Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) Read online

  Leave No Stone Unturned

  A Lexie Starr Mystery

  Book One

  by

  Jeanne Glidewell

  LEAVE NO STONE UNTURNED

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Glidewell succeeds in maintaining a rapidly paced story line that dramatically builds tension, while Lexie's sly, tongue-in-cheek sense of humor provides plenty

  of laugh-out-loud moments."

  ~Booklist

  "This first Lexie Starr novel begins with a bang and ends on just the right note."

  ~Library Journal Review

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-381-6

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2008, 2013 by Jeanne Glidewell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  eBook and cover design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  For my father, Joseph Van Sittert,

  and my mother-in-law, Ruth Glidewell,

  whom I both loved dearly

  and will miss every day of my life.

  Acknowledgments

  I'd like to thank my dear and talented editor, Alice Duncan, and offer my sincere gratitude to my friend and fellow author, Evelyn Horan, for her help and guidance, as well as my mother, Carol Van Sittert, my sister, Sarah Goodman, and my beloved husband, Bob Glidewell, for their love and support. It was Sarah who encouraged me, and convinced me I should write a cozy mystery series, and Bob who, through sickness and in health, has stood beside me every step of the way throughout our blessed marriage.

  Chapter 1

  Should I warn my daughter that her husband could be a murderer, or go home and file my nails while I sip on a cup of strong coffee? Coffee sounded tempting, but it'd have to wait, I decided, as I pulled into Wendy's driveway on the way home from the library. My son-in-law, Clay, was in the front yard talking to a couple of friends he'd met at a gym he'd joined when he first moved here. Clay and Wendy had just returned from a week's vacation in the Colorado Rockies. It'd been a belated honeymoon.

  It was unseasonably, almost unbelievably, cool for early October. I could see Clay's breath as he spoke. He was telling a story with his hands, making large, sweeping motions that held his friends in rapt attention, their eyes open wide and transfixed. As I watched, Clay aimed an invisible gun at the mailbox and fired, apparently killing it instantly. His friends high-fived him, showing admiration for his aim and skill. The gesture sent chills up my spine and made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end like a cat who'd just seen its reflection in a mirror.

  It was then I noticed in Clay's truck bed a very large, very dead, bull moose with an immense span of antlers and the customary large hump on its nose. Its chin was propped up on the tailgate, its eyes open, its tongue lolling out the right side of its mouth. Couldn't someone have showed a little respect and closed its eyelids? Being stared at by a dead moose was giving me the willies.

  For a moment, I wondered if the animal was poached, or bagged legally. Then I realized that you couldn't just prop a poached moose up in the bed of your truck and drive four hundred miles down I-70. I felt bad for the animal, though, and sad for its family and friends. I also felt sorry for anyone who'd been following the truck from Colorado with a dead moose staring down into his windshield. It would have made it difficult to concentrate on driving.

  The front door of the house was open, so I walked into the foyer. My daughter was on the phone, speaking with a taxidermist. The Yellow Pages, lying open on the counter, showed an ad that claimed, "You bang 'em, we'll hang 'em."

  "Okay, okay—okay, okay—okay," Wendy said into the mouthpiece. She sounded like Joe Pesci in the Lethal Weapon movies.

  "Okay, okay—okay."

  Shouldn't Wendy have taken more time with her answers? I wondered. She was making important—well, at least, permanent—decisions. That moose would most likely be looking one way or the other for the rest of its dead life. I glanced beyond the foyer into their family room. The massive moose head would have to hang from the stone fireplace, which rose up toward the vaulted ceiling. To have him staring straight ahead would be eerie, almost threatening. He should be mounted so he was looking left into the room. Why would a dead moose walk into a perfectly well-decorated room and look the other way? Martha Stewart would be appalled at the very idea.

  Of course, I thought, if he looked the other way, he'd be looking directly into the kitchen. And that made sense in an odd way too. Moose are huge animals. They must be hungry a lot of the time.

  Oh, good grief. What was I thinking? My recent discoveries were impairing my ability to think rationally. I really did need a stiff cup of espresso, laced liberally with Kahlua. I didn't imbibe often, but I could use a drink right then, for medicinal purposes.

  I glanced around at the other family room walls and noticed for the first time a number of animal heads. There were no full body mounts, just heads with fixed eyes staring into the room. Wendy and Clay had lived in the house a month, moving in just after their August eighteenth wedding. I'd hesitated to bother the newlyweds during the first few weeks of their marriage, so I'd diligently kept my distance.

  Wendy and Clay are both outdoorsy, and apparently Clay is a hunter, as well. I couldn't visualize Wendy shooting a moose. She'd always had a hard time stepping on a spider. Although she'd probably feel right at home in the middle of a forest, I couldn't quite imagine her feeling comfortable in her own family room, surrounded by all these dead, mounted animals. Maybe I didn't know my daughter as well as I thought.

  "Okay, okay. Yeah, that's fine—okay," I heard Wendy saying. She looked at me and smiled. It was the dreamy smile of a woman in love. My stomach churned.

  What I now suspected about Clay scared me half to death and made me almost nauseated. Suddenly I just wanted to go back to my own little house and think about it a while longer. I wanted to prop my feet up in my own little family room with no accusatory eyes staring down from the walls of the room. I wanted to sip at that cup of coffee and Kahlua. I was no longer sure I should tell Wendy what I'd come to tell her. I decided I needed to contemplate the potential consequences of that decision further before I acted on it. An unwise, hasty decision could produce devastating results. I was concerned about her safety more than anything, but didn't want to upset her with my unconfirmed suspicions either.

  I jotted down a note on a pad of paper from the hall table.

  "Call you later," I wrote. Wendy glanced at my note and nodded. I hurried back to my
car, waved briefly at Clay and his friends, backed out of the driveway, and headed south before Clay had an opportunity to walk over and speak to me. I couldn't risk talking to him right now. I knew my voice would sound anxious and unnatural because I'd just discovered there was a good possibility Clay had murdered his first wife, Eliza, over two years ago. I was fairly sure my daughter had no idea Clay had been married before, or that Eliza had ever existed, and I was suddenly not convinced it'd be in her, or my, best interest for her to be informed of what I'd just learned.

  After all, I was quite certain Wendy was aware of my skepticism about my new son-in-law, as hard as I tried to hide my aversion to Clay. I realized part of my animosity might stem from jealousy, for I was no longer the most important person in Wendy's life. But mostly it was an uneasiness I felt around him, as if Clay wasn't being entirely open with either of us.

  Wendy had accused me of trying to control her and how she chose to live her life on several occasions, so I was very hesitant to say anything negative about Clay now. She might not be too quick to forgive my interference in her new marriage. Should I risk her disdain, or should I first try to find out more of the details in case the first wife had not been killed, as the authorities suspected, but had eventually turned up safe and sound at a friend's house and the marriage had dissolved naturally? Perhaps I'd even discover the Clay Pitt in question really didn't have a thing to do with Wendy's husband.

  I didn't often have to make such a critical decision, and I was afraid I'd make the wrong one and endanger the close relationship I shared with my only child. And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Chapter 2

  My name is Alexandria. Alexandria Marie Starr, or Lexie to my family and friends. I'm forty-eight, and at that pre-geriatric age where I'm too young for my senior citizen's discount, but knee-deep into middle age. I need one pair of glasses for distance, another pair for reading, and have learned not to be too concerned about the clarity of anything in between.

  I have thick, curly brown hair with lighter highlights, compliments of a local beauty salon. It's a constant three-month cycle of cut, trim, trim, perm, highlight; cut, trim, trim, perm, highlight. During the three-month cycle there is a span of about four and a half days that my hair, with no fuss or bother, looks exactly like I want it to. The rest of the time my hairstyle resembles either a French poodle or that of a heroin addict in a mug shot. But for four and a half days every season I look pretty hot. Well, luke-warm anyway.

  I stand a shade less than five feet, two inches tall, and weigh between 120 and 140, depending on the season. During the summer, when my garden is producing and I'm eating lots of veggies, I weigh in at about 120. During the winter, when I'm forced to substitute chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream for asparagus and squash, my weight drifts up toward 140. Fortunately, I have a good-sized walk-in closet that accommodates small, medium, and large wardrobes.

  Circumstances have required me to be independent and self-reliant. I've had to be both mother and father to Wendy since she was seven years old. That was the year her father, Chester, died from an embolism. As they say, he never knew what hit him. We'd taken Wendy to the theater to see a Disney movie one night and had just returned to the house. Chester walked in the door and fell to the floor. My husband was dead before his head touched the carpet. That was the moment my life, and Wendy's life, changed forever. It was suddenly the two of us against the world. Fortunately for me, Wendy's a loving daughter, and our personalities are complementary. Throughout the years, we've always been close.

  In the years following Chester's death, I tried to give Wendy all the advantages a child with both parents might enjoy. I wanted her to experience as much as possible so she'd be a well-rounded individual. I wanted her to go to interesting places and to do exciting things. I thought such adventures could only enhance her confidence and self-esteem.

  When Wendy was ten I took her to Disneyland. I bought her a cheap charm bracelet there, so she could collect charms from the different places I took her in the years to follow. "It's to show where you've been," I told her. By the time she was eighteen, a gold-plated version, and then a ten-carat version, had replaced it. Finally a twenty-four-carat gold bracelet graced her wrist. It was my gift to her on her twenty-first birthday.

  The bracelet held many charms. Among others, there was one shaped like the Space Needle from our visit to Seattle, a peach-shaped charm that had "Georgia" etched across it, a miniature of South Dakota's Mount Rushmore, and an Eiffel Tower replica from our trip to Paris. Wendy was proud of each charm and the memories they evoked. The charms showed all the places she'd been. She wore the bracelet everywhere, even to bed much of the time.

  The two of us got by pretty well during those years. Chester had left me with what would turn out to be several wise investments, and also a substantial insurance policy. I wanted the money to last me through the "golden" years, so I was never extravagant. But I was never cheap either. I'd scrimp on the trivial things so that I could afford to splurge on the important things. I never wanted my daughter to be humiliated by showing up at a school dance in a dress she wasn't proud to be seen wearing.

  Throughout Wendy's teenage years I unfailingly put a hundred dollars a week into a college fund. After her high school graduation she left Shawnee, Kansas, and went east to Massachusetts to go to medical school, eventually settling on a career in pathology. After returning to Kansas, she was quickly offered a position as an assistant to the county coroner. To earn her living, she'd perform autopsies to search for the cause of death. I had hoped she'd become a pediatrician.

  "I get too emotionally attached to the patients. I can't handle it when medical technology can't save them and they die, despite our best efforts," she told me when I asked why she'd chosen working with deceased patients rather than live ones.

  "But now all of your patients are dead!" I replied. "Every single one of them!"

  "Yes, I know. But I'll never have known them as living, breathing human beings with at least a sliver of hope to survive. There's no opportunity to become close to them. It's difficult to become attached to a cadaver, Mom, trust me. Once a stiff, always a stiff."

  "So I guess 'bedside manner' is not a big concern in your chosen field?" I asked, rather sarcastically. I didn't appreciate her lack of compassion. I hadn't raised her to be so callous and insensitive.

  "No, I guess not, and that's another advantage of this field. I can dance naked around my customers while telling offensive jokes, and it doesn't seem to bother them a bit." She saw the look of horror on my face and jabbed my shoulder playfully. "I'm kidding. You know I'd never do that. Lighten up. I do have to be considerate of the survivors' feelings. I take pride in being able to offer comfort to them at their time of loss."

  I was relieved by my daughter's last remarks. She'd been such a softhearted, gentle little girl. I would regret seeing her adopt a dispassionate attitude now. It was difficult enough to accept the thought of my only child choosing such a depressing, gruesome occupation. But I realized I had to let her make her own decisions. I prayed the consequences of some of her decisions wouldn't be too harsh. And perhaps she'd have to develop that kind of hardened attitude not to be emotionally ravaged by every "stiff" that passed through her office. I can remember attending tearful funerals Wendy had staged as a child. I would try to console her while she sobbed over a dead butterfly, or field mouse, as she buried it in our backyard.

  One day, during her final year in medical school, Wendy called. "I have good news and bad news for you, Mom. Which would you like to hear first?"

  After I told her I'd rather get the bad news over with first, she told me she'd lost her golden charm bracelet. She'd looked everywhere, searched her dorm room from top to bottom, scoured every place she could remember being, and it was just nowhere to be found. She was devastated about it, and so was I.

  "Now how will anyone know where I've been?" she asked me over the phone, with an odd mixture of sadness and laughter in her voice.
She was choked up and sounded as if she were on the verge of tears. Like me, Wendy often laughed to keep from crying. I was keenly aware of how sentimental Wendy was about the bracelet, so I vowed to myself that I'd replace the bracelet and as many of the charms as I could. It would make a wonderful Christmas present later on.

  Then Wendy's tone brightened considerably as she told me she'd also met the man she was going to marry. She'd actually first met him about a year ago in a trendy little coffee shop on campus called Java Joe's. They'd visited over a cup of coffee occasionally in the following months, but had been officially dating for only a few weeks. Wendy declared he was everything she'd ever wanted in a husband. He didn't know it yet, she said, but she was going to make him see he couldn't live without her.

  He was a few years older than Wendy, and after taking a hiatus following a four-year stint in the Navy, to work in one dead-end job after another, he'd eventually returned to college to pursue a degree in criminology. He stayed with a friend in Boston during the week in order to attend the academy, and returned home to New York on weekends.

  It wasn't the kind of good news I'd hoped for. Losing her bracelet now seemed better in comparison. I'd hoped that Wendy would get settled into a rewarding career (working with children, not "stiffs") before she settled down with a husband and family. I wanted her to take time to sow her oats, and then have the confidence that she was making the right decision about sharing her life with someone. It was the most important decision she'd ever make, and I wanted it to be a wise one. I felt as if she were rushing headlong into this relationship. I tried to sound happy about the news, but I didn't know whether to be elated for Wendy or pray that, like all other things, "this too shall pass."