Murder Run

By Shelly Frome

A wealthy woman’s death in a picturesque corner of Connecticut pulls her down-on-his-luck handyman into a sprawling criminal underworld . . .
 
Awakened in the night by a mysterious and alarming call, handyman Jed Cooper rushes to the stately home of his employer, an emotionally fragile choreographer who has secluded herself in Connecticut’s Litchfield Hills. But it’s too late. She’s dead and a shadowy figure has bolted into the darkness. Just in time for the cops to show up and find Jed standing over her body.
 
Jed may be innocent but he can’t help feeling some haunting stirrings of guilt—after all, she’d been acting even more skittish than usual in recent days. Thanks to his sketchy past he prefers to stay as far from trouble as he can get. But he’s already entangled in this murder case, and as the fallout mounts, this twisty tale moves from Manhattan’s Little Italy to Miami and beyond as the truth slowly comes to light . . .
 
Praise for the writing of Shelly Frome
 
“Complex and eventful . . . an intelligently conceived mystery and an entertaining one as well.” —Kirkus Reviews
 
“Suspenseful . . . The plot takes numerous satisfying twists.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781620066171

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Wake up, pal, we got a situation. . . . Hey, I’m talkin’ here. Maybe she makes it, maybe she don’t. I’m sayin’ you better move it!

The voice came out of the past. The words cut into the here and now of the Connecticut night.

Left with just the dial tone, Jed Cooper hung up, got off the cot, and tried to get his bearings. Though he’d been house sitting this junk trailer for a while, he still had to grope around to find the pull cord for the lights. He waited a few seconds more and punched in the unlisted number of the she the guy must’ve been talking about.

It was busy.

He reached for his jeans, work boots and a pullover sweater, got dressed, and called her number again. No luck. He hit redial three more times and gave up.

Scuffing past the frayed wires hanging across the water-stained ceiling, banging into the space heaters as he jerked open the little fridge, he took a few swigs of bottled water and thought it over. There was no hope of getting a bead on who the street-wise caller was. And there was still only one person who could possibly need him at this hour and was close by. Plus, chances were the guy had disconnected her phone.

Jed straggled out into the March dampness, skirted around the rusty snow plow blade, and hurried up the path. He slid behind the wheel of the Chevy pickup, cranked the old motor, gave it hardly any time to idle, and took off onto Green Hill Road.

Off the beaten path in the Litchfield Hills, there were no street lights. Under the misty cloud cover, his brights only made matters worse. And way out here his cell phone was useless.

Taking the dips and rises as best he could, he began to have second thoughts. Granted, the guy had to be talking about Miss Julie. Putting aside what in God’s name he was doing at her place, what if he was lying in wait? And even if he’d split, what were the repercussions? Could Jed just tear into a single woman’s hidden drive this late at night? And then what? Check things out, or call up to her window to see if she was okay? Or, hoping no one had spotted him, ring her bell? Suppose he got no answer?

Besides, there were too many incidents already on his record. One more, and he’d had it.

But then again, she’d gotten so skittish today, she didn’t even let him finish his chores. Told him to put down the chainsaw and completely changed her mind about clearing the drive. If I can see the road, someone can see me, she said. I want you to go up to the attic and put a latch on the crawl space.

But why? What was that all about? She didn’t say, wouldn’t tell him.

His pondering tapered off as he dealt with the pitted lane. Straining his eyes, he took an immediate left onto Nonnewaug Road, coursing past the stands of maples.

For a second he caught a glimpse of what could’ve been a Lincoln parked by the side of the road. Not just any Lincoln though—a Continental, the vintage one with the single blade fenders and squared-off hood. It was another flickering memory out of the past but had no bearing right now. Or did it?

Focusing hard, keeping his mind on what he was doing, he made a sharp right. Gearing down, he spun his wheels navigating the muddy patches, shot forward as he cleared, eased onto the gravel, jerked the hand brake, and killed the motor. He got out onto the drive at the side of the weathered cape, glanced up, and spotted a flitting shadow under the gabled window. He’d wired-in motion detecting flood lights for her that should’ve lit up the area, but nothing snapped on.

He thought of calling out. He thought of rushing over to the road to see if the Lincoln was still parked there, partially hidden under the trees. He thought of putting this whole thing down to some kind of hoax.

Just as he was about to honk the horn and damn well do something, he heard the cellar door slam shut.

Yelling out, Jed reflexively ran around to the back in time to see a burly shape make for the tree line. Which was a stupid move, slogging through underbrush and waist-high weeds and briars. Plus, whoever it was had a hitch in his stride and couldn’t possibly know where he was or what he was doing.

Jed took off after him. But, despite everything, the guy kept changing direction. Like a gimpy street kid ducking down a dark alley and then darting here and there through the traffic. Like Jed himself used to do way back then.

Rushing straight ahead, Jed tripped over a tangle of bittersweet roots, warded off the sprays of honeysuckle lashing across his face, and kept going until it finally dawned on him. Even if he caught up, the guy outweighed him and could take him out with a few punches. He was obviously leading Jed on, away from the house, and it didn’t much matter in which direction.

Jed turned around and headed back for the cellar. Banging into things, he brushed past the mess the guy had made, located the breaker panel, flipped the switches, and climbed the stairs as the lights came back on. He called her name as he passed the kitchen and cut around the dining room, but there was no answer.

He hurried up to the bedroom and stopped short. Though he’d never entered, never gone beyond the pull-down attic ladder, he could picture exactly what should have happened. She should’ve opened her window and cried out the second Jed pulled in. Or shouted the moment the guy split. Or certainly just now when Jed barged into the cellar, hit the breaker switches, and began calling for her.

Hesitating a few seconds more, he slipped through the open door and found the bedroom half in shadow. Lit only by the little Coleman lantern he’d given her in case the power went off, knowing how frightened she was of being alone in the dark.

And there, in the dimness, he saw her. On the canopy bed, wearing a ruffled nightgown, looking half her age like a sleeping princess. Only she was lying sideways, on a slant, her back to him, clutching her raincoat. And she didn’t appear to be breathing. Didn’t respond at all even as he stood over her.

In his panic, he thought of CPR . . . but didn’t know how to do it and was afraid to touch her . . . spotted the phone cradle but couldn’t dial 911 because the handset was missing.

He found the wall switch and the bathroom lights, scoured the medicine cabinet and the nightstand for prescription vials. But there were no pills anywhere, no beta blockers or whatever it was she said she was taking. He thought of opening her mouth, at least doing that, but stepped back and froze when the motion-detecting floods flashed onto the rutted drive below, merging with the sound of squealing brakes.

He didn’t have to wait to find out what was next. First the crackle of the police radio and, in practically no time, Road Trooper Charlie Tate was up the stairs and upon him.

Tate glanced at the lifeless form on the bed, glanced back, and uttered the inevitable words:

Right. Jed Cooper. Now how in hell did I know it would be you?

CHAPTER TWO

As he sat alone in the cinderblock cubicle, Jed was so out of it, his eyes were burning. Some part of him realized full well he was inside the barracks at Troop L, and it was sometime after three in the morning. Some part of him also knew that back at Miss Julie’s place he’d been forced to hand over his clothing and shoes, put on a Tyvek suit, and have his hands and fingernails examined as well. Then an ambulance and paramedics. Then a crime van.

Other bits and pieces came to him unbidden. A team from the crime van scurrying everywhere . . . a guy with a ruddy face, constantly checking the chronograph on his watch taking notes . . . a gravely-voiced dog handler heading out back into the brush.

Another part of him shut it all out. She was fine. Fully dressed with her raincoat and shoes back on—the tailored coat of polished cotton with the forest green lapels, and the beige walking shoes that looked like ballet slippers. In his blurry mind’s eye it was still yesterday, a calm, everyday, slightly chilly Monday. He was doing some good . . . offering plans . . . something she could look forward to so she’d stop being so skittish. The hazy, early-morning sun glinting in the distance, breaking through the tree-line out back; his mentioning to her spring was almost upon them.

****

I could prune that old apple tree, he said, pointing down the slope past the tangles of shrub.

At first, she kept looking around as if any minute some car would slip through the narrow break in the maples. As though instead of continuing on down the lane, it might suddenly swerve onto the hidden drive and seek her out.

In his own hesitant way, Jed went on about a garden retreat until she finally glanced back and her gaze held steady on the slope where the land fell away.

And then what? Miss Julie said, her tiny frame less rigid, that childlike look returning to her eyes.

Well, first off, I’d have to clear away the brush.

Could you make it smooth?

I guess. Sure. Not knowing whether or not she was beginning to envision some new dance piece, he said, After that, I could put in a stone walkway to the potting shed.

When she didn’t pick up on it, he added, Which I’d build for you to pot up seedlings . . . divide bulbs. So you could get into the swing of it.

Just as quickly, the childlike look was gone and her gaze shifted back around to the narrow break in the drive. Maybe, Jed. If things could be different.

****

In this same way, Jed was stuck right back into the here and now. No windows in the barracks. A desk with a Formica top and metal chairs framed by concrete blocks. And the two who’d be back any second—Detective Dale Hanson, with his generic all-American square face and fake, easygoing style; Detective Rick Curtis, wiry with hard-set eyes to go with his sliver of a face. Both with their dress shirts and ties under their dark windbreakers.

By now he’d caught on to what they’d claimed was only routine. A standard interview while everything was fresh in Jed’s mind. He wasn’t sure he could take another round. Just as he couldn’t take what had happened. Just as he could never take being boxed in.

For no real reason, he segued back again. Trying harder to fend off his disbelief, pushing what should have been. Though it was no use then and was certainly no use now.

****

Absentmindedly, she had asked about wildflowers. It was no good unless the stretch of land down from the slope was covered with them. He reminded her about growing the flowers from seed in a potting shed. He could also build her a pergola entwined with clematises that bloom at different times—white-flowered Artic Queen, pink-and-red Carnaby, deep-blue Maria, and lavender Bonanza.

But again she wasn’t really listening. Still musing over some flitting dance idea but mostly spooked about something hanging over her.

Sidestepping whatever was troubling her, he explained that a pergola was an arbor with an open roof. Cross rafters supported by posts. You go into the woods, strip the sticks down to size, and use a post-hole digging machine.

But at that point she became even more wary and wouldn’t let up. As if she should never take anything for granted, even him. Where had he learned all this, and who had he worked for? As off hand as possible, he’d mentioned women on estates up in Sharon, over into Duchess County, and up in the Berkshires. In that very same hesitant way of his, he let on they were not at all like her. Not gentle and refined. Didn’t care about flowers and gardening. Didn’t even care about four-rail posts for their thoroughbreds. Always had something else in mind.

And that was when her gaze drifted back yet again to the hidden drive, and he saw her shudder.

****

Snapping out of it for good this time, he realized Hanson and Curtis were bound to bring up those other employers. Hanson being friendly about it. Curtis staring at him, waiting for some telltale sign, scribbling in his notebook. Why was it always some older woman, they’d want to know. The husband off in the city and/or the lady separated or divorced. Was it true one of them made a pass and, when he shrugged her off, accused him of trying to seduce her? Or the time when that other one called him up to her bedroom under some pretext. Did he actually have to fend off some jealous ex who showed up out of the blue? What about all these older-women/boyish-looking-guy triangles? How does it keep happening unless Jed is complicit and a party to it all?

Jed began to pace despite the fact there was hardly any room. Under the circumstances, how could he be expected to think straight, let alone slough off their suspicions? How much longer were they going to keep him cooped up in this cinderblock box?

As if on cue, he heard their voices echoing down the hall coming toward him. Within seconds, Hanson took his place in the swivel chair behind the desk right across from Jed. Curtis in the straight-back chair next to Hanson closer to the wall. Hanson had a printout in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other. Curtis got out his notepad and slid a can of coke in Jed’s direction. Jed shook him off and sat back down.

Well now, said Hanson, smiling. Seems like Trooper Charlie is in some rush to nail this down. Not enough he comes upon you the way he did. Can you believe he’s back there making duplicates? I mean, look at the time. Could’ve at least gotten a few hours sleep before filing a detailed report.

You were saying, Curtis said to Hanson, even more impatient than before.

Okay, said Hanson, eyeing the printout. Boy, Jed, it seems you sure are some . . .

Enigma, said Curtis.

Exactly. Hard to make you out. What’ve we got here? A country boy from Indiana? A Connecticut drifter? A short-term New York dropout with a record?

It took another look from Curtis for Hanson to get on with it.

Anyways, to make the old, long story short, after they shipped you up here and stuck you in the Junior Republic. . . . How old were you then?

Seventeen, said Curtis. Using his black marker as a pointer, Curtis took the printout out of Hanson’s hand and pretended he was refreshing Jed’s memory. The Junior Republic stint, in between the reason you were shipped up in the first place, and the later scrapes you got yourself in.

It was all Jed could do to put up with any more of this. He shifted around in his chair and looked away.

When Jed glanced back, Curtis was making more jagged lines on his pad.

As for those later scrapes, said Curtis, his voice still cool and dry, we could start with that larceny. You know, when the girl said the car was hers and the father reported it stolen. And the speeding tickets and other violations.

If it wasn’t that he could barely keep his eyes open and his feelings in check, he had explanations for all of it. Like everything else, some of it his own doing, some of it chance, some of it the fault of landscapers he’d worked for, out to cut corners, all kinds of stuff. But he was totally out of it, so what was the point? And what did any of this have to do with anything?

Right, said Hanson, chiming in. Flipping to another page, Hanson pushed it a little further. Violations like not having the right class license . . . misuse of plates, no registration for hauling a commercial tractor, various subpoenas, multiple infractions. I tell you, Charlie Tate has really been keeping tabs.

Why are you doing this? Jed said, springing up and knocking the Coke can clear across the floor. She’s dead. I thought you’d be on it. What about the old Lincoln—the guy who made the call who’s getting further away? Don’t you care what happened to her? What is wrong with you?

In the dead silence, Hanson smiled while Curtis nodded.

Well there now, said Hanson. No longer—what was that other word again, Rick?

Enigmatic. Seemingly laconic and evasive, but given to sudden outbursts.

Even though we assured him he wasn’t in custody. Only trying to get some kind of handle on this.

Hanson held onto his casual pose. The second Jed knocked over the soda can, Curtis, however, resumed his doodling. More sharp lines and squiggles.

Then Curtis added, For openers, that is. An overview without any wangling.

You’re the ones doing the wangling, said Jed, still on his feet.

When Curtis told him he was out of line, Jed didn’t back off. Look, somebody has to do something. Can’t you see that? Why can’t you see that?

Hanson eased back in the swivel chair. Tell you what. Apart from what we have to do as a matter of course, maybe you could cooperate a little.

Provide us with something tangible, Curtis cut in.

I told you—

We know what you told us, Curtis went on. But the only clear tracks lead off to nowhere and tail back to the cellar door.

Now why is that? said Hanson. Here you are, a guy with a questionable background. Real hesitant at first. Won’t talk except in little spurts. Some bull about a big, gimpy guy who runs like he’s ducking down an alley. How weird is that? I mean, out in the woods on a damp, foggy night? A call from a mob guy you’re telling us, clear out of New York?

I didn’t say that.

Oh, really? And what’s this about an old, fancy Lincoln with New York plates? Beige, the same color of the maples in front of her place. That you couldn’t possibly have made out when you were so hell-bent to come to her rescue. I mean, come off it.

Maybe, Curtis cut back in, you’re so rattled you don’t know what you’re saying. Or maybe, like I’ve intimated, you’ve been sitting here wracking your brain for some wiggle room.

So clue us in, said Hanson. If you’re so concerned, why make us wait you out?

I wasn’t, I’m not.

Hanson looked at his watch. Then Curtis did the same.

Cutting everything short, Hanson retrieved the printout, Curtis snatched up his note pad, and they both stood up.

Okay, said Hanson. We’ll pick this up tomorrow, say around noon. Give you some time to get a little sleep and your head on straight. The only thing I see that has diddly to do with any thug is a mention of a knife fight at the Junior Republic.

Thirteen years ago, said Curtis. No New York story from there to here. As I said, Trooper Charlie’s ongoing report at least gives us a jump on things.

All Jed could do at this point was keep shaking his head.

Now then, if you really want to help speed things up, Curtis went on, you’ll tell us about your relationship with this woman. Exactly how it was any different than all those others.

Right, said Hanson. What was going on between you two? And how did you really get those scratch marks across your face? The simple fact is, we’ve got an untimely death here under highly suspicious circumstances.

What are you saying?

What we’ve been saying. So far, you’re all we’ve got. We need to know where a wayward guy like you is really coming from.

CHAPTER THREE

Jed had no idea how he managed to drive back to the junk trailer at that hour and flop back down on the cot. How he was supposed to get some rest, put aside Miss Julie’s death, and be able to skirt around Hanson and Curtis’s insinuations by noon was beyond him.

Where was he coming from, they wanted to know. Truth was, he’d never really thought about it. Offhand, he’d no doubt picked up on what that grizzled farmhand kept telling him back in the day in Indiana: Take it from me, boy, when it comes to people, forget about it. Nobody ever says what they mean. Especially women. Rule of thumb—all folks do one thing and mean another. Bunch of games within games. Keep your distance, I say. At least a country mile.

And once, for good measure, the farm hand said, Besides, you ain’t cut out for it anyways. Keep mainly to yourself, ain’t got a helluva lot to say. Just ain’t the type.

And that time Jed caught him sleeping one off in the hayloft: Only thing for it if they do start to get to you. Find yourself a hidey-hole and let it ride.

When Jed answered him back saying, But what happens when you can’t do that? the old man snapped for the very first time: Don’t you listen? Don’t you hear? All roads lead nowhere. What goes on out there in the thing they call life is likely to drive you clear outta your mind!

Now and again though, he couldn’t help asking about things. Like with his grade school teacher. How come that little book she’d assigned, The Little Prince, was required reading but made no sense? She said the message was underneath. She quoted the fox, who declared anything essential is invisible to the eyes. She also said the character of the French pilot who was stranded in the desert was based on a real pilot who wrote the book. That he was telling us the way things seem is not the way they really are.

Which, in a way, was what the old farmhand was telling him. But, in another way, meant if you did step out there, did think about stripping away all the games people play . . .

Where was he coming from? What could he tell them?

Curtis called him an enigma, seeming to be quite deep in himself, then flinging the Coke can across the room and getting caught in that knife fight at the Junior Republic a bunch of years back.

In his continuing daze during