Murder in Greenfield Glen

By Harry Harris

As a member of the New York City Police Force Det. Richard Emery served the public well: first as a patrolman and then as a detective. He retired in 1998 and ultimately became a Private Investigator. For his work in Law Enforcement he was honored throughout the years with several commendations, and in l990 he received a ‘Token of Esteem’ by the City Fathers of New York City by being named Detective of the Year.
Working on two different murder cases, several years apart, it was impossible for Det. Emery to imagine that there was an underlying diabolical theme running through both of them that would inexorably connect them and become a motive for murder.
This then, is the story of those two cases and the abominable murders that ensued in Greenfield Glen, a senior citizen’s compound in Mesa, Arizona.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Harris
• Release date: Feb 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311945853

Book preview

MURDER

in

GREENFIELD

GLEN

Copyright 2015 Harry Harris

Published by HERCULES-APOLLO MYSTERIES

at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

#acknowledgements

#Prologue

#ChapterOne

#ChapterTwo

#ChapterThree

#ChapterFour

#ChapterFive

#ChapterSix

#ChapterSeven

#ChapterEight

#ChapterNine

#ChapterTen

#ChapterEleven

#ChapterTwelve

#ChapterThirteen

#ChapterFourteen

#AboutAuthor

#Otherbooks

Acknowledgements

Thanks to all my fans in Greenfield Glen. It is a wonderful community and no murders. I am grateful to my wife Loralee for her editing and research help.

Prologue

THE FIRST RATTLE OUT OF THE BOX

It was eight o’clock in the morning and the entrance to Greenfield Glen, a wall-encircled residential area in Mesa, Arizona was irradiated with intense green lighting. Baby spotlights with green film reflectors cleverly hidden in the trees surrounding the ingress not only illuminated the name of the Senior Citizen housing complex but also the trees surrounding it, making the entryway appear enchanting, albeit at times a bit eerie.

Det. Richard Emery smiled as he looked at the illuminated area around him, for it was that melodramatic green lighting that brought the complex to his attention. At the time it was because he was looking for a place to live; however, on this particular morning it was because he was waiting for the police to arrive for he had just reported a murder.

CHAPTER ONE

Having called 911 and reported a murder, Det. Richard Emery was now waiting patiently for the police to arrive. He was biding his time at the entranceway to Greenfield Glen, the housing community where he lived. He was there in his wet shorts for he had just come from the pool where he had seen the murdered man. Standing there with his shaved baldhead shinning brilliantly in the early morning sunlight, an anxious expression on his hatchet face, a body as skinny as a rail, and with his long, scrawny, hairy legs sticking out from under his multi-colored shorts -- that were hanging loose and almost censurably low around his non-existing middle -- the detective was an object for ridicule. He looked so outrageously funny that several motorists that happened to be driving by the complex at that hour of the morning almost rear-ended one another when they saw him. And before the detective knew it, people in their cars began rubber-necking, not only to get a better look at him, but to heckle him as well:

Turning the window down all the way so that he could be heard distinctly, a motorist shouted: Hey, mister, I don’t know what you’re selling, but I’m not buying. Another man yelled, Hey, Buddy…stop kidding yourself; you’re no Schwarzenegger! Someone else screamed: Oh, my God! It’s a thing from outer space!

The detective knew that he appeared ludicrous attired as he was, but he wasn’t concerned; not being a vain man the comments didn’t bother him at all. On the contrary, they made him smile and he acknowledged his hecklers by waving back at them. Nevertheless, as he did, he couldn’t help but wonder how it came about that he was waiting for the police to arrive at that absurd hour of the morning…and in his wet shorts no less:

Having decided that Mesa, Arizona was where he wanted to live, Det. Richard Emery drove around the city one evening with two objectives in mind: One, to get an idea of the lay of the land, Get better acquainted with the environment where he planned to spend the rest of his life and, the other, to see what living accommodations were available. As he did, he happened to see an area along Greenfield Road that was illuminated by some vivid green lighting. The unusual sight caught his eye and as he approached the area he noticed that the lights irradiated the entrance to a housing complex called Greenfield Glen, a wall-encircled colony of small, beautiful homes. Since there wasn’t a barrier at the ingress, he drove into the area and then slowly around the grounds. As he did, he felt as if he were on a movie set; that’s how attractive the area appeared to him. The complex was well lit and there were trees and trimmed bushes in front of all the elegant houses, with the grass and the lawns manicured beautifully. He also took note that there was a large club house, a tennis court, four polished lanes for shuffle board, and an Olympic-size swimming pool with a spa alongside it, strategically situated in the middle of the charming housing community. He knew instinctively, even before driving out of there that night, that if there was a house for sale in that complex he wouldn’t think twice about buying it.

The following day Det. Emery returned to Greenfield Glen and found that there was, indeed, a unit there for sale. He also discovered that only elderly people, fifty-five years of age or older, could buy property there, which suited him just fine. The widow who was selling her home felt that she had gotten too old to continue living alone and decided to return to Minnesota to be with her children. The detective didn’t waste time; he not only bought her home, but all of its furnishings and almost everything else in the house, which pleased them both. So there he was now the owner of a lovely, fully–furnished home, ready to meet some of his neighbors and anxious to get on with his life.

Det. Emery had been a bona fide resident of Greenfield Glen exactly a week when he saw a notice posted on the club house door inviting him, as well as everyone else living there, to attend an event that evening called, Happy Hour, which he knew was a time for the voluntary mingling of kindred souls and distilled spirits. He took note that it was to be held at the clubhouse every other week, and that everyone, or as many of the elderly people feeling well enough to attend, could spend a little time with their neighbors, getting to know them better. .

As Det. Emery entered the hall that evening he noticed that the men and women were not sitting together and that blighted his spirits somewhat. The men were at a table at one end of the room and the women at the other. The men were staring into space not bothering to speak to one another and occasionally sipping at the drink in front of them, while the women were laughing, joking, and having a hilarious time with one another. Det. Emery stood at the door like a statue as he tried to interpret the ridiculous seating arrangement.

Since he was the new kid on the block, he knew that the people there would be curious to know something about him, so he just froze in position at the door and waited until he was certain that his fellow home owners took note of him. Then feeling that he had their undivided attention, he said, Will one of you sweet young ladies please explain something to me. Why are all the men sitting quietly, like bumps on a log, at a table at one end of the room, while you women at this other end are whopping it up, laughing, joking, and apparently having a good time? I don’t get it; it’s not what I’d call Happy Hour; at least not for the men…so I’d welcome an explanation.

One of the women, in a pitiful, exaggerated southern accent, said, They is simply jis men doing nothing, which is what they does best. They can’t hep it! Her comment got the laugher it sought.

Another woman said, I’ve been trying to figure that one out for years. I know that if my husband were alive he’d be sitting here with us women enjoying himself. He certainly wouldn’t be wasting his time staring out into space. I guess those old codgers are waiting for some young, sexy, female extraterrestrials to show up. An instant later adding, Not that they’d know what to do with em! Again the comment garnered a great deal of laughter.

Ladies the detective said, thank you for your opinions but I’m going to sit with the men awhile and see if I can’t talk them into joining you. As he started to move away from the door, a woman shouted, Fat Chance, Mister!! That too had its desired effect, and its laugher escorted the detective all the way to the men’s table. When he got there, he introduced himself and tried to convince his fellow home owners that the evening would be much more enjoyable if they all joined the women. He explained that since the women seemed to be having all the fun that evening that they’d be fools not to join them and partake in some of their revelry. Unfortunately, his words fell on deaf ears; not one of the men answered him. Their eyes glazed over as they just stared at him and silently continued sipping their drinks. It was obvious to the detective that old age had taken its toll of them.

Since he was left no other recourse, the detective smiled sheepishly at the apathetic men in front of him, and left them to finish their drinks in peace. Then he quickly joined the women where he was received like a movie star. He hadn’t enjoyed such a reception or gotten so much attention from women since his wife died, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. There was no doubt in his mind, from the way he was received, that the women were in desperate need for some real male conversation.

Nevertheless, after he introduced himself, and apologized to the women for failing to get the men to join them, he asked them what had them howling with laughter when he entered the room.

One of the women stood up, and said, We were laughing about Charley.

Who’s Charley? the detective asked and noticed that it brought about a great deal of giggling from his female audience.

The woman said, He’s the guy who keeps our pool clean, and added quickly, among other things. That comment too had many of the women chuckling.

Finally, after the women appeared all chuckled out, one of them said, Come on girls…stop kidding the poor man or he’ll end up at the other end of the room with those other guys feeling that they were right not to have joined us. To the detective, she said. I guess you could call Charley a robot; he’s a mechanical device that cleans the pool when nobody’s in it. And the reason we were howling was because we were talking about him. We all have a humorous story to tell about Charley, and that’s because if we forget to take him out of the pool when we’re in it, he attacks us…and I’m not kidding.

A woman seated way back at the end of the table, shouted, God, what a pity he’s only a robot! The women enjoyed another round of laughter.

I haven’t been in the pool yet, Det. Emery said, but when I do I’ll have to check him out.

If he doesn’t check you out first, a woman shouted, and amidst more laughter, she added, He’s a sexpot who loves to goose you when you least expect it. The laughter continued.

As the detective was enjoying the women’s comments, he noticed that two of them had their heads together ogling him and smiling mischievously. It was as if they knew something about him that he didn’t, and for a moment it annoyed him.

When Happy Hour was over, the detective thanked the women and told them how much he had enjoyed their company. It was a sincere compliment; he had such a delightful time that he honestly couldn’t understand why the other men hadn’t joined them. However, in fairness to the men, a thought wormed itself into his psyche that perhaps they didn’t mingle with the women because they knew something about them that wasn’t exactly complimentary; something they should be wary of. Since he still harbored a tinge of acrimony about women, acquired during his days as a P.I. working on infidelity cases, it was something he decided to keep in the back of his mind. In any event, as he was preparing to leave, the two women that had been staring at him earlier that evening approached him and said, almost in unison, Shame on you, Richard for not recognizing us? The words no sooner left their lips than he realized that he did, indeed, know who they were, and he was a bit dismayed with himself that he hadn’t recognized them immediately for he had known them all of their lives, and if truth be told, loved them dearly.

Of course…you’re Dorothy Mullins the detective said to the shorter of the two attractive women, and to the other one he added quickly, and you’re Marlys Goodyear, and he immediately embraced both of them warmly for he was truly pleased to see them again.

He rationalized that the reason he didn’t recognize them at first glance, as dear as they had been to him, was because he hadn’t seen them since he retired from the police force fifteen years ago. Nevertheless, he was delighted to have met them again and pleased that they not only looked well but that they would now be neighbors of his.

Smiling sheepishly, Dorothy Mullins said jokingly, We almost didn’t recognize you, Richard; what happened to that big, powerful, heavyset man we knew? You lost so much weight; where’s the rest of you?

Marlys said, good-naturedly, And your hair…that’s gone too. A second later she added, But you’re still beautiful to us and we love you just the same.

Det. Emery didn’t mind the good-natured ribbing. My dear friends, he said, I’m afraid the years have taken their toll, but my compliments… you two haven’t changed a bit.

Marlys nudged Dorothy and said, He may not look the same but his malarkey hasn’t changed a bit. The comment had the three of them chortling, and they remained in the club house for more than an hour after all the others left, rekindling memories of their days in New York City:

I’ve always wondered what happened to you, Dorothy said. Suddenly you were gone. You hateful man…you left without a word.

The last time I saw either one of you was right after Helen died, which was fifteen years ago, so let me bring you up to date; knowing you two you won’t be satisfied until I do. Sighing deeply, he added, January 23, 1995 is a date that I’ll never forget; that was the day my wife was killed; it was also the day that I retired from the police force. -- I knew I could never be the detective I was after my wife was gone. Anyway, that day had a dual affect on me: I was devastated losing my wife, yet, at the same time, I was pleased that I no longer was tied down to a job.

I tried to get in touch with you, Dorothy said, to offer my condolences when I heard the news about your wife’s accident, but you were no where to be found.

"Well, the truth is that after my wife was gone I lost interest in life. However, I realized afterwards that I should not have been in such a hurry to retire because it didn’t turn out to be as glamorous a state of being as it’s purported to be. On the other side of that sorry slug was the fact that I was no longer a young man, and although I was feeling pretty good for my age, I was faced with the reality that now, as a retiree, there was nothing for me to do and no one to do it with. It was something that I honestly hadn’t anticipated. After being a policeman for five years, a detective for thirty and for the last fifteen a P.I., -- a private investigator or colloquially speaking, a Private Eye -- being without a job and without any hobbies to while away the hours, had time hanging heavily on my shoulders and it was taking its toll of me.

Richard, Marlys said, I can certainly appreciate why you weren’t thinking clearly when your wife died, nevertheless, you should have known how indebted I was to you; you not only helped me through a horrible period in my life, but we had become such great friends so why in the world in your hour of need didn’t you come to see me? What you needed most at that time was someone who loved and understood you; someone you could talk to.

And Dorothy added, And for a man who was my second father, who gave me away at my wedding, and later practically saved my life, you’d think we were close enough so that you’d come to me with your troubles. Richard, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Of course. I realize that now, ladies, but hindsight is easy. I now understand that there was no one to blame for my loneliness but myself. I certainly didn’t have to forsake my friends, – and, of all people, certainly not you two. I also didn’t have to quit working as a P.I.; in fact, after I retired, I had more calls to work as a Private Eye than I could handle, but, unfortunately, the work had become tedious. During my years as a detective in New York City I found that some of the cases I worked on were truly fascinating. I was thrilled to match wits with clever crooks and vicious murderers and come out on top with the perpetrators ending up behind bars. In comparison, however, being a P.I. was a complete and utter bore. Det. Emery suddenly stopped speaking, made a funny face, and added quickly, Speaking of being a bore Dear God, here I am talking about myself when I should be asking about you; what’s the matter with me? The truth is that I’m dying to know what you two have been up to since I saw you last. We can talk about me some other time.

Don’t worry about the two of us missing out in the talk department, Dorothy said. When we’re through hearing about your exploits we’ll talk your ears off. But before you say another word…would you please get us something to drink; I see the pitcher at the bar still has some ice tea in it. When the detective left to get the tea, Dorothy whispered, Listen Marlys, it’s evident that our friend hasn’t had anyone to talk to for quite some time, so let him talk; let’s not interrupt his train of thought. When the detective returned, hoping to get him to continue talking about himself, Dorothy said, So when you retired from the police force you became a private detective?

Yes, Det. Emery said smiling sheepishly, I was then known as a P.I. He paused a moment to fill his friends’ glasses with the tea, and then he said, The people that hired me wanted nothing more than for me to get evidence that their spouses were engaged in an extramarital affair, which, in their eyes, was a crime that would help them get the divorce they were after. His face seemed to harden as he added, "However, what I considered a crime was that the people involved in those cases didn’t give their marriages a chance: One moment they’re in love, the next in hate; they can’t live without one another in January and can’t stand each other in December. So they’d hire me to get proof that one or the other was unfaithful. What galled me most about those cases was that the people weren’t satisfied with photographs showing their spouses at a bar kissing his or her so-called lover, or a picture of the wooers walking into a hotel with their arms wrapped lovingly around each other, no sir; what they wanted were explicit snapshots of their mates in bed doing the mumbo-jumbo with their paramours. So although physically I could still do the job well and, mind you, discreetly, mentally it had become a drag; I couldn’t stand it any longer. I felt I was getting jaded, and I