Desolation Row: An Austin Starr Mystery

By Kay Kendall

The flight to avoid the killing…
It’s 1968. The Cold War is hot, the Vietnam War is raging, and the women’s movement is beating a far-distant drum. When Austin Starr’s husband decides to protest the war by emigrating from Texas to Canada, she goes along, with the biblical dictate of “whither-thou-goest I will go” ringing in her ears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985994228

Book preview

start.

CHAPTER ONE

1968

Austin hurried down Harbord Street in the deepening twilight. She’d tried the usual meeting place at the University of Toronto, but some bearded hippie said the anti-war group had moved, gone to the United Church on Bathurst. Which she was having trouble finding. She was tired of rushing, her feet hurt, and her skirt was too tight. Carrying the container of muffins was awkward and slowed her down. Why did she bother to bake anything anyway? David’s anti-war colleagues would just gobble up her food and keep on arguing.

Hiking several more blocks, Austin reached Bathurst and turned north, searching for the flashing lights that marked Honest Ed’s. The popular cut-rate department store was near the church, and she hoped her weary legs wouldn’t collapse during those long, final blocks.

She stopped and slumped against a lamp post, catching her breath. Why didn’t she throw the blueberry muffins away and be done with them? That would be foolish and wasteful though, given how little money the transplanted Americans had. The draft resisters didn’t often thank her, but they’d be grateful for free food.

Boo.

Her heartbeat tripled while her gaze pierced the darkness. After an eternity, a small figure slithered out of the shadows. A devil’s red face, topped with horns, loomed before her.

Her jaw dropped open and she stifled a scream. What the hell?

Trick or treat.

Damn it. Halloween had completely slipped her mind.

My goodness, you’re very scary. Austin tried to slow her thudding heart by taking deep breaths, then leaned closer to view the devil better. He stared back, swinging a pillowcase no doubt filled with treats.

I’ve got goodies. Do you want some?

The devil child nodded solemnly, then grabbed the offering and skipped away shrieking. His cries were probably joyful, but to Austin they sounded sinister, like a ghoul howling into the urban wilderness.

She turned in a circle and examined her surroundings, noted for the first time the jack-o-lanterns decorating the stores. In her frantic rush to make the meeting on time, she’d ignored the signs of Halloween. A wave of homesickness washed over her. Back home in Cuero, Texas, Daddy would be dressed like an abnormally tall ghost and doling out candy with a lavish hand.

She set out once more, tramping past tacky storefronts that hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years. While she’d never dream of walking alone at night in a similar American neighborhood, she assumed it was okay in Toronto. Everyone did it. Everyone said the crime rate was low here. But while she’d felt safe just moments before, if worn-out and cranky, now she was rattled, even a little scared. Phantom lizards hopped around in her midsection.

When she finally reached the United Church, it opened its brick arms to her, representing a safe haven. Puffing, she raced through the side door, only to slam into a deathly silence. She’d expected the usual cacophony of arguing voices to greet her, to lead her to the meeting, but the old building felt like a mausoleum, not a meeting place or house of worship. The frustration of failure crashed against her fatigued body.

Summoning her last few ounces of energy, she dashed down the dim hallway.

Ye better watch out, an ethereal voice called. I mopped the floor, and it’s still wet.

Austin jerked to a stop and lost hold of the box she was carrying. It hit the floor, and the muffins burst out. She watched her baking—a labor of love shoehorned into a too-full day—rolling across the wet floor. She howled, sounding just like that devil child.

A stooped old man emerged from the shadows and shuffled to her side as she fought back tears. He leaned on a mop, using it like a crutch, and then reached down to help her.

It’s okay, lassie. He wheezed between words. Your treats are only a wee bit dented. Look—some are still wrapped up pretty. His hands trembled, but he managed to tuck a few wayward muffins back in the box. He tried to scoop up another, but had to stop, both hands gripping his mop, as he struggled to catch his breath.

Thanks for your help, but I’ll get the rest. She crouched down to finish cleaning up while the old man stood by and watched. Straightening, she said, Do you have any idea where the anti-war meeting is? I’m late.

Those lads ran off somewheres. Maybe try the university, eh? The janitor tried to lift up his mop, but his hands were so unsteady that he dropped it. The mop clattered on the linoleum, making Austin jump.

What was wrong with him? Austin inhaled a long breath—what was wrong with her? She felt guilty that he’d exerted himself to help her. He looked as old as her grandfather, and Gran was eighty. Now drenched in remorse and stymied, she simply wanted to flee.

I can’t carry this stuff another step. Think I’ll just leave everything in the kitchen for y’all to enjoy tomorrow. She shifted several steps away down the hall.

But I must go, he called after her, and canna help you. A violent coughing spasm interrupted him.

That’s okay, she stopped to yell over her shoulder. I’ve been here before and know my way around. Then remembering her manners, she swung around to thank the old man, but he’d already faded back into the dark, a slick move appropriate for Halloween.

She began to jog in the direction her memory dictated, listening to her footsteps echo in the empty hall. When she turned a corner to see a sign pointing to the kitchen, she grinned with relief.

Something’s finally going right, she murmured.

Austin pushed the door open and entered a room as dark as puddled ink. Promising herself never to bake for the group again, she inched through the murk, feeling along the wall for a light switch. Her ears seemed to catch the sound of scampering feet, and she quivered; mice gave her the creeps. After several cautious steps, one foot slipped. She almost fell, but instinctively grabbed the counter and righted herself.

With greater care, she edged ahead.

Her left foot hit something solid. She pitched forward, not managing to catch herself a second time. But the object she’d tripped over had some give to it and cushioned her fall.

Damn, that was a close one. She spoke aloud in the darkness, needing to fill the silence. Lying on the floor, she thought about just staying put. That had to be better than anything else she’d tried that day. Yet the smell of dust and something oddly metallic made her change her mind. She sneezed and reached for her purse, needing a tissue, but instead her fingers met a sticky, moist goo.

Her heart slammed against her breastbone, and she gasped.

The dark was no longer her biggest worry.

She lunged to her feet and felt her way back along the wall. Her quivering fingers found the switch and flipped it. Florescent lights crackled and illuminated the room.

Austin’s eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden flood of light.

Before her sprawled a man in a pool—no, a lake—of blood, and her blueberry muffins covered the most beautiful suede jacket she’d ever seen. She knew not to touch anything and squelched an urge to brush crumbs off the body. The blanket of baked goods made the man’s condition appear comical.

It was anything but.

She recognized him. No one who’d seen Reginald Simpson in action would ever forget him. But she mustn’t think ill of the dead.

Her legs were unresponsive planks. Frozen in place, Austin could only stand and gape at the corpse. Or what she guessed was a corpse.

Reg lay on his back. Blood covered one side of his head, catsup-colored and slick, shimmering in the light. The blood was wet.

So his was a recent death, if in fact he was dead. She needed to check but hesitated, trying to recall her CIA mentor’s advice for daunting moments like this.

When you need to forge ahead but don’t really want to, Mr. Jones used to say, then just breathe deep and focus. Empty your head of expectations so you can absorb all the data that surrounds you.

One gulp of breath was not enough. She took three more. Emptied her mind of fear and crept back toward Reg. Leaned down close, turned her face away to breathe deeply again, placed her fingers on the skin beneath his beard, and felt the truth. This was an inert thing, not a man.

Reg was gone.

Warm bile rose in Austin’s throat. She needed to vomit but swallowed and gagged instead. Eyes closed, she willed the wave of nausea to pass. She’d never seen a dead person before, other than an aunt who had passed away peacefully of old age. But that frail body, lying in a satin-lined coffin in a pristine funeral home, belonged in a reality much different from this grotesque one with its figure laid out on a worn tiled floor.

Austin began shaking and grabbed the kitchen counter to steady herself, then jerked back, afraid to leave more fingerprints. After a few moments, her racing heart slowed and her curiosity overcame her initial fright. Here was an event plucked from one of her favorite mystery novels. It was morbidly compelling.

Using the hem of her blouse, Austin rubbed the place where she’d clutched the counter. Okay now, she told herself, get it together. What should she do first?

She’d often wished she could step into an Agatha Christie novel or work alongside Nancy Drew. Once Austin startled a friend when, upon entering a room, she abruptly declared, That brass candlestick would make a good murder weapon. However, surveying this scene, Austin didn’t see a single candlestick—or any other obvious implement good for killing.

She stepped back from the body and moved around the kitchen slowly. She peeked into an open container for trash, but it held nothing. Either the trash had been cleared away before the murder or the killer had taken it with him.

The closed cupboard doors called to her. Open me, they clamored. And so she did, again covering her fingertips with her blouse. This operation took a long time—using her blouse was awkward and added complexity to the process. And the kitchen was enormous and held many cupboards. Twenty-two. She counted them. Twice. The tedious process calmed her teeming brain.

Her gaze swept the room, searching for clues. For anything out of place. Anything unusual. Satisfied that there was nothing suspicious, she decided it was time to call the cops.

Sure, but what cops—the city police or the state police? Ontario was a province. Damn it, how could she get in touch with them? What were they even called? She and David had talked to officials when they’d crossed the border into Canada, but she didn’t know if they were border police—did Canada have those?

Maybe she could call the Mounties. After all, Sergeant Preston always got his man. But no, the pamphlet designed for assisting Americans emigrating to Canada to avoid the draft warned that some members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police sought excuses to export draft-aged boys back home. Officially, they weren’t supposed to harass them. Unofficially, they did.

She felt a fool for dithering while a body, adorned in her baking, lay on the floor of a church kitchen. But she truly didn’t know who to call.

She gawked at Reg’s body and felt more out of her element than usual. Maybe she should call the operator and let her choose the right cops to contact. Okay, check. Her first step would be to locate a phone. The church office was a likely spot, but that door was probably locked. Also, if she left to find a phone, what about Reg? It didn’t seem decent to leave him alone like this, now that she’d found him.

She gulped. You’re not going anywhere, are you? she asked the body. It didn’t respond. She’d half expected Reg to answer; that would’ve been a fitting climax to this evil day.

Oh, no. Austin slapped her forehead. What if she went for help and then someone came in and saw Reg? She’d be a suspect!

She wasn’t a citizen, and Canada would be happy to deport an alleged murderer.

She looked again at Reg.

Deportation sounded rather appealing. At least that would make her family happy, although her mother would mostly be mortified. Good heavens, she was mortified enough already, her only child having fled to the Great White North with a draft-resisting husband.

Austin shook off her circling thoughts. This was not the time to be obsessing about her mother. She clamped her hands together; they were twitching like they’d suddenly acquired a case of St. Vitus Dance.

Slow down and take just one thing at a time. Austin spoke aloud the words her father often used to counsel her, back in the good old days, back when her worries didn’t include politics, flight from her own country, and a corpse staring up at her from the floor.

She studied the body again, saw how the fringes of Reg’s western-style suede jacket were absorbing more blood. The crime scene was changing already. How long had she been stuck here, hesitant about what to do? Probably hours.

And what if the killer were still lurking somewhere in the church? No, she refused to consider that possibility. She shook her head, hard, forcing those fears from her mind.

Checking her watch, she was flustered to see she’d been in the kitchen only a few minutes. Her mind had been rocketing around at the speed of light, spinning totally out of control, until passing time had felt like an eternity. She shook her head hard, again, in an effort to stop dawdling and finish her mission—finding a phone.

Austin decided to abandon Reg and the once-precious muffins and leave the kitchen. She peeked into the hall and looked for the janitor. He was nowhere in sight.

She rolled her eyes. Just my luck.

Then, realizing she’d need a dime for a payphone, Austin turned back to the kitchen. Careful not to touch the body, she grabbed her purse. It had fallen clear, away from the blood, and looked unscathed. She wished she felt the same. Her breath came in short gasps as she rushed back into the hall and began trying every door along the hallway.

Each was locked.

She ran to the exit, made her way out to the street, and looked up and down the sidewalk. Where did Canadians put their phones? Austin stepped off the curb without checking the traffic, and instantly a car horn blasted on her left.

The first horn she’d heard in oh-so-civil Canada.

She waved a placating hand and made it to the opposite curb. She walked up Bathurst toward Honest Ed’s, keeping an eye out for a payphone. A woman walked ahead of her, loaded down with packages, and Austin hurried up to her to ask where she could find a phone.

The woman’s eyes widened, and she stepped away.

Austin glanced down, saw decorations of blueberry bits, purple spots, and blood stains on her jacket. Such evidence could place her at the crime scene. This frightened her, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

For the first time since she’d found Reg, she wondered about David. Where was he? If he were here, he’d know what to do. Nothing ever rattled him.

David thought Reg was a showboat—all flash and no substance. Maybe that was why she hadn’t thought of getting help from David right away. Although he never passed judgment on his fellow draft resisters, she sensed that David loathed Reg. David wouldn’t be overcome with grief over Reg’s murder.

She bit her lip, contrite. Her assumption was harsh and unfair. David was a moral and highly ethical man. But she herself didn’t have to be a do-gooder. She could walk away from the old church and the gruesome contents of its dark kitchen.

Her apartment beckoned, a sanctuary far removed from Reg’s bloodied body. Her new home had never seemed so welcoming before.

No, that was a copout, a cheater’s way out. Austin would stand her ground. After all, she had an ancestor who’d defended the Alamo. How dare she even contemplate for one second fleeing from the scene of a crime? Besides, what was it Mr. Jones had said so often during her CIA training?

Don’t imagine you can outrun foreign authorities. They’re devious, even if they don’t let on that they suspect you.

The mental image of Mr. Jones, now lodged more or less permanently in her brain, reminded her that those damned muffins back at the church might as well have worn a sign: Austin Starr was here.

She imagined the old janitor arriving at work the next day, finding the corpse littered with baked goods, remembering their hallway encounter, and turning her in to the cops. Then a policeman would find her on campus, pull her out of class, and march her down to some police station. The police would charge her with the murder of Reginald Simpson, the show-off firebrand who divided his listeners into warring camps—those who thought he was a jerk and others who swore he possessed the oratory skills of Lincoln, had Lincoln been a vain and profane revolutionary.

Austin didn’t like that scenario one bit. She pulled the scattered pieces of her mind back together.

Totally refocused now on finding a phone, Austin was barely aware of the hordes of children and parents out trick-or-treating. She plunged past them down the street, but in her haste, and with her sensibilities dimmed by tunnel vision, she reeled into an unseen guardrail at the corner of Harbord and Croft. She fell for the second time that night.

Lying on the cold cement made her shiver. Her teeth chattered as Austin inspected her skinned knees and bruised hand. She’d live. Too dazed to stand, she raised herself a few inches and rested on the curb.

She picked up her purse, detected smudges of blood on it, and rubbed them off. Then she stood on wobbly legs and surveyed her surroundings. Two doors down, she spied a British-style pub.

Glory be, in front of it stood a beautiful payphone.

The thrill of success jolted through her. Dodging a surge of drinkers exiting the pub, Austin approached the phone. A telephone directory chained to it simplified her task. When she found a listing for the Toronto police under the category of city government, she felt another moment of triumph.

Austin took a dime from her purse, stuck the coin into the telephone, and placed the call.

I want to report a dead body in a church on Bathurst.

CHAPTER TWO

Austin decided it was better to wait outside the church for the police rather than return to the interior with its gruesome kitchen, a perfect setting for film noir. Halloween would never again be just a time of fun and candy.

She stood on the sidewalk and eyed the seven steps leading to the massive wooden door, the main entrance to the United Church. The pitch was steep and even though there weren’t many steps, still they intimidated her.

Once upon a time back in grade school, Austin had fallen backwards down the stairs of a slippery slide. Since then, stairs had unsettled her. The church’s side door, the one she’d used earlier and the one without stairs, was now locked.

There was no handrail to hang on to, so she chose a step only two up from the sidewalk. She brushed sodden leaves away, sat down, and was instantly chilled. Shivering again, she pulled her jacket tight. Toronto was frosty in October, and Austin’s thin Texas blood rebelled. Heat and humidity she could take in stride, but freezing temperatures and blizzards were unknowns. A brutal Canadian winter lay ahead, and she dreaded it.

She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. No sounds of police sirens yet. Only ordinary traffic noises and occasional childish peals of laughter reached her ears.

How long would it take for the cops to show up? She glowered into the darkness, her eyes seeking any sign of the authorities or danger.

Off to her right, she detected a red mailbox, and the sight brought her up short. She flashed back to the first one she’d seen. The British royal coat of arms painted on its red background had pierced the bubble she’d inhabited, the one built on Everyone’s advice that moving to Canada would produce no culture shock whatsoever. She’d banked on that advice, coming to Toronto under that illusion, only to find that Canada was full of differences. The rampant lion and unicorn shouted that Everyone had been wrong. Now, it would appear, even dead wrong.

Where were the stars and stripes? The American eagle?

All Canadian mailboxes now shrieked at her, symbols of her naiveté.

How trusting, how stupid she’d been to believe that Canada would feel just like the States. Why hadn’t she raised a fuss before moving north? Being compliant hadn’t saved her from harm. After all, here she was on Halloween night, convinced she was about to get mired in a murder case, while little kids scurried around holding their loot bags close to their scrawny little chests for safekeeping.

Oh, why couldn’t David just plop down beside her, like magic? But she had no way to contact him and beg him to come help her. Where was he? And where had all the anti-war activists gone?

She should’ve known this day would be difficult—it had such a rough beginning. When the alarm clock had failed to go off, she and David were rushed getting ready for class. Then the bacon burned and the scrambled eggs went dry. She singed her thumb taking biscuits

Reviews for Desolation Row

[teachlz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

MY REVIEW OF “DESOLATION ROW’ by Kay KendallI have to blame author Kay Kendall, author of ” DESOLATION ROW’ for the sleepless night I had, so that I could finish reading her novel. I just couldn’t stop reading until I discovered “Who Did It?” so to speak. The genres for “DESOLATION ROW’ are Mystery, Fiction, and in my opinion, Historical Fiction. This novel brought me back to the end of the sixties, and reminded me of so many things.The year is 1968, and you are living in a foreign country that is supposed to be friendly to Americans. Although the times are turbulent and there is a lot of tension. Many American citizens have come to Canada as Draft Resistors for different reasons. Even within the resistors are factions that are split on how to handle the protests. The war in Vietnam is not like any war in history. Then you have a different political agenda, that of older men that fought during World War Two, and were proud to fight for America.Now, can you imagine that your nerdy, kind, gentle husband is arrested on suspicion of murder? You really can’t afford an attorney. You don’t have much of a support system. Your parents are in Texas, and not pleased at all that you left with your husband to go to Canada. Well, meet Austin Starr, a 22 young married student who came to Canada with her husband, who was her college boyfriend. Austin seems to have a major problem.The author describes the characters as complex and complicated. Some characters are angry, unbalanced, jealous, have strong convictions, and some characters have secrets important to protect. There are a number of characters who could be suspect in murdering a Draft Resistor that was not really well liked. What is the motivation and why?Austin turns to her Russian Professor and his daughter for help in finding who the “real killer is. Visiting her husband in the desolate jail spurs her on to look for clues.There are twists and turns and threats and danger. Then there is another murder.I appreciate the way Kay Kendall describes the history, the characters, and the intriguing plot. Having lived during this era, I felt like I was revisiting the past. There is the discussion of corrupt politicians, and the upcoming election, when Richard Nixon was running for president.The author also discusses how any war changes the lives of the people who come home and their families. To quote Kay Kendall,” While the past was set in stone the future was framed by hope and possibility.” The author describes the importance of family, peace love, hope and faith.I really tried to follow the clues, but I was surprised to find who the murderer is.I highly recommend this intriguing and thought-provoking novel for readers who have a passion for life in the sixties and for anyone who loves a mystery with suspense and intrigue. I received a copy for my honest opinion.

[maryann12_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A smart mystery … The clever structure, remarkable dialog, and subplots result in a wholly satisfying read. Packs a considerable punch. … Readers will look forward to seeing more of Kendall, with her formidable intellect, tart sense of humor, and resolute sense of justice. Unexpectedly magnificent. The author has written a story that engages you in the characters first and the mystery is the subplot.This is a mystery wrapped up in a very heartfelt story driven by wonderful characters. I didn't want to do anything but keep reading. Kendall really knows how to weave a story together and keep the reader entertained and curious about the final outcome. I think this writer is exceptional. The book is clean as well as entertaining. Kay Kendall is a writer to watch. I highly recommend it.