Common Sense: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery

By J. David Core

Common sense tells Cattleya Hoskin that her drowned reporter ex-husband wouldn't have gone out night-fishing by himself in the middle of an investigation. The unaccommodating local authorities see it differently. In an effort to prove them wrong, Cattleya enlists the help of her private investigator friend, Schwartz, to follow through with Dave’s investigation—theft from the power grid in a small Ohio town.
The inquiry is complicated by crooked contractors, a menacing white van, and some long-abandoned coal mines and antebellum tunnels. Aggressively loud church bells and the amorous advances of a bounty hunter Schwartz brought in to help add to an already convoluted situation. Yet Cattleya feels she owes it to Dave to figure out what happened to him, for better or for worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. David Core
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310923449

J. David Core

With a profound interest in religion, liberal politics and humor, Dave began writing in High School and has not given up on it since. His first professional writing jobs came while attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh when he was hired to create political cartoons for The Pitt News and to write humor pieces for Smile Magazine. Dave has worked in the newspaper industry as a photographer, in the online publishing industry as a weekly contributor to Streetmail.com, and was a contributing writer to the Buzz On series of informational books and his story, The Bet in Red Dust, was published at the Western online anthology, Elbow Creek.Dave’s science fiction novel, Synthetic Blood and Mixed Emotions, is available from its publisher, writewordsinc.com.Dave currently resides in his childhood home in Toronto, OH with his beautiful girlfriend and his teenage daughter. He enjoys participating in local community events and visiting with his two adult children and his grandson.

Book preview

By J. David Core

Published by J. David Core at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 J. David Core

Cover illustration by the author.

Other titles in this series:

Extreme Unction

Fair Play

Shared Disbelief

Download the series NOW!

Info on all of these titles available at my website!

Coming Soon:

Five Secrets

&

Hard Boiled

This novel is dedicated to my wonderful family and friends for all of their patience and help. I particularly want to thank my beautiful girlfriend, Cheryl, and all of the people who read my manuscript and gave input. I especially want to thank my beta readers, Hazen Wardle and Mark Gardner.

Table of Contents

Copyright info

Chapter One

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Notice

Author Bio

Sample Chapter

Chapter One

Why don’t I remember more about that moment? Was it the cop, the one who had escorted me into that room and pulled back the sheet, was it his fault I don’t remember? Had he pre-conditioned me to expect more? Is that why I don’t remember more details? Or had I done it to myself? Had I presumed too much? Were my expectations out of line with reality because of all the horrific images I’d been trained to expect from television and the movies?

I’ve spent my life training my memory. My high level of recall is what makes me a good reporter. It’s what Schwartz valued so much when we’d worked that last case. It’s what I consider my defining characteristic. So why don’t I remember more about that day?

I don’t know what I expected to find, really. Did I think he’d be paler? Bluer? Bloated? Wetter? He’d probably only been in the water for an hour or so, tops, and he’d been fished out more than 24 hours before. Of course he wasn’t bloated or still wet … or pallid. So when the sheet came back and even his lips looked like him … like the lips I’d kissed when I took his name … like the lips I’d fallen in love with all those years before … like the lips I’d foolishly grown to trust.

It’s no good. All I remember are his lips. I vaguely remember saying, Yes, that’s him, and being escorted out of the room, but that’s it. I don’t even remember going back to my car; but I did go back to my car. I got in and began driving, and I remember thinking back to the night before, when I’d gotten the call.

***

It had been five months since I’d last seen Beverly, the live-in housekeeper and cook at the home of the renowned Private Investigator, Lupa Schwartz; but the telephone correspondence we had maintained made it seem like a lot less time. Has Mia gotten over hating me yet? I asked, and Beverly laughed gaily.

I suppose she has, Beverly answered. Did I tell you that she and Yitzie aren’t dating anymore? Yitzie was Jimmy Yitzosky, and he was the reason that Mia Geovani had been holding a grudge against me these past few months. He was a narcotics cop, a Sergeant in the Pittsburgh Police Department, and she’d wanted him to move on to homicide; but I had foiled her plan in favor of my own then-favorite homicide dick, Detective Trevor Johns. Unfortunately, the scheme I’d hatched blew up in my face, and it had cost me the affection of both Mia and my own Ishmael (as I called Trevor.)

No, I said in honest surprise. What happened?

Long story, Beverly told me.

I’ve got time, I said, and I meant it. I’d had no life for more than a month. My job at the Cleveland office of Gamut Magazine had become the only thing I did. When I’d returned from Pittsburgh that past July with the story of the brilliant detective work Schwartz had used to solve the case of a Catholic priest framed for the last-rites-poisoning of one of his parishioners, I’d thought it would be the kick-in-the-butt my career had been in need of. Ever since my ex-husband had hijacked a utilities story that had been rightfully mine, I’d been somewhat stagnated. It probably would have been a sufficient boost too, except that I’d allowed that charmer-of-an-ex-of-mine to worm his way back into my life and had started dating him again while I was still riding the high of my own literary success. Then – as if I’d never had our young marriage annulled – I’d moved in with him. He’d started screening my email, and had snaked another story that had been rightfully mine. He was over a hundred miles away living in a quaint B&B with a company expense account working another utilities story, while I waited to edit his copy and keep house patiently awaiting his return. Of course, what he didn’t know was that the only reason I was actually awaiting his return was so that I could see his face when he saw what I’d done with a little benzene to his prized CD collection right before I dumped his sorry ass again.

So I listened to Beverly’s story, running up the tab on Dave’s (my ex-husband’s) phone bill – since the one concession I’d gotten him to agree to when I’d moved back in was keeping all of the utilities (including a house phone) in his name. Although even winning that compromise had cost me some concessions; like no frills such as caller ID, call-waiting, voice-mail, or any other extras.

So Beverly told her tale. It seemed that Mia, who was Schwartz’s mechanic (he had an extensive antique and classic car collection in a huge underground garage on his property,) had been pestering Schwartz to allow Jimmy to take credit for collaring one of Schwartz’s murder cases as he’d solved it so that Jimmy could possibly get out of the Narcotics division. Apparently Schwartz, a sucker for a pretty face – which Mia definitely had one – had agreed twice in the past month, but Jimmy had found a reason both times to make a drug bust instead. Mia had finally had enough. She’d stopped accepting Jimmy’s invitations to dinner, and she was back to playing the field. So, Beverly said, Mia has no more reason to be angry with you. It was all Jimmy’s deal the whole time.

At that moment, my handbag had begun to chirp. Hold the line a minute, would you, Bev? My cell phone is ringing. It might be Dave.

Then let it ring, Beverly said. You’re dumping the jerk next week anyway, aren’t you?

Yes, I said, If it’s important, he can call back, right?

Exactly, she said. So are you going to just let it ring?

Yes, I am, I said proudly. So how are things with you and Lupa?

Cattleya, Beverly said, you know that our relationship is strictly professional.

Did I say anything to suggest that it wasn’t?

You implied it, she said, by the timing of your asking about it. I laughed, but the distraction of that incessant ringing was driving me off my nut.

Hold on, Bev, I said. Whoever this is, they’re being really persistent. It must be important. I set the handset down and pulled the ringing phone from my purse. Hello?

Cat, it’s Jana, the voice said announcing herself to be a co-worker from the magazine office.

Hi, Jana, I said. Can I call you back? I’m on long distance to Pitts...

Cat, listen, Jana said interrupting. I think maybe you’d better hang up that other call. We just got a call at the office from the Mississauga, Ohio Police. I think something has happened to Dave. They’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but...

What did they say about Dave?

They wouldn’t say anything specific. They just wanted to know if you had another phone number they could call since they kept getting a busy signal. I didn’t want to give them your cell number because I know you had it changed since you’re planning to – you know – to dump Dave again. I thought it might be a trick or something. Anyway, they’re going to call you back in a few minutes.

Thanks, Jana, I said. I’ll let you know what I find out. Goodbye. I hung up and got back on the line with Beverly. Bev, hi. Listen, I’ve got to clear this line. Apparently the Mississauga, Ohio police are calling to talk with me about Dave. He’s down there covering the story he stole ... on a story, so he might be in jail or something. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye.

I hung up and turned on the television while I waited for the phone to ring. Less than a minute had passed when the sudden sound startled me. Hello, I said.

Cattleya Hoskin? the voice asked. I responded in the affirmative, and the voice continued, This is Captain Hank Street of the Mississauga Police department down here in Mississauga, Ohio. Is David Hoskin your husband?

Yes, I said, "my ex-husband is David Hoskin. He’s down there working on an assignment for Gamut Magazine. He’s a writer."

Yes, ma’am, we know, Captain Street said. Um, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s been a ... well, there’s been a sort of a ... a sort of an incident.

Is Dave under arrest? I asked.

No, ma’am, Street said. I’m afraid he’s dead.

It may have been a whole minute or barely a moment or any other length of time between Street’s stating the word and my repeating it as a question. I can’t say, because for me time stopped. Dead? I said, though whether immediately or finally — I can’t be sure.

Yes, ma’am. Drowned, Street said, in the river. He was night-fishing on a pier, a sort of public dock. We’d like for you to come down and identify the body. It’s procedure. We’re sure it’s him. Could you come down in the morning?

Chapter 2

It must have been in the back of my mind, since — after all — I’d packed a small bag, but I didn’t consciously make the decision until about a quarter of the way home up the state’s eastern border when I saw the sign that I was only about forty miles from Pittsburgh. I hesitated only a moment before slowing and committing to the right turn onto Rte. 30 into Pennsylvania.

Within an hour, I found myself on the familiar walk to the semi-circular porch that fronted the Queen Anne style home at 808 Hazelwood Ave. at the top of Murray Avenue in Pittsburgh’s largely Jewish Squirrel Hill section. Knowing Schwartz’s schedule as I did, I knew that unless he was out on an important case, he would be in his basement garage, napping or tinkering for another half hour; and he wasn’t currently working a big case, because I’d just spoken with his house-keeper and ersatz wife, Beverly, the night before.

Except for the fact that I’d brought my own car, a late model suburban that I was leasing for way too much money, this was exactly the same way that I’d presented myself four months earlier; unannounced, unaccompanied and unprepared for what was about to follow. I rang the bell and waited, but nobody came. Since it wasn’t Saturday – grocery day, or Sunday – free day, I knew that somebody must be home. Somebody (usually Beverly) was always home. I rang again, but still nobody came. Sometimes Beverly would spend her afternoons gardening, but this was late October. The harvest was over. None-the-less, I strolled around the left to the back yard in search of Beverly.

I found her there in coveralls and work-gloves holding a trowel, but she wasn’t gardening. Rather, she was mortaring bricks onto some sort of foundation in the far corner of the lawn, her blonde pony-tail swishing from side-to-side rhythmically. This had been her flower garden when I’d been there in July. Now, the rich soil that had been in this spot lie in piles scattered about the lawn, and in its place was a large rectangular groundwork of cinder-block and brick. Beverly, I called, what are you doing to Schwartz’s lawn?

She looked up from her work, dropped the tool and called my name. Cattleya! Wha... when did you... Hello, dear.

***

We were in the kitchen drinking tea. I’d explained that on the way home from identifying my ex-husband, I’d suddenly felt the need to see some friendly faces. She’d then explained that because she hadn’t managed to can as many vegetables as she’d wanted to this season, she was going to build a hot house to grow some for the winter and to have a better head start for the next spring planting season. Schwartz had agreed to let her move her flower garden to the front slope since it had become too difficult for Beverly to mow the slope anyway.

You mow the slope? I said.

I do all of the yard-work, dear, she explained. It’s part of my job, and it gives me something to do when I’m not cooking or cleaning, and I enjoy it.

Well, I said, it’s your business. So what are you going to plant out front?

She told me her plan to put tiger lilies at the retaining wall with Irises lining the walk. The lawn would be a scattering of wild seed, and whatever grew grew, but the house itself would be edged with sunflowers and ferns. Are you going to start that in the greenhouse too? I asked.

Oh, no, she said. The bulbs for the lilies and irises are already in the ground, and I’ll scatter the wild seed right after the sunflowers have sprouted which I’ll plant them just after the last frost. I want to wait until after the dandelion harvest, before I...

Dandelion harvest? I interrupted.

Yes, we get a lot of dandelions in the front lawn, and I use them to make wine. I don’t know where I’ll get the dandelions spring-after-next. I suppose I’ll have to gather them down at the park.

I was about to ask her why she made wine from dandelions when Schwartz and Mia came noisily up from the garage. Schwartz, his green shirt still tucked neatly in his black pants, was saying something about the cylinder head on his Delehaye when he spotted me. Ms. Hoskin, he said. This is a surprise. I understand you’ve suffered a loss. My condolences. As he spoke, Mia walked past him, approached me and embraced me in a seemingly sincere hug. How she managed to do it without getting any grease on my white cardigan... But that sounds bitchie, and she was really being nice.

***

Is that a difficult question? Schwartz was saying. We’d moved into the dining room, where Beverly was gathering dried rosemary to toss on the embers of the large fireplace. Mia was seated across from me with sympathy plastered onto her too-beautiful-for-her-own-good face. I’d finished describing my surprise at how easy it was to identify Dave since – after all — he’d been pulled from a river after drowning. I’d thought he’d be bloated or discolored, but he’d looked like himself. Then out of nowhere, Schwartz had asked me if Dave had often gone night fishing alone, and I’d gone suddenly mute. That’s why he’d asked me if the question was a difficult one.

It shouldn’t be, I conceded. I mean, I was married to him, but he’d surprised me so many times. I’d never expected that he would steal a story from me, but he did – twice.

So you’d never known him to be a fan of night fishing?

He might have just picked up the hobby recently, or maybe he was just testing the hobby that night.

Was he an avid day-fisherman? Schwartz