MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Read online

  What a joke, she thought, rubbing her stinging palm.

  Two

  Mary spent the morning watching the local news, before moving on to The Price is Right. Drew was just about to present the Final Showcase when the two-tone chime of the doorbell echoed through the house.

  She frowned, glancing over her shoulder. She craned her head back to look into the entryway and saw a dark silhouette standing on the front stoop.

  She watched and waited, willing whoever it was to go away. She didn’t want to buy a vacuum. Didn’t need anyone to ask her if she’d had the chance to meet her Lord and Savior. Didn’t need anything but quiet, alone time.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Oh my god, what do you want?” Mary growled, pushing herself off the couch.

  She opened the door to a short, balding man wearing a FedEx jacket. “Can I help you?”

  The man smiled. “Good morning, ma’am. I’ve got a letter here for David Lancaster. Needs a signature.”

  “That’s my husband.”

  “Good enough.” He held out an envelope. There was a small pink receipt attached to it. He held out a pen. “Just sign by the X, please.”

  She read the name stamped across the top: Central Plains National Bank. She looked past the deliveryman, at her Focus in the street, wondering if the bank was sending a repossession notice. That would be just her luck.

  “What is it?” She asked, taking the envelope.

  The man chuckled. “Sorry, ma’am, I just deliver.”

  Mary signed and handed it back.

  “Thanks, have a good day,” he said as he handed her the receipt.

  She ignored him and read over the address information a second time, making sure there hadn’t been a mix-up, then pulled the rip-tab on the back. Inside she found a form letter, printed on Central Plains National Bank letterhead, addressed to David.

  Dear Mr. Lancaster,

  We’d like to congratulate you on making the final payment on your 2012 CHEVROLET TAHOE. Acct# 614538274. It was a pleasure to serve you, and we hope that you will consider us for any of your future financial needs.

  If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call.

  Sincerely,

  Audra Wies, CPA, Senior Manager Liabilities and Loans

  Central Plains National Bank

  316-989-7848

  [email protected]

  Mary read it again. She looked up at her Focus parked at the curb, the replacement for the Tahoe she’d totaled in the wreck. But her Tahoe had been almost 15 years old, and it had been paid off for years.

  It had to be some kind of mistake.

  Calling David was her first instinct. She cursed as the call went straight to voicemail and hung up without leaving a message.

  “Come on,” she said, trying a second time.

  Voicemail again.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mary told the phone before hanging up again.

  She read the letter again, then dialed the number printed near the bottom.

  After a single ring, a computerized voice answered the call. Mary rolled her eyes and listened.

  Three

  After three menu replays and two failed attempts, a real human being finally answered the phone.

  “Hello, this is Karen, how can I help you today?”

  Mary took a deep breath. “Yes, hi, my name is Mary Lancaster. My husband David and I have a car loan through your bank for a Ford Focus, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the account.”

  “Certainly, ma’am, can I have your birth date, please?”

  “June 2, 1983.”

  “And password for the account?”

  “Sardine Sandwiches,” Mary told her, shaking her head at David’s ridiculous choice of security phrases.

  Another pause and key clicks.

  “Okay,” the woman said, drawing out the word. “Here we are, yep, a 2011 Focus, maroon. What can I help you with?”

  “Do you show any other vehicles on the account?”

  “No… no I don’t see anything else. I mean, there’s your home loan, but that’s it.”

  “You don’t show a 2012 Tahoe listed at all?”

  “No, no I don’t, I’m sorry.”

  What the hell? Mary read over the information on the letter again, convinced she was missing something. “Can you try something else for me? Can you look up a different account number?”

  “Of course.”

  Mary recited the numbers on the letter.

  There was a pause. “Hmm, I might have punched them in wrong, let me read them back to you.”

  Mary ran her finger along the numbers as the woman read them aloud. When she finished, Mary said, “Yep, that’s right.”

  “Well, that’s strange.” There was another pause. “I’m sorry, ma’am, can I put you on hold for just one second?”

  Mary sighed. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  When the elevator music started playing Mary cursed aloud. She hated calling banks, hated not being able to see what the person on the other end of the phone saw. It made her feel like a child who wasn’t allowed to listen in to her parents’ conversations. It was her money after all—she should be allowed access to all the information.

  A minute later the teller came back on the line, cutting off the music halfway through its second repeat. “Okay, ma’am, I’m sorry about the wait. I was just trying to do a little research into the account. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find your name listed anywhere on the account.”

  “What does that mean? If my husband set up an account I should have access to it. We’ve been banking there together for almost twelve years. When was it opened? Is the Tahoe the only thing listed on it?”

  “I’m really sorry, ma’am, but without your name actually being on the account, I can’t release any of the information to you.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I really am. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Is there manager there? I’d like to talk with the manager please.”

  There was a pause. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it looks like she’s stepped out for the moment. Would you like me to forward you to her voicemail?”

  “Of course she’s not there. This is ridiculous. Fine, transfer me over.”

  “Thank you very much, ma’am. Have a good day.”

  The line beeped twice before Mary could respond and moment later the branch manager’s voicemail recording started. Frustrated and angry, Mary hung up without leaving a message.

  Four

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you anything about your husband’s account,” Mary mimicked, pacing around the living room. “Such bullshit. Leave a voicemail? Right, cause that’s going to do a lot of good. Like she’s going to call me back. Shitty customer service is what it is, plain and simple. That’s my money in that account, damn it!”

  She had been complaining aloud for almost fifteen minutes after hanging up the phone and had worked herself to the point of screaming with frustration. Her scar flared with a white-hot pain, which only fueled her anger. The idea of David keeping secrets from her knotted her up inside. Memories of the hours they’d spent in therapy, piecing their lives back together, flooded through her mind. It had been her affair that had led to the sessions in the first place, but they’d both promised never to keep secrets from each other again, and here he was, spending money that they didn’t have, to buy a car that she knew nothing about.

  In the end, Mary decided that a phone call just wouldn’t work. She showered, dressed, and was on the road twenty minutes later. By the time she pulled into the bank parking lot, her fingers were sore from gripping the wheel.

  She was led into a side office, where two small chairs faced a wooden desk. A placard, sitting among piles of papers, told Mary that Elizabeth Haskins was an extremely disorganized person.

  Ten minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a pantsuit came into the office, smiling. She smelled of
tomato sauce and cheap perfume.

  “Mrs. Lancaster, so sorry to keep you waiting.” She extended a hand and introduced herself. “I’m Elizabeth Haskins. I understand you’re having some issues with your account.”

  “Yes,” Mary said, placing the letter on top of a stack of folders. “I received this letter today, but when I called, I was told that the bank couldn’t give me any information about it. Obviously there’s been some kind of a mix up, because we don’t own a Tahoe any more. It was totaled in an accident over a year ago.”

  “Oh, my. I’m very sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Haskins said, looking over the documents.

  “I want to know if this is a legit deal, or if there’s just been some kind of mistake or misprint or something. And why am I not listed on the account? David and I have a joint account here—we have for years.”

  “Hmm,” the banker said, brushing some loose papers from her keyboard. “Let me see what I can find out.” After a few minutes of working, she frowned. “Huh. Well, now that is very strange.”

  “What is?” Mary asked, leaning forward.

  Mrs. Haskins angled the screen slightly, just enough so that Mary couldn’t see it. “Well, I see that you and your husband do indeed have an account with us, but unfortunately, this account,” she held up the payoff letter, “isn’t associated with your joint account. It’s completely separate.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “It means I’m not able to discuss the account information with you, unless Mr. Lancaster adds you to the account, of course.”

  Anger exploded out of Mary before she even knew it was coming. “I don’t understand what is so difficult about this! He’s my husband! We’ve been married for twelve years and banked here for at least that long. I know his social security number, his date of birth, how tall he is, hell, I know he has a birthmark on his left butt-cheek that looks like the state of Florida!”

  Mrs. Haskins held up her hands. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Lancaster, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that our bank has very specific policies about how and who we can divulge account information to.” Her eyes looked away as she continued.

  “I can see that you’re on the other accounts, but unfortunately we can only release account information to account holders or authorized agents, and your husband’s name is the only name on the account.”

  “That’s right—my husband. I’m his wife. That means you can talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t do that.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  The banker straightened in her chair, putting her hands in her lap. “As I said, I am very sorry for the confusion, but we value the privacy of our clients here above everything else. I wish there was something I could do. I’m sorry. Perhaps this is something you should take up with Mr. Lancaster.”

  Mary suddenly realized how this entire thing looked and felt her cheeks flush. Tears threatened to seep out, and she had to clasp her hands together to keep them from shaking.

  “Forget it,” Mary said. She grabbed the letter and left as quickly as she could.

  Five

  “What a bitch!” Mary shouted. She slapped the wheel with her palm, but not as hard as she could, and the reluctance to strike full-force made her feel silly. Her only recourse was to blast the radio and scream “Since U Been Gone” at the top of her lungs.

  Rain began to sprinkle against the windshield as Mary white-knuckled the Focus back onto the freeway. Several minutes later, the Flying J Truck Stop appeared as she crested a hill, its billboard inviting weary motorists to stop, refuel, and buy third-rate car radios. The diner, attached to the north end of the truck stop, reminded her of her first date with David. He’d insisted that the French toast at the Flying J was world class, and after a reluctant first bite, she’d finished all of hers and part of his.

  Mary thought of another first “date,” and immediately feelings of shame and anger came rushing in. Her doctor had wined and dined her at Angelo’s, the elegant Italian place two towns over, which was a far cry from the truck stop. The exclusive nature of Angelo’s made it ideal for their secret romance. Much like the bank; if you weren’t a member, you weren’t permitted access.

  She pushed those memories out of her mind, grimacing at the twinge of pain that shot up her back, seemingly as an echo of the affair. She was the one who had strayed; but her feelings of regret were all mixed up with anger at David over his silence, his punishing work schedule, and now this thing with the bank account.

  The line of semis at the back of the diner caught Mary’s attention. Son of a bitch, she thought, shaking her head. Thoughts of David’s secret crept back into her mind.

  When he’d first started driving the rig and making all those cross-country hauls, she hadn’t liked it at all. Every time he’d have to stop off at a motel or rest stop, Mary would imagine him hooking up with some roadside skank. It had taken her almost a year to get over the unjustified suspicions, and in the end, she had been the one who had been unfaithful. She wondered how long it would take for David to truly forgive her.

  The thoughts of her own indiscretions stilled her anger slightly. Do I really have the right to be mad at him? Mary asked herself. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for…

  “What the hell?”

  Her foot came off the gas and she leaned forward, squinting at the long line of semis, thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. They weren’t. At the end of the row, David’s distinct red, white and blue “D” painted on the air dam above the cab stuck out like a sore thumb.

  A horn blared, bringing her back to the road as a pickup passed her on the right, its driver flipping her the bird. Another horn blared behind her as she pulled off at the last minute, slowing to maneuver through the busy lot.

  As she drove to the back, arguments and accusations began to fill her mind. She would catch him completely off-guard and find out just what the hell was going on.

  He better have some good answers—

  She slammed the brakes hard, sending the car and her body lurching forward. Mary felt her stomach turn and time seemed to stop. She forgot all about the letter, all about the bank account, all about the questions she wanted answered. A fire erupted inside her as she saw her husband standing at the back of his rig, talking very closely, and very secretively, with another woman.

  The woman wore a pale blue dress, the hem several inches above her knee, and matching high heels. Long blonde hair fell down past her shoulders. She had a slender but athletic frame and a pair of breasts that strained the low-cut neckline to its limits.

  A hurricane of thoughts flooded Mary’s brain as she sat there in silence staring as the pair shared their moment. Every now and then the woman would glance around as if she was worried about being seen. Memories of doing the same thing at restaurants, and even while riding in the doctor’s car, flashed through Mary’s mind. Memories of keeping her eyes open for friends or acquaintances, praying David wouldn’t somehow discover them.

  In the end, he’d never actually seen them together, but the guilt had finally become too much for her to bear. When she’d finally revealed the truth to him, the look of betrayal and hurt on his face had nearly taken her to her knees. After months of therapy, David had finally said that he forgave her. But seeing him here now, all but embracing another woman, she realized that those words had obviously been lies.

  The sudden wail of a police siren made her jump. She cursed and glanced over her shoulder. A massive, sleeper-cab Freightliner rolled to a stop several car-lengths back, a black and white Crown Victoria pulling in behind, lights flashing.

  She let out a long breath as she turned back to her husband, and almost vomited at what she saw. David had pulled the woman close, embracing her. Both were looking in Mary’s direction. For a second, Mary thought they were looking straight at her, but then realized they were watching the trooper behind her. After what seemed like an eternity, they exchanged a glance, then separated, stepping
back from each other. The woman said something, then turned and walked away.

  Mary watched as she climbed into a black Chevy Tahoe.

  “That son of a bitch.”

  The SUV pulled away a second later, disappearing around the front of the truck stop. David’s rig rumbled and shook briefly as he pulled out of his spot, followed the Tahoe around the building, and headed for the highway.

  As if on cue, the dark clouds opened up and sheets of drenching rain pounded down on her. Mary sat there listening to the rain, trying to understand.

  Despite having seen the evidence with her own eyes, Mary couldn’t believe it. After everything they’d been through, she hadn’t thought David capable of something like this.

  Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  Six

  David was already out of bed when Mary woke up the next morning. She’d heard him come in, had even felt him crawl into bed after he’d showered, but the choice words she’d rehearsed to cut him down and tear any excuse to pieces didn’t come. She had lain there awake, listening to him breathe, wondering what he’d been doing and who he’d been doing it with.

  Mary couldn’t remember when she’d finally drifted off, but when she opened her eyes the next morning the smell of coffee was already wafting up from downstairs. David was heading out early yet again. Heading out again to see her.

  She found David at the table, reading the paper, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up as she stepped into their small kitchen. She scanned his deep blue eyes, looking for any sign of guilt. She saw none.

  “Morning,” he said, taking a sip.

  “Morning,” Mary echoed, hoping she didn’t sound as furious as she felt. “You’re up early again.”