Dead Giveaway
Dead Giveaway
By S. Furlong-Bolliger
Copyright 2011 by S. Furlong-Bolliger
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by S. Furlong-Bolliger and Untreed Reads Publishing
Death by Jello
Christmas in Killarney
Paddy Whacked
Dead Giveaway
By S. Furlong-Bolliger
When it came to wicked stepmothers, Cinderella had nothing on me. My stepmother, Rose, was pure evil. That’s why, when I got the call about my father’s death, I knew she was somehow responsible. I just had to prove it.
Since I hadn’t spoken to my father for years, I was wearing an abundance of guilt right along with my best dress when I slunk into St. Philomena’s just as his funeral service was about to start. I was surprised to see that not many faces had changed since I had been gone. I even saw Pinky Jones, dressed in his best department store suit, sitting in the third pew. I hadn’t seen Pinky since graduation, when we shared a fifth behind the bleachers and discussed our life goals—mine being to get away from Lake Loon and my stepmother; his being to play professional ball for the Bears. He never did make the team. I, however, achieved my goal that very night when I packed my bag and caught a Greyhound north. I hadn’t been back since. Something, that now as I gazed upon my father’s casket, I regretted.
Unfortunately, Rose, my stepmother, who was always easy to pick out in a crowd, hadn’t changed a bit. I spotted her right away, seated in the front pew and dressed as her usual flamboyant self—bright red hair, even brighter lipstick, and eye shadow three layers deep. This morning, she stood out among the darkly dressed mourners like a hooker at an Amish quilting bee. Nonetheless, I felt obligated to sit next to her. After all, being that I was the only real family left, I had as much right as her to be in the front pew.
With some clever sidestepping, I did manage to make it through the service and the burial without actually speaking to my stepmother. However, my luck ended afterwards at the luncheon when we came face to face over a dish of tater tot casserole.
Narrowing her eyes, Rose made a bold move and snatched up the serving spoon just as I was reaching for it. “Well, Julie, you decided to come back,” she started in her nauseating voice. “It would have been nice if you would have visited while your father was still alive.”
The buffet crowd grew silent—all ears preened for my reply, but I bit my lip and moved down the line, past a heaping bowl of fried chicken legs and straight to a large, spiral-cut ham.
Rose, however, just couldn’t let it drop. She pursued me like a hungry coyote with a wounded rabbit in sight. “But that doesn’t surprise me,” she continued. “You were always an unappreciative little brat. And, to think that I gave up my best years to raise you. Why, I had a promising career as an actress before I met—”
I wheeled around, facing her. For a fleeting second I considered using the long-tined ham fork to skewer one of her eyeballs. “The only successful role you ever played was that of major bitch!”
That drew a collective gasp from crowd.
“Now, ladies!” Father O’Neil interrupted. “Let’s remember where we are.”
“Sorry, Father. Your right,” I said, out of respect for the collar. Inside, however, I was wondering why he wasn’t pulling out the holy water and commencing with an exorcism—the Devil was standing just three feet away from him. Although, in his defense, maybe he just didn’t recognize Rose for what she was. After all, in Rose’s case, the Devil wasn’t wearing Prada; it was wearing Jaclyn Smith and two inches of Maybelline.
I took my ham and moved as far away from Rose as possible. I ended up across the room next to Cliff Barker, the town’s one and only insurance agent.
“Julie. I’m so sorry about your father,” he said, dabbing politely at his mouth with a napkin. “I was planning on giving you a call as soon as things settled down, but since you’re here, I may as well let you know.”
“Know what?”
“Your father came into my office last week. He wanted to discuss his insurance policy.”
“He had an insurance policy?”
“Yes, he took out a very large policy a few years back.”
“Really? How large?”
“A million dollars.”
My heart skipped. “A million dollars?” I asked, dollar signs practically spinning in my eyes.
Cliff held up a hand. “Hold on. Rose was the sole beneficiary of the policy. In fact, if I remember correctly, she had insisted upon it at the time.”
I seethed inside. “I’m sure she did.” I glanced over to where she was sitting with a bunch of ladies from her bridge club. They were flocking around her like seagulls to a discarded french fry.
I hated that woman.
I turned back to Cliff. “So, why are you telling me this?”
“Because, I thought you should know that he was going to drop Rose and name you as the sole beneficiary. I drew up the paperwork and gave it to him to take home and read over the weekend. He was going to look it over and then come in and sign it on Monday.”
“But, he died on Friday.”
Cliff was watching me carefully. “That’s right. So legally, Rose is still the beneficiary. But, I wanted you to know that your father was thinking of you.”
I mulled this over for a second before asking, “Do you know why he suddenly decided to change the beneficiary?”
Cliff was about to reply when suddenly he looked over my shoulder, grew wide-eyed, and excused himself.
I turned to see what had scared him off. I was being descended upon by Marge and Agnes, St. Philomena’s wonder-duo. As far as anyone could remember, these two matronly women had single-handedly organized every baby shower, luncheon, and fundraiser in the parish. They were also the biggest gossips in town.
“Julie, your father’s accident was such a tragedy. A terrible shock to us all,” Marge said, drawing me into her squishy bosom.
“Yes, you poor dear,” Agnes reiterated, also hugging me. Her hug was as rigid and boney as Marge’s was squishy.
I smiled to myself—maybe running into these two was a good thing. I had just hit the rumor mill jackpot. If anyone knew of trouble between Rose and my father, it would be these two women.
“It’s so good to see you both,” I started. “And, thank you for all your hard work. This is a wonderful luncheon.”
They gushed at the compliment.
“I was just talking to Cliff Barker…” I hedged.
“We saw that, dear,” Agnes said. “And we do hope that your father had thought enough to plan in case….”
“In case of the unthinkable,” Marge finished. “I mean it’s the responsible thing to do. Your father did make provisions, didn’t he dear?”
I ignored their prying and asked a question of my own. “Of course you both know that I…well, that I have been estranged from my family for several years.” I had their full attention. “And, I was wondering, was my father happy in the end? I mean, really happy? Like, with his life…and…his marriage?”
Agnes and Marge exchanged a look that I couldn’t quiet interpret.
“What is it, ladies? If you know something, please tell me.”
“Well, there were rumors,” Agnes said.
“Rumors?”
“Yes, but you know that we’re not the type to listen to gossip.”
That was only partly true. Agnes and Marge weren’t the type to
listen
to gossip; they were the type to collect it, cultivate it, and spread it all over town like manure on a garden. “Oh, I know you two would never spread gossip, but I’m his daughter. I deserve to know if something was going on with my father.”
They exchanged another look. Finally, Marge shrugged and leaned in, cupping her hand on the side of her mouth. “We heard that there was another man.”
I almost swallowed my tongue. “Another man? Who?”
They shrugged in unison. “We don’t know. Certainly if he was from Lake Loon we would know who he is,” Agnes said, looking to Marge for support.
“Certainly. It must be someone from Cowlick Junction, or maybe even as far away as Flatville.”
I cast another sideways glance at Rose. Another man? How dare she do that to my father!
She must have felt my stare, because she turned and shot me a murderous look. I glared right back. There was no doubt in my mind that my stepmother killed my father. And, now she was going to run off with some hick from nowhere and live the high-life off my insurance money.
I
really
hated that woman.
I quickly excused myself, leaving Marge and Agnes as they were still pondering the identity of Mr. Mysterious, and started across the room with one thing on my mind—ripping those Clairol-red strands right out of that murdering, two-timing, witch’s skull.
I was almost there, too, when I was sidelined by Jake Buford, owner of Lake Loon’s only gas station.
Jake was a likeable fellow, even though he was perhaps one card shy of a full deck. He always reminded me of Gomer Pyle, well actually a combination of Gomer and Willy Wonka (the new one) all rolled into one and crammed into a pair of Carhart overalls.
“Julie, I have to talk to you,” he blurted, grabbing a hold of my arm.
“Can it wait, Jake? I’ve got something to do.”
“No,” he persisted. “It’s important.”
I sighed. I guess mutilating Rose would have to wait. “Okay, what can I do for you, Jake?”
He nervously pushed a mop of black bang out of his face, just to have it fall back over his eyes again. “Well, first off, I’m real sorry about your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And, I just wanted you to know that I don’t cut corners. I did a good job on your dad’s brakes.”
I was confused. “His brakes? What are you talking about, Jake?”
“I worked on his brakes just a few days before the accident.”
Jake’s station had two pumps out front and a small automotive shop in the back where he took on side jobs.
“I’m still not sure what you’re talking about. Was there something wrong with the brakes on my father’s car?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Well, they say that his brakes failed when he was coming down the pass between here and Cowlick Junction. That’s what caused his accident. But, I swear—”
I held up a silencing hand. “Slow down. Who said that the accident was caused by failed brakes? I was told that he lost control of the car. No one said anything about his brakes.”
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. Just people around town, I guess.”
“Really?” I mulled this new information over for a second before asking, “Any chance they could have given out for some other reason?”
Jake made another swipe at his bangs and shifted nervously from foot to foot. “No, not unless something happened to the brake line. Even if they were wearing down, they wouldn’t just give out like that.”
“Is the brake line easy to get to?”
“I suppose, if you know what you’re doing.”
I peered over at Rose again, who was putting on a stellar performance as the grieving widow for her groupies. Looking at her, I just couldn’t imagine that she would know the difference between a brake line and a gas line. No, she had to have had help—more than likely from that boyfriend of hers.
There was one person who I could trust to straighten this mess out—Sheriff Maddox. Scanning the crowd, I found him next to the buffet table, heckling up with the local geezers.
Sheriff Wade Maddox was another person who hadn’t changed much in the years I had been gone. He was still dressed in his usual attire—a stained plaid shirt and worn-knee jeans hiked up to his chest and held in place with rainbow-colored suspenders. However, despite his less than professional appearance, Sheriff Maddox was a good law man. He was just the person I needed to talk to.
“Sheriff,” I said, wading right into his group of cronies, interrupting what I bet was the ending of a dirty joke. “I need to speak to you.” I peered suggestively at the good ole boys around him. “Alone, please.”
There were a few disgruntled grunts before the men dispersed.
“Sheriff,” I started. He acknowledged me with a nod and continued chewing on a chicken leg. “I want to talk to you about my father’s death.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t think it was an accident.”