The Best Laid Plans

By Susan Schreyer

Thea Campbell and her old college friend Lynn hear nothing but bad news from a street fair psychic at Snohomish, Washington’s annual Kla-Ha-Ya Days celebration. Is it a coincidence that bad luck and thwarted plans now spread like an epidemic of Murphy’s Law to Thea, her family, and her friends?

Then the worst happens. A car crash kills Lynn’s husband and Thea’s friend (and every woman’s heart throb) Eric is severely injured.

What is first thought to be an accident is really murder, and the killer isn’t done. Thea fears Eric is still in danger and Lynn is a potential target. She vows to do her best to keep them safe, but with unanticipated events and misfortune wrecking every plan she makes, there is little hope she will succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Schreyer
• Release date: May 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781370212125

Susan Schreyer

Susan Schreyer lives and writes in Washington State. She shares space with her husband, son and, from time to time, her daughter. Her three cats have given up on supervising her writing and her horse never had any interest in anything but dressage and eating, anyway. From time to time Susan imagines herself resurrecting her blogs, but don't hold your breath. She's currently livin' the dream and can't be relied upon for follow-through.Her Thea Campbell Mystery series includes (in order of publication) DEATH BY A DARK HORSE, LEVELS OF DECEPTION, AN ERROR IN JUDGMENT, BUSHWHACKED, SHOOTING TO KILL and SAVING THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS. Another is in the works, but is currently nameless.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ten years ago, Lynn Blundt was a rebellious, daring, and wildly popular undergrad – the female equivalent of Bruce Springsteen, but without the music, money and fame. I was studious, uptight, and the first to leave a party (if I went at all). Ten years ago, she sought me out. Not because I was suddenly irresistible, but because her grade point average had dipped so low that she was in danger of losing her scholarship. Her intelligence, while undisciplined, was considerable. She needed me – me, Thea Campbell! – to help her pass her exams, keep her scholarships and graduate. I threw myself into tutoring her. In turn, she taught me how to have fun. Much to my surprise, the unlikely happened: She wanted my friendship as much as I wanted hers. I was swept up in the spell that was Lynn.

Then, nine years ago, in the wake of our graduation ceremonies at Stanford University, my friend fast-pitched her padded diploma cover at me, snarled, Keep it, you earned it, leaped into her boyfriend’s Dodge Charger and peeled out down Campus Drive in a crescendo of faulty gas combustion that more resembled a stressed lawnmower than a high-performance car. I’d watched, baffled and hurt, wondering what I had done to earn her rage.

In the vacuum left by her departure, I rediscovered me, and cringed a little when I recalled the times I’d flirted with the wild side. In time, I came to realize that my relentless work ethic and pushing, while achieving the desired result, had likely caused her to feel resentful. I longed to apologize and repair our friendship. However, while I was easy to find via the usual methods, she was not. Ultimately, I gave up and chalked it up to lessons learned. I thought about her every once in a while, always with regret and a bit of guilt for being so dense.

Then came yesterday’s voicemail.

Memory fades, yet I recognized her Texas twang instantly. She said she was in the Seattle area and wanted to stop by for a visit on Saturday. Maybe have lunch together. I replayed her message several times, searching for any hint of the anger she’d fired at me in her parting shot at graduation, but all I heard was a cheerful and hopeful lilt to her voice.

I sat back in my desk chair and mulled over this blast from the past. Maybe she’d made something good out of her life after all and reconsidered the way we’d parted. I hoped so. I’d wanted her life to work out. She’d struggled against every disadvantage poverty can throw in your path, as well as a family who, she blithely said, put the fun in dysfunctional. I’d admired the strength of will it took for her to leave her troubled past behind and get an advanced education. And I’d sincerely wanted her to succeed.

I called her back at the number she’d given, left a message saying I’d be thrilled to see her again, gave her my address in Snohomish, and added that she should look for the gray and white Craftsman cottage since the numbers weren’t readily visible. Then I faced the reality of making peace with the past face to face. To reestablish our friendship, we’d have to approach what had gone wrong.

Nervous anticipation twisted at my gut all morning. Maybe she had succeeded, become the wealthy person she’d dreamed of. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was in desperate straits, impoverished, reached out to me because I’d been her lifeline in college. Fantasy had a field day with me.

I changed clothes three times, unable to decide the kind of first impression that would get this reunion off on the right foot. I considered myself successful; had bought my own home at twenty-seven, started an accounting business that was growing, and married a brilliant, kind and gorgeous man. But I didn’t want to rub her nose in my happiness if it turned out she’d fallen short of her goals. Finally, I settled on statement-neutral shorts, a flower-print T-shirt, and sandals, all suitable for the summer weather. Then, because anxiety wouldn’t leave me alone, I debated makeup. I’d rarely worn it in college, but that was college. I’d matured, but I was still me. I decided on a minimal touch-up.

Then I wandered from room to room in my house, quietly cleaning.

Hey, hey. Hold on just a minute. Paul, that gorgeous, brilliant husband, plucked his coffee cup from my hand as I carried it to the kitchen sink. I’m not done with that yet.

Gorgeous, brilliant and bossy. It’s cold, and you left it on the table.

I was coming back. And it’s not that cold. He took a sip and grimaced. Okay, now you can have it. He handed it back.

I returned it to him. And you can put it in the dishwasher.

He raised an eyebrow at me, dumped the remains of his coffee in the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher. You’re tense.

And you can take care of your own dirty dishes.

He pulled me into a hug I resisted and kissed the top of my head anyway. The fate of the world does not hang on the outcome of your reunion with your friend.

I know that.

Why don’t you invite Andrea up? You were all in college together, won’t she want to see Lynn, too?

Andrea, my best friend for practically my entire life, lived a short distance away in Seattle, and if she had any fondness for Lynn, she wouldn’t have minded the drive through crappy traffic. Big if.

No, bad idea. I was the only thing they had in common. Putting them together would most definitely not be fun.

He chuckled and gave me another, brief, squeeze before releasing me. Fine, then. I’m out of suggestions. I’ll leave you to your stress-reduction routine. There’re some supplies I need to get for our patio project before I leave for the game. Besides, if I sit still too long, you’ll probably mistake me for laundry and toss me in the washer.

Ha, ha. Funny man. Although, I said, tapping my chin and giving his grubby T-shirt and jeans a critical assessment, it could happen. I hooked a finger around his belt, keeping him from stepping away. If you change clothes, you could have lunch with us.

He took my face in his hands. Pay attention. I have a soccer game. I’ll be a while, sorry.

Oh, right. That game. We can come watch and cheer you on. You might win.

He laughed and shook his head. The Snohomish Bobcats are committed to holding down last place this year. Do something more fun like visit your sister’s booth at the street fair. And while you’re there you can report on how well the team is doing to our former captain. I hear she’s roped him into helping her out.

Eric Fuentes had been the Bobcats’ strategist and secret to success – until he moved back home to Yakima to work at his family’s orchard. This weekend he was visiting my sister and helping her out with her first booth at the Kla-Ha-Ya Days street fair, selling clothes she had designed and made, not playing on his former team. I’d planned on helping her out, too – until Lynn’s call.

How much guilt do you want me to lay on him?

How much fun do you want to have?

I stood on my toes and kissed him. Are you sure you don’t want us at the game? Unless she’s changed a lot, Lynn would probably enjoy it. She used to like to watch football games just to see a bunch of men run around in tight pants and do manly things, like run into each other.

All the more reason you shouldn’t come – baggy shorts and fewer collisions. And afterwards I’m going to forget all about the humiliating loss by starting on the barbecue pad out back that you wanted.

That you wanted, I corrected, tightening my one-fingered grip on his belt loop. What I really wanted was to introduce him to Lynn. She’d always told me I had boring taste in men. Paul was proof she was wrong. We’d married almost five months ago in March and my heart still raced when I looked in his intense blue eyes, or at his strong shoulders, or ….

You wanted it, too, and there’s no time for that look in your eye. We’ll pick this up later, though. He detached me from his belt.

Yeah, yeah. Places to go, people to see. Okay, go. I slapped his butt as he turned away.

I walked with him down the hall to the front door. He kissed me lightly, on the lips this time, and left. As the front door clicked shut my thoughts returned to Lynn and what had prompted her call.

When the doorbell finally rang, I was upstairs in my bedroom, putting laundry away. I rushed down the steep, narrow staircase, nearly falling on my ass, and hurried down the hall to the front door. I swung it wide with an excited, breathless grin to greet my old friend.

Despite her change of hairstyle, hair color, and apparent fashion preference, I instantly recognized the expression in her eyes and my heart sank. It was the same grim flicker that had puzzled me on graduation day before igniting to anger and ending our friendship in a verbal duel. The welcoming smile I’d answered the door with wavered but, in less than a heartbeat her joyless look vanished. She squealed in delight and threw her arms around me. My apprehension dissolved.

Thea!

Lynn! I hugged her back. Obviously, what I’d seen was anxiety about the reception she’d receive from me. I was glad she had only seen my smile and not my reaction to her apprehension.

After a second bone-crushing squeeze, she held me at arm’s length and swept me with an assessing once-over. Myyyy goodness, she drawled in her best Texas. Just take a look at you, would you please. You haven’t grown a bit. Then she laughed in that infectious manner I remembered well.

Sadly, I said, without an ounce of melancholy. Her penchant for ribbing me about my five-foot two-inch height was familiar ground and, while mildly irritating in college, now felt like an in-joke, a bond, an acknowledgment of the friendship we’d shared.

I mimicked her once-over, taking note of the improvements in dress from her college days. Gone were the ripped jeans, old hiking boots and cotton T-shirt. The woman before me rocked expensive-looking white shorts that showed off her long, tan legs. Jade green flats matched her silk T-shirt and flattered her new, auburn hair color.

"I can honestly say you’ve changed. You still look great, but you dress a whole lot better. And your hair! I love it. But what in the world made you cut off all those acres of blonde mane?"

She settled a luxurious leather bag onto her shoulder and patted her new do with comic affectation. The collection of multicolored bangles that complemented her beaded hoop earrings slid a couple of inches up her forearm.

Why, sugar, I had to keep up with fashion to look like the professional woman I am, didn’t I? What do you think? She batted her eyelashes and spun in a slow circle, giving me a chance to fully appreciate how the loose curls, cut boyishly short on one side, neatly transitioned into an artsy tumble to her jaw on the other. The bold style did look very up to date but, more important, it suited her vivacious personality.

Fabulous. Really fabulous.

Isn’t it? You know, after college I had it cut so it was just a teeny bit longer than yours. It didn’t really suit me, but I wasn’t a co-ed anymore and I didn’t know what else to do to look more sober and professional. Then I got this done in Paris a couple of weeks ago while I was there on business. Everyone adores it. Guess I’ll have to go back to Monsieur Bastien when I need a trim and touch-up. She sighed, then winked.

Paris. The concern about her future, and my failure to help her achieve her dreams, dissipated. She was, indeed, doing well. I can’t think of a better reason to buy a plane ticket. Come in and sit down. I’d love to hear all about what you’ve been up to. Can I get you some coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot on.

She followed me into the living room. No coffee for me, thanks. I’ve had plenty already, but I’d love a beer.

I nearly sighed. Some things never change.

I’m just pulling your leg! Lord! Darlin’, the look on your face! You’ve got ‘it’s not even lunch time’ written right across your forehead.

Surprised she’d noticed, I made an effort to backtrack. No, no. I don’t mind, really. If –

She waved a hand cutting off my objection and walked past me into the living room. Cute house. Is it y’all’s?

Lynn’s habit of hijacking a conversation was something that had made our tutoring sessions a challenge for me. I’d always countered her ploy by shoving a book in front of her. Now, it hardly mattered if she leaped from topic to topic. I gestured toward the sofa then sat in my coral wing chair. I bought it a little over three years ago.

She strolled to the sofa and sat. So, you commute to Seattle every day? That must be a horror.

My heart twisted a little. I hadn’t been hired by the accounting firm in Seattle until after I earned my Masters. So, instead of utterly dismissing me at graduation, as I’d assumed, she’d cared enough to keep track of me – at least for a little while. No, I haven’t worked for that accounting firm for a while. I quit after I bought my house, then started my own business here in Snohomish.

She nodded slightly. Oh. That’s brave. How’s it going?

A little twinge of nausea inserted itself into my nostalgic mood. I concealed it with a smile. I can’t complain. Business is growing. It’s much nicer to work here than downtown Seattle. And I have plenty of time to ride my horse. How about you? What are you doing these days?

I’m over in the Tri-Cities doing contract work at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation.

Oh, wow. Doing what?

Not riding a horse, that I can assure you. But I’m not really allowed to say. You know, it’s the old ‘I’d have to kill you if I told you’ stuff. I can give you a hint, though. The seminar I’m attending is all about security.

The nauseous twinge returned with a little extra oomph. According to some people, security was something I’d been a bit lax on. Sounds like it must be interesting. You’re happy and doing well?

Yup, very. She nodded several times. And I assume you’re married, right? Happy?

I couldn’t have stopped the grin if I’d wanted to. Yes, very. I’m sorry Paul isn’t here right now to meet you.

She smiled and said nothing. That somethings-not-right look crept back into her eyes. Then she laughed, short and sharp, jarring the sudden silence.

So, what’s with all the traffic? I thought Snohomish was a small, sleepy town. I didn’t expect to drive into a parking lot when I came up from Seattle this morning. And there’s just a whole passel of people roaming the streets. It’s like a carnival a few blocks from here.

I was vaguely uncomfortable, wondered if I should ask if everything was okay with her, but dismissed the idea. Later … perhaps. It’s Kla-Ha-Ya Days – street fair, music, food, family events, soccer tournament and zillions of other things. It’s a big deal around here and has been happening every August since the Gregorian calendar was invented. People come out of the woodwork for it. I apologize. I should have given you a head’s up when I left the voicemail.

She flashed a huge smile. Don’t be silly. A little traffic isn’t a problem. This Ha-Ha Days thing must be a good ol’ time if its draws a crowd like what I saw.

‘Kla-Ha-Ya.’ It’s a local, Native American greeting. Means ‘welcome’ – or something close to it, I said. I’d love to show you around, if you’d like.

I’d be crazy to miss it.

I’ll warn you: it’s not Paris.

Only Paris is Paris, darlin’. She stood abruptly and picked up her bag. Well, come on. What are we waiting for? Let’s go have some fun. That many people can’t be wrong.

This was definitely the Lynn I remembered: ready to try something new at the drop of the first syllable. She followed as I retrieved my purse and keys from the hallstand near the front door.

I don’t mean to be critical but leaving your bag near the front door isn’t a good idea. Anybody could peek inside your door, see it, and swipe it.

This was a change from the old Lynn. Back in college, she would not have thought to look out for me. I liked this grown-up version of my friend. Good point. I’ll remember that.

Did you want to leave your honey a note and let him know where we’ve gone?

More thoughtfulness. This would be a good visit. No need. He knows he can reach me on my cell. Besides, he’s got a lot to do, errands to run and a soccer tournament to play in, so he won’t be looking to join us any time soon. Can you stay for dinner? I’d love for you to meet him.

Wouldn’t miss it. I’m eager to see what kind of guy finally caught your eye. I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have thought you’d go for a soccer player.

I shot her a patient look. If it makes you feel better, he’s a college professor.

She patted my back. That’s the Thea I know. Brains over brawn every time.

I could have easily opened my wallet and showed her a photo of Paul, but I didn’t. I was proud of my handsome husband, but her opinion of a photo I liked of the man I loved was unimportant. He was an amazing, wonderful person, and no photo would ever capture that. She’d just have to wait to meet him to see how lucky I’d been to find him.

I locked the front door behind us and we set off.

I’d be happy to drive, she said, pausing by the candy red Mustang convertible parked behind my old, not-so-mouthwatering-red Ford Escort. The contrast was a bit sad.

It’ll be better if we walk the few blocks. It’s a miracle to find parking on First Street even on an average day. We’ll never find one close by during the festival.

Still practical, I see.

Of course. So, that’s your car?

She gave the Mustang a dismissive glance. Rental. I drive a Lexus now.

Nice. We waited for a car to pass then crossed the street. I watched her for a moment after we gained the sidewalk, then broached the issue I’d avoided. I was worried about you after graduation.

She chewed her lip for a moment before glancing at me. I know. I’m sorry things went the way they did. It took me a while to come to grips with the fact that you couldn’t understand how difficult that time was for me.

Her words stopped me. I know it didn’t seem like it to you at the time, but I did try to understand. I listened.

No, you didn’t. Your solution to all of life’s problems was to study. Remember? ‘You have mid-terms next week, forget the boyfriend, forget the party.’ Old anger flashed in her eyes.

I backed a step. That old desire to protest, to explain, joined with the angst I’d felt that I’d failed her, resurrected itself from a corner of my memory. She was right about my insistence that grades never take a backseat to boyfriends and a good time, but I couldn’t recall ever refusing to listen. As frustrating as it was to have her misremember my concern for her, neither one of us was going to win an argument over nine-year-old issues. For the sake of a pleasant visit, I relented.

I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t pick up on the struggles you were having with anything except your grades.

She smiled, her tension vanishing as if it hadn’t been real. Forget it. We’ve both moved forward.

She did just that and I hurried a step to catch up.

Hey, she said. Do you ever hear from that stuck-up girl … what was her name? Andrea? All she could talk about was getting into law school. Oh, my God, she drove men away in droves. They were all afraid she was going to sue them for being sexist. She laughed as if I shared her opinion.

She got married this year, I said, somewhat mystified she remembered Andrea as being a hardline, in-your-face feminist. She wasn’t and never had been.

Well, call me a donkey. I just can’t believe she found someone who could tolerate that attitude of hers. Must be a yes-ma’am kind of a guy.

Nope, not Dave. While he doted on Andrea, he was far from spineless. He was a police officer. A detective in Seattle, actually, and really good at his job. However, I shrugged. Must be.

Our conversation drifted to other, actual shared opinions and experiences from college. I was curious about her life now and I waited for an opportunity to ask. But she turned each opportunity back to our college days. I suspected she needed time to feel comfortable with me again. Happy chatter had always her tool of choice for keeping people at bay until she’d decided it was safe to open up.

Chapter 2

We heard the music first – country, maybe rock. It was hard to tell. It was loud, had a twang, and was definitely local. Solid, Jersey-type barriers blocked the east end of First Street to make it pedestrian-only for the festival. The lightweight wooden, saw-horse variety from years past were absent -- our town’s sober acknowledgment that even in our little corner of the world there was a heightened need to keep people safe. The festival had already drawn a crowd, and Lynn dove in like she was on a mission.

Don’t be a slow poke, Thea, she said as she waited for me to dodge a couple of inattentive parents with already-cranky children. There’s a jewelry booth with sparkly things up ahead. I want some more bling and I’ll bet the good stuff goes early.

As we closed in on her target, the sign on a booth we passed caught my eye: Garden City Accounting – we can weed your tax jungle! Unfortunately, I was spotted. Owner George Broadleaf’s booming shout of my name sent me scurrying around to the opposite side of my friend like a kick in the butt.

Lynn stopped. Hey, I think that guy back there at the gardening booth knows you.

Yeah, I said, pushing her forward. He knows me. He’s my competition. I don’t want to talk to him.

Your competition? She looked back. "Oh. His sign says, ‘Garden City Accounting.’ I missed the ‘Accounting’ and thought it was a plant booth. Who the hell has an accounting business at a street fair? She snorted then cocked a look at me. Actually, it’s not that far off from some of the stuff you did back in the day."

I never came up with anything crass like that. A group of us did a table at the senior center once a year at tax time to help people who couldn’t afford to pay an accountant.

Hey, Thea! Thea Campbell! How’d you like me to do your taxes? The shouted question was followed by a shouted laugh – the only kind George ever did. We’d paused too long.

You can’t run now. He’s coming this way, Lynn said.

Resigned, I turned toward the large round man in the blue T-shirt with Garden City Accounting: You Earned It, Keep It! (apparently his back-up logo) in white lettering emblazoned across his chest, and feigned delight.

George, what a surprise. Don’t tell me you’ve got a booth again this year.

Just a little information kiosk this time. He tipped his head in the direction of the ten by ten booth with racks of brochures and information packets. Had to toss out those big overstuffed chairs I brought last year. Every dog in town lifted his leg on one or the other. Shame. People liked to sit and rest their aching feet. Got a lot of new business that way until folks started smelling dog pee.

Lynn choked on a laugh.

Tough break, I said, trying to sound sincere.

You ought to try it one of these years. The booth, I mean. He whooped another laugh. I winced. Hey, we could go in together on one.

I don’t know, George. I lack your flair.

He beamed. Nonsense, nonsense. Then, darting a look left and right, gestured for me to step in closer.

I knew what he was going to ask and, although I didn’t want to discuss it, it was an opportunity for me to squelch a rumor. I raised my hand to keep Lynn from following me. Give me a minute, I said to her.

Sure thing. I’ll go browse.

I joined George in front of his booth. He put a hand on my shoulder and bent close, his normal booming voice reduced to a stage whisper. Is it true what I hear about Wayne Porter suing you because he had his identity stolen?

I’d been right, of course, about his reason for calling me over for a conference. I led him farther into his booth. He’s upset, understandably, and threatened to sue, but that’s all. There’s no way his claim of identity theft had anything to do with me or my business.

I heard someone used his social to file a false tax return. What the hell would anyone do that for?

That hadn’t been the least of it. Porter had also refused to fill out a Form 14039 to alert the IRS. Tell me that didn’t smell fishy. I suspected his one-person computer software business had something to hide. If it’s true, and I have my doubts, it wasn’t obtained through any of the work I did for him.

You’re sure?

I frowned.

That is, I mean, are you sure that secretary you had a few months ago didn’t swipe some client information?

To be honest, the thought had been plaguing me, although there had been no indication that she had compromised any information before she was arrested on an unrelated matter. Nevertheless, there was likely to be speculation. Now, with Wayne Porter’s nonsense, the rumors could ruin my business if they weren’t squelched. A small, but brilliant, idea occurred to me: with George’s reputation for gossip, it would pay me to try to get him on my side.

I’m sure. Gloria wasn’t working for me until the end of May, so the timing is all wrong. I’d already filed Wayne’s quarterlies.

The corners of his mouth turned down. Oh, right, right. Of course. I knew that. Just thought ….

Yeah, I knew what he just thought but chose to ignore the slight. I feel for Wayne, but I think if he takes a good look at how he’s been doing business he’ll find where his security is lacking. I was being charitable, but there was no point in adding my speculation that Wayne was less than honest when inattentive would do.

You know where his problems are, then?

No. Not precisely. He never gave me enough access to his accounts.

But you have an idea.

George’s fishing was not only an attempt to find out more about the scandal, but about my level of competence as well. Based on standard accounting procedure, I have a good idea.

"Which would