Spirited Away: A No Ordinary Women Mystery

By Barbara Deese

The No Ordinary Women are back! Robin Bentley and Cate Running Wolf have been through a lot together. Not that long ago, they risked their lives to solve a murder. You'd think they'd learn. But when ninety-six-year-old Era Dudley, a spry, compact woman with mauve hair, charges toward Robin, points a bony finger in her chest and demands she help locate her missing son, Robin can't resist drawing Cate and the No Ordinary Women book club into yet another mystery. They're not without help, however. Era and the other lovable and quirky residents of Meadowpoint Manor are not about to be sidelined, despite their advanced years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780878399307

Barbara Deese

Barbara Deese grew up in a family of voracious readers, and still feels most at home with people who love a good story. Her twisty career path began when she became one of thirty-three female air marshals in the U.S. She lives in Minnesota with her husband. 

Book preview

Spirited Away

A No Ordinary Women Mystery

by

Barbara Deese

ISBN: 978-0-87839-930-7

Copyright © 2013 Barbara Deese

Cover art by Jake Karwoski, Monster of the Midwest, LLC

Author photo by Karen Belk

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: September 2013

Electronic Edition: September 2013

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

For More Information

Http://www.northstarpress.com

North Star Press – Facebook

North Star Press – Twitter

This is for my mother, Daisy, who never missed a chance to get in on a good caper. She kept her sense of humor and her sense of adventure right up to the end.

I am deeply grateful for the encouragement and enthusiasm of friends, family, fellow writers and fans. Without you, writing wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

A special thanks to Richard Schultz, Retired Deputy Chief, and Minneapolis Police Department, who was willing to share his wealth of knowledge with me.

1

Bright midday light suffused the room with a cheeriness Robin Bentley did not feel. She longed to be outside, where she imagined slipping her camera out of its case to capture the swirl of maple leaves as they fell, and the gathering at the city park of the Canada geese getting ready for their flight to warmer climates.

Instead, she was sitting in the community room of her mother’s apartment building, not in itself an unpleasant place to spend an afternoon, but made so by her mother’s current mood.

Living! scoffed Vivian Tesdale. You call this living, shut away in a nursing home? Her hands fretted in her lap and her steel-gray hair, Robin noted, looked lifeless. Vivian’s slender frame was still agile, and except for her arthritis, she was in good health.

Some people would say she enjoyed good health, but in her present mood, it would not be an appropriate description. Robin had always resembled her mother in stature and facial structure, and it disturbed her to envision her own skin slackening with the years and her eyes turning down at the corners.

Robin shifted her gaze to the quilted wall hanging with its colorful heart motif and sighed. She was not going to waste her breath reminding her mother Meadowpoint Manor was a senior living community. Vivian’s comfortable two-bedroom apartment was in the independent living wing, which housed over seventy percent of the residents, where she was as free to come and go as she’d been in her own house in nearby Minneapolis. Nor did she point out to Vivian that she’d moved there of her own volition after falling on the ice while shoveling her driveway two winters ago, injuring her wrist and tearing ligaments in her knee.

Vivian’s own furniture filled her apartment, and her own Honda was parked in the underground garage. In fact, counting the amenities in the building, her living space included not only this community room with game tables and large-screen television, but also a sunroom, a library, a craft room, generous storage space, and a laundry. Each floor had its own dining room, where the chairs were upholstered and the tables were set with placemats and vases. Downstairs was a small convenience store, a hair salon and a coffee shop for the residents. Not only that, but Vivian could, if she chose, avail herself of numerous restaurants and stores, services and entertainment within three miles of the building. A small city park was within easy walking distance. Vivian’s only restriction, as far as Robin could tell, was her despondency.

It had been years since her mother had sunk into her last clinical depression, but memories going back to her earliest childhood prodded Robin to say, When’s the last time you took your meds? When her mother shrugged, she said, It’s time, Mom. Even if you won’t do it for yourself, you have to do it for me, okay?

Vivian glowered over the top of her glasses. She picked at a loose thread on the armchair as her eyes wandered over to the bookshelf, seemingly scanning the titles. Slowly, her head moved up and down and she said, Fine. But before Robin could savor her victory, her mother added, But anybody with two brain cells can see this is nothing but a glorified nursing home.

Robin made an effort to smile. Feeling, at that moment, weary enough to move into this facility herself, she rose and gave her mother a heartfelt hug before heading to the apartment to fetch her mother’s prescription bottle. As she strode down the hallway, she went over the conversation in her mind, already rehearsing it for the retelling. Cate, her friend of over thirty years, would appreciate the frustrating nature of mother-daughter dynamics, and in the telling, they would both find the nugget of humor in it.

Handrails on both sides of the hallways testified to the fact that not all in this building were as able-bodied as her mother. Robin passed the extra-wide elevator and turned left, startled by the figure chugging toward her, a spry, compact woman with mauve hair. Era Dudley was something of an institution here.

Pointing a bony finger at Robin’s chest and peering up into her face, Era said, You’re that junior detective, aren’t you? Her voice was brittle, as if at any moment her words might break into little shards of vowels and consonants. Without waiting for an answer, she stood a little taller and looked over her shoulder to the left, then to the right. Her voice took on a conspiratorial tone. I have an assignment for you.

Junior detective? Her mother must have regaled the other residents with stories about how Robin and the rest of the No Ordinary Women book club had helped to solve the murder of a young woman in Wisconsin last year. Maybe I should have kept my Dick Tracy junior detective kit, Robin thought, remembering her badge, decoder and manual. Okay, what’s my assignment? Robin smiled sweetly, more amused than concerned by Era’s behavior. After all, the woman was ninety-six years and counting, and her general lucidity was dotted with episodes of confusion and quirkiness. She still cooked her own meals, but it was common knowledge that for some time now, she had been setting an extra place at her table for her long dead husband.

Era reached into the sleeve of her cardigan, extracting an embroidered handkerchief, blew her nose in it and stuffed it back up under the ribbing at her wrist. Planting her feet wide, she focused on Robin’s face with an unwavering stare. Something has happened to my son. He doesn’t come anymore, and he doesn’t answer the phone. I don’t drive, so I want you to go and break him out of wherever they’re keeping him. The creases in her face deepened and her eyes shone with tears.

Robin might have been amused, had the woman not been so obviously distressed. Time must pass slowly for Era, now that she had sold her home and had curtailed many of the activities of a younger person, Robin reasoned. No wonder she concocted stories like this. With her world getting smaller with each passing year, Era had likely begun fixating on her son’s visits.

How old is Winston now? Robin asked, picking the name from her memory. She’d met the gaunt silver-haired man here on several occasions, and found Winston’s visage and manner austere.

Era tilted her head. Her brows puckered. Thirty-four, I think. She considered a moment longer. No, wait. Is it September?

Even as spry as Era appeared to be, the poor woman must be having problems with her short term memory and couldn’t keep track of time. I’m sure he’ll come to visit you soon, Mrs. Dudley. She took Era’s soft hand in hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, and hurried down the hall.

Once in her mother’s nicely decorated apartment, Robin found that the amber prescription bottle, filled almost two years ago, was virtually untouched. Closing the medicine chest, she caught her reflection. It took her by surprise. Her chin length hair wasn’t that different from the style she’d worn for years, but now it looked as if someone had pressed the Photoshop command that changed a color photo into a black-and-white one. The blonde had leached out of her hair, and her washed out complexion made her look as she had during chemotherapy two years ago. She hadn’t looked that bad in her own mirror this morning, had she? She made a mental note to change the light bulb on her next visit to something less harsh, maybe one with a warmer tone.

Returning to her mother with a glass of apple juice and her antidepressants, she watched while she popped one in her mouth and washed it down.

A little after four o’clock, she walked with her mother back to her apartment, and left her sitting in front of the TV. Closing the door on her way out, she heard the opening theme song for Jeopardy, and imagined, as she walked down the hall, that it was playing simultaneously on most of the televisions in the building.

By the time she got into her car, she’d forgotten all about Era’s son, Winston.

2

Taking the scenic route home, she meandered through Theodore Wirth Park. The birch and maple trees were magnificent in their fall glory. She pulled over to watch a group of crows—for some reason referred to as a murder of crows, she remembered reading—behaving like a bunch of thugs as they chased smaller birds from their neighborhood of oak trees.

She considered grabbing her camera, usually at the ready on the passenger seat, and decided she had enough pictures of birds. Her most recent book of photography, Seasons in the Woods, had shown only modest sales, and she was beginning to think her next project should be a departure from her nature series. She’d contemplated including more artful close-ups or less text, but had yet to settle on something that excited her as much as the first two books had.

Leaving the car running, Robin used the hands-free feature to phone Cate, her old college roommate and fellow member of the No Ordinary Women book club.

Having given themselves such a puffed-up name, the five women of the book club had forged friendships that had sustained them through several years. Besides gathering each month to talk about the books they’d read and loved or not loved, they’d celebrated each other’s happiest events and supported each other through more than a few tribulations. They’d also, last spring, been drawn into solving a real life murder, sleuthing about with naïve enthusiasm as if they were characters in a mystery novel. And in the process, at least in Robin’s estimation, they’d begun to grow into their name.

When Robin recounted her visit with her mother, Cate listened, more quiet than usual. Robin guessed her reluctance to comment had something to do with the fact that in less than forty-eight hours, Cate’s own mother, Wanda, would be arriving from Florida, and would soon become the newest resident of Meadowpoint Manor.

Mom’s not exactly the head of the welcoming committee, the way she’s been acting lately. What were we thinking, putting our mothers under one roof? Robin moaned. She was back on city streets now and traffic had picked up.

Cate’s laugh was merry. It might work out better than you think.

I hope you’re being clairvoyant right now, said Robin, only a little bit mocking her friend’s uncanny abilities. Frankly, all I see in our future is a lot of headaches.

Again Cate laughed. I’m not seeing that far ahead. In our more immediate future, though, I do see two glasses of wine, accompanied by crostini with tapenade. In fact, if you come early, we can talk some more before the others get here. Tonight was Cate’s turn to host the September book club meeting.

I’d need to go home, feed the cats and get my book, Robin said. She sat a split second too long at a stoplight and the driver behind her, a kid who looked too young to be driving in the first place, honked and gestured with his middle finger when he passed her. So much for Minnesota Nice. Cate, I’m tempted to pull over right here and get out and walk, just so I can kick some leaves.

If you can get here before five fifteen, you can walk the dogs with me. We have leaves in Saint Paul, too, you know.

She glanced at the car’s clock. I think I can make it.

And she did, by two minutes. The weather was perfect. Cate had Mitsy, her patchwork dog, on one lead. Robin took Cate’s black lab, Carlton, who was older and less energetic. Mitsy kept weaving back and forth in front of them, trying to herd invisible sheep as they made their way east on Summit, past the old mansions to where they could see the cathedral and a beautiful slice of the city skyline. Every now and then, Mitsy circled Cate, wrapping the leash around her knees, like a spider with a fly, and Cate had to stop and untangle herself.

On the return, they were mostly silent. The unmistakable smell of autumn evoked in Robin memories of her father raking leaves into piles for her to jump in, and she remembered how each new school year excited her with new shoes and new possibilities. She thought about those early fall evenings when she and her little friends were allowed to stay out in the gathering dark. They played tag and hopscotch and hide and seek, and chanted Star Light, Star Bright until the streetlights came on and they scampered off to their own homes. Often on those evenings someone had a bonfire going, and the neighborhood kids gathered around to tell scary stories. She and the twins next door liked to put the ends of their flashlights in their mouths and pretend they were jack-o-lanterns. Even after washing up for bed on those nights, she would fall asleep with the smell of bonfire in her hair.

Robin was jerked out of her reverie when Carlton caught sight of a squirrel and nearly pulled her arm out of the socket. When she tried to switch the leash to her other hand, the dog sensed his advantage and bolted free, getting no farther than the base of an elm tree, where he was again taken into custody.

Back at her house, Cate taped a note to the front door telling her guests to come through the side gate. She lit a fire in the outdoor fireplace and though the sun wouldn’t set for over an hour, she turned on the mushroom-shaped landscape lights.

She and Robin were enjoying a glass of wine on the patio when Louise arrived. She was large-boned with big champagne-colored hair and an air of southern grace. She slid onto the bench across from them. Louise and her partner, Dean, a man she’d lived with for over thirty years, jointly owned Past Tense Antiques, and she often sported accessories from her shop. Tonight it was a lace shawl and a beaded bag in the art deco style. There was a hint of the South in her accent when she spoke about the fabulous weather and thanked the good lord for the early frost which had killed the mosquitoes without damaging the hardier plants.

The other two arrived within minutes. Grace’s tailored pantsuit told Robin she’d come directly from her job as a financial advisor, and her harried expression undoubtedly had something to do with rush hour traffic, which had become exponentially awful in the Twin Cities in recent years. At the close of her workday, Grace exchanged her briefcase for the craft basket she now carried.

Foxy sat next to Grace and stretched out her long legs on the patio stones. Her russet hair was twisted in a bun, the way she wore it when she was working on a client. After a long day on her feet, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes. She still had the graceful carriage of a dancer, her profession in a previous life, as she liked to say, before she’d studied to be a massage therapist. Tapenade, my favorite, Foxy said, slathering the olive spread on her crostini. Somehow, calories had little effect on her figure, although she pointed out to anyone who made that observation that she had, in fact, gone from a size six to an eight in the past three decades.

They sipped wine, Pinot Grigio for Foxy and Shiraz for the other four. Foxy passed around photos of her recent trip to see an old friend in Portland. The climate is just enough different from ours and they can grow almost anything. The pictures of landscaping showed colors and varieties that were indeed beautiful. There were other pictures displaying sandy beaches and driftwood, some of winding roads and dense pine forests. Tina, Foxy’s friend from her dancing days, was in several photos. She was still a pretty woman with a dazzling smile.

Often Robin’s inclination was to look at photographs professionally, mentally centering an object or cropping out the distractions, but tonight she studied the images as a friend, appreciating the memories Foxy had wanted to capture. Robin laid out a set of five on the table. Who took these pictures?

Foxy suddenly became interested in her wine glass. I took most of them.

But how about the ones of you and Tina?

Was Foxy actually blushing, or was the sunset playing tricks of light? Well, there, uh, there was someone else there.

A look of bemusement passed around the table. They waited.

It was Bill, she finally admitted. He has a brother there and … She never finished the sentence.

They had all been aware Foxy had stayed in touch with Bill Harley, the Wisconsin sheriff who’d ultimately cracked the murder case last summer. With a little help from the No Ordinary Women, of course. But as far as any of them knew, the relationship was pretty much professional, with Sheriff Harley scheduling massage appointments with Foxy, but only if he happened to be driving to the Twin Cities for business or to shop at the Mall of America.

Sheriff Harley? Cate’s eyebrow shot up. I did not see that coming.

Neither did I. Foxy covered her face with her hands. I would have told you, but … She brought her hands down and shook her head. I’m so confused. Would you all mind if we just didn’t talk about it until I sort things out?

They exchanged another look.

Of course, Robin said. What are you crocheting? she asked, turning to Grace.

Grace, who’d set her crochet hook down in astonishment, picked it up again and passed her work to Robin. It’s a bonnet for my coworker’s baby.

They all leaned over to admire the dainty piece.

Louise put on her glasses to look at the pattern. Looks like a lot of work, she said, fingering the fine cotton yarn.

A labor of love, Grace said, But now I need to figure out a little gift to take to her very jealous three-year-old brother, who’s now regressed to wanting to drink out of a baby bottle. Any ideas?

How about the book by Mercer Mayer, Robin suggested. I can’t remember the title, but it’s that big brother one.

Foxy undid her hair clip and, with a shake of her head, her auburn curls fell around her neck. "The only big brother book I know of is 1984, and I don’t think it would be appropriate for a three-year-old!"

Soon they were talking, not about Foxy’s confusing love life or their chosen book for September, The Children’s Book, by A.S. Byatt, which, at over 600 pages, was anything but a children’s book, but about George Orwell’s hauntingly prophetic novel.

"I swear you could pick up any newspaper on any day, and there would be something in it that makes you think of 1984," Louise said. Her lace shawl had slipped off her shoulders and she pulled it back up.

They were trying to remember the protagonist’s name, when Grace snapped her fingers and said it: Winston Smith.

Winston. Oh! Robin said. It was the first time she had thought of Era Dudley’s son since the woman had accosted her in the hallway at Meadowpoint Manor. I forgot all about her. She began to tell them about the incident, ending lamely with, She was so distressed, but there was nothing I could do for her.

In the house, the dogs had set to barking. Cate ignored the familiar sound that indicated her husband Erik was home. On book club nights, he either went out to a movie or a game of racquetball with Robin’s husband. Sometimes he just grabbed a burger on the way home and hid out in the basement until the ladies went home.

Have you ever met the son? Louise asked.

Robin nodded. I’ve seen him a few times. There’s also a granddaughter, I think. It’s been my impression that Era frequently has visitors. Not a lot, though. Some of them have big families and always have people around, and some have fewer visitors, like my mom.

What did she say exactly? Grace asked. That your assignment was to break him out of wherever he’s being held?

Robin could still see the intensity in Era’s eyes. Something like that.

Where did she think ‘they’ were keeping him? Grace asked.

She didn’t say. I really think it’s just the ramblings of—

Foxy interrupted. But you said she’s lucid most of the time. How do you know something didn’t happen to him?

If she’s so worried, Louise drawled, why hasn’t she called the police?

Foxy wasn’t one for unladylike snorts, but she snorted now. If the five of us are questioning her sanity, how do you suppose the police will respond?

Cate raised one eyebrow. Ninety-six, and still sets a place for her dead husband to eat. Hmmm. I’m guessing they’d hesitate all of a minute before packing her off to the loony bin.

Exactly! said Robin. Well, the memory unit, anyway. I think that’s exactly why she wouldn’t call. That’s the bogeyman they all talk about. It’s not death they fear, but living too long with aches and pains while slowly losing their minds and their personalities.

They sat in thought.

The breeze had a chill to it now and Cate suggested they go inside. As they carried things into the kitchen one of the crostini slid off the plate Foxy was carrying, and Mitsy was right there to catch it. Carlton whined for equal treatment and Cate tossed him a piece as well.

I didn’t realize how cold it’d gotten. Louise stood close to the oven. Maybe another glass of wine will warm me up. She tipped the remainder of the bottle into her glass.

So, this Winston fellow, does he live in the area? Foxy asked.

In a western suburb, I think, Robin said. Minnetonka or Deephaven or Wayzata.

Are you going to investigate? Grace asked.

Robin remembered all too well how Grace had taken to snooping about last year. Trying to break free of the identity she had once claimed, that of being the only ordinary woman of the No Ordinary Women book club, Grace had virtually channeled Nancy Drew, complete with trench coat and disguises. Well, Robin thought with a grin, she hadn’t been alone on that.

Cate opened the oven to check on the eggplant parmesan, turned the temperature back to 200 degrees and closed the door again. From the refrigerator, Robin took a bowl of salad vegetables. Finding oil, vinegar, dry mustard and herbs on the butcher block table next to a mixing bowl and whisk, Robin got to work on the dressing while Grace set out bread and olive oil.

Frowning, Foxy leaned against the counter and ran a hand through her reddish hair. She seemed deep in thought. If his mother is ninety-six, this guy has to be ancient, she said, as if to herself.

Hey, Louise interrupted. My daddy’s ninety-two!

My father would have been ninety this year, said Foxy. The math seemed to have stopped all of them. Foxy continued, What I don’t understand is why she … what was her name?

Era, Robin and Cate said together.

Why did Era talk about someone holding him against his will? Let’s say the guy’s in his seventies. That’s at least sixteen years older than anyone here. Why would she assume something sinister happened? Wouldn’t it be more logical that she’d worry he had a heart attack or something and died at home? I mean, it really does sound paranoid, doesn’t it, to say you’re supposed to, how did she put it, break him out? Foxy looked around to see them agreeing with her.

Maybe he said something on his last visit to her, Cate suggested.

Grace jumped in. Or maybe she knows he’s been leading a life of crime.

With her hands splayed on the butcher block, Louise faced Robin. Well, she drawled, we’re never going to know the answer to that if we don’t check it out, are we?

We? Robin looked at the eager expressions on the faces of her dearest friends, and felt she was being led down the proverbial garden path. And yet, she had to admit, the idea of investigating did excite her, just a little bit.

3

By morning, Robin had other things on her mind. Her waking thoughts were about going to see her mother again to make sure she was taking her meds, which made her roll over and shut her eyes again. She would have drifted back to sleep had not her two cats, Samson and Delilah, insisted on having breakfast the minute they detected the slightest fluttering of their mistress’s eyelids. They could get her out of bed when nothing else could. Samson tromped over her midsection, and Delilah’s