The Peace Haven Murders Read online

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  The Clancy Evans Mystery Series

  One Lost Soul More

  Mercy Killing

  The Peace Haven Murders

  Revenge

  Desperate Measures

  The Outcast In Grey

  Out Jumps Jack Death

  The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

  The Peace Haven Murders

  (Clancy Evans PI Book 3)

  M. Glenn Graves

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Also by M. Glenn Graves

  About the Author

  The Peace Haven Murders: A Clancy Evans Mystery

  M. Glenn Graves

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2014 M. Glenn Graves

  City Lights Press

  An Imprint of Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Cover design by City Lights Press

  eBook ISBN 978-1-62918-298-8

  The Peace Haven Murders

  1

  The hallways were as quiet as death. The lone figure moved purposefully along the semi-lighted corridors as if she had some vital function related to their care. No one would have ever suspected why she was there. She did her job so effortlessly it was frightening.

  This was her mission.

  The room was darker than the hallway, but her eyes adjusted quickly. She waited by the closed door as the outline of the bed became apparent. She listened for sounds. The breathing was steady, insistent, and comforting, she thought.

  It was time.

  She stood by the bedside table and removed the tools of her trade from her pockets. The penlight helped to check the measured dosage in the syringe. Her eyes were now able to capture more of the light that was stealing into the room from underneath the door to the hall. The late night quiet was interrupted only by the rhythmic breathing of the person in the bed.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, the silhouetted figure carefully removed the sheet and light blanket that was neatly tucked under the mattress. She was methodical, but then, she had to be. Any job worth doing had to be done correctly. It had been decided. It was the moment of truth.

  The penlight located the exact spot between the toes where she wiped gently the local numbing agent. It would take only a few minutes for the medicine to work. She looked toward the head of the bed to see if there would be any movement from the person in the bed. All was still.

  She guided the needle carefully into its chosen spot. The figure in the bed remained motionless. The steady breathing remained the one noticeable sound in the room, in and out, in and out. So peaceful, she thought.

  The syringe emptied slowly into the spot between the toes. Her hands moved quickly to fix the sheet and the blanket. The penlight indicated to her that all was normal on the bedding. She remained at the foot of the bed for another minute or two recalling the details of her mission. She must omit nothing. It had to be done right. No room for errors.

  After retracing her steps from the time of entry to this moment, she returned to the side of the bed and removed a piece of paper from her pocket. It was a lovely pink and lavender, one of those generic cards with a short message and a Bible verse. The message read, God bless you. The Bible verse cited was Hebrews 9:27.

  The card was carefully placed on the night table next to the bed. The message was positioned away from the bed so that it was not so much for the one who lay there dying, but for the one who would find her the next morning.

  Footsteps in the hallway alerted her to a possible intrusion on her all but completed mission. She moved quickly to the darkness behind the large entrance door. She waited without anxiety as the footsteps became louder and stopped only a few feet from her. Her eyes were fixed on the closed door, waiting.

  It opened slightly and the outline of a head looked in, no doubt checking on the person in the bed. The door closed and the footsteps walked on to another location. The figure behind the door remained motionless. Patience would be rewarded.

  The breathing from the bed had altered slightly by this time and the mission-minded figure behind the door knew that her work would soon be accomplished. It had all been laid out so specifically, so painstakingly detailed, that there was simply no way for it to fail.

  She opened the door of the room and peered into the hallway for signs of the person doing the room checks. It was empty. She started to leave when the distant sound of footsteps again alerted her, and she noticed some movement to her left at the far end of the long hallway. Then there were voices talking, but no signs of anyone in the hallway.

  The lone figure moved to her right and made her way out of the building into the night. Her work was done. One more mission accomplished with discreet thoroughness and extreme efficiency. Any job worth doing, she thought. There was a slight smile on her face as she climbed into her car and drove away. It was pleasing to her to be called to this type of work. It was a noble task.

  The next morning someone would find the card on the night table and read the scriptural epitaph for the woman lying dead in the bed without ever knowing that she had died at the hands of another. It would all appear to be so natural, so normal, and so usual. No one would suspect a murder or a mission. No one would really pay any attention to the card on the table. Just a kind thought left there by some visitor intending to comfort the person in the room. She thought the Hebrews 9:27 reference a nice touch –

  It is appointed once for man to die, and then comes judgment.

  2

  It was 5:46 a.m. when my phone rang. I had
just finished my morning workout and closed the door behind Sam. I allowed it to ring three or four times just to be sure that whoever it was really wanted to talk with me that early. The computer takes over after the eighth ring in case someone is truly serious and I’m not available.

  “Are you ever coming to see me again?” my mother’s voice spoke tacitly to me after I mumbled hello.

  “Good morning, Mother. And how are you?”

  “I’m fine. When can you come?”

  “No trivial niceties, no small talk, just straight up.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know, Mother. I’m finishing up a case here. I have some obligations to meet.”

  “Sound like lame excuses to me. You know I won’t be around forever.”

  The guilt would have been gripping except for the fact that I drove to Clancyville every month to see her. It had only been three weeks, give or take, since my last visit. I started to mention that.

  “Besides,” she interrupted my planned rationale, “I have something I need you to look into.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. Just come. Today would be nice.”

  “I can’t come today.”

  I grabbed my empty calendar and looked ahead. The Kowalski case was closed now, so my work load was non-existent. Nothing on the horizon, except my mother.

  “I can come this weekend.”

  “See you Saturday.”

  She hung up before I could offer any other alternative. True to form, my mother seldom veered from her demanding nature. She was in her mid-seventies now and had been living alone for over thirty years.

  “We’re going to Clancyville, Sam. Gird your loins.”

  He snorted, which I interpreted to be a sigh, and then rolled over to continue his after-workout nap on the couch. I could tell he was thrilled.

  Three days later we were driving across Virginia in my ten year old Camry. Sam was sleeping comfortably in the backseat while I was enjoying the non-city scenery. Despite my overwhelming confidence in my nearly ancient automobile, I had my eye on a newer model of a different brand. A two year old Jeep had caught my eye while I happened by a dealership last week. It was one of those so-called creampuffs which occur all-too-infrequently but delight one’s soul whenever they happen. Acceptable color, low mileage, and traded in by someone who wanted a new model. I had talked it over with Uncle Walters to get his opinion.

  I was heading home because my mother had beckoned me. Friction with my mother had not yet achieved open warfare status, but we did have moments of conflict in which neither one of us liked the other. I had to believe that it all stemmed from my law enforcement career. She would have preferred that I become an office secretary for some reputable company in Lynchburg or Dan River, towns close-by to Clancyville.

  I did please her when I stopped being a Norfolk cop after ten years. I did not please her when I immediately became a private detective. “Frying pan into the fire,” I think she said. It was my father’s blood that ran in me, so I really couldn’t help myself. At least that’s the way I see it.

  I do see my mother’s point of view in all this. She’s been a widow for longer than she was married. My father had been the Sheriff of Pitt County. He had had his office in Clancyville, the town in which we had lived, the small town in which I grew up. It was also the town where he was killed when I was eleven. It is only natural then that my mother maintains a low opinion of law enforcement, which would include private detectives.

  What that actually means is that my mother maintains a low opinion of me and my work. She is forever telling me that I should quit snooping around and get an honest job. About the only compliment she ever offers to me is something along the lines of, “You’re a smart, young woman and you should be doing something productive.” I receive this line of flattery as something akin to her washing the knife before she sticks it into my flesh.

  I stopped at some fast food gas facility in Emporia. Sam insisted on taking a walk around back so I followed. It was early fall and the days still offered warm sunshine and cool breezes. It was a good time to be traveling into the heartland of Virginia. There were actually moments now and again when I actually missed living in Clancyville. They didn’t occur often, but they come along once in a while to remind me of my formative years. They reminded me of some great joy now long since passed.

  I was headed home, but I knew that it was not towards joy that I was headed. A visit with my mother was anything but joyful. Still, here I was, the dutiful daughter cruising along the corridors of Virginia’s highways and byways en route to some minor disaster in my personal relationship with Mother. I could barely contain my excitement.

  3

  The ride across Virginia was a straight shot using Highway 58, except for the last leg. I turned northward on 29 just after lunch. Sam yawned in my ear and gently nosed me. This was his sign language.

  I stopped in Tightsqueeze and took Sam behind the local Food Lion for his rest stop en route to my hometown. We shared a bottle of water as I curiously surveyed the surroundings of this middle of nowhere Virginia stop. Twenty more minutes and we would be back where I spent all of my youth, back where I had actually helped my father solve some crimes.

  That seemed like another lifetime, but not mine.

  The fall colors were beginning to show themselves. There appeared to be more reds than usual, but it was still early. It was a mild day in South Central Virginia; and, despite my mother’s dictum, it was good to be returning to this place again.

  I pulled into the unpaved driveway off of Honeycutt Lane and parked the Camry under the oak tree. Standing under it, I strained my neck upwards to see the top of it without success. Once upon a time, I climbed that tree. A lot.

  “Where’s the dog?” the back screen door slammed just after the words caught my ears.

  “Exploring.”

  “We have a leash law, you know.”

  “I know. He’ll be careful.”

  “You make it sound like that dog can avoid detection,” she muttered in her stage-whisper as she turned to enter the house.

  He can… and does.

  “I see you are still driving that red Camry. Why don’t you spend some money and buy a new one? How old is that car?”

  “It still runs well and I happen to like it. No need to buy a new one.”

  “Just like your father.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I know.”

  Everything was still in its place, I noticed, as I surveyed the room. It still felt like home, despite the absence of my father. The bookshelves, tabletops, and other furnishings were clean, neatly arranged, and without the clutter of my own apartment. My mother and I were polar opposites when it came to house keeping.

  “Thanks for coming,” she sat down in her softly cushioned blue chair near the bookshelf in the den.

  “You beckoned.”

  “That’s never pulled you in before.”

  “You sounded as if this was important.”

  “It is.”

  “So tell me. What’s so urgent?”

  “People are dying too fast.”

  “Didn’t know that there was a pace to it.”

  “Don’t get smart. I need you to investigate some deaths.”

  “Who died?”

  “Sophie Tucker, Alice Blayne Walker, Marilyn Pearson, Rabbi Shelton, and Eli Rowland.”

  “You keeping a list?”

  “Don’t have to. These were my friends. They’re all close to my age, some a little older. But they shouldn’t be dying.”

  “Death comes to us all.”

  “Always with the mouth.”

  “How’d they die?”

  “In their sleep.”

  “All of them?”

  “To a person.”

  “Good way to go.”

  “If it’s your time. This was premature for all of them.”

  “How do
you know?”

  “I go to the same doctor they used.”

  “And he talks to you about his ... former patients?”

  “We wonder together. Secretly.”

  “Well, I admit it is a rather odd coincidence.”

  “You mean odd coincidences.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Your father used to say that there are no such things.”

  “I remember.”

  “So, detect.”

  “That all you have?”

  “No.”

  I waited for an answer. Nothing came forth. She was staring out the window near her chair. She appeared to be frozen in time.

  “Mother?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me all of it.”

  “They all were residents of the Peace Haven Nursing and Care Facility on the edge of town.”

  “That means they all had something seriously wrong.”