More Gayle's Tales: Tracy Gale Mysteries

By Trish Hubschman

Danny's Tide's big project is in full swing. He's having an abandoned coal mining town, Century End, rebuilt. The support from local townspeople is overwhelming. But then odd things start occurring on job sites. They're small at first: undelivered equipment and materials, mislaid tools, minor workers' accidents.

Danny asks his new bride, Private Investigator Tracy Gayle, to look into it. At that moment, she's on Long Island, tidying up an older case with the FBI. Danny's in Northern Pennsylvania, overseeing the decorating of their new East Coast house and preparing for his band's upcoming tour. His long–time drummer has walked out on him, and he has to find a replacement fast.

When Tracy returns to Pennsylvania, she gets right on the Century End case, but she's short on time to come up with answers. The small "inconveniences" have grown into much bigger, more dangerous things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trish Hubschman
• Release date: Jan 28, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230526360

Book preview

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Gayle’s Tales

Tracy Gayle Mysteries

Trish Hubschman

Books by Trish Hubschman

The Tracy Gayle Mysteries

Tidal Wave

Stiff Competition

Ratings Game

Uneasy Tides

Gayle’s Tales

More Gayle’s Tales

Independently published

Editing, print layout, e–book conversion,

and cover design by DLD Books

Editing and Self–Publishing Services

www.dldbooks.com

Copyright 2025 by Trish Hubschman

All rights reserved.

Cover image by Kevin Hubschman

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my friend Robert Dean Sollars, who passed away on December 31, 2023. Robert was a fellow writer and a Tracy Gayle fan. He kept urging me to expand on my stories. I know he would love this book.

And to my husband, Kevin; my dog, Henry; and my mom, Ginny.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1: An Empty House

Chapter 2: The Man in the Brown Derby

Chapter 3: So Much Going On

Chapter 4: Sabotage—Yes or No

About the Author

Tidalwave was going to Europe. They had scheduled dates in England, Ireland, and Scotland. I was so excited, particularly about Ireland.

My maternal grandfather came over from Dublin, I told Danny. He was a small man. People teased him about being one of Santa’s elves. Grandpa Sean would reply, No siree, I’m not. I’m a leprechaun. I was laughing. Danny was too. I can’t wait to see some of the magical places there," I said.

He smiled. It all starts with the hotel we’re staying in. It’s a converted castle called The Magic Wand.

We both laughed again.

Chapter 1

An Empty House

FBI Special Agent Catherine Smith

I was finally leaving the office. It was after 7:00. My partner, Alan Wilder, and I were—let’s call it tying up some loose ends on a case, which was closed. The perpetrator was dead. His final intended victim was still alive. In my book, that was a happy ending.

After a quick–thinking, fast–moving private investigator had done a tackle and pushed the victim out of the perpetrator’s grasp, three people had fired their weapons at the killer. Two of them we’ve identified and interviewed. One was Danny Tide’s bodyguard from across the street. The other shooter was one of our own agents. But the bullet that had killed Raymond Henderson had come from an unknown weapon and shooter. Maybe at some point we would identify that person. Maybe not. I didn’t want to think about it anymore that day.

Home sweet home at last. I was tired and hungry. I planned to stop at a Burger King drive–through and eat in my car as I headed to my house.

I turned down my street and pulled up to the curb instead of scooting into the driveway. I got out of the car and headed up the path. My hand rested on the doorknob. It turned in my grasp. It shouldn’t have done that. I knew I’d locked the door when I left the house at lunchtime.

I eased the door open. The house seemed too dark and quiet. My hand went up to the light switch on the wall. But then I stopped. I thought I heard something. Maybe it was my cat. Maybe it was an axe murderer. I wasn’t taking any chances. I backed out of the house and closed the door behind me. As I made my way down the path, I took out my cell phone and called 911. I stayed in my car until the police arrived.

I explained the situation to the two officers as we went up the path. The older of the two men, Dobbs, knelt by the door and examined the knob and lock for marks. There were none. My front door hadn’t been forced. Dobbs rose and swung the door inward, then flipped the light switch. Nothing. No movement. That was good.

I’ll check upstairs. Dobbs started to climb to the second floor of the house. There were three bedrooms on that level. Officer Wilcox and I went into the living room. What I saw was a professionally cleaned and tidied space. I didn’t have a housekeeper.

The den is behind this room, and the kitchen is to the left, I said. I flipped the switch on the wall of the den. Just as in the living room, everything was neat as a pin in here. The top of my laptop computer on the desk by the window was closed.

Is there a back door in the kitchen? Wilcox asked. I answered in the affirmative. We went into the kitchen. To my relief, my coffee cup and cereal bowl from breakfast were still in the sink.

Wilcox was by the back door. Do you usually leave your back door unlocked? he asked.

My head popped up. I always make sure the doors are firmly locked before I leave the house, I assured him.

He opened the door inward. Then I think you’ve had a prowler, ma’am, he reported. But he’d win the Good Housekeeping award for break–ins.

If it weren’t so freaky, what he’d said would have been funny.

Officer Dobbs came around the corner from the den into the kitchen. It’s all clear upstairs, he said. In fact, it’s what I’d call clean as a whistle. My compliments on your good housekeeping, Ms. Smith. Wish you could spread that word to my wife.

That one really made me want to laugh, but I couldn’t. Both officers knew I was a very busy FBI agent. I like to keep my house in order, but what we were all seeing here wasn’t me.

Officer Wilcox cut in. Do you have a basement, Ms. Smith?

I turned to face Wilcox. For some reason, I felt a huge sense of relief. Yes, over there. I pointed to a closed door. But there’s no way anyone could get into or out of the house via the basement.

Dobbs was moving to the closed basement door. No, but the basement is a good place to hide till the coast is clear.

They both went down the stairs but were back a few minutes later. There was nothing of interest down there.

We’ll talk to the neighbors, see if anyone saw anything, Wilcox said as I walked the men to the front door. Do you have anyone to call to keep you company for a while? he asked. I smiled and nodded. I thanked them. The officers stepped out the door.

Dobbs leaned back toward me to say one last thing. You did the right thing, Ms. Smith. When in doubt, always call for backup before proceeding.

That time, my smile was quite sincere. I closed the front door and dug out my cell phone. I called my partner. I could hear his kids screaming in the background. I told him about my suspected house break–in. He said he’d be over as soon as he could. I disconnected and put in another call to my new private investigator friend, Tracy Gayle.

Somebody was in my house who shouldn’t have been, I told her. I don’t know who it was, what they were looking for, or how long they were here, but they invaded my personal space, and I’m ticked off. Fury was rising in me. My fingers had balled into a fist that was pressed into my hip. I proceeded to tell Tracy the whole story, from the time I pulled to the curb in front of my house tonight to the two policemen leaving a few minutes before.

Granted, I realize now why the motion light over the garage didn’t go on, I continued. I hadn’t parked in the driveway. But the lamp I had flipped on in the living room when I came home at lunchtime to let my cat, Jasper, outside, should have still been on, and the doors should have been locked. Also—and this is the really weird part—the house is much neater than when I left it.

Sounds like your place was searched by a professional, Tracy said. Either he or she didn’t want you to know they were there, or they wanted you to know and were leaving a message. Was there anything, let’s say, out of sync, not right in all the perfection?

I had to think about that. I haven’t been upstairs yet, but down here, my coffee cup and cereal bowl are still in the kitchen sink. I chuckled. I guess the perpetrator didn’t have time to wash the dishes.

Do you think they were still in the house when you came home? Tracy asked.

I nodded. Yeah, and that freaks me out.

Okay, Tracy said, her voice decisive. Do you want me and Danny to come over there and stay with you tonight? It won’t be any trouble. Or you can come here. My house has two bedrooms. Flasher can sleep on the couch.

The idea of the rock star’s bodyguard being forced to sleep on the sofa, which was probably too short for him, made me chuckle. No thank you, Tracy. You’re a dear friend, but this is my house, and no one is going to scare me out of it.

I have to admit, I’m proud of you for that way of thinking, Catherine, she said. Call me in the morning, so I’ll know you made it through the night.

I agreed and disconnected. There was a knock on the door. Alan, the band’s manager, had arrived. Already, I couldn’t wait for him to leave. I was exhausted. I wanted to go upstairs, kick off my shoes, unhook my holster, slip on sweatpants, and crawl into bed. I’d read a book, watch some TV, and go to sleep. But I had to be hospitable. Alan had come over because I had called him. I opened the door and smiled.

Chapter 2

The Man in the Brown Derby

Karen Rosen

Where was I to begin? I was in my grandmother’s dusty and cluttered attic, about to start digging through years of personal belongings and memories. Grandma had died six months earlier. It was time to start cleaning things out, time to put the house on the market. My mother, Eve Rosen, who lived in Florida, had asked me to do this. My father and I lived in Atlanta, where my grandmother’s house was. I was okay with doing it, but it was going to be difficult, time– consuming, and heartbreaking.

There was a rickety old coffee table in front of me. On it were stacked books and photo albums. I reached for the item on top. It was a heavy picture frame, covered with dust and dirt. I blew on it. Some dust flew off and I coughed, but the picture beneath the glass still wasn’t clearly visible.

I took the bottom of my T–shirt and wiped the glass in the frame. Finally, I could see the photograph. I held it away from me to examine it. There were two people in the photo. One was my very happy, smiling grandmother. The other was a man, but it wasn’t my grandfather. He wore a brown topcoat and derby. The hat was pulled low over his eyes, obscuring his features. I was pretty sure he was younger than my grandmother, but who was he?

I sat back on my heels, still holding the picture and staring at it. An eerie feeling passed over me. Had my grandmother been involved with this man? Had my grandfather known about him? Who was he?

I felt a strong urge to call my mother and get the scoop, but what if she didn’t know anything about it? I didn’t think I should rattle any skeletons until I knew something first. My next thought was to phone my father, but he would