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  WELCOME HOME TO MURDER

  a Hometown Mystery

  by

  ROSALIE SPIELMAN

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2022 by Rosalie Spielman

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Like my main character in this book, Lieutenant Colonel Tessa Treslow, I come from a family of veterans and am one myself. The military has shaped me into who I am today, so it was only natural to write about a female veteran.

  I’d like to give a special thank you to my husband, father, brother, and sister, who each served over twenty years in various branches of the military. Including my own years, our family has an accumulated 103 years of service in these two generations.

  I served active duty for only a few years, but spent 24 as a spouse, so sending love to my fellow military spouses, including my mom. Our roles as partners and caregivers are not to be diminished. Military children are also a special breed, so I also send love to mine and all their peers.

  A very special thank you to an amazing woman, my old Army roommate and friend, Veronica Ko, who helped me with some details about prosthetics. Her enthusiasm for life is infectious and she puts a “no excuses” motto into action daily.

  I especially want to reach a hug out to all the service members, past and present, who struggle with the unseen wounds of war. Those injuries can transform and destroy lives just as effectively as a bullet or a bomb.

  I was extremely moved that Gemma Halliday Publishing offered to donate a percentage of their proceeds to a veterans charity of my choice. I chose the Disabled American Veterans, DAV. Thank you, reader, for helping support that organization and the current and retired service members it supports. You will also find a list of additional worthy charities at the end of the book.

  Thank you to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, my editor Susie Halliday, and my publisher, Gemma Halliday, for helping get this book into the light.

  Rosalie Spielman

  CHAPTER ONE

  "I don't imagine a raccoon would turn down peanut butter, but do you really think his little hands could open the jar?"

  I looked at my boxer dog, Vince, who listened intently with his head cocked to one side. His chocolate eyes shifted to the taxidermy raccoon who had a literal death grip on a jar of Jif and back to me, then he whined, wiggled his butt, and poked a squirrel paddling a tiny canoe with his nose.

  "Oh, you like that one better?" I laughed and reached down to play with one of his velvety ears. "You do have a thing for squirrels, don't you?"

  And there were plenty of squirrels for him here, inside the house and out. On top of a tall table in the upstairs hall of my Aunt Edna's house was an assortment of things that should not exist in this world. Instead of a crazy cat lady with a dozen cats, my late Grandma Ethel had an unusual hobby that resulted in a weird menagerie of the dead. My mom and Aunt Edna had started the process of paring down the collection, but there was still an impressive amount spread throughout the house.

  Aunt Edna appeared at my elbow. She straightened grandma's final creation, a Frankenstein-esque creation that she'd named "Bundeersquirrella" (head and ears of a bunny, tiny antlers, and a squirrel's tail poking out the back of a blue ballgown, topped off with a tiny crown).

  "I miss her," she sighed.

  I pursed my lips and put an arm around her. "I know. Me too." I studied her for a moment. She wore leggings, wool clogs, and an oversized buttoned-up shirt so, if it hadn't been for her pixie cut hair being gray, she could have been confused for a middle school girl rather than the feisty septuagenarian she was.

  Aunt Edna was my favorite aunt. Granted, she was my only aunt, but even if I'd had a baker's dozen of them, she'd still be my favorite. Our bond was forged in grease and melded in engine oil: she was the one who'd taught me how to fix cars (and tractors, and lawn mowers—anything with an engine) from when I was old enough to lift a wrench. Besides our mutual love of crapped-out engines was our status as military veterans, Aunt Edna having been a member of the Women's Army Corps, or WAC, during the Vietnam War.

  She straightened, smiled, and patted my hand on her arm. "The room okay for you two?" She jacked her thumb over her shoulder at the guest room, where my Army issue duffle bag lay at the foot of the bed. Vince's ginormous doggie couch took up half the floor at one side.

  "Sure thing. You know how it is, any bed is a great bed."

  She nodded then turned to the stairs. "Okay, Nug. I'm gonna set the table. Your folks will be here soon."

  I was her "little lug nut," or Nug for short.

  I watched her move down the stairs, a little slower than the last time I'd seen her. It had only been about six months since my grandma's funeral, but in my line of work—an officer in the United States Army—being away for months or even years had made the aging of my loved ones painfully obvious. Being assigned far away and often deployed was what I had needed to do for my career, but at times like this, I wondered if the tradeoff had been worth it in the end. I would find out soon enough. I'd recently retired after twenty-four years in the Army, and, though I hadn't made any solid plans on where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do, I was pretty sure New Oslo, Idaho, was not the where. I had the whole world open to me now, no Army to tell me where to go and when, so why would I come back to this tiny town? I could go anywhere.

  But I had agreed to visit for a while, until I figured out my next step, and a little visit never killed anyone, right?

  I stepped into the bathroom to splash water on my face. Drying off with a towel that had been in this house since the moon landing, I tried to convince myself the new lines around my eyes were from fatigue from the long drive from Fort Carson in Colorado.

  I pulled out the scrunchie that held up my pile of chestnut hair and finger-combed it and weaved it into a braid that hung to my shoulder blades. That would be more acceptable for my prim mother. I headed down the narrow staircase with Vince close on my heels, and as my foot hit the hardwood of the first floor, the front door opened, and my parents walked in.

  "Tessa!" My mother snatched me into her thin arms.

  My dad stoo
d awkwardly by her, a covered dish in his hands. Once Mom stopped strangling me with her soft arms, he leaned in over my shoulder for a quick kiss to my cheek before moving on to the dining room. He wore the typical farmer outfit of worn jeans and a faded button up plaid-print shirt. He probably had dozens of those shirts. He clearly saw no reason to dress up for dinner.

  Mom finally pushed me back and swiped the tears off her cheeks before rearranging my braid to the front of my shoulder and flicking invisible lint off my flannel shirt. She wore slacks and a twin set in a light blue that complemented her silver hair, and I blushed as she took in my faded jeans, decades-old Birkenstock sandals, and concert T-shirt under the flannel. But she smiled.

  "We've missed you, Teresa Jane. It's nice to see you healthy again. You were a right mess before." She turned my left arm so the inside was facing toward her and pushed the rolled-up sleeve farther. "And I see you got another tattoo. What's it mean?"

  I glanced at semper memento written in script on my inner arm. "Always remember."

  She smiled, even though it looked like she'd bit a lemon. "That's very nice, dear."

  Aunt Edna joined us and gave my arm a quick glance. "You've got me outnumbered, Nug. How many does this make?"

  I smiled at her. "Seven. I outnumbered you five tattoos ago."

  We went together to both get our first matching ones—crossed wrenches with the words, "We can do it," à la Rosie the Riveter. It was in part a homage to my grandmother, who was a Rosie in WWII, as well as being our mechanic badge of honor. We'd gotten them long enough ago that tattoos hadn't been the norm, especially for anyone over fifty (minus your typical motorcycle gang member, which I will neither confirm nor deny Aunt Edna's membership in).

  "Well, I guess I've got some catching up to do." She patted my shoulder then turned to my mom. "I was thinking you wouldn't be here for another half hour, Agnes. I guess you closed the HOG early?"

  Mom nodded. "I don't like to close early, especially on a Monday, but I did as soon as Tessa texted she'd arrived."

  The Harridan Old General Store, referred to as the HOG by locals and tourists alike, was the family business and sold everything anyone would ever be looking for, and a few things they weren't. The old-style convenience store was built by my great-grandfather in the early 1900s and an attached mechanic garage had been added in the thirties.

  She raised her eyebrows. "You still haven't found your cell phone? I texted you."

  I looked between the two sisters. "Did you try calling it?"

  Mom nodded. "We tried that once she admitted she lost it."

  Aunt Edna scowled. "I didn't lose it. I just don't know where it is." She shrugged, apparently not seeing a problem with her statement, and glanced at her watch. "It'll turn up. I lived seventy-five years without one of those things. I ain't gonna die or nothin'." She turned toward the front door." The pot roast ain't done yet, but I guess we can sit and visit before dinner."

  Mom muttered something about losing unattached heads as we followed Aunt Edna out to the porch. The two of them sat in rockers, and Dad and I stood on the lawn and watched Vince tear around the yard in big circles, getting rid of all the manic energy left over from our days on the road.

  "He sure is a crazy one." Dad paused long enough that I knew what was coming next. "How're you doing?"

  "I'm doing good, Dad." I looked at him. "Really. You all can take off the kiddie gloves." I tipped my head toward the porch. "And how are they? Since Grandma passed?"

  His gaze stayed trained on Vince, who had slowed his frantic circles and now weaved around sniffing everything possessing a smell. "They're doing okay. Good overall…just a few bumps here and there."

  "Really? Like what?"

  Dad either didn't hear me or ignored me. Instead, he leaned down, slapped his leg, and called to his granddog.

  "I hear the oven buzzer." The wooden screen door banged behind Aunt Edna as she went to answer its call.

  My dad climbed the stairs. He looked good. Maybe a little more stooped, with a few more creases on his face than last time, but good overall.

  The house looked fine too, with its cheery yellow paint and white trim, dormers, and wraparound porch railings. Maybe a few bits of cracked or peeling paint on the sides of the big, boring-looking square house—American Four-square houses were commonly called "Prairie Boxes"—showed the previous lively colors the Harridan family had painted it. In the summertime, the wildflowers and tended beds made it even more cheery, but now in early October their colorful displays had closed up for the year.

  We headed inside to dinner, passing through the living room. I paused to inspect a taxidermized standing gray wolf with a sheepskin casually tossed over him.

  "What's with the sheepskin?" I asked.

  Mom rolled her eyes to the heavens. "Your aunt's humor at work. We found the sheepskin cleaning out Grandma's closet."

  Aunt Edna banged over, her clogs loud on the wooden floor. She stood, arms crossed, and glared at the wolf in question. "A 'wolf in sheep's clothing,' you know. We should beware of people not being what they seem. Not a bad thing to keep in the back of your mind. And I thought it was funny." She pointed me to the table. "Sit."

  "Yes, ma'am." I mock saluted and moved to my usual chair facing the picture window where I looked out onto a field almost ready for its second haying. Mom and Aunt Edna flanked me, and Dad took the chair by his wife.

  We weren't a family that wasted much time when it came to food, so it was a few minutes before anyone spoke.

  "That's a real good point, Edna," Dad made a vague gesture with his fork. "Especially these last couple months."

  The conversation from the other room had already floated out of my mind, so I stopped, fork halfway to my mouth, while I tried to decipher what he was talking about.

  "True," Mom nodded, the knot of hair at the back of her head wobbling dangerously as she agreed with him. "Very true, Frank."

  Aunt Edna grunted her agreement, but kept shoveling potatoes.

  Perplexed, I set my fork down and reached for my glass. "What are you talking about?"

  Dad had taken a bite, so he nodded toward the living room, and I followed his gaze. The wolf.

  "You've had problems with a wolf in sheep's clothing?"

  Mom tittered. "Not literally a wolf, dear."

  Aunt Edna rolled her eyes. "I'm sure she knows not literally, Agnes." She looked at me. "Yes, we've been having issues with a shyster. He'll go away eventually." She stuck a chunk of meat in her mouth. "Karma," she mumbled around the meat. "It'll get 'em. Always does."

  "I'm listening," I took another bite of roast.

  Dad shook his head and waved his napkin. "It's nothing to worry about. It's a crock."

  Mom had stopped eating and now pushed her plate away. "It's total hogwash."

  I looked around the table at the three of them. They were all glaring everywhere but at each other or me.

  "Let's change the subject, shall we?" Mom's pinched smile was aimed at me. "How was your drive?"

  I looked around at all of them for a moment longer before shrugging. "Fine. Had the expected end result."

  Mom nodded, her gaze on her napkin. I could tell she was searching desperately for a real change of subject.

  It took a while, but she finally found one. "Oh!" she burst out. "There's a cowboy poetry gathering this Friday. We were planning on going." She looked at me expectantly.

  "Okay. I'll go. What exactly is cowboy poetry?"

  "Not like Robert Frost in a cowboy hat or anything. More like the stories and songs cowboys shared around the campfires," Aunt Edna explained. "They're real nice."

  "It's at the High Octane. Remember that place?" Mom asked.

  "Yeah. It's the old gas station, right? Some folks bought it and made it into a café?"

  "That's the place," Mom said. "Nice folks, despite not being from here."

  I shook my head at my plate and smiled. Those folks had lived here a decade or more but would always be considered "t
he Californians."

  Dad surveyed the table and announced it was "high time for pie." We all helped clear the table—I noticed no one told me to sit, you're a guest, and I didn't want to pick apart what that meant—and reset it with a warm apple pie, a tub of vanilla ice cream, and a block of cheddar cheese. A slice of cheddar cheese on my apple pie was my favorite, but I was in an ice cream mood tonight.

  Shortly after dinner, Mom and Dad announced they needed to get home to feed the animals. Aunt Edna and I walked them to the edge of the porch and watched as they pulled away, the car shrieking the whole way, causing both of us to cringe.

  "Fan belt," I laughed. "And I bet she won't let you touch it."

  "So stubborn," Aunt Edna fussed. "Frank has no problem with free mechanic services, but your mom…good heavens. She must think I'm keeping tally."

  "I'm sure it's not a matter of trust. She just doesn't want to feel like she's taking advantage."

  Aunt Edna scoffed. "She's been a pain in the tukus since Mama died. Acting like she's the boss at the HOG, but she ain't the boss of me. Mama left the HOG to us equally, period. I help her out in the store sometimes if she needs me, but…" Aunt Edna shot me a glance. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't vent to you about her. How about we go take a look at what I'm working on right now? A 1966 Ford Mustang."

  We headed for the barn, which, for the last two decades or so, was reserved for her classic car restoration side hustle-slash-hobby. She considered herself to be like those folks who flipped houses but didn't want to call it "flipping cars." Who would buy it, she'd said, if they thought it meant it had been literally flipped?