hemmed and hawed then pulled out this card.” Richard handed Deena the simple white business card. She set down her half-eaten sandwich to read it.

  “Leon Galt, Investigative Journalist, New York City, and a phone number. Not much information.” She looked up to see their worried faces

  “Then I told him that we just as soon not answer any more of his questions, and he left. It was all just suspicious,” Richard said. He looked at his wife who had lost some of the color in her face since they began talking.

  “Does Aunt Cora know about this?”

  “No, luckily she was asleep in the back room.”

  “Did you ask him why he wanted this information?”

  “I did, but it was like he just ignored the question and kept talking. I can’t believe we told him as much as we did.” Richard glanced across the room toward the front door.