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  GUILT TRIP

  The Mystery

  By Donna Huston Murray

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Donna Huston Murray

  ISBN #978-0-9856880-8-0

  All rights reserved.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase it as a gift. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  You are invited to contact the author via her webpage: http://www.donnahustonmurray.com

  Other books by Donna Huston Murray:

  The Lauren Beck Crime Novels:

  WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU, The Mystery

  Hon. Mention 2015 Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards

  The Ginger Barnes Main Line Mysteries:

  THE MAIN LINE IS MURDER, Book #1

  FINAL ARRANGEMENTS #2

  SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS #3

  NO BONES ABOUT IT #4

  A SCORE TO SETTLE #5

  FAREWELL PERFORMANCE #6 (e-book pending)

  LIE LIKE A RUG #7 (e-book pending)

  And DYING FOR A VACATION (a traditional mystery)

  Dedicated to my marvelous role models:

  Ruth M. Ballard and Florence K. Moore

  Chapter 1

  The bottom right drawer of the barn-office desk is the only one locked, so that has to be where my brother hides his stash. I already spent ten minutes scavenging for the key.

  Dammit, Lauren, I scold myself. Concentrate!

  Pulling an old cardboard box full of harnesses onto my lap, I dig through tangled leather smelling of cow sweat and buckles black with age. My reward? Dirt and bits of hay.

  I drop the box and kick it back against the wall, wheel around and survey the room. Ron probably doesn’t carry the key on him—too easy to lose out there working the fields. No, it has to be here, for convenience if nothing else.

  “So where, Ron? Where?”

  Back in high school a kid dared him to do a shot of tequila. True to his nature, Ron downed seven and nearly died of alcohol poisoning. The resulting reputation for risky behavior dogged him up until his wedding day, when he promised Karen once and for all not to “take stupid risks.” If he’s drinking in secret now, he’s in trouble, the sort of trouble a man keeps from his wife. Considering his mortgage and the rent on the new acres, my best guess is financial. He’s a farmer, after all.

  And whatdaya know? Farming happens to be the most dangerous occupation in the world. A second of inattention and your jeans get snared in moving machinery. There goes your leg. You’re driving your elderly tractor along a slope. It slips and rolls over—on you. You’re chopping the crust at the top of your grain bin. Fall in. Suffocate. These accidents happen to sober men. Attempting the work drunk, or even hungover, is pure insanity.

  The tractor grunts have grown distant, but my brother will soon reach the edge of the field and turn back.

  I hustle over to the shelf of seed catalogs and equipment manuals. Shaking the big binders with two hands yields nothing but clouds of dust and a pair of paperclips.

  The tractor completes its turn and heads back.

  My two little nieces got the giggles at breakfast the other day, a sound so heartwarming it inspired a fantasy about Ron and me actually getting along. I imagined us toasting marshmallows in the barbeque coals while Karen put the girls to bed, burning our fingers on the goo, marveling as fireflies floated up off the lawn, joking about the weather.

  Ain’t gonna happen. In his six-year-old brain I ended Ron’s golden reign as an only child. Then while I was still a sweet little blonde with hazel eyes and messy pigtails, gawky, insecure Ronald Beck persuaded himself that I was our father’s favorite. Nothing has been said—we are adults now, after all—but it probably didn’t help that Dad sold the family homestead to pay my medical bills. My brother loved that old piece of ground the way lungs love oxygen.

  Will he thank me for trying to save his life? More likely he’ll kick me to the curb for butting in, and I can’t say I’d blame him.

  The desk deserves a second look. Centered in the room as it is, I can keep one eye on the door.

  Nothing under the computer monitor or tower. The middle drawer holds only a stale cigar, a pen advertising a seed and feed company, three pencil stubs, and a comb. As I crouch down to check the kneehole, the office windows begin to rattle. I freeze, waiting, waiting, until finally—finally—the tractor grumbles through its gear change and commences its noisy drone back toward the far turn.

  Another glance around and I spy a pair of muddy, army-green boots side by side under a bench. Reaching into the left one yields only worn felt and grit; but when I turn over the other, a silver key on a thin wire ring hits the floor with a clink.

  A clink. The tractor noise stopped.

  I lunge for the locked drawer and work the key with trembling fingers.

  Inside is almost exactly what I expect. A black folder-style checkbook for doing payrolls and paying bills. A nudie magazine dated June, 2004. A twenty-two caliber pistol for shooting whatever or whoever dares to threaten the Beck family and its livelihood, ammunition elsewhere for safety’s sake.

  Plus three 1.75 liter bottles of vodka, one half empty, the others with unbroken seals—the same cheap swill I pour for the Pelican’s Perch customers if they don’t specify a pricier brand.

  I want to grab Ron’s sweatshirt in my fist and pull his face so close we’re breathing the same air. I want to hit him upside the head and scream and stomp until he gets it, really gets it. Right now. Right this second. Life is precious. I learned that the hard way. Why hasn’t he?

  Unfortunately, finding a few bottles of booze doesn’t prove a thing. The whiff I caught at breakfast might have been after-shave or mouthwash. Last night’s stumbling/mumbling slipup could have been just that, a once and done.

  My five years on the Landis, PA, police force taught me that accurate information is the best weapon of all. Without it, you have nothing. I need to summon the patience to monitor Ron’s stash for awhile. If it turns out he is playing Russian roulette with a bottle, I’ll share my findings with Karen. She’s the one he promised; he might listen to her.

  I take a big, steadying breath, nick the level of the opened vodka bottle on its blue off-brand label, and return it to the drawer. I’ve just tossed the key back into the right boot before Ron bursts through the door.

  “Lauren! Can you come back to the house?” His skin is drained of color. His eyes blink as if he can scarcely see. “The kids…Karen…”

  “What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?” I’ve taken a step toward him, but no more. He and I never touch.

  “Toby. You know Toby…?”

  “Sure. Karen’s older brother.”

  “He’s dead,” Ron tells me. “Suicide.”

  Chapter 2

  As he hurries across the driveway, my brother speaks into the cell phone he keeps on him for emergencies. “Yeah, yeah,” he tells his wife. “She was in my office. Almost there.”

  Shadowing his long strides, questions buzz inside my head like trapped bees. How will Karen cope? What will they tell the children? How did Toby kill himself? Where? When? But most insistently, “Why?”

  The man I met nine years ago at Ron and Karen’s wedding would have been about forty now. Relatively young. Healthy. Employed. I can’t help wondering what was so unbearable that he’d chosen to end his life.

  One thing I did know. If no explanation for Toby’s drastic choice ever comes to light, his death will be
that much harder for his family to accept.

  Two steps into the kitchen Ron halts so abruptly I nearly bump into his back. Sitting statue-still at their rustic round table, Karen is a portrait of Nordic-blonde despair. Charlene, the seven-year-old, grasps her mother’s arm and stares up at her face with fear. Terry, the youngest, has nestled her head in mother’s lap.

  Karen rises. Runs into Ron’s arms. Hammers his chest crying, “No, no, no, no, no.” Then suddenly she pulls loose. Features distorted with rage, she informs the universe that, “Toby wouldn’t. Not Toby. He had no reason. Not Toby,” again and again with all the conviction of denial. “I know he didn’t. Not Toby.”

  “Karen, honey,” Ron tries to soothe her, and I fear Karen might scream.

  Instead she draws in two deep, rugged gasps, doubles over, and moans into her hands.

  Her terrified girls are crying, too—of course they are—and rather than say the wrong thing Ron has gone rigid and mute as a tree.

  Pretending that adult meltdowns are as normal as rain, I drape my arms across my nieces’ shoulders and suggest that we make dinner together. “Your mommy and daddy can wait in the living room.”

  Ron shoots me a glance that almost looks grateful, and an oblivious Karen allows herself to be led away.

  I dump canned whole tomatoes into bowls and help the girls doctor them with Worcestershire sauce and sugar the way my grandmother used to. Stoic Charlene keeps her frightened thoughts to herself as she sprinkles the sugar. While I grate cheese onto the macaroni I cooked, her younger sister peppers me with questions. “Will Mommy be okay?” “What happens when you die?”

  Without really saying too much, I reassure them both the best I can.

  A little salad, a little bread, and we all gather around the table. Tear-weary and weak, Karen has no appetite. Ron makes an effort with his daughters but is clearly off his game. When Karen pushes away from her plate, he does, too.

  “Please stay,” Karen urges her husband. “I’m just going to lie down.”

  We complete the meal in silence, but even at midnight I still hear Karen’s voice. He wouldn’t …Not Toby.”

  And yet he did.

  Ron tapped on my bedroom door at sunrise. “Hey, Lauren. You awake? I could use some help.”

  Karen had already left for the airport. My brother would join her in Cleveland in a couple of days for the funeral. Considering the disturbing nature of the death, they decided that the girls should stay with me. The way Ron put it, “Think your boss can manage without you for a couple shifts?”

  I said, “Yes,” of course, but I had my doubts. Most of the Pelican Perch’s wait-staff were so young they didn’t belong on either side of a bar; and if Anthony Piccolo, the restaurant owner, brought in a temp, I was afraid I’d lose the few shifts he’d been throwing my way. That may not sound like the end of the world, but the reason I’d landed on my brother’s doorstep was because a criminal had pulled every rug I owned out from under me, and in this predominantly rural area bartending part-time was the only job I could get.

  Regardless, I threw on some clothes and headed for the kitchen. I fried bacon and scrambled eggs for Ron, his farmhands, and his daughters. I packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and juice boxes into purple and pink backpacks and walked two sleepy-eyed girls to the end of the lane in the dewy morning air.

  You might think that an emotionally damaged cancer survivor who pretty much hid out in an attic apartment for four years would prefer an empty house, but you would be wrong. That wasn’t me. Not anymore. Seeing the school bus’s taillights disappear made me feel hollowed out.

  Yet it wasn’t until my brother returned home that I discovered how achingly lonely the farmhouse could be. Silly me, I’d been hoping Ron would ask about my experience with suicide, perhaps to help allay Karen’s doubts. But no. The first evening he kissed his daughters good-night and slipped off to his barn office.

  To avoid talking to me? Maybe.

  To drink? Probably.

  Did I dare challenge him without Karen there to back me up?

  No.

  His somber silence continued. By the fourth day I’d have settled for a remark about the weather or a gripe about the farmhands slacking off. Even the score of last night’s Orioles game would have been welcome. Something. Anything. Ron volunteered nothing, and the one time I tried to learn more about Toby’s suicide I was firmly told, “Not now.”

  My isolation reached critical mass on Friday. Walking back from the bus stop, I felt like a mouse trapped under a sky-blue teacup. I couldn’t face another day of dishes, laundry, et cetera, ad infinitum with nothing but daytime TV for company. The very thought made me want to run screaming into one of my brother’s newly planted fields.

  Much to my relief, Anthony had scheduled me for that night’s shift, but that meant my only chance to confront Ron was right now.

  His truck sat just outside the barn. Swarthy farmhand Jerome, in his usual overalls and a worn plaid shirt, dozed in the passenger seat. Leather-faced Edmundo sat on the tailgate swinging his legs like a kid. Neither had much of a grasp of English, and in the week plus that I fed them breakfast neither made much of an effort. I learned to be content with their bashful nods.

  My brother finally emerged from the nearby shed. Oblivious to my presence, he swung his heavy silver toolbox up and onto the truck bed then headed for the driver’s door.

  “Hey,” I shouted. “Hold still a minute, will you?”

  Ron turned toward me and blinked. “A minute, sure,” he agreed, but his body language said that was all I’d get.

  “Are you ever going to tell me about Toby?”

  Our matching hazel eyes finally met, and I realized That must be what my stare looks like, the one that used to stop thieves in their tracks. That plus the gun in my hand.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Oh, maybe like how it happened?”

  “You’re not going to make a big deal out of this, are you?” he pressed.

  “Not if Karen doesn’t want me to.”

  That must have reassured my brother, because he lowered his chin and confessed. “Toby shot himself.”

  “With…?”

  “A shotgun.”

  “Not the easiest thing to do.”

  Ron studied the ground. “No.”

  “Where?”

  “What do you mean where?”

  “In his bathroom, his office, what? I’m not asking for an autopsy report. It’s just a question.”

  That piercing stare again.

  Just when my frustration threatened to become anger, Ron capitulated. “The gun room of the Stoddard’s hunting lodge. Toby and Chantal were there for her father’s birthday party.” A grimace and a glance toward the truck.

  “The lodge is in Maryland, right? Not that far from here.” Nothing in Maryland was that far from anything else in Maryland, at least not as the crow flies.

  No answer. My brother’s attention was on his employees, occupied as they are twiddling away his money.

  I voiced the usual parting cliché. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  Ron’s head snapped around as if I’d cursed our mother, and that more than the days of silence delivered the message. If my family wanted my professional expertise, they would ask for it. Until then interference of any sort was strictly forbidden.

  I lowered my eyes and waited for Ron to leave.

  Wow, I thought as the truck finally rattled onto the road. Suicide by shotgun. I hope somebody’s looking into that.

  Me? I had a ton of housework to do.

  Chapter 3

  The following Thursday morning I was having a muffin and coffee at the breakfast bar facing the eastern field when I heard sneakers squeaking on the floor behind me. I swiveled around to find my sister-in-law carrying a basket of dirty clothes toward the laundry room.

  Genuinely glad to see her, I said, “Hey, welcome home,” with all the enthusiasm I felt.

  My smile was not returned.


  Here’s the thing. As my stay lengthened, by the week, by the day, by the minute, I’d become increasingly hyper-alert for any hint that I’d overstayed my welcome. I feared that moment had come.

  When Karen lowered her brows and said, “Would you mind taking your stuff out of the dryer?” I heard it as, “You’re in the way. Get the hell out of my house!”

  My palms dampened with sweat, I mumbled, “Okay,” as I hastened to do my sister-in-law’s bidding. Arms loaded with the offending clothes, I escaped to the bedroom I’d been assigned, Charlene’s. She was across the hall with Terry for the duration.

  In my borrowed space were the white iron bedstead from my childhood and the red and white shining-star quilt hand stitched by my father’s great-grandmother. The clothing I considered essential fit easily into a child’s closet and a small, pink dresser. On top of that were four framed photographs: my young mother in July of her final year posing in front of a massive white climbing rose; my father behind his new home in Albuquerque, New Mexico; and an aerial shot of the Pennsylvania farm he’d been forced to sell on my behalf. Across my photo of Corinne, my dear friend and almost step-mother, I’d draped the turquoise necklace she’d given me on the first birthday my oncologist had not expected me to achieve. A basket of toiletries resided on the closet floor along with three pairs of shoes and my winter boots. My rusting red Miata was parked out by the barn, and that was about it. People were what mattered to me now, and not much else.

  Swallowing to ease the lump in my throat, I extracted three of my white bartender shirts from the pile on the quilt, shook them out, and hung them on hangers. I won’t deny it; I was stalling. There’s a karma to confrontation, and this didn’t feel like my day.

  Although maybe I was wrong. When I first arrived, hadn’t Karen thrown her arms around me and insisted that I stay? “A slam-dunk no-brainer?” she called it. And hadn’t she whispered, “Ron will come around,” with a conspirator’s grin?