The Bleached Widow

By Tina Appleton Bishop

The backdrop for Tina Bishops fifth novel, The Bleached Widow, is a fashionable resort hotel in Maine. Hotel management, suspecting that Marjorie Truesdell, a glamorous and wealthy widow, is cheating other guests at high stakes bridge, brings in Lowell Rankin, a special detective from Las Vegas, to unmask her and her young accomplice. But when hotel guests start turning up dead, Rankin joins in the hunt for the murderer, a search that takes him up and down the East Coast and back in time. The cast of characters is as colorful as the Maine landscape.

The Bleached Widow is a lively tale of jealousy and intrigue. Suspected murderers abound, as many were envious of the heroine, Marjorie Truesdell, who dominates the story long after her death. Tina Bishop keeps her reader eagerly turning the page, for the victims past is as much of a mystery as the question of who did her in.

Judy Richter, Author of It Begins, It Ends

You don't have to love resorts, mysterious characters and golf to enjoy this novel, but if you do, it will only increase your pleasure.

Jerry Dumas, Cartoonist, Sam and Silo

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475946680

Tina Appleton Bishop

After many years of magazine and newspaper work in Greenwich, Connecticut, Tina Appleton Bishop wrote her first novel at the age of 90. Her latest book, Dress Her in Red, is her fourth novel in four years. She was born into a family of writers, editors and publishers. Her two sons helped with the editing and design of her books.

Book preview

The Bleached Widow

A Novel

By

Tina Appleton Bishop

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Bleached Widow

Copyright © 2012 by Tina Appleton Bishop.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4643-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4668-0 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/24/2012

Contents

Chapter One :     The Champion

Chapter Two :     Who Was Marjorie?

Chapter Three :   The Interfering Miss Hannah

Chapter Four :     Florida

Chapter Five :     The Heir

Chapter Six :     New Jersey

Chapter Seven :   From Suspect to Hero

Chapter Eight :     A New Friend

Chapter Nine :     Sailing Lessons

Chapter Ten :     Fearful Recollections

Chapter Eleven :     Return to Millersville

Chapter Twelve :     Searching for Michael

Chapter Thirteen :     Thompson Lake

Chapter Fourteen :     The Note

Books by the same author:

Dress Her in Red

Open with Care

The Heiress of Newfield

Fisherman’s Creek

To Richard

Author’s Acknowledgements

When I wrote my first novel at 90, I never dreamed that five years later I would be still alive and completing a fifth book. Good genes, good health, and good luck must be acknowledged. Most of all, the continued encouragement of friends and family helped enormously. My younger son, Erik Hendricks, a former journalist, has been my editor for the past four books. This novel is more of a traditional detective story—more complex than the others—and needed more help than usual. I welcome the extra aid he gave me, and as usual, I am thankful to my older son, Peter Hendricks, for his help with the cover design.

Chapter One

The Champion

A strange sight appeared one moonlit night on the putting green of the Ocean View Hotel in Maine. At two A. M. on the eve of the Fourth of July, a lone figure in skin-tight shorts was practicing her putting. Nick Burns, the night watchman, stood in the shadows staring at her backside as she bent over her putter. It was a view worth admiring. Others thought so, too. In fact, Marjorie Truesdell’s shape had been admired in many other places: at most of Florida’s top hotels as well as on many cruise ships, too.

Last year, the First Annual Ocean View Putting Championship had been won by Mrs. Truesdell, the only woman in a field of twenty. She, who played neither tennis nor golf, sashayed off with the four-thousand-dollar prize to the astonishment—and disgust—of many.

If she keeps winning everything in sight, she better watch her back, Nick once told his wife. She’s not winning any popularity contest. Among the other hotel guests, Marjorie was not beloved. It was bad enough to lose to her at the bridge table, they thought, and some of the men’s wives were not happy at the way she swung her hips on the dance floor.

Suddenly, Marjorie noticed the watchman as he stood in the shadows. Jeez, you must think I’m nuts to be out here at this hour.

No, Missus, I know you have a reputation to keep up and this year they say there are nearly 40 others signed up for the tournament. (Reputation is right!)

All men I hope? She gave a throaty laugh as she entered a side door into the hotel.

A few hours later, the hotel manager, Judd Newkirk, was working frantically to get ready for the most important and stressful day of the season. Last year, in his debut as manager, he had dreamed up the idea of introducing the Putting Championship and all the gala Fourth of July celebrations that followed: a lobster and champagne dinner with dancing on the terrace.

Yes, it had been a triumphant success, he told himself, as he wiped off his sweat-streamed face with a corner of his shirt, but was it worth the hassle, he asked himself. He was a short man, slightly bald, whose florid face suggested high blood pressure. A pulse throbbed in his temple as he thought of the latest price of lobster. With all those people making pigs of themselves at the buffet table and swilling the champagne, we’ll be taking a beating. At least, he comforted himself, he had gotten a great deal on the champagne. Newkirk was smart about money. He had learned it from years of work with some of the major hotel chains. His real talent, all agreed, was in promotion. He had changed an old fashioned seaside hotel into one of Maine’s most sought-after (and expensive) vacation places. A week or two was the typical booking, though some, like Marjorie Truesdell and her bridge partner, Carl Sherman, stayed for the entire season.

As the wealthy widow of an elderly undertaker, whom she sometimes called a mortician, Mrs. Truesdell always settled her bills promptly. The fact that she also paid her bridge partner’s bills did not embarrass her—or him for that matter. Let them think he’s my gigolo, she laughed as she wrote her weekly check. Bridge is my whole life, and he makes it possible. And profitable, too, as their opponents would attest. There were some hotels where they were not welcome because of their suspiciously consistent winning ways, yet there had been no outright accusations of cheating. Her partner, a good-looking, prematurely silver-haired 30-year-old, had such azure blue eyes that nobody could possibly distrust him.

On the other hand, Marjorie sent a different message: not exactly shifty, but just a little wary of meeting others in the eye. Her picture from last season’s putting triumph had been repeated a couple of days ago in the local newspaper under the heading, The Widow’s Might—Might She Do It Again? The photo and heading had been suggested by Judd Newkirk, who was extremely gratified by the public’s response. This year the number of entrants had increased. Apparently the entrance fee had not deterred the more affluent guests and the prize had been upped to five thousand dollars. Reservations for the dinner and dancing had been even better than he had hoped. Extra business meant extra hiring of waiters and waitresses—another pressing problem, but thank God for Dolly.

Dorothy (Dolly) Norman, the social director, a lively, red-headed divorcee and a town native, kept lists of college boys and women who were always happy for some extra cash. For her, too, it was a stressful time, but she seemed to thrive on it.

Cool it, Judd she said. You have everything under control. Now all you have to do is get down on your chubby knees and pray for sun.

* * *

In the mornings Carl Sherman usually shared a table for two with Marjorie, but this particular morning she did not appear in the hotel’s breakfast room with its cheerful light yellow walls and picture windows overlooking the sea. Before coming down to breakfast he had knocked on her door, but received no reply. They always booked rooms with a connecting bath. This puzzled some people, who wondered about their relationship. Actually, their connection was very simple: they were business partners. They made a fairly lucrative income at the bridge table and on the golf course he scored equally well. Carl’s past was unknown to the golfers whom he successfully relieved of much cash after a few supposedly innocent rounds. Little did they know that he had been as a youth, skillful enough to turn pro at the age of 20. But he soon left the pro tour—there was so much easier money to be made hustling suckers in the resort areas.

The three men whom he was to play with that morning had admitted to Carl that they were not good enough putters to pay the two-hundred-dollar fee to enter the putting tournament.

Neither am I, he had laughed. How ’bout we make some friendly bets among ourselves? What do you say?

He was smiling as he drank the rest of his coffee and went up to his room to collect his clubs. He listened at the bathroom door next to Marjorie’s room before he left. All was quiet. She must have been practicing again last night. How happy she’ll be when I get back with my golf winnings, he thought.

* * *

Marjorie had heard him in the bathroom as he brushed his teeth. Like her figure, Carl Sherman’s teeth were also famous in resort circles. They were all his, though gleaming against his tanned face they looked almost too good to be real. As she lay in bed she felt rested after seven hours of sleep. Her time on the putting green had paid off. By now, she mused, she knew every blade of bentgrass on that undulating green by heart. Of course the holes would be moved just prior to the putting contest, but it didn’t matter—she knew the contours better than anyone else, so finding the line would be easy for her when the chips were down.

The sun was shining very brightly as she looked out her window and viewed three men standing on the putting green below. There was still enough practice time before the contest, but she doubted that many would bother. To that crowd two hundred bucks was small change. They were gamblers, not golfers.

It was going to be a really hot day. The rings of sweat under the men’s arms were already beginning to show. What to wear, she pondered.

Should she celebrate the Fourth in her red, white, and blue halter top and her navy blue very short shorts? Look, Baby, don’t overdo the sexy look. They’ll accuse you of distracting the other players, Carl had warned. A pity, it was her coolest outfit.

Sighing, she settled on looking like a lady. Not easy for a woman with her body. From her closet she pulled out a large, loose-fitting, pale green shirt of crinkled cotton. It was almost big enough to make her look boyish. Her upper body and most of her hips were hidden, but under the conservative pale grey shorts her bottom still moved in its provocative manner. Even at 47 she exuded sex. Over the years that aura had brought her good and bad fortune. Would she have good luck today she wondered as she brushed out her golden hair and chose the properly muted colors of rouge and lipstick. No eye shadow today, she decided.

On her way downstairs she passed Hannah Harcourt in the corridor. A shrewd-eyed octogenarian, she was the last living remnant of the hotel’s old days. Hannah looked her age, but her mind was sharp and her vision was perfect, thanks to Lasik surgery a few years ago. No one could understand why she stayed on in a place that had changed from a comfortable, old-style family hotel to its present reputation as a getaway for the in crowd.

Well, don’t we look pretty. Think you’ll win the silver cup again?

(Never mind the silver, it was the gold she was after.) That shirt looks lovely on you. (She was looking almost respectable.)

Thanks, Mrs. Harcourt, I wanted something cool, Marjorie said as she quickly passed by. She detested the old woman. She was a busybody who seemed to know much too much about everything and everybody. The Harcourt family had been guests at the hotel for three generations. They were Philadelphians, of Quaker ancestry—orderly citizens whom any hotel manager would have been happy with. Judd Newkirk, however, prayed every night that the old lady would die in her sleep. She was not demanding, never complained, but she insisted in sitting in an old rocker (her own chair) in the middle of the entrance hall. She and the rocker did not blend with the new—guests as well as décor. In desperation the manager had offered her a small, private sitting room upstairs, but she would not take the hint. I like to be in the middle of things, to see what’s going on. These new people are so extraordinary. Are they what you call ‘Beautiful People’? Where on earth do they come from? Somehow she always managed to dig out their secrets—never was shy about asking direct questions. Funnily enough, most persons did not resent her prying. Perhaps they figured she was simply a quaint-looking, harmless old lady, an oddity in the decorative scheme.

With Marjorie, however, she had run into a stone wall when she questioned her, You are so beautiful. Were you ever a model? (Bet that’s how she met that rich husband.)

Yes, I once modeled in a charity affair. Wore a stunning black velvet evening gown, Marjorie lied with hauteur. That should shut the old bag up. There was an innocent, almost peaceful expression in Hannah’s wrinkled face, which fooled some people, but Marjorie knew enough to stay clear of her. She had known a girl in school like that. You had to be so fearful of telling her anything. They called her the Town Crier—among other names.

When she reached the putting green a few minutes later only one man remained. He smiled as she approached. Aren’t you the gal whose picture was in the papers—the one who copped the prize at last year’s contest? Is it true that you don’t play golf yourself? He looked her up and down, with obvious admiration. Even in that loose green shirt her sexuality shone through. My name’s Lowell Rankin. Guess we’ll be opponents. I was going to pick up a snack for lunch. Care to join me? Or are you lunching with your husband? He was not handsome; his face was lined and weathered from the sun, yet she found him attractive.

If you read that story, you’d know I was a widow, she teased. My friend’s still out on the golf course so I won’t wait for him. Sure, I’d love to join you for lunch. My name’s Marjorie Truesdell, in case you’ve forgotten.

With arms linked, they sauntered off to the snack bar.

* * *

Carl Sherman was not happy by the time he reached the 18th hole. Was it the extremely hot weather? Had he underestimated the skill of the threesome? Or was his own golf game slipping? He had won only fifty percent of the holes played. Usually he could count on a few hundred dollars an outing, this time he might wind up in the red.

I thought you guys were not good putters, he said in an attempt to sound cheerful. Could it be that, for once in his life, he was the one being hustled?

Bill Jenkins, the oldest of the three, laughed. Guess the heat must be getting to you, he said. Never had he seen a man in such a sweat-drenched shirt. Why don’t you take off that thing? Bet you’ve got a great build.

In answer, Carl pulled his polo shirt half way up, quite happy to show off his deeply tanned, muscular body. He pulled it down again. This is not a public course. They’re stuffy around here about how a gentleman should look and act. Would you believe they still insist on jackets in the dining room?

His companions must have been humbled by his physique for their putting took a turn for the worse, and Carl, to his great relief, had a net profit of two hundred and fifty dollars.

As they returned to the hotel, one of the men asked him, You look like a natural on the golf course. The way you move, the way you strike the ball—ever think of turning pro?

Carl laughed, I was great off the tee and the fairway, but I needed a seeing-eye dog to sink a putt. Now this friend of mine, you may have read about her, she must use magnetic balls. He waved to her as he spotted her at the snack bar. There she is—with a new man. Talk about magnetism!

In answer to her questioning look at him, he shook his head slightly as he passed. He doesn’t look like he’s had a gala day, she told her new friend. I’d introduce you, but he was looking kinda glum.

Lost some bets on the golf course, eh? Are there some high rollers around here? At the bridge table, too? A friend had warned him, If you stay at the Ocean View, bring plenty of dough.

She attempted to laugh in a charming, disarming way. Lowell Rankin was no fool. He was not buying it. It had taken him only a few minutes with her to sense that there was something phony about her. She was trying too hard to look and act like a lady. The only thing that was real was her chest and her beautiful, long-shanked legs.

She, too, had some misgivings about him. He had seemed too interested in everything that she had to say. Almost like a psychiatrist—or a detective.

The two parted after their light lunch. She went upstairs to cool off in a shower and rest before the contest. Detective Rankin went to see his old friend, Judd Newkirk.

* * *

Tempers had simmered down in Judd’s office by the time Rankin walked in. The growing heat had solved the problem of the high cost of lobsters. It was too hot to serve them, as usual, steamed with butter sauce. It was far cheaper to make lobster salad. The chef complained bitterly about the extra work, but all agreed that the guests would enjoy something cold. For non-lobster lovers there were a