Your Eight O'clock is Dead: The River City Mysteries, #1

By Kat Jorgensen

Becca Reynolds is having a bad day. Her grandfather's lecture (#405: Eat a Healthy Diet or Die Not Trying) makes her late for her job at Daley & Palmer, the psychiatric group where she works as office manager – her title not theirs. But she knows her day has taken a really bad turn when she finds the firm's eight o'clock patient dead with Dr. Daley's letter opener opening the patient instead of the mail.

With the fledgling firm in danger of an early demise, Becca appoints herself the unofficial investigator since the police seem to be looking in all the wrong places.

The case takes Becca from the sordid depths of the Russian mafia to the upscale West End of Richmond, Virginia (known locally as River City) and even to her own back yard. In the course of the investigation, she finds herself in hot water, hot danger and with dreams of hot men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maralan Press
• Release date: May 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393080237

Book preview

Chapter 1

My life was in the crapper.

Twenty-five, recently divorced and—at my parents' insistence because it's so convenient for all concerned—living with my widowed grandfather and his cranky cat. I barely recognized who I was anymore. No longer Rebecca Davis, socially prominent wife of up and coming attorney about town, Jack Davis, I was just plain old Becca Reynolds, all-around screw-up. No, it's not me feeling sorry for myself. I seem to have earned the reputation. My current challenge was trying to hang on to my latest job as office support for a two-member psychiatric group, Daley & Palmer. A job I desperately needed.

Daley & Palmer consisted of, you guessed it, Dr. Dick Daley and Dr. Marcy Palmer. For a Type A shrink, Dr. Palmer was pretty nice. Dr. Daley was not. Apparently having an army officer for a father instilled a strong sense of punctuality in the good doctor and since punctuality seemed to be a major problem of mine, it's been a bit of a sticking point. In the five months that I'd worked for D & P, I'd been late more times than even I'd like to count. And here I was hurrying, late again.

Yesterday I'd promised Dr. Daley that I'd make every effort to be on time this morning. And I'd meant it when I said it. Really, I did.

But I'd overslept.

Again. No time for breakfast at home, I popped into the building's sandwich shop and scooped up my sausage and egg breakfast bun in its greasy white wrapper, placed it inside my leather briefcase that held nothing but a few old People magazines that I'd borrowed from work, and hurried toward Suite 109 – the offices of Daley & Palmer.

Double-timing it down the hallway toward the suite at the end of the first-floor corridor, my stomach tightened and my shoulders tensed. Already today I'd been the recipient of Lecture 405 (Eat a Healthy Diet or Die Not Trying), a heartfelt plea for proper nutrition from my granddad. I sure as heck didn't need a psychiatrist launching into me on the prudence of punctuality. Or worse, the evils of unemployment.

As I approached the suite, I let out a sigh of relief. The door to the office was shut. That meant no one was here yet. For once, the gods were smiling on me. I slipped my key into the lock, turned and met no resistance. That was strange. The door was unlocked. Juggling my keys, purse, and briefcase full of food, I entered the suite with caution.

As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I'd worried for nothing. The lights were on, and I could make out the legs of our first patient, Robert O'Malley.

He sat in the high-backed Queen Anne chair, the one that faced away from the rest of the waiting room and looked out the wall of windows onto the woods behind the building.

I put my things down on the desk. Since I was so new and still on double-secret probation with Dr. Dick—that's Dr. Daley to his patients, and a total Dr. Dick toward me—I'd taken a piece of masking tape and written Becca Reynolds on it and stuck it over the generic Receptionist nameplate.

I breathed easier knowing that Dr. Dick had arrived early and was holed up in his office either making callbacks or whatever else he did in there alone.

Hopping to it, I set about making the reception area receptive.

"Morning, Mr. O'Malley.

Looks like it's going to be a nice day."

I liked to chat with the patients while I went about my office tasks. It made the day go faster, and it seemed to cheer our patients to be treated like real people by someone around here. Clients, I reminded myself. They were clients, not patients. I'd received that correction from both therapists more times than I'd like to count.

With my luck, I'd get it right on the last day of my employment.

I try hard to be positive, but sometimes that was truly difficult because here's the thing. I suck at just about everything I try.

Marriage. Daughterhood. Granddaughterhood. Life.

But you know how God always gives everyone one thing they good at, well, my one thing is this amazing talent of getting along with people—my ex and Dr. Dick being two serious exceptions.

Granddad always claimed I attracted people because I was sprinkled with fairy dust as a child. Yeah, right. Whatever.

One thing I knew for sure.

Granddad sees right through fairy dust.

And Dr. Dick must be allergic to it.

I'll have some music going in a second or two. Dr. Daley should have switched on the radio or popped in a CD when he came in. Guess he was in his usual rush. Or maybe it conflicted with that damn, screeching opera he liked to listen to.

I made my way from my desk to the small room off the reception area that doubled as our supply closet and flicked the switch on the radio. The office filled with the soft tones of Richmond, Virginia's easy listening station. On my way out of the utility room, I pocketed something that had fallen on the floor and poured myself some bottled water, one of the few perks I'd discovered since starting work here.

Mr. O'Malley, would you like some water? I waited for his reply. When he didn't answer me, I shrugged and made my way across the thick pile carpet.

Both doctors had cautioned me that their clients would have days where they didn't want to communicate. I guess this was Mr. O'Malley's turn. By now, I knew not to take it personally.

My stomach growled, and I checked my watch. Five after the hour. The doctor should be out any minute to get his patient. After they retreated into his inner office, I could enjoy my breakfast in peace. My stomach rumbled again, much louder than before.

Sorry about that, Mr. O'Malley. I overslept this morning. No time to eat. Then my grandfather started in on how important it is to eat properly, and by the time I got out of the house, I was late. The doctors are going to have my butt if I don't pick up the messages from the service.

I slid my growing colder-by-the-minute breakfast into the center desk drawer. No sense in giving the doctor early morning ammunition to launch into an attack on not eating at one's desk.

My stomach roared, causing my face to flush. Just one bite. That's all it would take to calm the hunger pangs. But I couldn't risk it. I shut the desk drawer and the heavenly smell of bacon and eggs was but a memory. At least I hoped that was all that remained behind. Dr. Dick had a bloodhound's nose.

I'm sure Dr. Daley will be with you momentarily, I said filling the awkward silence and holding up my end of the conversation. I'm just going to check for messages.

I picked up the phone and tapped in the number for the night service from memory. Pen poised over paper, I was ready. The phone rang several times on the other end. Everyone must be calling for messages all at once.

Out of habit, I drummed my pen against the desk before I realized how annoying that must be for Mr. O'Malley.

Feeling rude and wanting to make amends, I rolled my chair back and angled it around to make my apologies.

"Sorry about the pen thing, Mr. O'Malley. It's an old habit that started when I would get nervous in English class. You know how it is when you can answer a question in two words but—hey—it's English class and the teacher wants you to create an entire essay out of a yes or no. I just hate that, don't you?"

Still no response. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. Now that I really looked at him from this angle I could see that his head was sort of slumped forward. If it had been my grandfather he'd be snoring so loud the windows would be rattling. Maybe Mr. O'Malley wasn't a snorer. Yeah, that must be it. There wasn't any other explanation. Nope.

Couldn't be any other reason why he'd be all folded over like that. Okay, there was, but I was not going there. No way.

Mr. O'Malley?

For some reason the unease I'd felt when I'd first arrived at the office returned. Even though the mere thought made me want to scream like a girl—which granted, I was—maybe I needed to consider other possibilities for the dead silence. I tried to see if his chest was moving without being too obvious about it.

Slipping out of my chair, I tiptoed closer.

Are you awake? I whispered.

I'm not quite sure why I was whispering.

Any minute now the doctor would come out and wake him, anyway.

I worked up the nerve to approach from behind. Taking a deep breath, I poked him. His head lolled against the left wing of the chair. "Oh no. Oh no. OH. NO!"

I wasn't whispering anymore.

I was more or less screaming at that point and definitely freaking out. On some level, I knew I should check for a pulse but I was fairly certain that wasn't necessary. Plus, there was the small matter of the letter opener sticking out of his chest.

No matter how you looked at it, that pretty much meant dead. And—gross!—I'd touched him.

"OHMYGOD!"

Miss Reynolds!

The sound of Dr. Daley's voice snapped me out of my hysteria. I whipped around to face him which inadvertently blocked the view of the chair and Mr. O'Malley.

"Inside voice, Miss Reynolds.

Inside voice. Remember, we talked about that yesterday. I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new position here, but unlike your previous job, we go for understatement, for tranquility. And that means you need to use your inside voice. Are we clear?"

I nodded my head like a bobble doll, my mind numb.

Dr. Daley smiled that puckered smile of his that made me think he had a serious issue with constipation.

His gaze settled on the clock above the entrance. He double-checked the time against the gold Rolex on his wrist. Eight after the hour. Where is my client? I hope he isn't going to be a no show.

I shook my head no slowly.

You've seen him. Is he down the hall in the restroom?

Again, I shook my head no, apparently rendered mute by the presence of a corpse.

Dr. Daley appeared exasperated with me. Miss Reynolds, I really don't have time to play charades with you. Either you've seen my eight o'clock or you haven't. Which is it?

And with that, I stepped aside and, like Vanna White pointing out a new letter that she'd turned over on Wheel of Fortune, I gestured to Mr. O'Malley.

Your eight o'clock is dead.

Dr. Daley rushed past me and checked his patient for a pulse. I stood silently behind him knowing it was no use. He turned to me, his face contorted in anger. What have you done? he accused.

"What have I done? Are you nuts? I didn't kill him. He was like that when I got here."

His dark eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. And you've been here how long? Ten, fifteen minutes? And you saw no need to alert anyone?

I thought he was having a bad day.

Miss Reynolds, that is enough. Quite enough. You have a unique sense of humor, but now is hardly the time.

I'm telling you the truth. I talked to him, and he didn't answer me. You told me that some people need their quiet time. I thought he was, you know, having his.

Let me get this straight. As you went about your duties, you never once noticed that my patient was dead! His voice rose alarmingly on the last word, and he broke his own rule by calling his client a patient.

Now, who wasn't using their inside voice?

I pushed a wayward strand of my short blonde hair behind my ear. I was busy. He was quiet. Besides, isn't that your letter opener sticking out of his ….

Simultaneously, we both leaned forward. I pointed to right above the newspaper in the patient's lap, the one covered in blood.

The handle of an instrument protruding from Robert O'Malley's midsection bore the initials DED – Dick Edward Daley.

Well, that couldn't be good.

Chapter 2

W hat's going on in here?

Dr. Daley and I both directed our attention to the doorway. There stood R. J. Ryder, C.P.A, and occupant of the suite across the hall.

Every time I saw Ryder it struck me all over again just how much he didn't look like the stereotypical accountant. Dressed for success in a black Armani double-breasted suit, starched white shirt, and red power tie, Ryder filled not only the doorway but also the suit to perfection. His shaved head and striking blue eyes added an edge to his appearance, one he didn't need.

He was simply a man I had a hard time ignoring on the best of days. And today certainly wasn't one of those.

I cleared my throat and finally found my voice. That was me you heard. Sorry if I bothered you. I moved toward Ryder leaving Dr. Daley with our dead patient.

Ryder strode into the suite.

At over six foot three, he stood a good seven inches taller than me. He also appeared larger than life and had a serious yum factor going.

So everything's okay? he asked, suspicion clouding his voice. He peered over the top of me, and I did this stupid little dance that looked like I needed to go to the little girls' room instead of the blocking action it was meant to be.

Everything is fine, I lied.

Let me just add that I've never been good at lying. Never.

Today was no exception. My face and voice must have betrayed me big time, because, without another word, Ryder lifted me like I weighed less than the 125 pounds the scale normally registered, and set me down several inches to the side out of his way and proceeded to where Dr. Daley stood.

What's going on here, Dick?

He said Dick the way I thought it.

I hurried to stand between the doctor and Ryder as if my physical presence would somehow make this whole ugly crime scene disappear. Ryder glared at me like I annoyed him, which come to think of it, I probably did.

I can explain, I said as the knots tightened in my stomach and my palms sweated unmercifully.

Ryder peered over me at the psychiatrist and waited for him to speak. I didn't like being ignored and tried to fill the void. If you'd just let me explain….

Ryder took another step forward as I took one back. The heel of my shoe came down hard on Dr. Daley's instep.

Daley yelped in pain.

Miss Reynolds, haven't you done enough for one day?

It wasn't my fault, I said louder than I'd intended and turned in time to watch Dr. Daley hop on one foot in full retreat toward the door to his private office. He placed his hand at shoulder's height on the doorframe and put his head down on his arm.

A defeated man if ever I saw one.

Who's the dead guy? Ryder asked dispassionately.

I faced Ryder again. In my haste to make things right with Dr. Daley, I'd momentarily forgotten him. Not a smart thing to do. He'd discovered our corpse and was crouching in front of the dead man studying him.

Dead guy? I tried to pretend I didn't know what he was talking about. By his expression, I could tell that lame tactic wasn't going to fly.

Yeah, the dead guy. You know, the one with the letter opener as a fashion accessory.

I didn't do it. It was all I could think to say.

Ryder stood up and wrapped his large hands around my upper arms. No one said you did, Becca. He jerked his head toward Dr. Daley as if to ask me if the doctor was the culprit.

Good heavens, no, I said in a small voice.

Have the police been called yet?

I bowed my head and shook it from side-to-side to indicate no. Ryder turned me loose, reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted his cell phone. He punched in two numbers. As he spoke, he walked away from me and toward the entrance to the office. I missed the first part of the conversation, but when he about-faced and came back toward me I heard him say, Suite 109. First floor. End of the corridor. Yeah, across from my office. Thanks.

Okay, Henrico County's finest will be here in a few minutes. You want to tell me what happened before they get here? Ryder led me over to the front of the reception area away from Mr. O'Malley. I guess his theory was that he'd get more out of me if I wasn't staring at the dead man and if I wasn't near Dr. Daley. Or maybe he thought it was safer to separate the doctor and me. "I'll take the Reader's Digest condensed version if you don't mind, Becca. We don't have much time."

Hearing him call me by my first name made me weak in the knees. But it also loosened my tongue and my version of what happened tumbled out.

"I came in and found him like that. I screamed something, and Dr. Daley came out of his office. He checked for a pulse, but I knew that was hopeless. Nothing was ticking. He was gone. Dead. Right here in the office. I should have known when I talked to him and he didn't even tell me to shut up that he was dead and not just having a bad day. I mean, yes, he's having the worst kind of day, but you know what I mean. I was talking and going on and on, and he just sat there. It was eerie. The doctors warned me there'd be bad days where no one would want to talk. That's what I thought it was. But then I poked him and he sort of slumped to one side. That's when I saw the letter opener and the blood." My voice rose several octaves on the last word. I realized I could become hysterical if I wasn't careful. I took a deep breath.

That's fine, Becca. So you screamed and Dr. Daley came out of his office. And then you both started yelling and that's when I heard you. Ryder seemed to be reconstructing this more for himself than for me.

That's pretty much how it went.

Did you touch anything, besides him? Ryder pointed to Mr. O'Malley.

I touched everything that I usually do. The radio, the water cooler, my desk, the phone…

He cut me off. Did you touch anything on the victim, any of his possessions?

No, of course not. That would be creepy. I shivered at the thought.

For the first time since he'd entered our suite, Ryder smiled. It was brief, but it was there. I'd seen it. Somehow it made me feel better.

And what about Daley, did he touch anything other than to check for a pulse?

No, absolutely not. I mean, just because it's his letter opener doesn't mean that he did it. My hand flew up to my mouth. What was I saying? Obviously, the stress of the murder had loosened my lips.

Dr. Daley hobbled toward where we stood. Miss Reynolds, with your help I'll be in jail. You know I didn't kill Mr. O'Malley.

Didn't I just say that?

Men! If they'd only listen to the whole sentence and not just pieces of it.

Becca?

The three of us turned in response to a voice I recognized all too well, and it was everything I could do to stifle a groan of dismay. Granddad, what are you doing here?

He extended a brown paper bag.

You forgot your lunch. Didn't you take to heart anything I told you this morning about eating right and how your brain needs food to operate properly?

I wanted to go hide in a hole somewhere. Anywhere.

Instead, I took the lunch bag from my grandfather. Thanks, Granddad. We're kind of busy here. The understatement of all understatements.

Instead of taking the hint, Granddad offered his hand to Ryder. Martin Reynolds, Becca's grandfather. Don't think we've had the pleasure.

Ryder introduced himself and shook my Granddad's hand with a hearty grip.

Now, Becca, here's a man's man. Mr. Ryder has a good handshake. Not one of those namby-pamby ones. You can always tell a man by how he shakes hands. That's what I always say.

Ryder smiled and made eye contact with me, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. I say the same thing, Mr. Reynolds.

Oh goody. Two of a kind. Just what I didn't need.

Granddad, now that you and Mr. Ryder have been introduced, I'm sure you have things to do. I'll see you tonight. Thanks again for bringing my lunch. I stepped forward to usher my granddad out of the office before he saw the dead body and before the police arrived which by my calculations should be any second.

Not so fast, Becca. You're always talking about this place. Now that I'm here, how about a tour? Just a quick one. I won't interrupt anything. Granddad winked at me and before I knew what was happening, he was shaking hands with Dr. Daley, after which he wiped his palm on the side of his slacks. I guess Dr. Daley didn't have that man's man kind of handshake.

"So you're the Dr. Dick my little girl works for.

Dr. Daley, Dr. Daley gritted out.

Right, right. Well, good to finally meet you. I don't think you look nearly as bad as Becca made you out to be. You could stand to put on a few pounds. Probably too much time spent behind a desk listening to other people's problems. As I was telling Becca this morning, it all starts with a good diet. Proper food, proper rest, proper exercise. That's the key to a long life.

Mortified, I could only pray that Granddad would say what he was going to say and then leave. Quickly. From experience, I knew that it did no good to try to steer Martin Reynolds' conversation to another area once he dug in like he had here. Like a tick, that's Granddad. All you could do was wait it out while he had his fill of you.

That was what I usually did, but today wasn't usual.

When he paused for a breath I said, Granddad, we're in the middle of something. I'll show you around another day.

I tell you, Dr. Daley, you're one lucky man to have my little Becca as your office manager.

"My what?" Dr. Daley suddenly came to life.

Granddad, I'm sure we don't need to discuss my career right now. I tried to direct my grandfather back toward the suite's entrance, but he seemed to have a different agenda.

And who do we have over here sitting quiet and to himself? Hi, Marty Reynolds, Becca's Granddad. Granddad approached the back of Mr. O'Malley's chair. He thrust his hand forward, but instead of getting a hand, he managed to grab hold of the letter opener. Shocked, he involuntarily recoiled, then stood frozen to the spot with the murder weapon in his hand, blood dripping onto the beige carpet.

Unable to move, I sucked in my breath as Granddad shifted to stand in front of our late patient.

Well, I'll be. This guy's dead. My granddad, master of the understatement.

Ryder reached my grandfather before either Dr. Daley or I could spring into action. Don't touch anything else, Mr. Reynolds. This is a crime scene.

Darn tooting. Hope somebody called the cops. Instead of recoiling away from the murder victim in horror, my grandfather seemed oddly fascinated. This couldn't be good.

Granddad, put that down and come over here. I tried my outside voice hoping to shock my grandfather into compliance. What a joke. I should have known better. Grandad did what he wanted to. Always had. Always would.

Well, I'll be. Robert O'Malley. Granddad put the letter opener down on the deceased's blood-stained newspaper and scratched his thinning head of hair sending gray strands in all different directions.

You know him? I asked surprised.

Of course I do. He's Edna's husband.

Edna? I asked more bewildered by the minute.

"Edna St. Vincent O'Malley.

One of the ladies at church. Just as nice as can be. Real helpful. Not like him. Never did like him or understand why Edna married him. A bad one, I always thought. Looks like I was right."

Granddad, don't speak ill of the dead, I chastised.

Not speaking ill, just speaking the truth, he replied.

So you never liked the deceased? We all turned to see a portly man in a cheap brown suit taking notes.

Chapter 3

Ryder took instant control.

Tom, glad you were available. The victim is over here. Mr. Reynolds accidentally grabbed the murder weapon when he went to shake hands.

I caught a glance that flashed between Ryder and the rumpled detective that probably translated between the two as don't ask.

Although Mr. Reynolds wasn't here until a few moments ago, it seems he knows both the victim and the victim's wife, Ryder added.

I see. The detective jotted something down in a small spiral-bound notebook.

Everyone stay where you are and don't touch anything, Ryder spoke with more authority than our Columbo-like cop. Let's step into the hall for a minute, he added in an aside to the plainclothes detective.

I tried to eavesdrop, but unfortunately, they spoke too low for me to make out much of anything. I sensed movement behind me and whirled around in time to see my grandfather hovering over poor Mr. O'Malley.

Granddad!

He regarded me with a sheepish expression. I'm not stupid, Becca. I wasn't going to touch anything.

Not sure that I could trust his curiosity, I hurried to his side and led him away from the dead man like a mother trying to contain an overactive child. You've already compromised the murder scene. Now, stand over here by me.

All I did was extend my hand in friendship. How was I supposed to know that the other person would have something sticking out of his chest? You told me this job was safe, Becca. Obviously, it's not. What if you'd gotten here on time today? That could have been you. Granddad inclined his head toward our hapless patient.

"You weren't on time?" Dr. Daley advanced on me, a murderous glint in his dark, beady eyes.

I shot my Granddad a thanks a lot look. It's not what you're thinking, Dr. D. I managed to cut off the ick part of his name in the nick of time and promised myself from now on to think of him as Dr. Daley or Dr. D. instead of Dr. Dick.

Either you were late or you weren't. Dr. Daley crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at me. And it's not Dr. D. It's Dr. Daley. How many times must I tell you that? He held his hand up in a stop gesture. Don't answer that. It was purely rhetorical.

My career at Daley & Palmer was definitely on the short track to unemployment. I had to defend myself.

I glowered back at him, trying the tactic of the best defense is a good offense. It wouldn't have mattered if I was on time or not. He was already dead when I got here. It's a wonder you didn't hear anything since you arrived before me.

We stood toe-to-toe, Dr. D. and I, each waiting for the other to launch into another verbal assault.

But before we could go another round, Ryder and the detective reentered the suite.

Ryder took in the situation and wisely chose to ignore whatever office dynamics were going on. The police are going to need all of you to go down to headquarters for fingerprints and to make statements.

Tom, the detective, nodded once signaling there was no room for argument.

Not quick on reading people today, I objected. But our patients – someone needs to call them and let them know we're…closed. I gulped and cast a backward glance to the Queen Anne chair where dead Robert O'Malley grew stiffer by the minute, while his blood congealed on the rug. My stomach did a nasty loop-de-loop before settling back into that tense knot that was becoming a permanent fixture in my body. I also need to call Dr. Palmer and let her know what's going on.

Dr. Dick backed me up. As unfortunate as this all is, we do run a business here. Clients need to be notified, as does my partner.

I nodded my head up and down like a rag doll hoping it emphasized the criticalness of the situation.

Do you have a schedule with phone numbers you use for cancellation purposes? Ryder asked me, all business.

I nodded yes again, returning to a mute mode where I was less likely to get into trouble.

Grab it while Tom secures the scene. Crime scene techs will be here along with the Medical Examiner's office. I'll escort all of you to police headquarters.

Ryder made direct eye contact with each of us and got a nod from Dr. Dick and my granddad.

I rushed over to my desk and pulled out the center drawer. The aroma of my stone-cold bacon and egg biscuit filled the office. My stomach, reminded that it hadn't had breakfast yet, roared to life. Embarrassed, I reached beneath the wrapped biscuit and pulled out two sheets of paper with gigantic grease stains all over them. Our schedules.

Miss Reynolds, what have I told you about eating at your desk? Dr. Daley's voice pierced the quiet office as everyone turned to stare in my direction.

Mr. O'Malley wasn't the only one having a bad day. Granted his problems were worse than mine. I was still among the living. And if I was breathing, it meant I still had problems.

Problems at work and problems at home.

In less than thirty days, my six-month probationary period would be up. If I made it, I would secure my employment with the firm. At least for the near future. But with Dr. D. shooting those eye daggers at me, I probably didn't need to worry about the evaluation, because I wasn't going to be around for it.

Chapter 4

On the ride over to police headquarters, I used my cell phone to make hasty calls to our scheduled patients to let them know that we were closed. The excuse I gave: a burst pipe. It was the first thing that popped into my head and was infinitely