Stayin' Alive

By Susie McKenna

Susie McKenna’s debut thriller, LAST TRACKS, was described by KIRKUS REVIEWS as an “…enthralling outdoorsy tale.” Deana, the snarky, determined heroine in LAST TRACKS, returns in STAYIN’ ALIVE to outsmart the bad guys.

Deana and her friends head out of Washington, D.C. for a weekend of golf, cycling, visiting wineries in rural Virginia. The good times come to an abrupt end when Deana’s search for an errant golf ball ends with her discovery of a dead man. Deana’s friends recognize the man as a less than reputable realtor from D.C. Very quickly, it becomes clear that their lives are at risk.

Deana works with the local detective to unravel a web of motives related to greed, jealousy, and deception. Loyalty and friendship are tested as Deana and her friends use technology and unorthodox weapons to stay safe.

The lyrics to the famous Bee Gees’ song “Stayin’ Alive,” used as a doorbell chime in their host’s home, take on new meaning: “You know it’s alright, it’s okay. I’ll live to see another day.”


“I enjoyed the strong writing and the intricately thought-out puzzle of the mystery, which makes the story move along grippingly, keeping the surprises coming.” Kenny Marotta, author of A HOUSE ON THE PIAZZA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665754354

Susie McKenna

Susie McKenna was born and raised in the Midwest. A successful career as a software entrepreneur led her to Virginia, where she now makes her home. A snowshoe trek in search of virgin snow was the inspiration for her first book, the thriller Last Tracks.

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Copyright © 2023 Susie McKenna.

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 any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

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 this 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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5434-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5435-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023923761

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/06/2024

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

Acknowledgements

In memory of Marge and Dolores,

two special ladies who are gone but

will never be forgotten.

Whether you’re a brother or whether

You’re a mother,

You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive

Feel the city breakin’

And everybody shakin’

And we’re stayin’ alive

—Bee Gees 1977

CHAPTER 1

Deana, don’t go in there. Just take the penalty, Cindy ordered, grabbing the back of Deana’s golf shirt.

Deana Cooney looked up at her friend. Cindy Prescott was a good head taller. A murderous look in her narrowed eyes, Deana said nothing. She pushed away the hand holding her shirt and stomped into the high grass.

Deana, Cindy, and their best friends, Shelly Grenert and Jean Smith, lived in overcrowded, bustling Northern Virginia. Cindy had purchased a getaway home in Taylorsville, a small Virginia town two hours south of Washington, DC. She had invited her closest friends to join her for a peaceful weekend of golf and fresh air. Deana had picked up Shelly and Jean in her dark brown Jeep Saturday morning after breakfast. They’d opted to leave on Saturday instead of Friday evening, in the hope of avoiding Friday-evening rush hour. The weekend was not off to a good start. Even on a Saturday morning, traffic jams and accidents had turned the two-hour drive into a six-hour slog. Instead of arriving in time to join Cindy for a nice dinner, they’d had to grab sandwiches from a fast-food spot and eat in the car. They were cranky by the time they arrived.

The four women, all in their late thirties, had successful careers yet made an effort to carve out time to spend together. One thing they all agreed on was that they only played golf for the exercise. That meant they walked instead of riding in a golf cart from hole to hole. If clothes make the woman, then their choice of apparel for golf was revealing. They all wore popular brand-name golf clothes, with pockets made for golf balls and other gadgets. But Shelly’s untucked shirt gave her an air of being comfortable, not fussy. Her long, curly black braids were cinched into a ponytail. She always wore a dark blue Washington Nationals baseball cap for golf. It kept her long hair from interfering with her golf swing. Shelly removed the cap and tucked a loose braid back under the cap. Jean’s collared polo shirt had a few wrinkles and was faded from many washings. She wasn’t terribly concerned with the latest fashions. Her short brown pixie cut was low maintenance. Shelly had convinced her that she needed to maintain an artistic image in keeping with her work as a videographer. Jean had begrudgingly taken her wife’s advice and let a hairdresser bleach the hair on top of her head. She’d spiked it with gloss so that it stood straight up. Definitely an edgy look. Cindy, the girliest of the group, was still holding her visor in her hand. She always wore a visor, claiming a baseball cap would ruin her long brown hair, her pride and joy. They all made fun of Deana for wearing a hat with a wide, floppy brim. A redhead with the expected freckles, her face was still pale in July, thanks to the hat’s protection. Deana always wore a long-sleeved shirt with UPF protection. Cindy, Shelly, and Jean all wore sleeveless shirts. They were looking for a tan. A summer of golf had left them with brown legs and arms. Shelly’s naturally dark brown skin was splotched with sunscreen that she had just applied. They all loved the warmth of the sun.

Cindy’s eyes darted from Deana to the other two friends standing next to her. Hands next to her mouth megaphone style, she tried once more. Deana, remember what the golf pro told us. The copperheads and ticks are bad this year.

Cindy grabbed the cap of her Washington Nationals baseball visor and slapped it against her leg. She shook her long brown locks loose. I give up.

Deana halted and turned to look back at her friends. Hands cupped around her mouth, she shouted, It’s the Sunday before Labor Day. Ticks and copperheads are too exhausted from their summer attacks to bother with me! She continued into the high grass, albeit at a tad slower pace.

Stop! Don’t go in there! Cindy screamed, her voice straining, turning husky.

This time, Deana did stop. When she turned, her eyes were open wide in surprise. Cindy was not one prone to screaming and losing control. A look at Shelly and Jean standing next to Cindy told her they were just as shocked as she was. Their mouths were open, neither one speaking.

Deana said, What? You would think I was going to find a dead body in here. Without waiting for a response, she resumed her search for the lost golf ball, lifting the seven iron she was carrying and waving it in the air. Don’t worry. I’ll make a racket with this stupid club that got me in here. It will scare any snakes away. She turned and headed into the thick grass, swinging the golf club in front of her, chanting, Go away, little snake, go away.

Cindy continued to stare at Deana’s receding back. Shit, she mumbled, then turned to the two friends playing with them. No way would I go in there. One of the groundskeepers got bit by a copperhead last week. He’s still out from work.

Cindy shouted, Deana, is it worth a snake bite for the quarter you’ll lose on this hole?

Deana stopped walking and turned to her golf buddies. I’m not losing this hole. I’m out of quarters.

Cindy watched her friend walking in the high grass next to the fairway. The three-foot-high grasses reached Deana’s waist. They came up to Cindy’s knees. Cindy’s face looked like a thunderstorm about to erupt.

Jean patted her on the back. Relax. She’ll give up in a few minutes. She really hates to lose. She wastes more time looking for balls, Jean complained to Cindy and Shelly. You would think the golf ball was solid gold.

The price she pays for the darn things, you would think they would at least have a few gold flakes in them, Shelly said.

We don’t have problems like this playing golf at our course in DC, Jean said. We’ve never been warned about snakes, and they keep the grass cut. The only issue is hitting into the river.

Jean’s defense of their busy course in the city was interrupted by an ear-splitting scream.

The three women turned to see Deana running out of the grass, face red, eyes wide open, golf hat flopping around her neck. Oh my god. There’s a body in there. And a big snake. You were right. I shouldn’t have gone in there for the ball!

Her friends exchanged looks, eyes wide open, mouths gaping. Three voices said, What?

Enunciating each word, Deana said, There is a body, a man in the grass. She put a hand over her mouth. And there is a snake lying on him. It lunged at me. Her arms wrapped around herself, and she shivered.

Cindy touched Deana’s arm. You stay here. We’ll go look.

No way. I’m not going in there, Jean said.

There was more than one snake crawling around. You were right, Cin. I shouldn’t have gone in there. Deana closed her eyes, remembering the man’s body. He had on golf shoes. Maybe he went in the rough to take a leak.

Deana, I can’t believe you noticed his shoes, Shelly said.

Black polo shirt scrunched up, exposing a very hairy chest, wild red-and-black striped shorts, and golf shoes. She looked at Shelly, not challenging her, just explaining. No socks. He wasn’t wearing socks. His leg, the right one, had a nasty black spot on it. She paused, eyes closed, remembering. Same black hair on his legs and arms. Black spot on the front of his knee. No hair there. That’s why I noticed the black spot.

Deana looked in the direction of the body. She was thinking about her old friend Ed, a retired detective who had helped her out of some dangerous situations a year ago. He had died protecting her. It was time spent with Ed that had taught her to stay calm and observe. A grimace preceded the thought that her attempt at being Miss Cool, Calm, and Collected did not hold up when faced with a snake.

I couldn’t help but notice the golf shoes. He was on his back. The golf spikes were facing me. A snake was draped over his ankles. She paused, looking at Shelly. The snake’s head was reaching over the golf shoes when it lunged at me.

Shelly blinked. Oh, sorry.

It’s OK. Deana turned to Cindy. Cin, remember Ed?

I sure do. Are you wishing Ed was here? Cindy put her arm around her friend’s shoulder.

Ed was always alert, always checking out the environment and people around him. He would have chided me for turning tail at the sight of the dead man.

Well, he might have run himself at the sight of snakes, Cindy said.

Deana’s head snapped to look up at her friend. We need to go back in there. He might still be alive.

Cindy grabbed Deana’s arm. You’re right. I’ll call 911 and the pro shop. Then, good friend that I am, I’ll go in with you to check on the man.

Deana sighed, thinking, Good golly, Miss Molly, here I am in a gated golf community with friends, and I find a dead body. And I thought this would be a humdrum day whacking golf balls.

We, I mean my friend, found a body in the rough at the golf course. At least we think the man is dead. We’re at Monarch Golf Course. We’re waiting for you on hole seven. Cindy listened to the 911 operator. OK, go to the pro shop. I’ll call them next. They’ll bring you out here. We are going to go back in and make sure, I mean check, to see if he is alive or dead. Cindy’s face scrunched up as if in pain. Um, you see, there were snakes crawling around him.

Listening to Cindy on the phone, Deana was in awe. Her voice was calm. She might have been speaking to a potential donor in her old job as director at the National Art Gallery.

Cindy ended the call with, Thank you. Please hurry.

Good job, Deana said. Now call animal control. Tell them about the snakes.

Cindy nodded and completed the call. They’re on their way.

Heads turned at the sound of a golf cart braking and skidding. A woman’s voice called out from the cart, Ladies, you need to pick up the pace.

The pro’s wife. A real pain in the butt Realtor, Cindy said, her hand over her mouth.

But she smiled when she addressed the woman. Teresa, one of the members appears to be the victim of a snake bite.

Teresa’s fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they turned white. She rocked forward. Dark brown hair with very expensive blond highlights rolled to cover her face when her forehead tapped the steering wheel. She slowly lifted her head. Her mouth was set in anger, her eyes hard. The mouth and chin were set in such a firm, unwrinkled state Deana’s first thought was, That woman has had some work done. Deana wondered if the annoyed look was the response to the inconvenience of a dead body or empathy for the victim. Teresa’s blood-red fingernails, diamond ear studs, and full makeup, including blue eye shadow to match her designer golf outfit, made Deana’s mouth slide into a smirk. No normal, self-respecting woman would get dolled up like that to get exercise. Teresa was in a cart, not walking. No exercise intended.

According to the calendar, there should have been a September chill in the air. It was warm enough that sweaters weren’t necessary, yet the sight of the dead man had left Deana shivering, in need of a cup of hot tea. The interruption of the so-called pain in the butt Teresa brought Deana back to reality. I’m going back in there, she declared.

No! Teresa demanded. Don’t go in there. Call my husband. He’ll take care of this. She waved back at the previous hole. Putting a little honey in her voice, she pleaded, I have clients with me. They’re waiting on the tee box. I don’t want their game to be disturbed.

The four friends exchanged a glance. Teresa’s demands explained Cindy’s low opinion of her. Deana, in a stern voice, said, Ma’am, there is a man lying in the grass back there. Probably dead. Your clients’ golf game is not important today. She took a deep breath. And neither is whatever real estate deal you’ve got cooking.

Shelly, the shortest of the four friends, spoke in a sweet voice, to which she added a phony southern drawl. Y’all might want ta mention ta your friends about the snakes. She finished by flashing a smile at Teresa. Cindy, Jean, and Deana were busy covering their mouths, shoulders rocking with laughter. Shelly, a southerner herself, grew up in North Carolina but had lost any accent a long time ago. She had not lost her disdain for what she considered bad behavior hiding behind false gentility. Teresa’s feigned sincerity had brought out Shelly’s flair for understated sarcasm.

Teresa pursed her lips, jerked the wheel of the golf cart into a turn, and sped away without a word.

Deana bumped knuckles with Shelly. She certainly is a pain in the butt, Deana said.

Piranha is more descriptive, Jean said.

The four women were tense. Jean’s head bobbed around, Shelly rubbed her hands together, and Deana chewed on a fingernail.

Let’s stay calm, Cindy said. I know we’re all in shock. The police will be here soon. There’s nothing we can do.

We need to make sure of that, Shelly said. Come on. Let’s get this over with. I’ll go first. I’m not afraid of snakes. It isn’t something I advertise. She looked at each of her friends. When I was in fourth grade, I picked up a snake on the playground and brought it to the teacher. The kids nicknamed me Creepy Snake Lady.

Shelly, these aren’t harmless garter snakes, Deana said.

Another little known fact is that my dad used to go on snake hunts. I went along a couple of times.

You’re kidding, right? Cindy snickered. A world-class baker and a herpetologist. You are full of surprises. This has certainly become a bonding experience.

Well, there wasn’t much on television then. A snake hunt was a lot more interesting. And what I learned is coming in handy now. She turned to Deana. If you saw more than one snake, it could be a nest. It’s a warm fall day. They’re getting ready for winter. The sunny day will get them out of the nest, looking for mice. They’re usually out and about when the temperature climbs above seventy-two degrees.

Shelly, I’ll be right behind you, Deana said. Cindy and Jean, stay here. She softened her voice. "I mean, in case we need help."

Cindy and Jean objected together. Oh, no. Don’t say that!

Deana walked to her golf bag, which she had left standing next to the paved golf path. She unzipped a side pocket. When she stood up, there was a gun in one hand and her seven iron in the other hand. OK, Shelly. Let’s go.

You brought your gun for golf? Shelly asked, her voice rising in surprise.

If we meet a snake in there, you’ll be happy I have it. Let’s get going.

Shelly shrugged. A smile replaced the lock of shock on her face. Good idea, I have to admit.

Shelly followed Deana into the tall grasses. She led them down her previous path into the rough. They used the golf clubs to hit the grass on both sides of the path. Shoot, I wish I had snake tongs with me, Shelly said.

Deana mumbled, "When I have to carry snake tongs with me for a sport, it is time to find a new sport. And be careful with the word shoot, friend."

Shelly shook her head and chuckled. Stomp hard. They’ll hear the vibrations and scatter.

Deana, head down, swiveling from side to side, said, You mean slither away, don’t you?

No laugh from Shelly to acknowledge the humor. After they were a few feet down the path, Deana stopped walking. Stop, Shelly. When I walked in, I followed a sort of path where the grasses had been trampled. I figured deer had pushed the grasses down or another golfer had gone in here looking for a ball. She pointed to the flattened grass that resembled a path. I think someone dragged his body. That’s why the grass is beaten down.

The high-pitched pulse of police cars and rescue vehicles approaching was getting louder.

They’re almost here, Deana said. If he is still alive, there isn’t anything we can do. If he’s dead and someone killed him other than a snake, we don’t want to traipse around the crime scene.

I guess you’re right.

The two women, shoulders sagging, walked back to join their friends.

Deana played golf only if she walked. She could be a pain in the butt herself for making fun of people zooming around in carts and calling it a sport. Cindy was Deana’s oldest friend. They remained friends even after Cindy introduced Deana to a man who married her for her money and turned out to be a serial killer. The two women were complete opposites. Deana loved hiking, snowshoeing, and adventure. She surprised herself when curling became her favorite sport. Her time in Jasper with two people who had saved her life was the reason. Linda and her husband, Jim, had taken Deana out on the ice for a curling lesson in Jasper, in an attempt to cheer her up. Linda’s expertise and enthusiasm got Deana hooked on curling. When she returned to her home in Alexandria, Virginia, she found an active group of curlers in the area. She had returned to Jasper a couple of times to visit Jack, Jim, and Linda and to take more curling lessons. That interest led her to start a curling team at the local high school in Alexandria.

Cindy, like a lot of people, made fun of Deana’s interest in curling. Deana had never been able to talk her friend into throwing a stone. Cindy said the only stone she was interested in was one that sparkled. That was all right with Deana. She had never succumbed to Cindy’s prodding about taking an art class. Cindy’s idea of adventure was a round of golf followed by drinks.

Deana had to admit she looked forward to the conversations the friends shared during their rounds of golf. Cindy joked that four hours was a long time to spend with anyone, so you had to make sure you really liked your golf buddies. A year ago, Cindy had purchased the home in Taylorsville, Virginia, saying she needed a country getaway, an escape from the concrete and hustle of the city. Considering Cindy lived in a no-expenses-spared condo at the luxurious Watergate building in Washington, DC, Deana found it amusing that she needed an escape. Deana, Shelly, and Jean lived across the river from Cindy in Old Town, Alexandria. The four friends often played golf together at courses close to their homes in Northern Virginia.

As Deana and Shelly approached Cindy and Jean, Deana said, Cindy promised us a weekend of golf, visits to wineries, and cozy restaurants. She didn’t mention any dead bodies.

If we wanted peace and quiet, Shelly said, lowering her voice, we should have stayed in the city and gone to Cindy’s Watergate condo. Cindy could have ordered her usual takeout, which we would be eating on the balcony overlooking the Potomac River. Now, we’ll be sitting in the house waiting for the police to talk to us.

Right, Deana agreed. In all the rounds of golf we’ve played together on the city courses, we haven’t encountered any dead bodies and not a single snake.

What are you two talking about? Jean asked.

Deana looked at Cindy. We were just wishing we were sitting on the balcony in your Watergate condo.

Before Cindy could say anything, the screeching noise from sirens suddenly stopped.

They’re at the pro shop. They’ll be here in a few minutes, Cindy said. You might want to put that gun away.

Good point, Deana acknowledged. She had a concealed carry permit, but there was no need to call attention to it right now.

Deana’s phone vibrated. The women had a long-standing agreement on a no-phones rule when they played golf. She had asked for a waiver on the rule for the day. Jack, her boyfriend, was flying in from Belgium the next day. It’s Jack, Deana said, frowning. Jack, hi. I can’t talk. Call me back in a couple of hours.

Cindy moved close enough so that Jack would be able to hear her. Tell him you’re involved with snakes and a dead body.

Deana groaned. No, Jack. We’re all OK. I just, er, stumbled onto a poor man who might have been bitten by a snake. Pause. Jack, it’s not funny. I’m sure he is dead. Eyes closed, Deana spoke very quietly. We’re all fine. Call me later. I’ll explain.

The four women moved closer together. First Shelly wrapped her arm through Deana’s, and then Deana wrapped hers through Jean’s. Jean followed by winding hers through Cindy’s. The four friends stood linked together, facing the cart path, looking for signs of help.

Deana, Cindy said, having you as a friend has certainly made my life more exciting.

Shelly snorted. Excitement like this I don’t need.

Right, Jean said. I hope you’ve learned your lesson about going in the rough to look for lost balls.

Sorry to ruin your day. It’s not like I killed the guy.

Their heads turned at the sound of vehicles coming to a stop on the street next to the golf hole.

Of course, Deana thought, if you wanted to leave a body here, this would be a good choice. The cart path is close to the street. She looked around. The closest McMansion was five hundred yards away. The view from the house would be blocked by trees.

Her musings stopped at the sight of an entourage jogging toward them. The person in the lead was wearing jeans with a tweed suit jacket, blue dress shirt, and tie. The fact that he came to a stop without appearing to have exerted himself confirmed that he was as fit as he looked. Following close behind him were two officers, a man and a woman in uniform, and three emergency squad workers. They were all inhaling and exhaling deeply when they arrived. The emergency workers had an excuse for their heavy breathing. They were carrying a stretcher and a medical kit.

Hubba, hubba, Cindy said, her eyes on the man leading the group. She removed her ball cap and shook out her hair.

Whoa, girl. I think he’s the detective in charge, Deana said.

Cindy pinched her cheeks and looked at Deana. Do I look OK? I hope he arrests me.

Deana shook her head. This isn’t Match.com.

Easy for you to say. You’re all attached.

Excuse me,