Rhythm & Clues Read online

  About the Author

  Like the character Odelia Grey, Sue Ann Jaffarian is a middle-aged, plus-size paralegal. In addition to the Odelia Grey mystery series, she is the author of the paranormal Ghost of Granny Apples mystery series and the Madison Rose Vampire mystery series. Sue Ann is also nationally sought after as a motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and works in Los Angeles, California.

  Visit Sue Ann on the Internet at

  www.sueannjaffarian.com

  and

  www.sueannjaffarian.blogspot.com

  Copyright Information

  Rhythm & Clues: An Odelia Grey Mystery © 2016 by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

  First e-book edition © 2016

  E-book ISBN: 9780738732008

  Cover illustration by Ellen Lawson

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Jaffarian, Sue Ann, author.

  Title: Rhythm & clues : an Odelia Grey mystery / Sue Ann Jaffarian.

  Other titles: Rhythm and clues

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2016] |

  Series: Odelia Grey mysteries ; #11

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016026847 (print) | LCCN 2016032124 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738718859 (softcover) | ISBN 9780738732008 ()

  Subjects: LCSH: Grey, Odelia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Women

  detectives—California—Fiction. | Overweight women—Fiction. | Legal

  assistants—Fiction. | Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD:

  Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3610.A359 R49 2016 (print) | LCC PS3610.A359 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016026847

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  one

  There is never any booze in your coffee when you need it—not that I’m a big booze hound. My husband and I enjoy beer with our barbeque, the occasional wine with our dinner, and the every-so-often Irish coffee or cocktail. My mother and my half brother Clark are both recovering alcoholics, but thankfully that insidious disease seems to have skipped me. Not that I’m not plagued with my own obsessions, but I seem to have dodged the bullet on the big three addictions: alcohol, drugs, and gambling. Still, right about now would be a good time to pull out a flask and pour a good measure of something strong and mind altering into the beverage in front of me.

  I was sitting in a Starbucks in Long Beach across the table from a very annoyed Shelita Thomas. My mother was the cause of her irritation. The stone in her shoe. The pain in my backside.

  “Your mother is a bad influence,” Shelita said to me, symbolically snapping my mother’s scrawny neck with each emphasized word. Shelita is African American and, like me, in her mid to late fifties. Unlike me, she was tall and bony. She clutched her coffee between her hands and pursed her full lips in disapproval until they resembled an overripe plum. “I don’t want her spending time with my father.”

  Gawd, Mom, I groaned silently, what have you done now?

  Shelita’s father is Art Franklin, a lovely man who lives in the same retirement community as my mother, Grace Littlejohn. Art and Mom are good friends, and Art has been a guest in our home on several occasions, often serving as Mom’s plus one at parties. I’d met Shelita a few times during special events at Seaside Retirement Community. She’d always been friendly, and we’d even exchanged phone numbers just in case an emergency came up with either of our elderly parents. When Shelita called me last night and suggested we meet for coffee this morning, the last thing I expected was to be dressed down like a lax parent of an out-of-control preschooler. But then Shelita is an elementary school principal, so I guess her response and behavior were natural.

  “What are you talking about, Shelita?” I asked, anticipating that she’d have a ready list of Mom’s supposed crimes. I really was in the dark about her concerns.

  She took a drink of her coffee. It was the end of August, and even though a recent brutal heat wave had ended, it was still in the mid-80s every day. The last thing I wanted was hot coffee, so I had opted instead for an iced latte. With each word of complaint Shelita voiced, I pined for the missing booze in my beverage. The next time Shelita calls a meeting, I’m going to suggest a bar or I’m bringing a flask. Considering my mother, it’s a wonder I don’t drink more often.

  “I received a call from the management office at Seaside yesterday,” she told me. “Seems your mother and my father are pestering them about some resident they believe is missing. And I just know Grace is behind it, goading my father into doing something he ordinarily wouldn’t do.”

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and checked it in front of her. There were no messages, and there hadn’t been any calls from the retirement community. “Why would they call you and not me?” I asked.

  “I went to college with Mona D’Angelo,” Shelita explained. “You know, the woman who manages the front office at Seaside? She always gives me a heads-up when she feels something is amiss and thinks I should know about it.”

  In other words, Mona D’Angelo is a spy and a snitch, but I kept that to myself. “So what is Mona’s concern?” I knew if it was about my mother, it could be anything. She was obstinate and pig-headed and followed her own drummer. She was definitely not a sweet old lady who knitted and blushed at swear words.

  “Like I said, the two of them, Grace and Dad, have been hounding the front office about one of the retirees who they believe is missing.”

  “It sounds like they are merely concerned about their friend,” I said, coming to Mom’s defense. “Did Mona look into it?”

  “Of course,” Shelita answered with a definite nod. “You never know with older folks. He could have slipped in the tub or something. Mona and one of the security guards used a pass key and checked out the man’s place and found nothing. It looks like this man simply left town. I understand he has a little dog, and the dog is gone too. So is his car.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I asked, using
a napkin to dab latte foam from my lips. “It seems to me that Mom and Art were just being good neighbors.”

  “The problem is, they won’t leave it alone.” Shelita frowned, knitting her brows together until they resembled a long black scarf hugging her eyes. Shelita had dark brown almond-shaped eyes like her father’s. She also had a cluster of small freckles on each cheek and several across the bridge of her nose that strung them all together like a tin-can telephone. “Mona said the office did that check a week ago, and Grace and Dad are still insisting that something is wrong. They even called the police and reported the man missing.”

  I had my latte straw nearly to my lips again when my hand skidded the cup to a stop. “They called the police to file a missing person’s report?”

  “Yes, they did,” Shelita confirmed. “The police came out, took a look around, and pronounced no sign of foul play or anything else.”

  “The Long Beach Police?” I asked as my stomach did a nervous jiggle. We knew one of the homicide detectives with the Long Beach Police well. Andrea Fehring was a by-the-book detective who didn’t take lightly to civilians messing with police matters. She was especially sour on the whole idea when it involved anyone in my family since we’ve crossed paths on several occasions. Andrea wore two hats in my life: one as a sometimes-friend and the other as a cop who’d love to see Greg and me move to another part of the country and take Mom with us.

  “Yes, of course,” Shelita answered, impatience creeping into her words. “Seaside is in Long Beach.”

  The police check must have been done by routine patrol cops and wasn’t on Andrea’s radar because if she did get wind of Mom’s obsession with this missing geezer, she’d be the one calling me, not tattletale Mona or anxious Shelita.

  “Odelia, weren’t you the one who found that corpse in the trunk of your car earlier this year?” From Shelita’s tone, it sounded like she was asking if I was the scamp who’d put paste on a schoolmate’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, I am.”

  “Maybe your mother’s imagination has been stirred up by that?” she suggested. “Which is fine. I just don’t want my father involved.”

  Apparently, Shelita didn’t know about all the other bodies I’d found or the scrapes I’d been in, some with Mom. The proper principal also probably hadn’t heard about my playground nickname of Corpse Magnet, given to me by Seth Washington, one of my dearest friends. If she had, I’m sure she would have worked it into the conversation by now.

  “Look, Shelita,” I said, trying to sound reasonable and not on the defense. “I really think Mom and Art are just concerned about their neighbor, and their imaginations ran away with them.” I was making sure I made Art an equal partner in the mischief. Mom wasn’t about to take this rap alone. “They are retired and have little else to do with their time. They also like each other and are grown adults with all their faculties. I can’t tell my mother she can’t play with Art any longer, any more than you can tell your father that my mother is off-limits.” I took another deep breath. “My mother’s a piece of work. You’ll get no argument there from me. But Art hardly seems like an obedient puppy just following her around.”

  I could tell Shelita didn’t like my response one bit. She drank down the rest of her coffee with one gulp, dabbed a napkin gently over her red-purple lipstick, and rose to go. “I’m still going to suggest to my father that he find someone else with whom to spend his time.” She slung her tidy purse over one shoulder.

  “Knock yourself out, Shelita,” I told her, “but don’t be surprised if you meet with stubborn refusal from your father. You work with kids. You should know that telling someone with any amount of determination not to do something is a sure way for them to dig in their heels, no matter their age.”

  Then I added silently to myself: and that goes double for my mother.

  As I watched Shelita leave, I called Mom and told her I wanted to drop by.

  two

  My mother looked about to pop her dentures from excitement as I made my way from the curb in front of her townhouse to her door. She had been sitting on her patio waiting for me with Art Franklin. I hadn’t told Mom that I’d met with Art’s daughter, only that I wanted to talk to her. As I got close, Mom hopped up to greet me over the low block wall that separated her patio from the rest of the front yard.

  Seaside isn’t a rest home. It’s one of those over-fifty-five developments consisting of several acres of attached townhomes pleasantly placed throughout a honeycomb of paved walks, well-maintained greenbelts, and pristine streets. It has a large swimming pool, a recreation room, and a gym, along with regularly scheduled activities. The residents putt around on golf carts behind a security wall with a twenty-four-hour guard at the gate. The only thing Seaside didn’t have was a golf course, which kept it from being considered luxury digs.

  Mom’s development is located in Long Beach, right on the border with Seal Beach, the town where we live. There is a huge retirement community in Seal Beach, with a golf course, several pools, and more amenities, but my mother passed on it because it was too large for her liking. Clark lives in one of the swankier specimens of such a geriatric village in Arizona, just outside of Phoenix. Mom likes visiting Clark at his place but prefers to live where she can meet and know most of her neighbors. Personally, I think she likes having less people to keep track of when she’s being nosy.

  Mom is quick to point out to me that even though my husband, Greg Stevens, isn’t old enough to meet the minimum age requirement, I am, so we should consider buying a place at Seaside. And I am just as quick to point out that we have a seventy pound golden retriever, a big no-no at a place with a pet policy restricting animals to twenty pounds in weight. Wainwright isn’t even allowed to come with us when we visit Mom, making it necessary for Mom to come to our place when she wants to visit her granddoggy. They also have a one-pet-per-household restriction—another strike against us, thankfully, since we also have a cat.

  It’s too bad Seaside doesn’t have a weight restriction for its residents and guests, then maybe Mom would get off my back. My name is Odelia Patience Gray, and I weigh in at around two hundred twenty pounds on a five-foot-one-inch frame. Surely I would be over any weight limit in their resident policy if they had one, and then I wouldn’t be spending my Tuesday afternoon listening to my mother’s harebrained ideas. Of course, that would mean she’d just get in her car and drive to our house, which means I couldn’t make an excuse to leave after a suitable time like I can when I visit Seaside. Both had their drawbacks and their charms.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said in greeting over the wall. “Hi, Art.” Art lifted a glass of something in greeting.

  “The door’s open,” Mom told me. “Come on in.”

  After entering her townhouse, I dropped my tote bag on the coffee table and exited again through the patio door to join Mom and Art, careful to shut the slider behind me to keep in the air conditioning. Bending down, I quickly kissed Mom on the forehead. Art flashed me a beautiful smile, bright white against his semisweet chocolate skin. He still had all his own teeth, which he was happy to brag about without much prompting.

  Art Franklin is a very well-preserved man, widowed and in his early seventies. He’d retired from the post office after serving it for over forty years. He was good-natured and smart. When Mom first moved into Seaside, Art seemed very interested romantically in her, but over time she seemed to have dampened his ardor and he scaled back to just being her good friend, at least for appearance’s sake. Since coming to California Mom has had a couple of suitors, much to our surprise since she’s often cranky. Art was our favorite. Greg and I even joked about adopting Art and sending Mom packing to his family on holidays. I’m sure Shelita would just love that.

  “Are you not interested in dating Art Franklin because he’s black?” I had asked Mom once while we were out to lunch alone.

&nbs
p; For a long time Mom had stared at me like I’d just told her I’d been kidnapped by aliens and had suffered a probing. Finally, she’d said, “Do you really think I’m that type of person, Odelia?”

  “No,” I’d answered honestly, “but he’s so nice and has all his own teeth, not to mention a great sense of humor—a trait that helps in getting along with you, I might add. I’m just wondering why you don’t seem interested in such a nice stable man.”

  “He’s too young for me,” she’d said and slurped a spoonful of soup.

  “He’s just a few years younger than you,” I pointed out.

  “I like him just fine as a good friend, Odelia. We have a lot of laughs together. Now mind your own business.” She took another mouthful of soup.

  “Why? You never mind yours.” I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed as more thoughts came to mind. “Is he terminally ill? Is he hiding a criminal record?”

  “MYOB,” she’d snapped, clearly agitated at my questioning. She looked up from the depths of her bowl. “I’m old, Odelia. I’ve been married twice and have no desire to have another husband. Art and I are good as we are. We have fun, then he goes home to his place.

  I like it like that.”

  My eyebrows raised higher than twin Golden Arches. “Are you and Art sleeping together?” This was not an original thought. Greg had once asked me if I thought Mom and Art were doing it.

  Mom put her spoon down with a hard thud, hard enough to make the salt and pepper shakers on the table snap to attention. “Yes, Odelia,” she hissed across the table. “Art Franklin and I are having hot monkey sex at night on the shuffleboard court.”

  Seeing that it was Grace Littlejohn saying those words, I wasn’t sure if it was true or not.

  “Once we even got caught by the nighttime security guard,” she added. “He joined us for a threesome.”

  Okay, now I knew she was being facetious—disturbing and facetious. It was difficult enough getting the picture of Mom and Art doing it out of my head, but Mom in a threesome was surely going to send me into therapy.