The five strangers, p.1
The Five Strangers, page 1
For my Dad, a good man and a wonderful father.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author.
The Five Strangers
Copyright © 2024 by Moebooks
All rights reserved.
Connect with Mary Bowers at moebookswriter@gmail.com
Cover design by Christine Cover Design @ Etsy
Contents
Cast of Characters
Prologue – Sunrise
Chapter 1 – High Tea at The Whitby House
Chapter 2 – Dusty July
Chapter 3 – I See No Auras of Any Color Whatsoever
Chapter 4 – Home
Chapter 5 – I Have Doubts
Chapter 6 – Cookies
Chapter 7 – A Very Unpleasant Lady Indeed
Chapter 8 – Jelly’s New Admirer
Chapter 9 – The Strange Inheritance
Chapter 10 – Doing The Math
Chapter 11 – Angels Among Us
Chapter 12 – Work Comes to the Minion
Chapter 13 – Enchantment
Chapter 14 – True Colors
Chapter 15 – Ed. Again.
Chapter 16 – My Lovely Things
Chapter 17 – I Need Help
Chapter 18 – Rita Undercover
Chapter 19 – Jasper Comes Unglued
Chapter 20 – Haunting Sheila
Chapter 21 – My Beloved
Chapter 22 – Too Many Old Fashioneds; Too Many Memories
Chapter 23 – Everybody Polka!
Chapter 24 – I Finally Understand
Chapter 25 – The Morning After
Chapter 26 – Dusty Comes Clean
Chapter 27 – Oh, What a Tangled Web We Weave
Chapter 28 – The Name of the Vampire
Chapter 29 – The Incandescent Cop
Chapter 30 – Junior Detective Conference
Chapter 31 – The Face of the Vampire
Chapter 32 – Secrets and Surprises
Chapter 33 – These Prison Walls
Chapter 34 – Violet Floats Onstage
Chapter 35 – Calling in the Cavalry
Chapter 36 – Surveillance
Chapter 37 – Where There’s a Will
Chapter 38 – The Pieces Fall Together in My Head
Chapter 39 – Storytelling
Chapter 40 – Chasing Ghosts
Chapter 41 – Strategic Lies
Chapter 42 – A Voice from the Grave
Chapter 43 – My Theory
Chapter 44 – High Tea with the Boys
Cast of Characters
Sheila Colson, a new shopkeeper on Locust Street, her antique shop is probably going to fail because nobody likes her.
Dusty July, a wandering minstrel and man of good will. Everyone instinctively likes and trusts him, even though they don’t really know anything about him.
Caden Vance, the kind of clean-cut, polite young man that any mother would be proud of.
Grady Grissom, an out-of-work musician who is even more unpopular than Sheila Colson, if that’s possible.
Chrissy Fogg, a runaway wife, searching for her demon lover.
Rita Garnett, owner of Tropical Breeze’s most historic and elegant mansion. Retired from law enforcement and a little bit bored and lonely.
Nigella “Jelly” Nixon, retired plus-size model and ornament to the town of Tropical Breeze. If only she wasn’t such a gossip!
Taylor Verone, 60-something and energetic, she runs Orphans of the Storm, an animal shelter. She’d rather not be psychic; it interferes with her true mission in life.
Florence Purdy, sweet, elderly and lovable, she runs Taylor’s resale shop.
Myrtle Purdy, Florence’s younger sister and Taylor’s housekeeper.
Michael Utley, Taylor’s live-in lover and a semi-retired lawyer.
Edson Darby-Deaver, PhD, eminent paranormal investigator. He is constantly frustrated at Taylor’s unwillingness to explore her psychic gifts.
Jack Peterson, Tropical Breeze Chief of Police. Taylor may drive him crazy, but even he has to admit that her keen intuition is helpful at times.
Brody Butterman, the town’s newest rookie cop. He’s young, eager and still learning the ropes.
Audrey Butterman, Brody’s grandmother and a volunteer at the Police Station.
Abraham, the shop cat in Taylor’s resale shop downtown. He may be grouchy, but that just makes people love him more.
Magoo, a four-and-a-half pound Yorkshire Terrier. In spite of his advanced age, he’s Taylor’s new baby.
Bastet, Taylor’s mysterious black cat. Poised and graceful, even arrogant, her eyes are the exact same shade of green as Taylor’s.
Prologue – Sunrise
“Thank you for all the days of my life,” he whispered mournfully, after singing to the rising sun.
Jasper always sang to the rising sun; in fact, he had begun to believe that if he didn’t supervise the event personally, it might not happen at all. The Earth might spin itself away from its burning star and careen into eternal darkness. The fiery engine of life needed to be charmed into doing its daily duty, and like Scheherazade, Jasper performed daily for the sake of his very survival. And the survival of those around him, of course.
He became a bit misty, watching the purples of dawn take on streaks of a bloody orange. The dawn breeze chilled him deliciously. He stood on the beach facing the Atlantic with his battered guitar strapped onto his withered old body, his calloused fingers resting against the strings in the old familiar positions, and love washed over him with more force than any hurricane wind.
He loved Tropical Breeze. And he loved the Breezers that gave the little beach town life and color. He loved the people who tolerated him, he loved the people who loved him back, and he loved the people who laughed at him, because he’d be the first one to admit he was a funny old coot.
But he was also a useful old coot, and he took pride in that. He was a pretty good handyman, capable of fixing just about anything. The salt air of the ocean was hard on things – roofs and plumbing and door handles and the finish of a car and the paint on a bungalow – and Jasper could fix all of it, at least in a temporary way that would keep it going a while longer. He was satisfied that he did his fair share to contribute to the world, and that was over and above rising up and setting down the sun every day.
He didn’t want to die.
He’d never thought about death much before. A latter-day troubadour and philosopher, (of which there were surprisingly many in Florida), Jasper had always taken life as it came, more bemused than involved. Death would come, he knew in a vague sort of way, somewhere down the road, and when it came it would be as interesting as any other passage in this life. But it didn’t seem interesting now. Now that he was facing it dead-on, it was terrifying.
“Too many,” he said to himself and to the ocean, shaking his shaggy old head. “Too many close calls.” It was real now, and though he didn’t want to believe it, he did.
He didn’t want to leave Tropical Breeze, or those Breezers who made life worthwhile . . . made it interesting.
Poppy and Rosie the bakery twins, and Don the short-order cook who remained invisible in the kitchen of his diner as he fed the whole town, and Ronnie the coffee lady over at Perks.
No, he thought, suddenly tilting his head to one side. Not the coffee lady. He paused to savor the word and said it aloud: “The bar-ee-sta.” He chuckled. Nowadays they were baristas, and all the young ‘uns came to Perks toting their little computers and looking for a place to be alone without being lonely, the way kids did it nowadays.
Yes, all the happy wigglers, keeping things percolating in downtown Tropical Breeze; how he did love them all.
Edson Darby-Deaver. Aloud, Jasper sternly added, “PhD.” Paranormal investigator. Ghost hunter. “I may just have a date with you one of these days, my old friend, when she finally does do me in. If so, I’ll try to be a good ghost and put on a show for the customers. Maybe become a whatchamacallit – a spirit guide.”
The idea took him by surprise, distracting him for a minute or two, and he stood on the shore like one of those quick little birds, looking startled and alert. Then he went back to mentally roaming the streets of Tropical Breeze.
He'd miss the community leaders, like Michael Utley, men with real diplomas on the wall from real Universities, who didn’t talk down to you no matter who you were.
And Taylor Verone, the animal lady.
And Bastet the cat. The magic cat.
And his best customer, Rita Garnett, if in fact that was her actual name.
He’d miss them all, along with the full moon rising and the sun in its glory, presiding over the Earth, pulsing heat and life into all the little wigglers below.
Jasper swallowed hard. He didn’t want to leave them. He didn’t want to leave all this. His thoughts had always come in the form of free-verse poetry, and all his thoughts had had beauty, and above all, strength. After all, poetry is brave. It says what it sees, no matter what. With poetry to guide him, he’d never been afraid before.
This morning, Jasper was afraid.
But most of all, Jasper was sad.
Chapter 1 – High Tea at The Whitby House
We, the ladies of Tropical Breeze, simply adore high tea. We get together a nd have one every month or so. We dress appropriately, we keep the conversation light (at least at first), and we work hard to be on our best behavior. So as I glanced idly out the bay window and saw a man toiling in the July sun, I kept my voice to a well-bred murmur as I said to my hostess, “You make poor old Jasper work on Sundays?”
Rita Garnett turned to follow my gaze. “Is he out there? I asked him to trim the Canary Island Palm, but he doesn’t have to do it on a Sunday. Poor guy, he’s always hanging around town lately.” Turning to fix me with light brown eyes, she said, “I think he feels safer in town, where there are always a lot of people around.”
“Ladies,” said Nigella Nixon. “Manners, please. Those invited to high tea never comment on the servants, and as for gardeners . . . no, no. One doesn’t notice them, or care that they’re being worked to death in this beastly heat. And,” she said sternly, “the lady of the house certainly never fraternizes with them.”
“Either lower the pinkie or put the cup down, Jelly,” I said. “You’re spilling your tea.”
She wrinkled her pretty nose at me and said she was not.
The high teas began one day when Jelly was bragging about her glory days as a plus-size fashion model – the only plus-sizer to become a supermodel, so far – and a certain assignment in London where she had been squired around day and night by some minor appendage of the royal family. The man had worshipped her. That’s all according to Jelly herself, and it may have been true. She’s had that kind of a life.
I’ve never been able to figure out why a globetrotting glamor girl like Jelly Nixon would turn her back on all things fabulous and settle in a fishing/surfing/vacation village in Florida when she aged out and stepped down off the catwalk. I only asked her about it one time, and all she said was, “I got sick of all the phonies,” which I’m willing to believe. The average citizen of Tropical Breeze will tell you God’s honest truth even if it hurts, and if you’re fed up with phonies, you’d definitely appreciate a Breezer.
But still. Noshing around London with royalty is a pretty far cry from volunteering for good causes, gossiping about beach bums and other assorted nonentities and wowing the flip-flopping natives with your go-ahead fashion sense. It was probably a case of big-fish/small-pond. Maybe the Americanized high teas were a pleasant echo of the old days, minus the paparazzi.
The other three in our usual foursome were a sweet little old lady, a spy, and a woman who ran an animal shelter.
I’m Taylor Verone, the woman with the animal shelter. The little old lady is Florence Purdy, the dear old thing that runs my downtown resale shop, and the spy, our hostess, needs a longer bio than either myself or Florence. You might call Rita Allen Garnett a woman of mystery.
Rita had been living in Tropical Breeze for about ten years before that get-together on a hot Sunday in July. She was a now aging beautifully toward sixty, or thereabouts. Rumor had it that she had retired from the FBI or the CIA or some other jumble of uppercase letters, the kind of agency that’s full of grim people in suits and sunglasses who call you ma’am and then stare at you until you confess. To anything.
Rita showed up in Tropical Breeze one day and bought our most storied mansion, the Whitby House, lock stock and barrel. She was buying it back, actually. Her family had once owned it as a winter vacation home. It had later come into the hands of a woman who wanted to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. The B&B lady had completely redone the place in period décor, gutted the kitchen and turned it into a chef’s paradise, attracted a TV reality show about haunted mansions to kick off her grand opening, then fallen to her death from the gallery railing above the foyer.
So lucky Rita re-acquired the Whitby House complete with replica 19th Century furniture, elaborate fireplace surrounds, window treatments perfect for either a B&B or a bordello, dining room cabinets full of Portmeirion, Spode, Waterford and Gorham, and far more bathrooms than a single woman needed, even when she was sick.
Most people want to downsize when they retire, but finding that the Whitby House was up for sale just at the time she was looking around for a place to live had seemed like fate to Rita. The mansion held most of the happy memories of her entire life. Without letting herself even think about it, she snapped it up and moved in.
What better setting than a restored Victorian mansion for what we imagined to be British high tea? Only Jelly had experienced the real thing. Whether or not Rita had too, during the murky days of her career, was something she kept to herself.
Jelly, being the fashion world’s gift to Tropical Breeze, was simply smashing that day in a silky sheath of shocking blue – royal blue, to match her eyes – along with Jackie Kennedy pearls and a little white pillbox hat. On her, the hat didn’t even look silly.
Florence had put together an ensemble from the racks of the resale shop, aided by Jelly, and she managed to look fresh, coordinated and lovely. I’d hit the racks, too, but with more iffy results. I found myself swishing around in a sort-of muumuu thing that had looked elegant yet carefree in the fitting room, but now felt like a disorganized mass of chiffon trying to slide away from me. Colors that would have flattered a brunette rather than a blond, like me, swirled madly around my body, making me feel like I was trapped in a scratchy little cloud. The dress was going right back to the shop after teatime.
As for Rita, she looked as she always did, trim and toned and ready for that “one last job” that drives the plot of so many action movies. She was in a little black dress with an organdy cocktail apron, looking like an oversexed French maid as she stood at the head of the table pouring tea. (I hear the British call this “being mother,” but to Americans this just sounds disturbing.)
“The problem is,” Rita said as she poured, “that Jasper really believes she’s going to kill him, and nothing I say to the contrary seems to get through that thick skull of his.”
“Well, he does get funny ideas,” I murmured, accepting the antique cup that rattled in its saucer as she handed it back across the table. I managed to set the combination down without sloshing or spilling. Mugs are more my style.
“If it weren’t for funny ideas, Jasper wouldn’t have any ideas at all,” Jelly said.
“You have to admit,” Florence said, “there have been a lot of close calls for him lately.”
“That doesn’t mean somebody’s trying to kill him,” Jelly said. “It just means he’s clumsy. As a handyman-gardener, he’s always using tools that can kill you if you use them the wrong way. Nobody needs to kill Jasper. He’s perfectly capable of knocking is own brains out by stepping on a rake.”
“Now, Jelly,” Rita said, still being mother. “We love our Jasper.”
“Oh, I do too! He’s such a definite type. Sometimes I go over to the beach at sunset just to hear him sing to the setting sun. He’s not bad, you know. I mean, he’s no Pavarotti, but if you can handle Willie Nelson you can handle Jasper. I always figured he was what Jimmy Buffet would’ve become if he hadn’t made it big: just a skinny old guy on the beach, philosophizing at the sky after too many beers.”
Rita paused to think. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jasper drunk.”
“My dear,” Jelly said, delicately lifting a crustless triangle of something-or-other and posing with it halfway to her lips, “have you ever considered that you’ve never seen him entirely sober?” She popped the morsel into her mouth and pulled her angular, trademark grin – that knowing, catlike smile that had made her famous.
Then she turned to Florence and abruptly asked, “How do you think that woman’s shop is going to do, anyway?”
Florence blinked innocently and looked to me for help.
“What woman?” I asked.
“You know who I mean,” Jelly said. “The one who’s going to kill Jasper.”
“Oh, do you really think she’s going to kill him?” Florence breathed. “I thought that was just Jasper being Jasper.”
“Jelly, don’t tease her,” I snapped.
She turned the blue headlights on me and flapped the batwing eyelashes. “Who’s teasing?”
I patted Florence’s hand and said, “Nobody’s trying to kill Jasper, honey.”
“How would you know?” Jelly sniped. “Not that I think Jasper’s right about it, but if anybody really is trying to kill him, it’s got to be Sheila Colson. Have you ever seen them together? They hate each other. At least, she hates him. Jasper doesn’t have it in him to hate anybody, even if they are trying to kill him. He just slinks away looking ashamed of himself whenever he sees her. I hate her too, of course,” she added complacently. “Everybody does, so her shop is bound to fail.”
