All Is Not Right with the World: A Collection of Stories

By Chérune Clewley

This is a Bakers Dozen of short stories, sandwiched between two mystery novellas. There is something here for those who need something to read on a short bus ride, riding a stationary bicycle, or just to curl up in a comfy chair on a rainy night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499057010

Chérune Clewley

Chérune is a classically trained pianist, who began playing the piano by ear, at the age of three. As a young child, with her sisters, she traveled extensively on the East Coast, first singing operatic nursery rhymes and favorite solos, then as a classical pianist. Her poetry has been published in various journals and anthologies worldwide. Her two books of fiction are available in both paperback and e-books from Amazon. Her interests have led her to study Astronomy, Cosmology, Numerology, and physics. Her interest in ancient history led to her spending weeks on the island of Malta. She is an avid student of Archaeology, Geology and Architecture.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Chérune Clewley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 08/13/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

661196

Contents

Acknowledgments

All Is Not Right With The World

My Home

The Reunion

Spring Fog

An Antique Store

Life Lessons

Dinner At The Mall

A Small Sacrifice

The Map

Coronus Mor

Awakening

City Of Orion’s Belt

Another Time, Another Place

Another’s Dream

Test Completed

Acknowledgments

Every writer, artist, composer, always looks back to those who have given encouragement, guidance, or support over the years. I wish to do that here, by thanking Dr. H. Royden Jones for his unflagging encouragement and caring friendship, he is greatly missed; Detective Craig Walsh, who took time out of his busy schedule to answer numerous questions regarding police procedures in a small city, even though I had to push the envelope a little; my traveling buddy, Carole, who sits patiently while I run off to check out ancient artifacts; my many friends who have read, given criticisms, but most of all cheered me on; a small writers workshop that I belonged to for a few years on the North Shore; and last but not least, my stalwart editor, Don Ford, for wading through pages of e-mails and manuscripts.

All Is Not Right With The World

Casual voices played out on the tape. I lifted my head, moving side to side, loosening neck muscles, taut from concentration. It was the tenth time I had run the tape. But this time, Heather sat down to listen along with me. Each of us searching for a key word, phrase, sound that would give a hint as to what had really happened at the Bouchard house the day before.

I glanced over at her as she sat back in the chair beside the desk. Do you want to hear it slowed down? I’ve already tried it. But you might catch something.

She nodded. Her dark hair, cut short for the summer, moved across a high forehead and heightened the contrast with her skin. Heather always looked frail, too thin, too pale. As a result, everyone underestimated her. I know I had, that day three years ago, when she’d walked into my office, and handed me her assignment papers. Despite the fact the police academy claimed she’d completed every competency course with the highest possible scores, I didn’t believe it until I’d seen her, days later, out run and out shoot the best man I had.

But now I needed her mental prowess. I rewound the tape and pressed the key to slow it down. This time I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, hoping it would help my own concentration.

The voices played out yet again, Marge, you know we can’t go on vacation ’til after Roger gets here. The voice was a deep slow drawl now, not the same whining plaintive sound as before. But Marge’s voice was still shrill, I don’t care about Roger or what he does. This is our vacation, yours and mine, Petey. I’m puttin’ my stuff in the car. If you’re goin’ with me, then you better get a move on. We got reservations for tonight and I wanna be sunnin’ myself on the Cape in the mornin. Then the husband tried to soothe her, Don’t worry, sweetie, we can be on the Cape in a couple of hours. They don’t care what time you check in just what time you check out.

A sound of footsteps and doors slamming, followed by a scream, cut off by the sound of gunfire. Several shots fired. Footsteps again, silence and the end of the tape. Why had the couple been taping their conversations anyway? Did they know their conversations were being taped? Who was Roger? Was Roger a friend or the killer? Was someone else the killer?

The questions had been rattling around ever since we first played the tape we found in a small side table drawer during the initial sweep of the crime scene last night. Heather’s voice broke through my thoughts.

Well, I was hoping we might have heard a car drive up, or hear someone say, ‘here’s Roger.’

That would make things too easy, I said. I’m going to have the tape copied and have the original thoroughly analyzed and enhanced by the State Police lab. Meanwhile, I think we better get back out to that crime scene again.

You think we missed something, Chief? Heather asked as we left my office.

It’s daylight. Things always look different. We don’t get many murders in this part of the state. So when we do, we don’t want to look like some hick backwater in the news. We’re just as good as the guys up in Boston.

I walked through the squad room. The eight desks usually held at least two or three officers questioning some drifter off the highway, a domestic abuse partner from the night before or catching up on paperwork. Today, they were all out beating the bushes for witnesses, evidence, motives. Good group all of them, experienced people from other areas of the state. They had come here to raise their families where there was less crime, open space, and small classroom sizes. I’d been lucky to get them.

Heather Scott, was not only the newest member of the group and one of only two women on the force, she was the only one without previous police experience in another city or town. But she did come with a Masters Degree in Criminal Justice.

"Heather, before you go back to the house, I’d like you to get things set up here for a full scale investigation and send out the word to meet back here at three o’clock. They’ll know what that means. But first I need you to run a complete background check on Pete and Marge Bouchard. We know they moved up from the south, maybe Roger will shake loose. Somebody sure as hell didn’t like them.

Sure, Chief.

I walked past Harry Thatcher, the front desk officer and dispatcher, who manned the public window for people who had minor complaints or needed permits for special parking, events and the like. I waved and started out the door when he called me back.

Chief, I heard about the Bouchard murders when I came on this morning. I was going to say something to you earlier, but the phones were ringing. Mrs. Lincoln’s dog got loose again, and half the neighborhood was complaining about their yards and shrubs.

What about the Bouchard’s, Harry? I asked to cut him short on the full description of Mrs. Lincoln’s retriever who broke loose at least once a month.

Well, I’ve known Petey since high school and I thought you should know, uh, uh. His thin face was pink from the sun beating down over the weekend. He didn’t usually take detail work, but said he wanted to buy a big new flat screen and needed the extra cash. The beautiful weekend for vacationers hadn’t done well for Harry’s bald head which was looking a little blistered

Spit it out, Harry. You thought I should know what?

Well, uh, he, uh, liked to gamble. I don’t mean like the lottery. I mean, he would play the horses, cards, you know, high stakes stuff. I went over there to a barbecue last summer. There were some uh, really strange people there.

What do you mean strange?

Well, Chief, they were tough, big, loud. They weren’t from anywhere around here, and Petey was bragging, you know, introduced them as coming from Atlantic City and New York. Up here for a couple of weeks vacation.

Sounds like a good lead. We’ll definitely look into that gambling angle. You probably saved us a couple of days chasing our tails. Thanks, Harry.

Sure, Chief.

Harry reached over and pressed the button to reactivate his headset. I heard him saying as the front door closed, Yes, Mr. Dawson, we know about the retriever…

I chuckled. Mrs. Lincoln was about eighty-five years old and weighed about the same. She insisted on having a retriever that was almost twice her size and trying to take it for a walk. Invariably it ended up with the dog running away chasing squirrels and the neighborhood screaming as he ran through gardens and flower patches. The dog had to be at least ten by now and it still hadn’t slowed down.

I drove down Main Street, and turned left onto Grove, which headed out into the hills away from town. I went about a mile and turned onto Sycamore, the cul-de-sac that contained the Bouchard home and two others. Each two-storied Victorian styled house had at least two or three wooded and grassy acres surrounding them, which probably explained why no one heard or noticed anything.

Now, however, the neighbors were out puttering around, looking like they were doing weekend chores, while keeping an eye toward the goings on at the center house. Yellow tape was wound around trees and lamp poles, but it wasn’t a deterrent to the three or four neighbor children who rode their scooters and bicycles on the grass of the Bouchard home.

I pulled up behind the crime scene van and got out of the car. A man started walking toward me, looked back at his house for a moment then seemed to make a decision and waved. I walked toward him, stopping at the mailbox at the end of his driveway.

Ah, you’re Chief Lyons, aren’t you?

Yes, I am. I met you last night didn’t I, Mr. Sargent?

Yeah, right, I was half sleep last night. You know, woke up with all the commotion.

Sure, I understand. Is there something I can do for you?

Well, I’m not sure. Well, it wouldn’t be for me, you understand.

He went silent. He looked at his house, and checked around again, as if he half expected someone or something to jump out at him.

It’s just that… You’re going to think I’m being very disrespectful. I mean speaking ill of the dead and all.

If it’s something that can help, we need to find out everything we can about the Bouchards to find the perpetrator.

Policemen really do talk about perpetrators, don’t they? Yes. Well. Sargent had a worried frown on his round face now. His receding hairline had broken out into a sweat but the temperature was only around sixty-five. Umm. Pete Bouchard… Well, you’ll probably find out anyway. Police always dig through people’s private lives.

I nodded, waiting, wondering. What on earth could this guy have to say that was upsetting him? He was definitely nervous. His feet shifted about, expensive sandals crushed the well tended grass. I didn’t want to say anything to him for fear he would bolt and run. So I kept my face and stance slightly away from him to let him feel less threatened.

Pete Bouchard has been having an affair with my wife. He blurted it out so quickly, I almost missed it.

Ah, um, you’re sure of that? I tried to keep my tone bland.

Well…, I think so. He’s always home. His wife works, you know. My wife, I overheard her on the phone telling her girl friend just how cute she thought he was.

Sir, that doesn’t mean she was having an affair.

When my wife found out they were dead, all she’s been saying is ‘Oh my God he’s dead. Oh no he’s dead.’ She didn’t say a thing about the wife. She’s upstairs now bawling her eyes out.

Now that Sargent had gotten the worst out, he wouldn’t stop. Son of a bitch was probably over here when my kids were at school. He was always inviting us over for his damn barbecues, with those weird friends of his. I don’t know how he could afford that house. Never did any work. His wife is a secretary and she couldn’t make enough to afford that place. I can barely afford this one, and I make well into the six figures.

Mr. Sargent, are those your children over there?

Oh, Geez. Billy! Sam! Get back here! Sorry. Didn’t realize they’d gone over there. I’d told them to keep away from there this morning at breakfast.

That’s okay, Mr. Sargent. Boys will be boys. They’re just curious. By the way, you mentioned Mr. Bouchard’s weird friends at his barbecues. How do you mean weird?

Hoods! That’s the only word for them. I was trying to see if they were wearing guns. They kept their jackets on. It was over eighty degrees one of those days and they’re dressed in silk suits like those guys in the Godfather.

Hhhhmmmm. Well, thank you, Mr. Sargent you’ve been most helpful.

As I turned back toward the crime scene I mentally added the agitated Mr. Sargent to my short list of suspects, right behind Roger. Once inside the house I noticed that the wall-to-wall now had patches missing where bloodstains had been last night. Chunks of the wall and a doorjamb had been removed for evidence.

Just inside the kitchen, I was greeted by Sgt. Steve Gates, he wore a thin blue coverall over his uniform. He was carrying the household vacuum cleaner, the bottom wrapped in a large paper bag to contain any possible evidence.

How are things going, Steve?

Slow. Nothing much since we collected those shell casings and that cassette tape last night. Of course there are a lot of fingerprints. But we won’t know what we’ve really got until we can match them up to somebody.

Right, you’ll probably have to fingerprint the neighbors. They’ve been over here for parties. Say, has anybody had a chance to check the basement yet?

Now there is something definitely odd down there. He handed the vacuum to one of the patrolmen standing inside the front door. I’d like you to take a look at it. Get your take on what we’re seeing.

We walked down the steps into an unfinished basement. Heating, hot water, lots of duct work and the electrical panel were the only things visible.

Pretty empty for a basement. Where’s the clutter?

Yeah, that surprised me to. Steve answered.

He led me around the chimney base behind the stairs to a small steel door. A shattered wood door was lying up against a near wall.

Steel?

Yep, steel, with a coded lock.

Have you found the code yet?

No, Chief. I sent one of the guys upstairs to the bedrooms to look for a paper with a code, but no luck. The brand name is on the lock. I’ve got a call into them to come over here. But these codes can be re-programmed, and they still might not have it. If we try to cut into it, I don’t know whether its booby trapped.

What makes you think its booby trapped?

With all the loonies around these days, you find a room like this in a house you don’t take chances.

Good call. How soon did those people from the lock company say they would be here?

I called them pretty early, Chief. They said they’d get an expert in to open it as soon as they could.

I walked from one end of the wall to the other around the sealed room. It had obviously been added after the house had been built and took up over one third of the back of the basement. Someone just looking down the stairs into the basement would never be able to see it. Even after being down in the basement the steel door had been covered with an ordinary wood door and wouldn’t have drawn undue attention.

Whoever had built the room had kept the concrete blocks in line with the rest of the cellar. The job looked like it had been done by a professional, not some weekend do-it-yourselfer. Everything was neat. The entire basement was too neat, too clean. The upstairs was a sea of clutter and garbage, DVDs, mail, magazines, were mixed up with clothing, deodorant, tonic, beer cans, empty pizza boxes and takeout containers all over the house.

The Bouchards were not neat people. So why was the basement free of everything, not even a tool anywhere around. The concrete floor looked like it was regularly vacuumed. Not a hint of dust or a cobweb around the windows.

As the two of us left the basement, I asked Steve to set up some portable lights and have one of the men seal off the basement until the locksmith showed up. Nothing could be done until then. Just as we reached the top step, Jake Rustin called to us that he’d found something upstairs in a back bedroom.

We walked down the second floor hallway into another sea of clutter, boxes for PCs and televisions were stored next to plastic bins filled with clothing and mail.

We were sorting through this mess, finally reached this back corner and noticed the wall to wall carpeting didn’t meet the wall the same way. There was just this little space between the baseboard and the rug.

Jake put his fingers in the space and pulled up the corner of the rug. Under it was a trap door. How much you want to bet this goes right down into that basement room? He asked as he heaved the thick carpet and padding toward the middle of the room.

I’m not a bettin’ man, Jake. But this is on the second floor. What’s on the first floor?

I checked downstairs, Chief, it’s the family room. It has a large locked closet in the same area as this.

The family room, with another locked closet? It is in the same area of the house so, I’d say it sure would seem like it could go straight down through to the basement.

Jake slid back the flat bolt and opened the door. The stench that rose up to greet us was so unexpected that he dropped the door with a crash. The three of us jostled each other through the door, down the steps, to the front of the house and fresh air.

Good Lord! What the hell was that? I yelled when I finally caught my breath. I looked over and Jake was retching into some bushes.

Damn if I know! Steve responded. I haven’t smelled anything that bad in my whole life.

Have forensics call for some hazardous suits. I’m calling the District Attorney to get the Staties’ on this. Now! They’re used to handling weird shit, and seal that house up tight.

I left the crime scene with one thought in my head, go home and take a shower. I hated to even get in my cruiser for the drive home. I couldn’t smell anything through the residual odor that had wrapped itself around me like a blanket.

When I called the District Attorney’s office and told them of the situation they promised to have a team out by noon. I pulled up in front of my house and ran in, slamming the front door behind me.

My own house was littered with the remnants of the past week. If Janey were alive it would have smelled of pine instead of stale fried food. I stood under the hot steaming spray for what seemed like an hour before I finally felt able to put clothes on again.

I gingerly pulled my badge off the shirt, my wallet, gun, utility belt, and identification from the pants before dumping the clothing into a garbage bag. I polished the badge before putting it on my clean shirt, finished dressing and went back out to my unit.

When I opened the car door the smell was still hanging around in there. I had brought some disinfectant spray from the kitchen and began to spray the steering wheel, and clean off the seat. But my thoughts returned to the cause of that stench. Luckily before leaving the scene I’d ordered it locked down and guarded. Not knowing what was in there and not wanting the neighborhood children to sneak in out of curiosity, made me highly cautious in the face of this new development.

As I pulled away from the curb, my radio crackled to life. ‘Chief, the M.E’s office wants you to head over there, says they have something for you.’

Right, let him know I’m on my way.

Hopefully, it would be something helpful. I wanted to have as much information available as possible before the Staties waltzed in. Once they got into an investigation they usually took complete control, leaving the local chief or sheriff with little to do but direct traffic. But I had no choice. My people could manage a double homicide investigation, but we didn’t have the capability to deal with possible hazardous material and cleanup. We could handle convenience store robberies, auto accidents, runaways. But the manpower, overtime and budget our town had wouldn’t manage the kind of work that was going to be needed here.

I pulled into the lot behind the small red brick building set beyond the hospital. The masking antiseptic smell was one I hated, but it cleared the odors of the earlier stench completely from my senses.

Hi, Lenny, I said as I pushed open the door to the M.E.’s stainless steel ‘office’.

Hey there, Ray. Thought you’d like to be the first to know. I think you’re looking for more than one killer.

Great. We’re going to have enough trouble just finding one.

Yeah. Well, there are three different caliber bullets here. Dr. Lenny Ford was a very exacting man and had placed each of the bullets in its separate container. I was shocked to see twelve separate containers spread out on the table next to the body he and his assistant were working on.

Good lord! Was this an army?

Each one has been shot several times, but the male victim had eight of those bullets in him. We haven’t finished with the female victim, but, we’ve found four already. He walked me over to his drawing showing where each bullet had been located.

Apparently they didn’t want them getting up and talking, I said as I saw the four circles showing where the head wounds were in Bouchard.

Any one of those shots would have been fatal. This was a case of over kill many times over. The woman’s body had two head wounds as well.

What caliber bullets are we talking, Lenny?

Definitely a .38 caliber, that caused all the head wounds. Only a couple of them were recognizable though. There are two .45’s in his body. But there are two bullets that came from his body that I can’t identify. Small, didn’t inflict much damage. Could be a .22, but it’s different. Possibly hand made, not machine made.

So, we could be looking for a team of people. That’s what this sounds like. Not just one disgruntled friend. Great, that’s why the tape sounded like it did, a typical ‘hail of gunfire’.

Not typical for us in Carroll Falls.

You got that right. Anything else you can give us?

I’m sending samples off to the state lab for analysis, but it will be awhile before we get answers from them. I’ve done some preliminary testing and everything came up negative for drugs. Very little alcohol in him probably had a beer or two. I’ll have more on that for you later, once we get through the stomach contents.

Right, keep me posted. I’ve got the Staties coming in town in about an hour. Wait till they hear we’re looking for a bunch of people.

I said good-bye and headed out into the heat, which felt like it was winding itself up into a summer storm. I hated to think about trying to find a bunch of killers in the middle of torrential downpours. Besides, based on what I was hearing, this bunch of killers was probably already hundreds of miles away from here by now. Or if this was related to gambling they could even be thousands of miles away by now.

I pulled my car into the space at the rear of our town hall, which housed the police department, licensing bureaus, and every other office needed to run a town of just over thirty thousand that bordered three major highways. With four all night combination gas station convenience stores for the midnight travelers, we had to have round the clock shifts of police and dispatch available.

The first of the state police cars had pulled up into a tow zone area out front. I knew Mary, our only ‘meter maid’ would enjoy ticketing that car. But she and I both knew that ticket would be torn up within hours.

I walked into the police entrance and found two State Police officers talking to Harry Thatcher. Harry looked up as I opened the door, Oh. Here’s the Chief now, guys.

The two turned around as I walked toward them. Hi there, glad you fellows are here. I’m Chief Ray Lyons. I said shaking their hands.

Both men were taller than my six feet. The older one introduced himself, I’m Captain Gerlandson, and this is Sergeant Miller. We’ve sent our forensics team over to the address you gave us. There’s a HazMat team on the way there as well. They should be there within the hour. But the District Attorney is away on vacation for the next two weeks.

Great! There have been some new developments we can go over on the way over there. You fellows need coffee or anything?

No, ready to go.

Great. On the way out to the parking lot, I told them exactly about the reason we’d called them into the case and about the theory of several killers not just one."

Sounds like you’re in the middle of a major case, Chief. The couple, the Bouchards, are they from around here?

Pete’s a local guy. Met his wife Marge down south somewhere, Tennessee, Mississippi, I don’t think anyone ever did know for sure. Every time I heard the story, it seems it was a different place. Pete came from an ordinary family, average student in high school, played football and baseball in season but nothing that made him stand out.

How long have they been back up here from down south?

Came back here about five or six years ago, bought the house. She got herself a job at a real estate office. He stayed home.

So did they have any history with your department before this?

No, but we’re getting some info from a few people about gambling and some out of state hoods at their house for barbeques. We’re running Pete’s prints. We ran them locally but didn’t get anything. But then we didn’t expect anything. We’ve sent them out nationwide now.

Good. Hopefully we’ll get something. We’ll follow you to the crime scene, Chief, Gerlandson said as they headed toward their SUV.

I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot. I knew Heather would keep a sharp eye on any incoming faxes about the fingerprints, while she was checking the Bouchard’s background. I didn’t want to come up short in front of these guys. Every police chief in the state hated to have to call in the Staties for anything. Probably good guys, but treated everyone of us like so many hick cops without an ounce of common sense, never mind the capability of catching a killer.

Well, who ever killed the Bouchards and whatever was down in their basement was not within the realm of any small town police chief I knew. I drove quickly to Sycamore Lane. There