A Village Shattered
CHAPTER ONE

Alice's porch light always served as a beacon on Saturday nights, but her house at the end of Mulberry Lane was as dark as a mausoleum. Dana eased her car along the curb and stopped in front of the house. Her dashboard clock said 7:16, so they were only a minute late.

"Something's wrong, Sarah."

Her companion leaned to have a better look. "You're right. Alice would never miss bingo night, unless. . ."

Dana retrieved a flashlight from beneath the driver's seat. It was then she noticed that all the houses on Alice's street were dark. "How strange," she said, opening the Audi's door. "There hasn't been a brown-out in the village in years."

"Harold must have driven his pickup into one of the power poles."

Envisioning the village's Mister Magoo, Dana wondered how Harold Samuels had renewed his driver's license. He was much too vain for glasses, and contacts were more than he could manage. Her attention returned to the house. Momentarily scanning the windows for candlelight, she started up the walk, leaves crunching underfoot. The door should be open by now. Alice is always anxious to get there early.

They hesitated on the edge of the jungle Alice called a garden. A giant willow stood dead center in the overgrown tangle of plants, its weeping limbs restless in the evening breeze. The camellias were tall enough to hide a mountain lion, but it was something considerably smaller that streaked past.

Dana turned to track the animal's path. Her flashlight caught two gold eyes peering from behind Sarah's legs. Sighing, Dana knelt to scoop up Alice's cat.

"It's only Mr. Tiger."

"What's he doing out here?" her friend said as she backed away. "Alice never lets him roam at night."

"Something's definitely wrong." Dana prayed it wasn't another heart attack. She tucked the cat beneath her arm and hurried to the porch. Ringing the bell, they waited long moments for someone to answer. Rummaging through her purse, she found the key Alice had recently given her. When the door creaked open, an overpowering sweet smell greeted them. Sarah held a tissue to her nose and shrieked, "Alliicceee?" in a voice pitched high enough to crack the entry glass.

Dana flipped a switch along the foyer wall. When a lamp failed to light, she flashed her beam around the living room. The coffee table was overturned, knickknacks scattered and broken. The room resembled a miniature battlefield.

Alice was there among the rubble. Face down on her green Berber rug, she clutched a short, knotted cord in her bloated hand. A shattered lamp lay on the floor, its slivers gleaming in her snowy hair. Slowly kneeling beside her, Dana searched for a pulse she instinctively knew wasn't there. "She's gone, Sarah."

"But who would kill sweet Alice?"

Dana felt her throat constrict and made no attempt to reply.

"Everybody loved her."

"Not quite everyone."

A cold, nauseous lump settled in Dana's rib cage. Get a grip, she told herself. You've got to remember the crime scene. Reading glasses were on the floor with the novel Alice had been reading. They knew she watched the afternoon soaps, so she must have died that morning.

Sarah lifted the phone with a soggy tissue. Using a pen, she punched in 911. Moments later she concluded the line was as dead as Alice.

Despite her bulk, their friend had put up quite a struggle. She apparently tried to escape to the kitchen when struck with the lamp from behind. Imagining what must have happened turned Dana's stomach. Struggling to her feet, she signaled Sarah to follow. They skirted what they considered evidence and cautiously left through the foyer. After locking and testing the door, they made their way to the car. They noticed that the lights were on and neighbors were filing into the recreation hall, Alice's favorite hangout. The killer must have known the body would be found on bingo night, unless a stranger committed the murder.

A light mist settled over the red-tiled roofs of the Valley Retirement Village. As the night deepened, tule fog would form an opaque mist. Dana vowed every fall to leave the San Joaquin Valley, but she couldn't leave her friends. They had saved her from the black hole she'd fallen into when Earl died. Her mystery novels also helped fill the void left by her husband's death.

Dana glanced down at her chubby friend, who appeared to be hyperventilating. Worried, she said, "First, a quick cup of blackberry tea. Then we'll call the sheriff."

* * * *

Sheriff Walter Grayson stood like a military guard. Well over six feet, his once-impressive chest had lost its battle with gravity. Most middle-aged men acquired some social polish, but the newly-elected sheriff had all the charms of film patrolman, Robocop. Even his voice was robotic.

"We're not suspects," Dana sputtered. "Sarah and I play bingo with Alice every Saturday night."  

Disbelief registered in his heavy, arched brow.

"Not much happens here on weekends when you live a mile from town. Especially when the fog rolls in." Dana wondered why she was making excuses. They had nothing to hide.

The sheriff lifted a notepad from his crisp uniform pocket, his pen ready for answers. "Your full names, ages, and addresses?" he said.

"What does age have to do with the murder?"

"Routine questions, ma'am."

She hesitated long enough to make the sheriff scowl. "Dana Marie Logan. I'm . . . fifty-nine and I live here in the village." She waited for him to ask for her social security number. Before long they would be tattooed on everyone's wrists.

"You don't look old enough for a retirement village," he said.

"My husband was sixty-seven when he died two years ago."

"I see." He abruptly turned to Sarah. "And you, ma'am?"

"Sarah Anne Cafferty. I'm the same age as Dana. My second husband, Terry, was sixty-four when lightning hit him last fall. He was swinging a five iron on the village course."

"How long did you know Alice Zimmer?"

"Several years." Dana was acutely aware of the sheriff's impatience. "We're all members of the Sew and So Club."

"So and So?"

"Needlework and gossip." Dana pantomimed sewing.

"I want all the members' names. And her friends while you're at it."

"They're one and the same, Sheriff." Dana listed nine women, including herself and Sarah.

"The two of you break into the Zimmer house together?"

"Alice gave us keys. She was afraid of another heart attack."

"Everybody in the club have one?"

"Just Lana, Sarah, and I."

"Three with opportunity." He continued scribbling.

"You can't suspect us." Sarah said, her voice shrill. "Alice was our friend."

"Everybody's suspect, Miz Cafferty. Where were you all day?"

"Home," she said indignantly.

"Together?"

"We talked on the phone. I was telling Dana––"

"No alibis," he said, without looking up.

Before they could protest, he asked when they had last talked to the victim.

"Last evening," Dana said, glaring. "Sew and Sos met at her house."

"Any squabbling at the meeting?"

"No, Sheriff, we all get along quite well."

"The Zimmer woman must have had an enemy."

"Alice was well liked in the village. That's what makes her death so baffling."

* * * *

Settled among her sofa pillows, Dana watched as Sarah scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

"You have more mystery novels than Border's Bookstore, Dana. How many do you read a week?"

"Two or three."

"Looks like everything Doyle and Christie ever wrote."

"You'll find contemporary writers as well: Clark, Grafton, Leonard, Sayers. . ."

Sarah thoughtfully sipped her tea. "They can help us solve the murder."

"How?"

"We know more about sleuthing than that newbie sheriff ever will."

"That doesn't give us the right to snoop."

"All those mystery novels you've read," Sarah said, "and the tons of reports I typed for Terry. . ."

Dana envisioned the pink marble urn, which contained Terry's ashes, setting on Sarah's mantle. Terry Cafferty had been an anomaly, an unassuming P.I. with one apparent vice, an occasional pipe bowl of Prince Albert.

". . .and between us, we can track down Alice's killer."

"This isn't a 'Murder, She Wrote' board game we're playing, Sarah Cafferty. Suppose the killer discovers us first?" 

"We'll be careful."

She obviously wasn't herself so Dana decided to humor her. "Let's discuss the case with Terry. A private investigator's advice is exactly what we need."

"A seance, you mean?"

"Our resident psychic conducts them on a regular basis."

"Tamara?"

"She even owns a crystal ball."

Sarah shook her head, apparently dismissing that idea. "We don't look at all like detectives, so no one would suspect us of investigating the murder."

Dana surveyed her friend's double chin and glittering light blue eyes. "You do resemble Shelly Winters more than Angela Lansbury."

Sarah mimicked the actress. "And you, Logan? A mature Geena Davis."

Dana deliberately dimpled her cheeks, although she wasn't up to smiling. "All right, where do we start?"

"Suspects."

"I can't think of anyone who'd want to kill Alice."

"I can."

"Who?"

"Harold Samuels."

"You can't be serious."

"Remember that sweet smell at Alice's house?"

Dana nodded.

"She's allergic to perfume."

"That's right, she was."

"Kind of smelled like Harold."

"That horse liniment he wears?"

"Harold's bursitis gave him away."

"Honestly, Sarah, how many seniors use arthritic rubs?" Dana answered the question herself. "Nearly everyone."

"Harold must've killed her." 

Dana recalled an argument between them at a recent garage sale. "Harold argues with everyone, including Pastor Williams."

"Alice slapped him a good one when he wrestled that trowel away from her. I've never seen her so mad."

"That's still no reason to kill."

"It might've been enough for the village grump."

Dana shook her head in exasperation. "How do you plan to prove your theory?"

"Return to the crime scene and take another whiff."

"The strangest thing I saw," Dana said, attempting to distract her, "was that cord in Alice's hand. She could have snatched it from the killer, and he panicked and used the lamp."

"Harold could've dropped something."

"The police have sealed the house by now. We'd be suspects if they caught us snooping."

"Set your alarm for three o'clock and don't forget your sneakers. They make 'em in size thirteen, don't they?"

"Eleven-and-a-half, you mush melon. They're hard to find in my size."

"Then wear that old pair of Earl's you use for gardening." Sarah's impish grin dissolved into a determined line. "If you're not up by three-fifteen, I'll go alone."

Worried, Dana agreed. Her friend was stubborn enough to investigate on her own, and she knew why. Sarah had understudied her husband for years, just waiting to play detective. 

* * * *

A Village Shattered
by Jean Henry Mead

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