Halfway to Half Way Read online

  Halfway to Half Way

  Suzann Ledbetter

  For Dave, my forever prince,

  who proved happily ever after isn't just the stuff

  of fairy tales and fiction.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Yet another battalion of advisers and sources gave generously of their time and provided answers for a desperately in-need novelist's weird questions. Thank you SO much: Darren L. Moore, Greene County (Missouri) Prosecuting Attorney; Cheryl Smith and Pat Tripoli, Research Dept., Joplin (Missouri) Public Library; Tracey Gillenwater, LOM, Clayton Jones Agency/American Family Insurance, Nixa, Missouri; American Family Insurance consultants, John C. Christensen, Don P. Minter; John S. Korte, Manager, Life & Health Section, Missouri Department of Insurance; Mark A. Elliston, Elliston Law Offices, Webb City, Missouri, Jim Hamilton, Senior Staff Writer, Community Publishers, Inc., and Veda Boyd and Jimmie Jones.

  And a special thanks to Mm. [Robin] Rue, stellar literary agent and fortune-teller's namesake, and to Lara Hyde, my new editor who jumped into this project at the (ahem) halfway mark, but with full-tilt enthusiasm from day one.

  1

  It was shortly after daybreak when Hannah Garvey snuck through Valhalla Springs' brick-and-wrought-iron gates. Actually, she drove through them. It only felt like sneaking. As the retirement community's resident operations manager, Hannah was supposed to be on site and available, 24/7. Although the employment manual didn't expressly forbid sleeping with the sheriff at his house a couple of nights a week, she assumed it was an unwritten rule.

  Posted in no uncertain numerals was Valhalla Springs' inchmeal speed limit. Hannah rode the Blazer's brakes up the gentle slope, as if abiding by that rule washed out breaking the big one. Again. And again. And—well, over the past two months, the rough estimate of her serial sneak-outs and sneak-backs was in the low twenties.

  Aware that her scruples were as thin as her brake shoes, Hannah steeled herself for the scourge that callous disregard would inevitably wreak on four hundred innocent senior citizens. A fire. A flood. Hordes of locusts, at the very least.

  Except once again, the bearded, smite-happy Almighty she'd been terrified of as a child must have been looking elsewhere the past eleven hours or so. A lawnmower's echo was the lone disclaimer to "The closest thing to Paradise" part of Valhalla Springs' advertising slogan.

  Dandelions didn't dare sprout in the manicured acreage tended by an army of groundskeepers. Birds twittered happy songs in the trees and squirrels ran double-helixes around their trunks. Mare's-tail clouds festooned a brilliant blue Ozarks sky, honeysuckle perfumed the air and

  Delbert Bisbee's turquoise '58 Edsel was parked in Hannah's circle driveway.

  Compared to a fire, flood or insect swarm, a Delbert drop-in was at most a point-zero-seven on the Divine Retribution Meter. And a nine-point-nine on the God Has a Wicked Sense of Humor scale.

  Hannah shut her eyes, counted to one, then opened them. Alas, the vintage Ford with a snazzy Continental kit was not a mirage.

  It never had been before. Why would this otherwise splendid mid-July morning be any different?

  The first time Delbert and his gang of elderly gumshoes commandeered Hannah's cottage for their headquarters, she'd had the locks changed. Ditto the second time. Before a third set was installed, "Sam Spade" Bisbee had purchased a lock-pick gun from Private Spy Supply.

  Since then, neither rain, sleet nor dark of night deterred the retired post office supervisor and his hench-persons from trooping into Hannah's house at will. Even when she was home and definitely not alone. Or dressed to receive visitors, as they said in the good old days before lock-pick guns were invented.

  Hannah toyed with the idea of making a U-turn and leaving central Missouri for somewhere remote, such as Nepal, except she wouldn't get far on a quarter tank of gas. Besides, Valhalla Springs' geriatric Mod Squad had several sort-of solved homicides, felonious assaults and a couple of kidnappings to its credit. Tracking down an AWOL resident operations manager before she crossed the Kinderhook County line would be a snap.

  After she'd parked her truck, Hannah opened the passenger door and grabbed her purse from the floorboard. The leather overnight bag beside it, she'd carry in after Delbert left. Years of experience had shown that lying about where you'd been had a lot more credibility without luggage, than with it.

  "Moomph," said Malcolm, her impatient passenger and eighty-five-pound other love of her life.

  The instant she freed him, the giant Airedale-wildebeest went airborne and landed kersplat on the lawn like a belly-down B-52 with fur. From this perspective, it was clear his ancestry included Dalmatian, golden retriever, Irish setter, Russian wolfhound and a wanton fling with a Shetland pony.

  While he watered his three favorite trees, Hannah entered the cottage and deposited her purse on the desk. A wooden railing separated the office nook from the spacious great room. Apart from an oak dining set used as a conference table, the cottage was furnished like a private residence. Which it was, when the gumshoes, prospective tenants, current ones, department supervisors, lost tourists and the odd paroled convict weren't cluttering it up.

  "Delbert?" she called. "Where are you?"

  A cranky, disembodied "Right here" shot her seventeen inches vertically, then into a neat, horizontal half twist. Hand clapped to her chest, she was momentarily blinded by Delbert's madras Bermudas, red-checked gingham shirt and yellow smiley face crew socks—a typical Bisbee ensemble that was probably visible from one of Pluto's moons.

  "Damn you, Delbert," she wheezed. "You scared the living crap out of me."

  The snowy-haired home invader was standing on a metal toolbox, poking a screwdriver into her thermostat's exposed innards. "Didn't you see my car out front?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then you knew I was here when you came in—"

  "Yes, but—"

  "—from wherever you'd gallivanted off to." He gave Hannah a withering paternal up-and-down. "And I guess I don't have to ask where that was."

  Delbert in protective father-figure mode was annoying and endearing. Delbert with a screwdriver in his fist kindled memories of perfectly functional appliances being reduced to rubble.

  First things first. "I guess not," she said. "You know I can't start on the payroll without picking up the time sheets from the department supervisors."

  This was true. It had no bearing on his remark, but Hannah's twenty-five years in the advertising industry qualified as a Ph.D. in the ol' bait and switch.

  "Oh. Well." He sawed a finger under his nose. "Now that you mention it, ladybug, I reckon this is the second Tuesday of the month."

  The pet name sufficed as an apology for implying she'd spent the night having mind-blowing sex with Sheriff David Hendrickson. Just because the human love of her life had left to respond to a meth lab explosion before they'd had a chance to get naked didn't make her feel any better about deceiving Delbert.

  Guilt from being caught doing something you shouldn't paled in comparison to getting away with it and feeling like a two-faced slimeball. Hannah's confession was in the composition stage when she heard a distinct zzzt.

  The screwdriver sailed past her l
eft ear. A puff of smoke shot toward the ceiling. Sparks showered downward like tiny meteorites. Delbert yelled, "Battle stations! Mayday! Get the fire extinguisher! Quick!"

  Minutes later, the wall beside the breakfast room doorway was a seething blotch of powdery yellow residue several shades brighter than Mr. Fix-It's socks. His complexion pretty much matched his shirt and the fire extinguisher's red-enameled barrel. He handed it back to her with a quiet, but sincere "Oops."

  It's said you can choose your friends, but not your family. Delbert and the gumshoe gang had become both. As with her real family—long gone to that single-wide trailer park in the sky—the urge to strangle him, or the other four, on a fairly frequent basis went with the territory.

  Hannah inquired, "Are you sure the fire's out?"

  "Ya gotta have flames to have a fire." Delbert straightened to a full five foot three, which put the top of his head level with her chin. "Leave it to a woman to make Mount Rushmore out of a molehill."

  Misogyny was his premier line of defense. Objecting to it was, in the immortal words of her great-uncle Mort, like teaching a pig to sing. Hannah set down the fire extinguisher and made a mental note to have it recharged. And buy a backup. Maybe two.

  "Next question," she said. "Why were you ramming a screwdriver into my thermostat?"

  "Because every window in the ding-danged house was open when I pulled up out front."

  She cocked her head, gnawed her lower lip, then finally had to admit she had no clue what the hell he was talking about.

  "It hit eighty-eight degrees yesterday afternoon," Delbert said, as though addressing a toddler, or a lunatic. "It's supposed to be over ninety today. Not bad for July, but when I saw your windows open, I figured the central air was on the fritz."

  Hannah eyed the mustardy mess with a rectangular lump in the middle, formerly known as a climate-control device. "I'll bet it is now."

  He nodded, then hung his head. "I was just trying to help, ladybug."

  Valhalla Springs had a full-time maintenance department. Reminding Delbert of it was akin to telling Malcolm to recite the Analects of Confucius in Mandarin.

  Hannah hugged Delbert's sparrow shoulders. "My windows were open because I like real air. And fans. Especially at night." She planted a smooch on his sweet Old-Spice-scented cheek. "We didn't have air-conditioning when I was a kid, then I spent two-thirds of my life in a hermetically sealed condo in Chicago. Listening to a fan and the crickets are like revisiting my childhood. The good parts."

  Shrewd, milky-blue eyes rose to her brown ones, and the corners of Delbert's mouth quirked into a smile. In a tone both affectionate and crabby, he said, "Has anybody ever told you, you're nuttier than a fruitcake factory?"

  "Uh-huh." Hannah laughed. "But you haven't for quite a while."

  "I would have, if I'd known you were such a nature freak." He squatted to retrieve the screwdriver and chucked it in the toolbox. "Real air, my sweet aspidistra. Next you'll trade in that feminazi mobile for an ox team and a wagon."

  He pondered the sunlight streaming through the French doors to the deck. "It's not as hot in here as you'd expect, though. Must be the shade—trees keep it cooler longer."

  That and relative isolation. A stocked, spring-fed lake and the adjacent community center separated the manager's cottage from the residential area and Main Street's commercial district. Across Valhalla Springs Boulevard and a jog east was an eighteen-hole championship golf course. Any whisper of a breeze from any direction was Hannah's to enjoy.

  With Mother Nature as her nearest neighbor, she should also have privacy out the wazoo. And mostly did, for about seventy-three hours after she moved in last April. Coming home to find the first gumshoe meeting in progress because they wanted privacy had significantly lessened her hope of having some.

  Delbert pulled a chartreuse ball cap with Eat Well, Stay Fit, Die Anyway embroidered on it from his back pocket. "Since you've got bookkeeping to do, I'd best shove off. If you want, I'll mosey by Maintenance and report that bum thermostat."

  "No rush, unless you're in one. I can't work a calculator without coffee."

  A sly grin said her marginal math skills were gender-related, not caffeine-oriented. "One cup. Then I gotta get crack-a-lackin'."

  Availing himself of a bar stool, Delbert shucked the rubber band from the county weekly newspaper he must have brought in with him. "I'm teeing off with Leo Schnur in a few minutes. Suki Allen's invited me over for lunch, then after my siesta, I've gotta decide whether to take Carol Flaherty or Pat Fortune to the square dance tonight."

  His harem was a source of amusement and no speculation whatsoever. The childless, five-time divorcée was the George Clooney of Valhalla Springs—either in spite of, or because of, his pledge to never say "I do" again.

  Hannah's mother never married, but her romantic learning curve was similarly steep. Caroline Garvey's lifelong quest for Mr. Right netted a parade of Mr. Couldn't Be More Wrongs, an illegitimate daughter, chronic alcoholism, incurable poverty and an early grave.

  Avoiding that fate was simple. Never get involved with anyone other than a Mr. Wrong, whom Hannah wouldn't marry if she were comatose, or who had no desire to marry her. The bonus was the appearance of a committed relationship without the angst, complications and heartache. It also resolved a lot of trust issues. It's easy not to fear Mr. Wrong will leave, when you don't want him around forever, anyway.

  As Hannah filled the coffee carafe with tap water, she thought David Hendrickson should have been the ultimate Mr. Wrong. A divorced, dedicated county sheriff seven years her junior? No threat whatsoever to her theory, much less to the vow of celibacy she took on her fortieth birthday.

  They'd both put up a good fight. Well, she had. A whole seven, maybe eight days had elapsed from the time she fell in like to when she fell hopelessly in love with the tall, handsome, smart, smart-ass lawman.

  Hannah flipped the coffeemaker's switch to Brew and took two mugs from the cabinet. She'd designed the Valhalla Springs logo and slogan embossed on the cups—a souvenir of her former life as a senior account executive at Chicago's Friedlich & Friedlich agency.

  When exactly her dream career became drudgery was impossible to peg. The result was an "I quit" memo to the agency's fraternal CEOs. To this day, Hannah wasn't sure how a courtesy call to Jack Clancy, her longtime client and dearest friend, turned into the resident manager's job at his upscale retirement community.

  Now all she had to do to become Mrs. Sheriff was plan their wedding, find her own replacement, leave the second family she loved, the only real home she'd ever had, and move to the house David was building twenty-five miles away.

  No problem, as long as she ignored minor qualms, such as not wanting to quit her job and a severe reluctance to move to "the corner of East Jesus and plowed ground." David's new house wasn't as far from Valhalla Springs as Nepal, but his closest neighbor was miles away and her love of nature was somewhat selective.

  Fresh air and crickets, good. A surrounding forest, a meadow teeming with wildflowers, bunnies, birds, squirrels and deer, very good. Snakes, skunks, ticks, chiggers, poison ivy, probably bears, maybe wolves, not good. Way not good.

  Newspaper pages rattled behind her. "This county rag gets skimpier every week," Delbert said. "If I subscribed, I'd cancel."

  "You did," Hannah reminded him. "The day I started mine."

  The aroma of bubbling Tip of the Andes followed her to the utility room. She filled Malcolm's food vat, then let him in the side door. Reverse the order and he'd dive into the kibble can and eat his way out.

  "Hey, ladybug. Get a load of this."

  She detoured to the coffeemaker, filled the mugs and set Delbert's in front of him. He sucked down a healthy swig as he tapped a three-by-four photograph below the fold. "Looks like Chlorine Moody's got herself between a rosebush and a bulldozer."

  Hannah realized the picture's blurriness was the fault of her forty-three-year-old eyes, not the photographer. She hiked a shoulder, preferring not t
o admit her presbyopia to a retired unhandyman who didn't need reading glasses.

  Delbert went on. "The caption says Chlorine is fighting the city over a new natural gas line being laid in the alley behind her house."

  Hannah's nose wrinkled, remembering her one, thankfully brief, encounter with the woman. "If anyone can beat city hall, it's her. Saying she's rude is almost a compliment."

  Delbert harrumphed. "Near as I can tell, that pickle-puss of hers would stop traffic on I-44. This picture was taken last Friday. I'll bet that bulldozer driver still ain't sleeping through the night."

  They both jumped at a zing, like lightning striking a telephone line. "What the—" Delbert glanced around. "What was that?"