Goodbye, Joy Hart

By Donna Bender Hood

When Duce Duchene is given the assignment to investigate the odd murder of an uninteresting financial advisor, he wonders why. It is after all the proper authorities in two states are conducting their investigations. He does not expect to become involved in an attempted murder and a heartbreaking scam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796097818

Donna Bender Hood

Donna Bender Hood is the author of nine other books, all of which are light fiction, romance, and evildoings. Besides writing, she enjoys gardening. Donna is also a twenty-year quilter and is active in a local quilt group that raises funds for their volunteer fire department by hosting a quality outdoor quilt show every September.

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Prologue

Today Holly Springs, Texas, is not much on the map, but back in the early days of the area, it was a crossroads of a sort because of the springs. In wet and dry years, the springs never failed. Depending on which document of local history you read, the town came into being in either late 1887 or early 1891. It really did not matter what date because it all happened, thanks to the efforts of the Holly brothers.

No one really knows where they came from. But they were opposite in looks and personality except when it came to seeing a monetary opportunity. Matthias Holly was quiet and well-spoken. He was thoughtful in manner and slender to the point of looking ill. Brother Horace was big, loud, and often profane. He could also be well-spoken, but that did not occur very often and only when he thought it might, in some way, benefit him or his brother.

After pacing off a proper Main Street so that their new town of Holly Springs included the never-fail springs on their own property, Mathias opened a general store, which he named the Holly Springs Emporium. At the opposite end of Main Street, Horace opened the Springs, a well-stocked saloon, which offered cards, a pool table, and at times over the years, ladies of the evening.

The little town grew in fits and starts as did the nation, and the Holly brothers passed into its history, but Holly Springs moved into the future. By the end of WWII, it was turning into a nice little community with all the amenities of small town USA. But the town was doomed by the federal highway program of the Cold War era. The new proposed interstate would run north of the community of Holly Springs.

Not only that, but the few oil wells in the area went dry as well. Over time, some of the small ranchers sold out, and the land went to wealthy out-of-state buyers who wanted a large private getaway home. When the owners were in residence, they did their shopping at the big-box stores or brand-name outlets just off the interstate. Or worse, they flew to Austin or Dallas.

Martha Hargrove hated the interstate and how the little town of Holly Springs had faded away because of it. The old high school was an empty building with a few broken windows. The students were now bussed to somewhere else. The vacant school building was slated, attempting to become a mini mall, but eventually, even that had failed.

As usual, this morning, she woke just before sun up, which was the coolest part of the day, and already, she could hear the low traffic roar from the damn highway.

Last week, she had taken Henry, her husband of almost sixty years, to the Holly Springs Medical Clinic. He never wanted to go, and he didn’t understand that he had been there just six months ago for a flu shot. Medical care was always an issue with Henry.

In fact, everything was an issue, ending in an argument. Both his dementia and his need to use a wheelchair were making life harder than Henry and especially Martha had ever expected. Things were not going to improve either.

Out of Henry’s hearing, the doctor again said she needed to consider an assisted-living facility for Henry or at least some in home help. Perhaps both of them should be looking into a move to somewhere safer with more care. Trying to be helpful, the doctor always asked if there was family to offer support, and as usual, Martha said no.

That was not true. There was family, just not near enough to help. Their son lived in Upstate New York with a wife who preferred the East and her busy social life. The grandchildren had come only once, and the visit had been a disaster. They discovered their cell phones did not work, and the only worthwhile town in their view was forty miles away in one direction.

Their daughter lived on the West Coast and was recovering from a bad marriage that mercifully had ended in a divorce before any children had arrived. Even nowadays when divorce was no big deal, Martha could tell their daughter felt bad about it. She was trying to rebuild her life, and fortunately, she had a good job. Martha could not, would not ask either child for help. Now especially after this last doctor visit, she had decided to take matters into her own hands.

She eased out of bed, and as she always did, she listened. Henry had not died in his sleep. She could hear his uneven breathing. If breathing was painful, he never complained, but it broke her heart. Tomorrow would be better, she thought. Wearing her special-occasion pink velvet slippers and favorite-but-worn chenille bathrobe, she padded down the hall and opened the front door.

Not only that let in what cool air had not already drained away, but it also let in more sound of the highway. Damn, how she hated that road! In the kitchen, she stabbed the button on the old coffeemaker, and while the coffee perked loudly, she stood at the back door. It was also open to the screen, and a soft breeze was still moving. The coolness flowed around her thin ankles. Yes, today she would solve all their problems. She had a plan.

A few minutes later, with a coffee cup in hand, she studied the sunrise and listened to her husband’s noises as he struggled through his getting-up routine. In the house, he used a walker, and she could hear him thumping slowly down the hall toward the living room toward his power recliner.

She waited till he was settled and then took him his coffee sweetened with extra sugar, just the way he liked. He thanked her for the coffee but had that blank look on his face. As often happened in the mornings, he did not know who she was. Her identity would come back to him eventually. He would even remember that he had forgotten her and be embarrassed, and she would pretend it hadn’t happened and that it didn’t hurt.

Back in the kitchen and standing at the window, Martha took the last sip of her own coffee. She rinsed her cup and inverted it in the dish drainer and wiped up the few water spots on the old countertop. It was time.

She stepped outside to the utility porch. That was where she had left the gas can from the day before. It was only half full, which would be enough. She had purchased the cheapest kind because quality didn’t matter.

Back in the living room, she smiled pleasantly at Henry, and just as if it was a normal thing for her to do, she began to pour small rivers of gasoline over the sofa, the braided rug, down the drapes, and onto the throw pillows stuffed in the dog basket that had been empty for several years. For some reason, she was careful not to let it splash on her slippers.

Henry watched with interest at first but then with growing concern. I’m sorry, and I don’t know who you are, but I must tell you I don’t think my wife will like what you are doing. It was a long speech for him, and he had stammered and coughed his way through it. Maybe it was his lung congestion. Maybe it was the gas fumes.

From her left-hand pocket, she pulled an old-fashioned lighter. It had been a gift from one of Henry’s long-gone poker-playing buddies. She flicked the lighter, and it lit just as she had practiced. Tossing it onto the sofa, the gas-soaked fabric took off with a soft whoosh. The sound surprised her, and so did Henry, yelling, Martha, what the hell are you doing! She took comfort in that he had actually recognized her and called her by her name.

From her right pocket, Martha removed a small handgun. She clicked off the safety and pointed it at her beloved husband. Martha Hargrove never thought twice. She pulled the trigger.

Forty minutes later, an off-duty Texas Ranger driving down Martha’s damn interstate reported that he saw black smoke, a possible structure fire, east of his position.

Two months later, the official report stated that Martha Hargrove had apparently shot her ill husband in the head at close range, set the house on fire, and then administered a fatal shot to her own head. Or possibly, she had shot her husband and then set the house ablaze. How it all transpired was a little unclear.

The sequence really did not matter. Ten months after that, the land and the few remaining outbuildings went on the market and were immediately purchased by the owner of the adjacent property. He wanted a bigger parcel of land so he could try and raise beefalo. The money from the sale was equally divided between Martha and Henry’s two faraway children. The few longtime residents of Holly Springs were saddened. Like it or not, time moved on.

Chapter 1

Out in sunny California, time was also moving on for Beverly Smith. In fact, the time was now. She moved around her boyfriend’s designer kitchen with purpose. Beverly Smith was her birth name. Her screen name was Joy Hart. She would never be considered for an Emmy or an Oscar, but in the world of T & A, or adult films as people liked to say, she had a nice following that kept her bank account comfortable. Today, however, would be her grandest, most dramatic and realistic performance. And it wasn’t even porn. Unfortunately, only the future would be able to judge how good she was. That didn’t matter. The result was going to be worth it.

As she did most Sunday mornings, she puttered around the gourmet kitchen, making nice domestic noises. The kitchen belonged to Michael Alexander Toner, and like most weekends, she was spending the days and nights with him in his beachfront condo. Last night had been another hell of a Saturday night party down the coast.

As usual, she had avoided the alcohol and drugs and ignored the pats on her fine rear end. She watched as Michael drank, smoked, and probably snorted his way into a happy stupor. And as usual, she drove them home in his dark blue Mercedes, making sure the night duty security guard at the entrance to the condos noticed them.

Last night’s trip home had been only a little different. She had made a bigger point of driving through the gate slowly, calling the guard by name, and giving him more than the usual little wave. He would remember, and that was also part of her plan.

This morning, an ocean breeze moved the fabric of her long flowing silk gown. It wrapped around her sexy body as if she might be naked underneath. At the moment, Joy stood in the open French doors and studied the beach below, not thinking about her gown, her body, or how she looked. That did not happen very often. The condominium faced the west, offering a view of the vast blue Pacific Ocean. Anyone down on the beach looking back at the condo’s wide deck would be looking into the early morning sun. It was the perfect time of day, and it was Sunday. All that was also part of her preparation.

Joy walked back to the kitchen, where from a kitchen drawer, she removed a fat, rather short double-bladed knife. It was still wrapped in plastic purchased from a small secondhand shop out in the valley. Once home, she had placed it in the drawer full of all sorts of fancy never-used kitchen utensils. That was several weeks ago. As she expected, neither the housekeeper nor Michael had ever noticed the addition of the knife.

She picked the knife and also the fancy but empty cold stainless steel coffeepot and went down the hall to the master bedroom. Michael hadn’t moved since last night. His clothes were still in a pile where he had dumped them by the bed. After that, he had asked for his usual orange juice with a raw egg and three aspirin. This was his way to beat a hangover, and he hardly ever varied no matter how drunk or stoned he might be, and it never worked.

Last night, he was too drunk to notice that the egg was missing or that there was vodka in the OJ, and the pills she gave him were Xanax. He had reached for her breast but missed. Tomorrow, babe, tomorrow, he had slurred and passed out.

She had smiled sweetly and thought, No, you bastard, never again. She did not hate Michael Toner. In fact, if she were ever to think about it, she felt a little sorry for him. The person she hated was Sen. Jason Toner, Michael’s father, and she was about to hurt the son of a bitch in a way he would never forget.

In preparation for this very moment, she had studied human anatomy, particularly the location of the human heart in relationship to the direction of the ribs. She had actually done this in a book at the library, not on any of her electronic devices.

Also, over the last few weeks in her personal workout routine, she had added an exercise to strengthen her upper arms. When her coach had asked why, she had replied she was concerned about sagging underarm skin. He had made no comment, but personally, he knew no one ever looked at Joy Hart’s upper arms with or without sagging skin.

In the master bath, she set down the coffeepot and opened the lid. Next, she pulled on the plastic gloves she had set aside yesterday for this very moment. After that, she removed the knife from its little plastic bag. Moving back into the bedroom, she stood at the side of the bed and studied Michael.

As she had expected, he had not moved. Finally, taking a deep breath, Joy wrapped both her hands around the knife hilt. She drove it deeply into Michael’s chest.

Joy was startled. She had not expected him to make a sound, but he sort of wheezed, and then his body sagged. Maybe she had pierced his lung or something. It didn’t matter. He looked very dead, and there was a lot of blood soaking into the costly bedding. The blood did not bother her. It looked too much like the stuff the special effects pros used in her movies.

Calmly, she wiped the knife on the fine sheets. Back in the bathroom, she dropped it into the coffeepot. Next, she removed the gloves, making sure she had not gotten blood on them. Folding them neatly along the existing fold lines, she returned them to the waiting open box of do-it-at-home hair coloring. Carefully, she resealed the box and returned it to the bathroom cabinet with all her other cosmetics.

Back in the kitchen, Joy added water to the coffeepot with the knife still inside the maker. Next, she positioned the basket containing her specialty coffee; it fit neatly. She depressed the start button. Next to the maker, she had positioned a single mug and the can of super healthy substitute coffee drink on which was the name Café-free. According to the label, it was an all-natural, caffeine-free, acid-free, organic, soybean, coffee-flavored beverage. She hated the stuff, but it, too, was part of her preparation.

Now to the second part of her plan. In the dressing room, Joy hung her robe in its usual place. Underneath, she was not naked. She wore skimpy hot pink jogging shorts and a matching tight pink-and-black stripe tank top. She added black socks, running shoes decorated with pink bling, and finally, an oversize plain gray hoodie. Lastly, she picked a wide pink sweatband. Just to be safe, it would hold down her trademark long blond hair. It was a hairpiece and needed to be firmly anchored in place for what would come next. This completed her attire.

In the front entry hall, she unlocked the door and wiped the doorknobs with her pink sweatband. Then she almost shut the door but not quite. Back in the living room, Joy Hart stood in the open French doors to the deck and again looked outside over the railing and the beach. She took deep breaths as she studied the beach down below. At the moment, it was empty. So far so good.

Firmly anchoring the hair band on her head one last time, she went outside. Joy Hart was ready for the phase 2 of her plan. This was the hard part. At the inside corner of the deck, an extra-large bright pink-and-black floral print beach towel trailed over the rail. With one last glance at the beach, she climbed over the railing.

Holding onto the building’s decorative trim boards attached to the exterior wall, she began to make her way along a wide piece of base trim to the building’s corner. She was in the shadow of the overhang. In a few steps, she would reach the edge of the building. By carefully holding onto the rain gutter, she planned to ease down onto a closed dumpster. This was one more time she wished she was not so busty.

It was not unlike doing the rock wall at the club till she suddenly thought about dry rot and termites. Those two problems were very common for wooden structures along the Southern California coast. So far, her footing seemed firm, but nevertheless, she was surprised at how relieved she felt when a few minutes later, she reached the top of the solid dumpster and then dropped out of sight to the ground behind it.

Later, anyone thinking they might have seen something would suppose they had just noticed the pink-and-black towel moving in the breeze. She had placed it in plain sight last week so that the daily beach walkers would get used to it. In her mind, it was the small details that counted.

From inside the dumpster, Joy gently retrieved a securely tied plastic sack. Wrapped inside was a Starbuck’s bag she had carefully hidden there yesterday. The bag contained one beverage (Michael’s regular caramel latte) and several pastries. Two days ago, she had purchased the beverage and treats across town, paying cash and destroying the sales slip. Above her, the pink-and-black beach towel moved slightly in the breeze. It was a beautiful Sunday morning.

According to her plan, she would leave through the condo’s residents-only back beach gate and then along the walking trail, eventually coming back in on the main road that came up from the little shopping center at the bottom of the hill.

Still following her plan, she let herself out and locked the beach gate, shutting it behind her. So far, she had seen no one. Next, she jogged through the sand, almost to the road. Just before she came up out of the beach grass and entered the road, Joy took off the hoodie and let it flutter into the scattered bunches of scruffy grass. It would be gone by noon.

She fluffed her trademark blond hair and one more time firmly anchored her hair band. Next, she transferred the Starbucks bag to her hand near the road. People might recognize the logo and know where she was returning from. She stepped onto the roadside, where Sunday morning beachgoers could see her.

Joy Hart made a lovely sight jogging along the road—pink shorts, tight tank top, and her long beautiful blond hair escaping from the brightly colored hair band. As she made her way back up the road to the Sea Palms main gate, she even waved when several cars full of surfers honked and hooted their way by.

As she passed through the security gate, she smiled and waved her bag at the guard inside the shack. Waving was a move she had done several Sunday mornings over the past few weeks.

It was almost the end of the guard’s shift, but still, he wondered how he had missed her when she went out earlier. It was not something he was going to admit. He wondered if he was just tired. He sure as hell did not want to think he was getting old. After all, a body like hers should have been hard to miss.

As she approached the condo, Joy was thinking that it was almost showtime for the dramatic part of her plan. It would be her best acting ever. Just in case someone was watching her return, Joy acted surprised to find the front door open and unlocked. She went inside, waited four minutes, and then began to scream. She called 911 and was appropriately hysterical. While she waited for the arrival of the first responders, she put drops in her eyes to cause them to water.

When the police arrived, she was in tears with artfully smeared mascara running down her lovely, grief-stricken face. In shock and very frightened, Joy Hart was waiting outside for help because she was afraid to be alone in the house. She had already collected a couple of would-be supporters who waited with her till official help arrived. Fortunately, she had not let them go inside the residence.

Before entering the front door, the curious neighbors had to be sent away by the first officers. Once the deputies were inside, they found the dead body just as she had described and also the spilled coffee and pastries, which Ms. Hart stated she had dropped on the bedroom floor when she discovered poor Michael’s bloody body.

The deceased had not been dead very long, and between sobs, she said she had only been gone for maybe thirty or forty minutes, an hour at the most, as she had run out for Michael’s regular Sunday morning coffee and goodies. No weapon was located. The only fingerprints on the doorknob would be from the arriving officers.

Joy had one tense moment when a female officer, Jane Osgood, asked why just one coffee. Joy Hart had replied icily, Part of my beauty regimen. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. That’s why I had brewed some Café-free just before I left. It’s soy-based, you know. Thinking she had overreacted, she added, We always have our Sunday morning coffees on the deck. Turning away for privacy, Joy broke into fresh sobs.

Officer Osgood had never heard of the beverage, and she could smell it, and it was pretty awful. She wondered if Ms. Hart was so into health, why there appeared to be enough pastries for four people. Even if she never drank another beer or ate another carb of any kind, Officer Osgood knew she would never look like Joy Hart.

The other thing she knew was that she was receiving some dirty looks from Det. Andy Barnett, the officer in charge, so Osgood went outside to join the new rooky who had been assigned to look over the beach.

By now, the beach had the usual Sunday morning walkers and joggers. Some of them were staring up at the condo railing, where a pink-and-black beach towel hung. Obviously, there was a police presence of some sort going on up there.

Osgood noted how many dogs were not on a leash but then remembered she was not on beach patrol. A murder had occurred, and that was the point of the investigation even down here on the sand, which by now was covered with a bazillion foot and paw prints.

She also looked up at the condo and noted the colorful towel. She wondered how it would be to have so much money that you could afford to color co-ordinate your beach towels and your jogging outfits. Or for that matter, even own a jogging outfit. No one would never know that right now, her socks didn’t even match because she wore steel-toed, lace-up boots when on duty.

Four hours later, outside Washington, DC, a grim-uniformed officer arrived at the home of Sen. and Mrs. Jason Toner to inform them of the death and apparent murder of their only son way out in sunny California.

Days later, what the authorities still didn’t know much was the only person in the house had been a woman named Joy Hart, the young man’s present significant other. Ms. Hart had been gone when the murder occurred according to the coroner’s time of death. Several witnesses had seen Ms. Hart returning from a usual Sunday morning coffee run that clearly would have taken her forty-five minutes at the least.

No one at Starbucks remembered actually seeing her, but then it had been a really busy, very beautiful Sunday morning, peak coffee time. She was a regular. They all knew that.

The doorknobs of the condo had apparently been wiped clean by the murderer who somehow must have had a key. Ms. Hart stated she had not needed to touch the knob because she had found the door open.

In general, the condominium was clean, neat, and very elegant. According to Ms. Hart, she did not think anything was missing. Yes, the couple had attended a party the night before. In later interviews, other guests would state that Michael Toner and Joy Hart had clearly been having a good time. They had been a happy couple for several months. The Sea Palms security guard on duty that night stated what time they arrived home, and no, it was not unusual for Ms. Hart to be driving. She often stayed the weekends or longer and often drove the sports car. She was a good driver and always observed the Sea Palms driving rules.

The housekeeper had been attending church with several hundred other people and didn’t know anyone else who might have had a key. Eventually, the coroner would say the deceased had been full of alcohol and a variety of drugs, none of which were really exotic and mostly, although not strictly legal, in keeping with Southern California party time use.

Back East, Mrs. Amanda Toner, Michael’s mother, was now under close medical care. Lately in failing health and a frail woman who did not like her husband’s political life, she had broken down completely with the news of her only son’s tragic death.

The senator himself also looked close to breaking. Friends and supporters gathered around the grieving couple and wondered just what the stupid law enforcement authorities were doing out in California that they had not found the killer.

The following weeks, the murder dropped off the news. Joy went into seclusion, her agent fielding any press questions. In truth, Joy had never thought about Michael’s mother. When Joy was having the wild affair with the senator, she had never thought about the woman or the son at all until the asshole senator had said four things to Joy.

It was just after she had given him probably the best sex in his life. I will never leave my wife. She is quality, and she belongs in Washington society. You, my dear, are a slut. A good one but a slut just the same.

Although he had sent flowers and called a few times after that, it was the last time she saw him, but she did not forget. It had hurt. During their affair, she thought she had cared for him and believed that as much as his life would allow, the senator had cared for her. Clearly, she had been wrong.

It took her almost two years to get her revenge, and now it was oh so sweet. Two for the price of one, the wife heading for a mental ward and his son in the morgue, was how Joy summed up the whole situation.

Right now, she needed to think about Canada. She was due to start filming the final parts of her latest movie. She was scheduled to be in Canada in a matter of weeks. That also had been another key to her timing.

Yes, Senator Toner looked almost broken, but it was not because of worry about his suffering wife or his grief over his lost son. In many ways, Michael had been a disappointment. For the senator, it was the fact that his son’s death had brought him the knowledge that Michael had been screwing the one woman who could ruin his promising political career. Just how the hell had that happened? Shit! He would never let his sex drive get in the way of his career again, at least not with someone like Joy Hart. Damn that bitch!

The condominium was sealed, and the investigation dragged on, but it was now over three weeks, and Joy was still in the process of getting ready to