A Summer Murder

By John Paulits

A group of young men rents downstairs while a group of young women rents upstairs in a New Jersey beach house for the summer of 1971. One of the girls, Eileen Meredith, is found murdered in her bedroom at the house. Local Detective Hanahan, on the verge of retirement and needing a murder case like he needs a hole in the head, takes over the case. Things ebb and flow as suspects arise and excite the detective's interest. At last, with the help of one of the house's inhabitants, a strange plan takes shape to draw out the murderer. Will it succeed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094822

Book preview

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

For: Mike Steward, Bob Swierczewski, Tom Smith

and the rest of the Sea Isle Seals.

One

Eileen Meredith, she of the long, silky blond hair and beautiful face and form, was murdered during the glorious summer of 1971. The first time any of us came into contact with Eileen, we had recently signed the lease for a summer rental at the beach in Sea Isle City, New Jersey. Sea Isle is one of a series of small beach towns extending from Atlantic City south, starting with Ventnor and ending with Cape May. Sea Isle is situated in the middle of the span, off Exit 17 of the Garden State Parkway, as they describe things in New Jersey. The house we rented was a duplex. Mickey Scullin, Willy Buten, Cliff Glassman, and I, Jim Sargeant, rented the ground floor apartment, and four young women, Eileen included, took the second floor. All of us, male and female alike, were in our early/mid-twenties, and my friends and I found the possibilities of such a fortuitous housing arrangement promising.

Searching for the best approach to break the ice with our housemates, I suggested we try to meet them before the Memorial Day check-in so we could develop an understanding of what we were getting into and whether we really wanted to get into it at all. We could ignore our neighbors as easily as engage with them. An offshoot consideration—if we chose to engage with them, how should we divvy up the harvest and decide who would chase whom, so to speak? We got in touch with some friends, and I contacted Stella Dunleavy, one of the young women, to extend a party invitation, the party to be held at my house in Philadelphia. I scheduled it for a Saturday night in late April, and, looking back, one could say the summer actually began the moment those four young ladies walked in my front door.

Most of the invitees had already drifted in, and I sat on the sofa alongside Mickey, drinking beer and waiting for the guest stars of the show to arrive. As yet, we had no idea what they looked like or anything about them, other than, according to the real estate agent, our ages matched. I expected, correctly as it turned out, that our summer neighbors would band together and arrive as a team. In unity there is strength and protection...and less awkwardness. Only the storm door, mostly glass, separated inside from outside, and I kept an eye out for their approach. At last, a little before nine o’clock, four young ladies came into view, walking up the narrow concrete pathway to my front door. I gave Willy, Cliff, and Mickey the high sign and walked over to welcome the girls inside.

They proceeded single file into the party. As the girl at the head of the line crossed the threshold, Mickey and I exchanges sour glances. She was, to put it mildly, large. Her name, Elsie Hovine, we would soon adapt to Elsie Bovine or sometimes Elsie the cow. Our attention slipped quickly to the young lady entering behind her. Eileen. Right away I knew we had a celebrity on our hands, a beauty at least three of us wouldn’t mind competing for.

Stella Dunleavy and Margie Horan were the final two, attractive to be sure, but not on a par with Eileen. Eileen was different, unique, with her long, blond hair, a body screaming for attention, and a definite I-am-important air to her. Willy and Cliff were at her side before she could get her coat off. Not to be left out, I asked for her coat—the gentleman of the crowd—as well as the coats of the other girls.

As I draped the four coats over my left arm, I offered a welcoming smile and said, You must be our upstairs Sea Isle neighbors. I’m the one who called Stella... I paused to let Stella identify herself... and asked her to invite you. I’m Jim. This is Willy. This is Cliff. Over there... I pointed to Mickey, sitting on the sofa, beer in hand... Mickey. Mickey, a very thin young man with a bushy, black mustache under a too large nose, waggled his beer can in our direction. His priorities did not exactly match ours. In his world beer came first, and he worried about women afterwards.

Willy, always happy to take the lead, patted my shoulder and said, Why not take the coats upstairs while Cliff and I take the girls downstairs for a drink?

Off I trekked up the steps to my bedroom, smothered in sleeves and lamenting my starting the summer as an apparent coat check boy. I tossed the coats onto my bed and hustled back to the living room. Mickey hadn’t moved, and I motioned him to follow me to the basement. I’d kept the party upstairs so we’d have a quiet place to take our neighbors if they showed up. The arrival of Eileen and her friends had very little impact on the other people in the house, who were too busy drinking and pairing off to care if we, the summer eight, went to quieter surroundings.

My home is a small, Philadelphia row house left me by my parents, both gone for years, and when I caught up with everyone, now happily chatting in the basement, I made it known that I owned the house and asked whether the girls had any trouble finding it. They hadn’t and we moved on to the compulsory exchanging of occupations. The girls worked for Channel 29, a new UHF TV station in Philly, which is where they met. Cliff was an elementary school teacher; Willy, the youngest store manager in the Pantry Pride supermarket chain; Mickey worked in a Sears warehouse; and I worked in an office for Sun Oil. All of us had finished our stints in Vietnam, except for Cliff with his teaching deferment. His prime topic after his third drink was often a declaration of how much he loved his students for reasons having little to do with educating them.

I took the girls’ drink orders and again regretted being the official host and apparent chore boy. Having but two hands, I got Cliff to help me deal with the drinks. Elsie and Eileen sat on the sofa. The others stood nearby trying to keep the conversation going.

How did you find the beach house? Lots of real estate people visits? Stella asked. She had a small face, cute actually, framed by short, straight brown hair. She was the tiniest of the four girls. She appeared deceptively tall at first sight because of her thinness.

Willy, naturally, answered for us. We looked at a few other places. The agent took us around. This one was affordable, not far from the beach, in pretty good shape. Best of all, four bedrooms for four of us. Privacy can be important. How about you?

Eileen’s mother knows the owner.

Eileen smiled as the attention moved to her. All of us were waiting for an opportunity to bring her into focus. She shook her long, yellow-white hair back over her shoulders as her eyes swept the room. I could almost hear the wheels in Willy’s head clanking for something to say now he had her attention.

What he came up with was, I guess that’s why we had to take downstairs. You had first crack at the house. We wanted the upstairs.

We liked upstairs because the bedroom doors lock, Eileen explained in a teasingly wry tone. Everybody will have tons of privacy this summer, it seems. We knew last summer we’d be staying there, she added. Nothing wrong with downstairs. You’ll like it. She crossed her legs and held her empty glass aloft. I was surprised Willy didn’t pull a muscle trying to get to her before anyone else could.

The same, she said with what I would term a coy smile. Don’t rush.

Willy’s face flushed, and he knew she had him. I don’t see any more vodka, he said, squatting behind the small bar I had in the basement.

There’s more in the kitchen, I said, and Willy headed for the stairway.

What’s with the music? Stella asked as Dion and the Belmonts crooned, That’s My Desire on the 45-record player I kept in the basement.

King of the Oldies, Cliff said and pointed at me. He doesn’t realize the seventies have dawned.

Thankfully, Stella agreed with my music choice, and I felt moderately emboldened. Neither have I, she said, when it comes to oldies. ‘Angel Baby.’ My favorite. Great song to slow dance to.

I’ll remember, I said. Rosie and the Originals.

Do you have many old records?

I do. Lots of forty-fives. They’re upstairs. Interested?

Sure.

I led Stella upstairs and through the kitchen, passing Willy as he tossed a lime into Eileen’s drink. Where are you going? he asked.

I found a fifties freak. She wants to see my records.

Good. Keep him and his music away from us, Stella.

I’ll try, she said with a smile.

I began thinking Stella and I might get along nicely.

Except for the handful of records I’d taken to the basement, my collection was in my bedroom. The other two bedrooms on the second floor were occupied at the moment, but the guests knew my bedroom was off limits, reserved for me. I didn’t want to have to go looking for a love nest in my own house.

Stella gave me a sideways glance as I led her to the second floor. Admit it, she said. You’ve been waiting for a fan of the fifties to come along so you’d have an excuse to lure her up here. We entered my empty bedroom, the bed now the repository of countless coats.

Right. You can imagine how often the opportunity pops up to show off these records. And now, another fly caught in my web.

Stella and I sat on the floor and leaned against the bed as she looked through the stack of old records I dug out of my closet. She inspected each record and offered bits of history, most of which I already knew. When I told her that Angel Baby was recorded in someone’s garage and, if you listened closely, you could hear the band miss a beat in the middle of the record, I established my cultural superiority.

I never noticed the beat thing, Stella said, impressed.

You have to listen with a more critical ear, I said grandly.

Raaah-ther, she answered with a laugh.

So tell me, I began, as she leafed through the remaining records, which of you has a boyfriend?

"We’ve all had boyfriends, but we’re all unattached at the moment. Boys can be such a nuisance, don’t you agree? She gave me no time to agree or disagree. Are you really asking who is free and easy—who’ll take the least work? We’re all good girls, you know. Sorry to disappoint you."

No, of course I wasn’t asking that. Uh, but you’re not serious, are you?

About?

About all being good girls. You know what happens to good girls, don’t you?

No, what happens to good girls?

Not much, I said.

Stella laughed charmingly and said, Sometimes nothing is better than something.

I was starting to like this girl.

Not even Eileen has a boyfriend?

Stella smiled. Ah, you’ve picked out our prima ballerina right away. No. She’s your basic love-them-and-leave-them type. It’s too easy for her. Guys fall all over themselves falling all over her. The rest of us have to work a little harder than she does. But so you know, Eileen makes the choice. If you’re interested in Eileen, it won’t do you any good to flash yourself in front of her. If she wants you, she’ll have studied you closely and made a decision. She’ll let you know. Your friend, Willy, is taking the absolute wrong approach. Her interest will disappear as his grows. She likes to be intrigued. She only wants what’s hard to get. She wants—how can I put it—she wants a puzzle to solve. The easier the puzzle, the quicker she loses interest.

"Willy was transparent, wasn’t he?"

Somewhat.

And Margie? Margie was taller and beefier than Stella, beefier in a good way. She wore her brown hair, a couple shades darker than Stella’s, longer and pulled into a tight ponytail. Her face was pleasant enough, although her skin was not as clear and smooth as Stella’s. She wore the shortest skirt of the four since, clearly, her legs were the equals of Eileen’s.

She’s my best friend. We were hired the same day. You’ll like her. If you don’t like me first. Only one of us to a customer, though. We never share; nor are we sequential.

Whoa! Sequential.

Now, my turn. I know Willy. Who was the quiet gentleman, the curly-haired one without the mustache?

I felt a prickle of jealousy creep over me but batted it down. "Cliff Glassman. Kind of our star."

The strong, silent type?

More or less.

"I’ll bet he wants Eileen more than he can say, but he may know just how to get her. If he’s smart, he’ll ignore her until she springs."

Did you major in psychology in school?

Afraid not. English Lit. But you haven’t asked about Elsie.

Yes, what about Elsie?

All she talks about is sex. You’ll find out. But the poor girl never gets a chance. I would guess your mustached friend who likes his beer will get drunk enough one night this summer to give Elsie the thrill of her life.

I laughed. Stella seemed to have pegged everyone right. He might, but he prefers alcohol to women.

"Perfect. The exact combination to make Elsie most attractive. Elsie’s funny, though. She knows she’s a bit overweight and not a screaming beauty, but she jokes about it. You’ll like her. Willy and Cliff won’t be interested, but you seem to be a bit more sensitive toward people