The Dunn Deal Read online

  Table of Contents

  TheDunnDeal_Title

  TheDunnDeal_Copyright

  TheDunnDeal_BooksByCatherineLeggitt

  TheDunnDeal_Dedication

  TheDunnDeal_AuthorNote

  TheDunnDeal_Quotes

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterOne

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwo

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterThree

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterFour

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterFive

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterSix

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterSeven

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterEight

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterNine

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterEleven

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwelve

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterThirteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterFourteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterFifteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterSixteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterSeventeen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterEighteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterNineteen

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwenty

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyOne

  TheDunnDeal_ChaptertTwentyTwo

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyThree

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyFour

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyFive

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentySix

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentySeven

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyEight

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterTwentyNine

  TheDunnDeal_ChapterThirty

  TheDunnDeal_MomsSwissSteakRecipe

  TheDunnDeal_Acknowledgements

  TheDunnDeal_DiscussionQuestions

  TheDunnDeal_Promo

  The Dunn Deal

  a novel

  CATHERINE LEGGITT

  Ellechor Publishing House, LLC

  Ellechor Publishing House

  2431 NW Wessex Terrace,

  Hillsboro, OR 97124

  Copyright © 2012 by Catherine Leggitt

  2012 Ellechor Publishing House Paperback Edition

  The Dunn Deal/Leggitt, Catherine

  ISBN: 978-1-937844-97-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011945175

  All rights reserved. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without the written permission of the Publisher. Please purchase only authorized editions. For more information, address:

  Ellechor Publishing House,

  2431 NW Wessex Terrace,

  Hillsboro, OR 97124

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold” or “destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.ellechorpublishing.com

  Books by Catherine Leggitt

  Hurray God! (Compilation)

  CHRISTINE STERLING MYSTERY TRILOGY

  Payne & Misery

  The Dunn Deal

  Parrish the Thought

  TO MY HUSBAND, BOB WITH LOVE.

  Without your blessing and support,

  writing would not only be impossible

  but also no fun.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Although I used many actual street names and landmarks from scenic Nevada County, I took frequent liberties with their locations. Mixed with the real names, I also used names birthed solely in my imagination. I ask the readers’ kind indulgence and understanding. THE DUNN DEAL is a work of fiction and in no way depicts any actual events or people living or dead. I found my Grass Valley neighbors to be considerate, helpful individuals, and my memories of living there are sweet.

  Always choose truth.

  “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

  ~ John 8:32

  “How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg?

  Four; calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

  ~ Abraham Lincoln

  “Post modernists believe that truth is myth, and myth, truth. This equation has its roots in pop psychology. The same people also believe that emotions are a form of reality. There used to be another name

  for this state of mind. It used to be called psychosis.”

  ~ Brad Holland

  Chapter One

  The sketchy details of Baxter Dunn’s death seeped into my brain while I struggled to organize them. A hideous image of his mangled body, strapped onto a stretcher and being dragged from a remote ravine, flashed through my mind. Shivers rocketed down my spine and blasted acid into my stomach. None of it made sense.

  Shaking my head to clear the haze, I forced myself back to the present. Socially appropriate words passed my lips as

  I embraced Zora Jane Callahan, my best friend. “I’m so sorry.” How inadequate they must sound. “So very, very sorry.”

  I repeated, as if repetition made the words more effective.

  Zora Jane blew her nose on a soggy tissue, honking a bit louder than normal for a classy woman. No one would hold that against her—not with her beloved son-in-law lying dead on a slab in the morgue.

  Her words, with alternating sobs, rolled out like stormy waves. “What about the children? They need him. He’s so good with them and they love him so much. What will they do without him?”

  I’d never heard the name Baxter Dunn fall from Zora Jane’s lips without words of praise or thanks to God attached. I mumbled another string of powerless expressions. “He was an extraordinary man.” When I reached toward her, she dissolved into my arms.

  As this latest wave of sorrow trickled away, she pulled back to grab another tissue. “I started praying for him when I rocked Kathleen to sleep as a baby. I asked God to prepare a man for my daughter. A God-fearing man to cherish her and bring out the best in her, to be the spiritual leader in their home, generous and compassionate. God answered every one of my prayers when he gave us Baxter.”

  I nodded, feeling older and more useless than my fifty-six years warranted.

  Fresh tears flowed as she wailed, “What will Kathleen do now?”

  I usually babble when stressed, but right now I could only wield a Kleenex box. What words would be comforting? I’d never be able to cope if this happened to one of my children. I held her and prayed she would soon remember God’s sovereignty and ultimate goodness, although I couldn’t see how even God could bring good from this tragedy.

  As each new detail reached us, I wrestled anew with how to reconcile the reality. But how could anyone grasp the finality of such devastating news? The high-speed car chase. Falling off a high cliff and being impaled on a rusty spike. The terrible imagery of Baxter’s untimely death lurked behind my eyelids, making me afraid to close my eyes. I might never sleep again.

  Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe someone else’s body had been discovered in that ravine. Please, God. Make it all go away.

  Once I reached home, I pummeled my husband Jesse with my questions. “Where was God? What kind of God separates a father from his little children? From his family?”

  Jesse held me, rocking from side to side. “These foothills should have been heaven on earth. That was the plan.” Yet two murders had intruded on our lives in less than four short years. Who could have predicted such atrocities? Our nearest neighbor, Lila Payne, was murdered under bizarre circumstances and now the son-in-law of our best friends.

  Assigning blame seemed imperative. It must be Jesse’s fault. He convinced me that this quiet place in the country, fourteen wooded acres in California’s Sierra Nevada foothills, would buffet us from the world’s craziness. Retirement allowe
d us to leave the noise and pollution behind in Southern California but look what happened? We moved to a place where neighbors got murdered. Railing against Jesse, screaming and pounding my fists on his chest might make me feel better. But I knew it wasn’t his fault. “Guess we wouldn’t be safe anywhere these days.”

  Jesse answered with a slow shake of his head.

  I scanned his face, noting that the sparkle had drained from his hazel eyes. This horrible event had aged him in mere hours. A solitary tear squeezed out the corner of one eye and trickled down his cheek. I reached up to wipe it away and my anger dissolved with the tear. How could I be mad at such a tenderhearted man?

  The dreadful news of Baxter’s death settled on our community like a dense, paralyzing fog. No one could conceive that such a thing could happen to this dedicated young deputy. Soft spoken, caring, productive; exactly the kind of man every mother hopes her son will become.

  The Callahan’s house in Grass Valley became the gathering place for the bereaved. We spent most of the next week there as family and friends came and went; the ebb and flow of tides riding out a storm. Baxter’s mother and father, Ted and Ida Dunn, camped out in the spare room. His brother and sister

  slept on the couch and the living room floor. Kathleen Dunn clung to her in-laws, weeping most of the time.

  Deep sorrow and grief blanketed the house, oddly punctuated by the chirping of children’s laughter. Kathleen’s sisters, Olivia and Jolie, did their best to keep the small brood under control, but it was a tough assignment. Children sense turmoil no matter how adults try to disguise it. Often the children acted out in ways that seemed counterproductive. Kathleen and Baxter’s four, together with their combined nieces and nephews, gave new meaning to the term ‘full house’.

  To make myself useful, I took over keeping the coffeepot full and the dishes washed. I usually answered the door, giving the Callahan’s uninterrupted time for receiving consolation from the steady stream of friends and coworkers who stopped by. Typical of Zora Jane’s ultimate trust in God’s goodness, after the initial shock wore off she did far more comforting than receiving comfort.

  I opened their front door late Monday afternoon to find a group of visitors in crisply ironed, dark green deputy sheriff uniforms on the porch. Their smiles looked forced, their bodies rigid.

  Hoping to ease their discomfort, I waved them in, producing a smile of my own. “Thank you for coming.” Six officers from the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office where Baxter worked for eleven years filed through the door.

  The first deputy looked into my eyes. “How’s the family holding up?”

  “About as well as you’d expect. It’s been a terrible shock. Helps to have so much support.”

  Just behind the group, a friend from church carried a covered casserole with both hands. “Hello, Christine.” She grinned. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Trying to be useful. Seems like precious little at a time like this. Can I take that for you?” I moved quickly to the kitchen and stuffed the casserole into Zora Jane’s already bulging refrigerator, bumping the door closed with my hip. Mountains of bread and desserts covered the kitchen counters, with casseroles stacked in the freezer. There would be food for months.

  The phone rang and Jesse beat me to it. His hearing had gotten so bad that I hovered nearby anyway in case he needed an interpreter.

  “Callahan residence.” He cupped one hand over the earpiece. “What? The newspaper, you say?”

  I shook my head and sighed. Stubborn man. He wouldn’t admit his hearing loss and refused to ask for help.

  Jesse stared into the wall above the phone as if captions for the hearing impaired would appear. “No, I’m sorry. They’re not available to make a statement. You probably know more about what’s happening than we do.”

  He shifted the phone to his other ear. I stepped closer.

  “Say again?” The furrows on his forehead deepened. “I suppose I could confirm what you already know.” He rolled his eyes at me. “Correct. His wife spoke with him on Friday afternoon when he called from work to tell her he’d be home late. Baxter didn’t come home Friday night. They found the body Saturday night.”

  Another round of listening. “Exactly. You know as much as we know.” He bent toward the receiver as if he couldn’t wait to hang up. “What’s that?” He straightened, the vein in his neck bulging when he tightened his jaw. His voice sounded tense. “Naturally. An autopsy will be performed next week. The family can’t schedule the funeral until that is completed.” Jesse turned his back on the room. After thirty-nine years as his wife, I could tell when he neared the end of his patience. “Look, you idiot, I told you. We don’t know anything else!”

  Baxter’s widow, Kathleen, lifted red-rimmed eyes when Jesse slammed the receiver into its cradle. “Thanks, Mr. Sterling. News people have been calling all day. The kids and I had to push our way out this morning through the crew camped outside our house.”

  The audacity! I wanted to stomp my foot. “You shouldn’t have to deal with them right now. Why won’t they leave you alone?”

  Jesse’s expression mirrored his frustration. “Vultures! That’s what they are. Anything for a story.”

  Zora Jane’s soft sigh fluttered out like a delicate bird. “I think we should pray for them.”

  Although surely most of the people in the room didn’t feel any more like praying for the media than I did, we all hushed our talking and bowed our heads while Zora Jane led us.

  “Dear Father, I pray blessings on these media people. Help them separate truth from rumor. Please give us patience to deal with them in kindness. Help us remember that we are your ambassadors here on earth. Even though we don’t understand why this awful thing has happened, we know you can bring good out of it. Use our suffering to glorify your name. Please, dear Lord, help us stay out of your way while you work.”

  Pastor Gregg, the senior pastor from our church, continued the prayer. “Lord God, you know how injured this family is. The Bible says You care so much about our sorrow that You record each tear in Your book. Please, Lord, bind up these wounds tonight. Bring comfort and peace to this family.”

  When he finished, Zora Jane extended her hand. “Thank you for staying all afternoon, pastor. It means a lot to have you here.”

  Ed Callahan, Zora Jane’s husband, clapped the minister on the shoulder. “Yes, we appreciate it. You bring a comforting presence wherever you go.”

  Not knowing how else to help, I picked up the coffeepot and wandered among the small groups gathered around the great room. Subdued discussion gradually resumed.

  Kathleen’s younger sister, Olivia, sat in one of two recliners, holding a small boy with curly red hair. The third sister, Jolie, perched on the thick upholstered arm beside her.

  Olivia scowled at her mother. “Sometimes I don’t understand how she can pray for evil people. They don’t care about our pain. Why should we care about the media?”

  “She’s right, though,” Jolie said. “Just because we’re hurting doesn’t mean we stop being witnesses. People are watching to see how we’ll react. Jesus experienced unimaginable pain on the cross, but he never stopped thinking of others. Remember? He asked John to care for his mother and took time to comfort the thief.”

  Sounds like Jolie inherited her mother’s heart.

  I raised the coffeepot, but they shook their heads. I continued on my round through the house.

  Baxter’s parents reclined on the sofa, Ida’s head leaning against Ted’s shoulder. Their faces sagged as if weighted down by lead sinkers.

  A woman I didn’t know asked, “You have no idea why he went into those mountains?”

  Ted shook his head. “No one knows.”

  Ida straightened and placed her delicate pale hand on Ted’s arm. “Remember that abandoned mine shaft where the boys used to play when we visited the Williams family out in Cedar Ridge years ago? Do you suppose that’s the same location where they found Baxter?”

  “Could be.” T
ed sandwiched her hand tenderly between his. “But I thought they sealed those old tunnels long ago. They’re dangerous. People get hurt there.” Fresh tears surged into Ted’s eyes.

  Ida embraced him.

  I moved towards Ed Callahan, who was wearing his typical plaid golf pants and colorful golf shirt. He leaned against the wall near the French doors, talking with two officers I didn’t recognize. They appeared to be ten or fifteen years older than Baxter, so I assumed they weren’t rookies. I took note of the three gold chevrons decorating the sleeve of the man closest to Ed. Does that make him a captain?

  Ed was in the middle of a conversation. “…County. Is that standard procedure?”

  The officer with the chevrons nodded. “Nevada County’s a small office. We don’t have morgue facilities or a forensic pathologist either. We contract with Placer County. Toxicology requests go all the way to Pennsylvania. Takes a long time to process them. It’s probably quite different working in San Francisco.”

  “You bet.” Ed Callahan had retired from the San Francisco police force. His sea blue eyes peered over his spectacles. “That’s the good news as well as the bad.”

  Seeing me hovering nearby with the coffee pot, he held out his cup. I filled it.

  The others declined.

  Janet from church huddled near Zora Jane in the dining room. Another lady I didn’t know bent close, compassion radiating from her face. Zora Jane swayed slightly while she talked, arms hugging her chest over the top of a brown sweater set with turquoise flowers cascading down one side.

  Tsk. Such a shallow thing to notice her attire at this tragic time. Unfortunately, my fascination with Zora Jane’s wardrobe plagued me constantly. Tall and willowy, Zora Jane could drape a gunnysack over herself and still look smashing. Instead, she always wore outfits that perfectly matched, right down to the shoes.

  Amazed, I shook my head. Even in the midst of her grief she’d managed to throw together a stunningly coordinated outfit. Turquoise flowers like the ones on the sweater set, but smaller, danced around a flared brown skirt. Brown flats with floppy turquoise flowers completed the ensemble. Did she attach the flowers herself?