Jennifer's Dream: A Bishop Bone Murder Mystery

By Robert G. Rogers

Jennifer’s Dream Synopsis

Bone agrees to probate the estate of Jennifer Winston, a young woman who once dreamed of becoming a writer. She is a single parent. Oddly, she’s been making good money, apparently as an editor, but Bone can’t find a single client. And, the money stops after she is killed. Her interviews with a lo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: May 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643455297

Book preview

Robert G. Rogers

JENNIFER’S DREAM

Copyright © 2019 Robert G. Rogers

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

Stratton Press Publishing,

831 N Tatnall Street Suite M #188,

Wilmington, DE 19801

www.stratton-press.com

1-888-323-7009

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

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64345-428-3

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64345-529-7

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Also by Robert G. Rogers:

A Bishop Bone Mystery

A Murder in the Pine Belt

A Killing in Oil

The Pinebelt Chicken War

Tale of Two Sisters

The La Jolla Shores Murders

Murder at the La Jolla Apogee

No Morning Dew

Brother James and the Second Coming

Murder Mysteries

The Christian Detective

That La Jolla Lawyer

Mainstream/Drama

Jodie Mae

The Life and Times of Nobody Worth a Damn

The French Quarter Affair

Action/Suspense

Runt Wade

The End Is Near

Juvenile Adventure Stories

Lost Indian Gold

Taylor’s Wish

Swamp Ghost

Armageddon Ritual

Children’s Picture Book

Fancy Fairy

I dedicate this book to all those who dream of becoming a writer and are ready to face long odds in achieving that dream. I also want to thank all those who read, edited, and made helpful suggestions about Jennifer’s Dream , especially my late wife, Carolyn, who urged me to not only write the book, but who encouraged me never to quit writing until it was done. Without all those people, this book might never have been written.

Chapter 1

I strolled into the Pub a few minutes ahead of the Wednesday night karaoke parade. The greasy, frozen thing I’d eaten for dinner had left me with a strange taste. The colorful box it came in didn’t help. A cold brew from the Pub’s tap seemed just the thing to cover it. Truthfully though, I was a little down and wanted to be around some people noise. The place was almost full, so there was plenty of that. Casual dress was the standard. My khakis and tennis shoes sufficed.

A steady stream of men and women always poured into the Pub on karaoke night to mount a small corner stage, squeeze the mike, and become Hank or Loretta or Elvis or Patsy, or whoever they secretly yearned to be. I didn’t yearn to be anybody but me and always left before the first squeeze.

In Lawton’s historic district, the old building had been renovated for use as a restaurant and bar. The interior walls had been dressed with a layer of white plaster when the south Mississippi mill town came into being a hundred years earlier, but over time, chunks fell off to expose irregular patches of red brick. A patina of stains on the heart pine floor showed the service the floor had seen over the years. Fans wobbled from black, rough-sawn beams that divided the lower part of the room from the open loft. Something country-western played from the ceiling speakers.

It was named the Pub after the owner got a genealogy report that said one of his ancestors might have had an interest in a public house in Ireland before immigrating. Whether the interest ran to an unpaid bar tab or something of an equitable nature was never clear, but the name changed anyway.

Two men worked the bar, both young and athletic, both smiling and showing lots of teeth to the ladies. The waitresses were equally young, well-endowed, and smiling. They treated every man who came in like he was the one. Tips were welcome, and big tips were welcomed big.

I secretly wished at least one old guy tended bar to make me feel more like I belonged. I didn’t like to acknowledge my thinning brown hair, but didn’t have to, the mirror did it for me. It did the same for the sag along my jawline and the wrinkles under my eyes. My nose had been crooked since I could remember, probably broken in some fight I’d forgotten and likely lost. I reassured myself that at least I didn’t have a beer belly. Even so, anybody staring at social security was still old.

I threw my bucket hat on the copper-sheathed bar and pointed to the neon tap sign. The bartender acknowledged me with a nod as he polished a glass, using a towel gray with moisture. He lifted the glass to make a cursory search for smears through the wisps of white smoke swirling under the ceiling fans, approved with a twist of his head, and shoved it into the overhead rack with a click. Without missing a beat, he filled a mug with amber liquid and slid it down the bar toward me, trailing a streak of white foam. As he did, one of the waitresses leaned over the bar and whispered something in his ear, with a backward tilt of her head. The bartender’s eyes shifted with the tilt. He smiled and began an easy move in my direction.

May be your lucky night, Dad. The lady wants to buy you a beer. He pointed his chin toward a young woman wearing glasses. Her face lacked joy. She was on the short side, carried a few extra, but attractively distributed, pounds, some pointedly in the dual slingshots strung between her shoulders. Her light brown hair was cut short and casually styled around an oval face and rounded forehead. I took her for somebody you’d see and forget in five minutes.

She caught my inquiring look and forced a smile. I was disappointed. Maybe I wanted one of those I’m available things, but it was more like a polite hello to a passing stranger. Her clothes were elegant enough—red nylon shirt with a notched collar and long flared sleeves and matching pants. She didn’t shop at yard sales.

I was curious. I didn’t get many invitations from women, and fewer from young women, so I shoved my hat into my back pocket, grabbed my mug, and walked over.

Bishop Bone, I said with a smile and offered my hand.

Hers was cool to the touch, soft and feminine. Jennifer Winston, the young woman said, without anything extra, like she was giving her name to a clerk. Her eyes, sky blue and alert, never met mine.

After a thanks for the beer, I sat down. I drew down a satisfying inch and offered a second smile to get a response. It wasn’t one I expected.

She uncurled a finger from her wineglass, pointed at me, and said, Just so we understand each other, Mr. Bone, I’m not looking for a best friend for the evening, just someone safe to sit here and ward off people with hormone problems while I enjoy my wine and listen to the karaoke.

Some women were flattered by attention from trolling males, not that one.

Thank God for that, I said. I was afraid you were thinking all-night orgy.

Hardly. Her eyes searched me up and down. Did I see an amused twinkle?

Good. I charge two beers for an all-nighter.

She laughed in spite of herself. Her face softened for an instant and her gaze touched mine. In that moment I saw past her tough facade into what the poets would have called her soul.

A lonely soul, I thought. The young woman suddenly looked sweet and tender, vulnerable. I had an urge to reach out and touch her hand but didn’t dare. I felt strangely sorry for her, maybe protective. I didn’t stop to pin it down, but I had been wrong about one thing. She wasn’t someone I’d forget her in five minutes.

In a softer tone, she said, Sorry if I seem uptight. I just had a run-in with our preacher. The man was a pitiful excuse for a preacher so the board voted to let him go. I had to deliver the bad news. He didn’t take it well. She dismissed the thought with a casual wave of her hand. I come in on karaoke nights to do a little people watching. It helps—

The sudden appearance of a tall, handsome man with light hair and a square, athletic face interrupted what she was about to say. A slender woman with a perfectly made-up face and shoulder-length blond hair trailed half a step behind. Both wore jeans, colorful pullovers, and soft-soled shoes. The woman looked a few years older than the man, I decided. My other thought, an observation more to the point, was that her slingshots were not as attractively burdened as those of my tablemate.

The new arrivals cast their eyes about the room as if expecting applause. A number of patrons voiced acknowledgments. The man flashed his perfect teeth and waved with gusto. Her response was more subdued. I stood a shade over six feet and figured the man for a couple of inches taller. She was a head shorter.

That’s Jim Ashley, the writer, and his…wife, Sherry, Jennifer said, with a twist of her lips. His last book’s going to be made into a movie.

That answered the sense of celebrity that had accompanied his entry. I’ll be damned. I read something about him in the paper the other day. I hadn’t read any of his books but made a note to get one.

The museum’s honoring local writers this Saturday, she said. Jim will have a table.

Jim? Did she know him? They looked about the same age. Lawton was a small enough town so that everybody knew everybody else.

Lawton’s Museum of Arts was well known for its collection of arts and artifacts and for sponsoring local artistic events. Tour buses regularly brought visitors to see its exhibits.

Jennifer tensed as Ashley and his wife neared our table. Her face softened considerably, and she edged off her chair a fraction.

Jim Ashley took note of the young woman who’d bought my protection for a beer, bowed just slightly, and said, Jennifer. So good to see you. His words were tainted with a hint of diffidence. She smiled sweetly as he took her offered hand and held it for an instant. She shyly swallowed her reply.

That answered my question. They did know each other, but that was about all I got out of the exchange.

His head dipped briefly toward me. I acknowledged him, but was more interested in his wife just then.

She exuded the faint scent of an expensive perfume; something with a hint of tea olive, a shrub with tiny yellow buds that permeated the Lawton air when it was in bloom. Her smile was not so broad as to appear excessive, but not so thin as to appear sly, something right in the middle, something practiced. From the sideways glances she attracted from the tables, men obviously considered her pretty. I thought her face had a stony, leathery cast; the kind women get from working out too much or spending too much time in the sun.

Following her husband’s lead, she bobbed her head toward Jennifer without changing expression, like someone might acknowledge a servant. Ashley motioned toward a table.

I pulled down more of my beer and said, without tonal bias, Nice couple.

Jennifer turned to check my sincerity, and then shrugged. Her face lost its shy smile. She switched her gaze to follow the Ashleys and sighed softly, barely enough for me to notice. As if embarrassed, she looked at me, apparently seeking my reaction.

I lifted my beer and gave an appreciative nod as if I hadn’t noticed.

She nodded back, reached for her wine, and stared into it as people do when lost in thought.

A guy mounted the stage and fussed with the karaoke machine until rewarded with the sound of a live mic. The room grew silent as the patrons watched.

A young waitress took the Ashleys’ drink orders and rushed off with a giggle. Her long dark hair danced and glistened with silver streaks picked up from the soft overhead lights.

Just then a young man and girl strolled in. They took the other chairs at the Ashleys’ table. Both were relatively tall and shabbily dressed, as was the current fashion. Sherry playfully scuffed up the boy’s hair with her hand and launched into an animated conversation, apparently centered on the karaoke, since her gesturing was in that direction.

Their children, Jennifer said, with the hint of a frown, when she saw me looking.

The overhead lights dimmed and a spotlight illuminated the stage microphone. The mic man, wearing a coat, took the stage and announced, It’s karaooooke time! Half a dozen rose from their chairs, only to see that a middle-aged woman had already seized the moment.

I’m leaving, I whispered and handed her the five-dollar bill I’d come with. Wasn’t here long enough to earn a free beer.

Stay at least for one song. Her eyes met mine a second time, and she turned on her innocent smile. Women know how to flash them when they need to.

Okay. One song.

Thanks.

The woman labored through Just a Closer Walk with Thee. The radiance on her face as she sang gave the impression that she wanted a recommendation to the Man upstairs on judgment day. Well, it was the Bible belt. Most of the watchers applauded politely.

I finished the rest of my beer without tasting it, a mortal sin in any belt. A balding man and woman, both with gray hair, were next on stage. The bald man announced their selection, but I wasn’t paying attention.

That’s it for me, I said and stood. Have to be in Ocean Springs in the morning. Need to make an early night of it.

Go then, she said with a haunting glance. Thanks for nothing.

Driving home, I tried to forget the sadness in her eyes. It was difficult. I almost turned around and went back.

Later that night, a series of sirens going and coming in the distance woke me. Somebody hurt. Had to be nasty. I went back to sleep, oblivious to whatever tragedy the sirens announced.

The morning’s radio news was a shocker. Jennifer Winston had died in an explosion and fire in her home around midnight. Though I’d known her for less than thirty minutes, her death made an eerie impact on me. I wished I’d stayed for another song and wondered if that would have made a difference. Guilt crept into my thoughts. The vulnerability I’d seen in her eyes haunted my thoughts like a tune that begins to play for some unknown reason and won’t quit. My daughter was about her age.

I was glad for something to do that morning that’d take my mind off her death. My job was to consult with banks about their bad loans, special assets they were euphemistically called at board meetings. A client bank had asked for a recommendation on the defaulted loan of an Ocean Springs’ art dealer. I finished what passed for breakfast—a pot of coffee and sweet roll—grabbed my briefcase and left. I drove an old tan Jeep with a soft-top that flapped a bit at high speed.

Usually on trips around the state, I shoved an old ABBA tape into the slot to keep my thoughts happy. That day though, somber feelings called for the melancholy folk songs of Joan Baez. Thoughts of Jennifer Winston’s death blended with the melody from Baez’s mournful guitar and found the place inside me where all feelings were generic.

The Ocean Springs borrower fortuitously found a money partner to bring his loan current so the meeting was not the conflict I had anticipated. I’d recommend that it be placed back into regular servicing if he made timely payments for six months. Otherwise, I’d liquidate the equipment and inventory at ridiculously low prices and foreclose on his home to cover the balance. That was part of what I did; not always fun. The fun part came afterward—crab cakes and a glass of wine in a restaurant that overlooked the bay. I mailed a report to the bank that afternoon with my bill.

I owned a small spread of twenty-two acres that spanned both sides of a decent-sized creek that flowed year round, Indian Creek. The old log cabin I’d bought when I returned from California sat on a bluff that overlooked the creek and a beaver pond on the other side. When I was out of something to do, and the weather was warm, I canoed across and explored.

A waterfall, where I turned around on my jogs, marked one boundary of my property. Water churned over its eight-foot precipice and dropped into a wide basin. The interstate marked my other boundary. It was close enough to the far end of the beaver pond for me to hear the truck traffic at times.

The temperature was in the midseventies, just about right for the approaching autumn. Cool air, which accumulated during the day under the shade of the old trees around the cabin, flowed inside during the night. It wasn’t air-conditioned cool, but it was comfortable and my electric bill stayed low. Leaves on the hardwoods had begun their metamorphosis from green to yellow and brown. Shifting winds stirred the leaves and filled the woods with the rhythmic sounds of rushing water.

On Friday, the sound of a car on the gravel road I called a driveway got my attention. It was five thirty, but warm enough for me to sip a cold beer on the back porch and stare at the creek. I was trying to decide if there was enough time to catch a supper trout or if I wanted to take the trouble. I hurried to the front to see who it was.

Sonja Campbell slid out of her silver sports coupe as I opened the front door. She was in crisp tennis whites with a warm-up jacket. She occasionally stopped by on her way to a match. She waved and bounded up the wooden steps without benefit of the bare wood handrail. Her dark eyes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight adding life to a face that showed only a hint of makeup. There was just enough curl in her dark hair to give it style. It brushed her shoulders lightly.

Until now, my day had just been ordinary, I called from the door.

She smiled. Her face, as always, was a blend of confidence and stoicism. Most men considered her exotically pretty but icily aloof. It was a look that drove some mad with desire. As far as I knew, all were sent packing with their egos bloodied and their tails tucked between their legs.

We exchanged pecks and hugs.

We’d met when I intervened on her behalf at the Cajun Fire Hole, a local catfish restaurant frequented by a rough bunch. Her fiancé had put her out in front of the place after an argument.

As thanks, Seth Campbell, her grandfather, offered me the fiancé’s job as project manager for the factory outlets he built and, by chance, an opportunity to work in his gubernatorial campaign. He lost, but my work in his campaign created an opportunity for me to consult with Mississippi banks about their problem loans, something I did in California before moving to Lawton.

I’m on the back porch watching the creek flow and letting a six-pack realize its raison d’être, I said. How’s Baxter? He was her husband.

Entertaining his parents. They’re visiting. I’m meeting them at the club for a match and dinner.

I couldn’t understand how she and Baxter clicked like they did. But I supposed his ego stayed charged from his work as hers surely did from running Campbell Enterprises. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have given the marriage six weeks. He was something in computers for a local firm.

She accepted my offer of a beer and followed me to the back.

After small talk about what I’d been doing and Campbell’s new projects, she said, I stopped by to see if you’d do me a favor. Actually, Ruth asked me. She brushed a curl off her forehead and pulled her jacket close.

Sure. Name it. Ruth was a close friend while I was with Campbell and still was.

Did you read about the woman who died in the fire?

I did. Oddly enough, it bothered me. Still does. I’d just met her at the Pub. She came across as a bit abrasive, but something in her eyes roused my protective instincts, I think. I have a daughter her age. I’ve had a hard time getting her out of my mind.

I didn’t know her, but Ruth’s impression was that she was…how shall I put it, an island unto herself.

I think that’s the impression she wanted to give, I told her. Keep people at bay.

Ruth and Jennifer’s mother belong to the same church, a little country church outside of town. The funeral was this afternoon.

A fish leaped out of the water and made a loud splash on its return. The sound rolled up the slope to the porch and got our attention. A bird in a tree near the porch squawked at the intrusion and flew off into the woods.

She said, Ruth was wondering if you’d handle the estate. Mrs. Winston asked if she knew anybody, and Ruth thought of you. I told her you didn’t do general legal work, but said I’d ask.

Though more for legitimacy than utility, I had become a member of the Mississippi bar. Consulting for banks and negotiating with borrowers, and sometimes their lawyers, demanded all the status I could muster.

It’s been a long time since I probated anything and never in Mississippi. I’d hate to have her rely on my lack of experience in a contested probate.

I doubt it’d be contested, Sonja replied. Probably nothing to contest. Ruth said she had a son away at school. Nothing about the father. That could be a complication.

Could be. The father might want custody. Strikes me as odd that she was calling herself Winston, her maiden name. Makes me think she was a single parent? Maybe divorced.

You want me to ask Ruth?

No, I’ll get the details from Mrs. Winston.

She fished in her pocket for a paper with a phone number, handed it to me with a parting kiss on the cheek.

Have to go, Bishop. Thanks for the beer. I know the way out.

I’m coming in anyway. Getting chilly.

I followed her to the porch and watched her drive away. A growl in my stomach turned my thoughts to dinner. I thawed something in a box, my usual fare, watched the late news and went to bed.

The front page of the morning paper carried the museum’s event to showcase local writers. Details about Jim and Sherry Ashley filled the lead paragraphs. He wrote and she illustrated when needed. He’d written a number of books, including some best sellers. His last, a murder mystery, had garnered awards and, as Jennifer said, was going to be made into a movie. He was completing another murder mystery and negotiations were underway to make it into a movie as well.

Dr. Martin, who had a best seller made into a movie years earlier under the pen name Walter Brandon was also to be featured. Interestingly, until the movie was announced, no one knew Martin was the author. The story said that he had other books being considered for publication.

Long time between meals, I thought. He was an English professor at Southern, a university south of Lawton, so he wasn’t going hungry.

I left for Mrs. Winston’s early enough to detour past the museum on the way. I’d called to let her know. I had an urge to commiserate with the Ashleys about Jennifer, my notion of closure. Perhaps learn something to share with her mother.

From the number of cars parked along the street, it was clear that lots of people had shown up. I finally found a place to park on a side street and got behind others headed inside.

The museum was an impressive structure, a