Everything's Relative (a Sammie Lawrence mystery)

By Sue A. Lehman

The last thing Sammie Lawrence (wife and mother) wants to do is attend her cousin’s wedding and have to deal with boring relatives she barely knows. However, when she finds herself holding the key to a dangerous puzzle, her strong sense of curiosity takes over. Despite the desperate criminals who are after her and the secret in an old pocket watch, her blind uncle and his nephew help find the truth of the mystery and reunite another family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue A. Lehman
• Release date: Oct 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466016651

Sue A. Lehman

Piano tuner/technician by day and writer by night. Published by SterlingHouse: Blindsided and The Rat. Sold articles to Highlights and Good Old Days. Likes to tennis, baseball and judo. Enjoys watching her son play soccer and tennis at High School and sailing with her husband and family. Her older son is currently serving in the Navy.

Book preview

EVERYTHING’S RELATIVE

(a Sammie Lawrence mystery)

By Sue A. Lehman

Copyright 2011 by Sue A. Lehman

Smashwords Edition

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by Sue A. Lehman

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One ----- Putting On the Dog

Chapter Two ----- Professor Who?

Chapter Three --- Small Enclosure of the Worst Kind

Chapter Four ---- Is It Behind Door #1, Door #2 or Door #3?

Chapter Five ----- The Incredible Disappearing Victims

Chapter Six ------ Someone to Watch Over Me

Chapter Seven --- Watch What Happens

Chapter Eight ---- Seeing Is Believing

Chapter Nine ----- Dogs That Love Too Much

Chapter Ten ------ Will the Real Senator Please Stand Up?

Chapter Eleven --- It’s a Small World After All

Chapter Twelve --- All In the Family

About the Author

Chapter One

Putting on the Dog

‘B.Y.O.D.’ What do you suppose it means? I asked Gil as he drove through the morning fog to cousin Janet Quiggly’s wedding.

I haven’t the faintest idea. You’ve known Janet since you were kids. You tell me, he said with a chuckle. Say, look at the map on the flip side of the invitation and tell me the exit number. We should just about be there.

As I read off the number, a sign telling us our exit was in two miles flashed by.

Get your big old stinky feet off of me, yelled seven year old Eric to his teenage brother. When I turned in my seat towards them, Eric’s strawberry-blond hair hung in his eyes and his long legs curled up under him. He sat wedged in the corner, busily transforming one of his robots into a sword or a gun or something.

Tattletale, taunted Matt, pulling in his stretched-out legs. By the time I’d turned to scold him, Matt was adjusting the CD player headphones on his short, spiked, blond-tipped head.

Boys, both of you keep your hands and feet to yourselves. I turned back to the front so they wouldn’t see the smile creeping onto my face as I remembered all those times I’d tormented my older brother when I was young.

He started it, whined Eric.

Baby, muttered Matt.

Gil switched lanes as we approached our East Bay exit. I’m still glad we brought them along. The boys so seldom get a chance to meet any family.

Weddings are definitely not a ‘guy’ thing. Eric and Matt would have been better off at home. I hated forcing my children to endure strange, mostly old people patting them on the heads, grabbing and hugging them, telling them how cute they looked, and asking What do you want to be when you grow up? I had to do it, but why should they?

I think they should meet some of their cousins and aunts and uncles. Family is everything, said Gil. Now, don’t roll your eyes at me. Just because you were adopted doesn’t mean you have no family. What do you have against your relatives, anyway?

Oh, nothing. It’s just – it’s been twenty years since I’ve seen my cousin Janet. I’m not even sure she’ll remember me. And I’m not that anxious to see my boring aunts and uncles.

I stared out the window at the rolling hills, remembering all those summer reunions being forced to sit, for what seemed like hours, at long narrow tables outside in the muggy heat, while the adults jabbered to each other. I made a game out of swatting mosquitoes that landed on my arms and legs, and I vowed that if I ever had kids I’d never make them go to family gatherings.

Well, I can’t wait to meet your family – or should I say ‘our’ family. The more the merrier. I still can’t believe we’ve lived here in California almost a year and haven’t gotten together with them, he said as he grinned at me.

Are we there yet? said Eric.

Almost, sweetie, I replied, for about the fortieth time.

The exit curled up and over the highway. Gil squinted through the fog as our van slowly approached the top of the hill. The San Francisco sun, only a red disk in the sky, tried to shine through the low clouds.

A twenty-foot, black, metal gate with intricate curly designs snaking across it rose out of the fog ahead with the name QUIGGLY scrolled boldly across the top. Weird three-legged animals, flying cats, half-human goats and winged unicorn on the front. But it was the shape of the gate that made me gasp.

It looks like a giant bone, said Matt from the back seat.

That’s what it looks like to me, I agreed.

Gil stared out. Is that rich uncle of yours a paleontologist or something? Why a bone?

No, Great Uncle Filbert deals in real estate. He loaned the family the estate for the wedding because he’s off in Spain. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard a lot of stories. He never got along too well with Mom. I don’t know why the bone gate, though. Oh, there’s an intercom, I said to Gil.

He rolled down his window and pushed the red button. The box crackled loudly. A deep voice yelled, Yeah?

Gil leaned out the window towards the box. We’re Gillian and Samantha Lawrence and our two boys, Eric and Matt. We’re here for the wedding. The last statement was almost a question.

Loud static was followed by the voice again. Take the road to the fork, and go right. You can’t miss the house. The parking lot’s on the right side.

Splitting down the middle, the two pieces of giant bone swung inward with a grating squeal. When it came to a crashing halt, Gil hit the accelerator. The jaws of the gate began to close before we were only half way through. I clutched the edge of my seat and held my breath as the door clanged shut behind us.

The paved drive wound around an outcrop of boulders and a small grove of trees before opening into a mustard meadow that sloped gently down to the four-story mansion. As instructed, Gil bore to the right towards a large, grassy yard beside the house. He drove between two long rows of parked cars towards a towering light post and a giant oak. I never knew a man so obsessed with parking in the shade.

I stared up at the white mansion, which looked like part castle and part southern plantation. Two massive pillars framed the four stories, while four turrets outlined the top and sides. The evenly-spaced crenels at the very top, where archers might have stood to defend the castle, gave the whole house a menacing, medieval look. Brightly flowered window boxes appeared under almost every window on the upper floors, while climbing vines with blood-red blooms dripped color down the sides. A screened-in porch, dotted with wicker furniture, ran along the entire right side, disappearing around to the back of the house. I wondered how many architects had been involved with this place.

A rosy-cheeked, young man in a tuxedo led us to a large tent beyond the parking lot, where a magnificent Great Dane sat statue-like by the opening and watched us as we approached. I hugged Eric close when we edged past him.

Long tables of food were set up down the center of the room, while folding chairs and square tables dotted the edges. Although it was only 10:30 in the morning, a few people had already heaped their small plates with cocktail shrimp, bread and spinach dip, liver pate, caviar, Swedish meatballs, cheeses, lunch meats, crackers, veggies, a large variety of dips, and many other unidentifiable eats. My stomach growled. Just looking at all that luscious fare put me over my carbohydrate limit for the day.

A smaller card table, away from the food caught my attention. The sign set at the back said, Best Friends. The table was covered with tasty looking casseroles, plates of ribs and sauce, and bowls of chips with unidentifiable dips.

At the far corner of the tent on a wooden platform, speakers and microphones were being erected amidst a tangle of cords, music stands, and chairs.

How odd that most of the guests were dressed only in black and white. I noticed the men wore tuxedos or black suits with white ties, while the women had on black and white dresses. I brushed a few cat hairs from the collar of my navy blue dress and tugged at the white belt, uncomfortably snug at my waist. I laughed and nudged Gil, who straightened the red tie that accented his light gray suit. Eric looked comfortable in his tan slacks and Hawaiian button-down shirt, but Matt tugged at his blue and yellow necktie under his old blue sports coat.

It seems this is a black and white affair and somebody forgot to tell us! I whispered to Gil.

Even the servants blended in, with crisp black and white uniforms.

Excuse me, said a voice from behind. A tall, slender butler with a multitude of colorful leather straps dangling over his extended arms asked, Do you require a leash?

A leash? I asked.

The butler looked around us. Didn’t you bring your dog?

I caught a smile forming under Gil’s bushy, reddish-blond mustache. No. Were we supposed to?

You were asked on the invitation to bring your own dog, replied the butler. He nodded at the other guests. All dogs are required to be on leash unless they are in the exercise park, west of the house.

I looked at Gil and we said in unison, B.Y.O.D. Bring your own dog. Then we burst out laughing. I’m afraid the butler was insulted, for with a Humph, he turned and stiffly walked away.

Hey, look at all the dogs, said Eric, poking at my arm.

In fact, there were very few children but lots of dogs, all on leashes, of course. Several jewel-adorned poodles pranced before their mistresses, along with terriers that yipped and jumped for treats. A fluffy panda-like English sheepdog panted at his master’s side while a dust-mop of a Pekinese swished along the floor led by a tall, high-heeled lady. Some kind of brown and black, short-haired mutt lay on its back while a pudgy, balding man vigorously rubbed its belly. Dogs were everywhere.

At the mysterious Best Friends table, guests scooped food onto the plastic plates and put it down for their ravished dogs. The boys laughed and pointed, delighted at the canine spectacle. All the barking, yipping, panting, crunching, slurping, and whining provided a strange, almost musical background in the enclosed tent.

A large, harnessed German Shepherd and a tall, elderly blind man dressed in a crisp and sharply-creased tuxedo came towards us. In order to make room for them, I pulled Eric aside, as he passed by us. His posture was tall and his pale blue eyes stared straight ahead.

There was something familiar about him that made me touch his arm. Excuse me. I feel like I’ve met you before. Are you a Quiggly? I asked.

He paused and turned his head in my direction. A warm smile filled his face. Not really. But I married one. My late wife was Helen Quiggly, Filbert’s oldest sister Matilda’s daughter. I’m Liam McDougall. But please, everyone calls me Colonel.

I shook his extended hand and explained my Quiggly connection before introducing my family. I remember meeting you once at Janet’s house a long time ago. You were on leave from the Army then, but I don’t remember you being blind.

He laughed. No, I’ve only been blind about 22 years. If you’re Evelyn’s daughter, you must be Samantha, the musical one.

My eyes widened. I’m surprised you remembered me!

As he stood there, I remembered him as a young, curly-headed soldier, standing so straight he’d seemed ten feet tall. He had been quiet and mysterious to us, two giggling teenagers, and we’d fantasized about what his life and loves might have been like. I’d made up a story that he had been captured by the enemy and thought to be dead, but had escaped and returned to his true love during his own funeral. They’d fallen into each other’s arms, never to be separated again.

Here it is, Gramps, a voice said behind the Colonel, bringing me out of my daydream.

An olive-skinned young man, only slightly older than Matt, placed a white cane in the Colonel’s hand. When he looked at our little group, his dark eyes darted from person to person. Then he scanned the crowd with his hands jammed deep in his pants pockets.

The Colonel reached out towards the boy. This is Simon, my grandson and my extra set of eyes, he explained. I’ve raised him from a pup. He just graduated from High School.

Simon dutifully shook hands but stared mostly at our feet, keeping his left hand firmly in his pocket. The corners of his mouth rose slightly as Eric pumped his hand with a flourish, exclaiming in his best Bugs Bunny voice, Good to meet ya, doc!

Eric nearly toppled over trying to be funny, and Simon’s left hand flew up in an attempt to catch him before he hit the ground. A shiny object slid from his pocket and clanked to the floor, landing at my feet.

It was a gold pocket watch! I picked it up and ran my thumb over the engraved German Shepherd on its cover before handing it back to Simon.

Why, it’s beautiful, I said, staring at it.

Simon whispered a thanks as he snatched it from my hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. Then he turned and darted.

You’ll have to excuse his rudeness, said the Colonel. He’s probably off to find some pretty young girls. Say, Matt, you’re probably about his age, aren’t you?

Matt stood a little straighter. I’ll be seventeen this summer, with my senior year ahead of me next year, so he’s a little older.

I sighed, glad he wasn’t as sullen and rude as Simon. That boy seemed absolutely petrified that I’d picked up his watch. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he’d stolen it.

I’d been so involved with the boys and the watch that I almost missed the conversation between Gil and the Colonel, coming in on the tail end as Gil described the hot dry weather in Lake County.

You must drop by sometime and visit Crystal Lake, I said. We’ve plenty of room for you and Simon and it would be wonderful for the boys to hear about your war experiences.

The Colonel promised he would. Then he turned, and with a Forward, Major! followed his Shepherd towards the tent entrance.

I was about to comment to Gil about how nice it had been to see the Colonel, when a low, deep growl rumbled behind me. I turned and stared into the chestnut-brown eyes of a barrel-shaped, pigeon-toed, English Bulldog. Slobber dripped from his jowls as he strained at his sparkly purple leash. A vaguely familiar, heavyset woman tugged hard on the other end of the leash and clucked her tongue at the growling beast.

Now, Pookie, you mustn’t growl so, she told the dog. Then she turned to me, You simply must ignore Pookie. He must smell your dog. Where is your dog? She craned her neck to look around us. Her Carmen Miranda style, black and white feathered hat bounced up and down as she spoke while her teardrop diamond earrings glistened with each movement.

Oh, we didn’t bring our dog, commented Gil. He grabbed my arm with one hand and pushed the boys back with the other, out of range of the massive bulldog. Pookie finally sat but leaned towards us, straining the leash, sniffing and slobbering.

Yes, we left our dog and cat at home this time. Say, aren’t you...

She gasped in horror and jerked back on her leash, making Pookie yip. I looked around, wondering what had caused such a reaction.

You have a cat?! she said, in a loud whisper. What is this world coming to? I’m surprised they even let your kind through the gate. Say, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? She peered closely into my face. Too closely.

I backed up a step and said, My mother is Evelyn Quiggly.

Well no wonder! You’re one of those adopted children. Why, you’re not even a real Quiggly. Then, she turned on her heel and yanked Pookie away from us.

I wanted to give the old bat a stinging rebuttal, but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. She’d already turned her back on me, and her substantial behind swished indignantly into the rapidly growing crowd, followed by her drooling dog.

What a rude woman! Gil exclaimed. Who was she?"

That was Aunt Bernice. I haven’t seen her since I was a child. She’s Filbert’s oldest sister’s child. Never married. I herded the boys to a nearby table with four empty chairs.

Yeah, that’s old Bernice, all right, piped up a voice beside us. She’s a real battleaxe, that one. The Brooklyn-accented voice belonged to a leprechaun of a man with sparse, grayish-blond hair that straggled over a frayed sport coat collar. His bright, wide smile didn’t take away from the long, lumpy nose and lack of a chin, but it did give him a distinctly rodent-like appearance.

He stuck out his hand to me and grinned widely. Mackeral Selimer at your service. You can call me Mack. The Selimers are cousins twice removed–I think that’s how it goes–from the Kevin Quigglys. None of us is good enough to be here, according to her highness Bernice. As he pulled my chair out for me to sit, he leaned closer. Besides, you mentioned the c-a-t word. I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not around this crowd, unless you want to end up on your keister outside the gate.

The Kevin Quigglys, huh? You must be related to Frank, my mother’s oldest brother. I never knew much about him. He lived in Europe somewhere, from what I understand, I said, motioning the boys to get some food from the buffet table.

Yeah, my dad was one of Frank’s sons. I was born in England, but we moved to New York when I was about two, so I don’t remember England at all, said Mack. I’ve run into Bernice before, though. She’ll never change. Mack’s smile lit up his otherwise homely face.

So, what business are you in, Mack? Gil pulled out a chair, watching the boys at the nearby food tables.

Mack hesitated. You might say I’m in the salvage business, he replied. I ain’t rich like these birds, but I do all right. He turned to me with a grin. So, where’s your mother?

"Mom couldn’t make it