Gone crazy, p.1
Gone Crazy, page 1
Table of Contents
Gone Crazy
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Gone Crazy
by
Terry Korth Fischer
Rory Naysmith Mysteries, Book Three
Copyright Notice
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.
Gone Crazy
COPYRIGHT © 2024 by Terry Korth Fischer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2024
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-5597-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5598-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my family, and the wonderful crazy friends I call family. You fill my heart with joy.
Chapter One
The wind caught Detective Rory Naysmith’s fedora as he stepped off the curb. He made a grab for the brim, and the biting cold slithered down his collar. Man, he wished someone would plop him down in Key West.
Snow dust swirled in the Winterset Police Department parking lot and the barren trees along the tarmac edge were black silhouettes against a gray sky. Another gloomy February morning, the season not half over. Yup, call him crazy. The Florida Keys, seventeen-hundred miles south and more than a twenty-four-hour drive, might as well be on the other side of the world. Still, today, he’d prefer sunshine and warm breezes to the Midwest winter. That, and a meaty case. With crime controlled, his daily tasks bordered on the mundane. Which was good for a small Midwest town, but not for a seasoned detective with an itchy need to detect.
Rory entered the station from the back, the closest door to his office at the rear and surveyed the open vestibule that served the public and the hallway leading to the city offices. February popped up awfully soon after Christmas. He swiped the fedora from his head, rubbed his balding pate, and sighed. Confound it, February meant another gift-giving holiday. He was too old to spend time worrying about presents. Particularly, picking out gifts for women. He unlocked his door, switched on the light, and entered.
When he first took the position with WPD, he wasn’t sure he’d ever adapt to working in a small town, but he had. The setup was different from the Omaha precinct where he’d work prior to becoming the only detective for WPD’s eleven-officer squad. Because Winterset was the county seat, it was convenient to have law enforcement and civil services housed in one compact downtown compound. The police chief also served as the city planner and the town’s civic offices were housed down the hall from the chief’s office.
“ ‘Morning, Mister Detective. Decide to grace us with your presence?” The voice of the department’s civilian dispatcher, Sunny Gomez, came through the wall speaker and filled his office.
Rory hung his hat next to the door and over the CCTV camera pointed directly at the desk, then settled his coat and scarf on the hook behind the door. “Good morning to you.”
“Chief Mansfield has been checkin’.” The glee in her voice detectable even through the public address system.
“I’d expect no less.” It was too early in the morning for Sunny. He unlocked his desk drawer and removed the binder containing the Tom Hutchinson investigation. “I suppose he is looking for my report.”
“ ‘Course. He’s been off all weekend. He’ll expect to read it so he can fill the mayor in over their breakfast.”
“I’ve had two days off, too.”
“If you want my opinion, and I know you do, I’d toot it and boot it.”
Rory sat, opened the binder, frowned. There wasn’t much to report. Did Chief Mansfield think he was super-human? He couldn’t invent developments. Six days ago, the Hutchinson Hardware store had been burglarized. Entering through a door in the back, the power tool aisle had been stripped clean. Luckily, no one was injured during the crime which happened in the early hours after midnight, but the store had lost all its electrical hand tools. Fingerprints were numerous, too many to eliminate those belonging to customers and staff and isolate the perpetrator. Tire marks in the alley by the back door indicated a trailer was used to move the equipment on to new homes. With no way to hunt down the burglar, and unless he was caught red-handed, Rory was at an impasse. No witnesses, and unfortunately, no surveillance cameras outside the back door or in the tool aisle. It became a wait and see game, hoping the criminal incriminated himself. Or herself? Rory had learned to keep an open mind. He wondered if the night patrol had any news. They had been tasked with running a drive-by and keeping an extra vigilant eye on the hardware store.
“Sunny?”
She didn’t respond.
Knowing the patrol’s log would be with the day sergeant, he opened the door to dispatch and stepped in. Sunny Gomez sat in an L-shaped workspace with three over-sized monitors. In a blue shirt and jeans, her dark hair tumbled around her head in riotous curls. Large heart shaped earrings dangled from her ears. When the phone rang, she held up a ruby lacquered nail, gesturing for him to wait while she took the call.
Rory crossed to the day sergeant’s desk. Powell wasn’t there, but the in-basket which normally contained the printed patrol logs sat on the corner. The detective rifled through. Nothing interesting. He took a seat and glanced at the monitors over the pass-through window that separated the dispatch office from the public access vestibule. He still felt that the window’s bulletproof glass, complete with money pass-through, made the station look more like a bank than a law-enforcement facility. Under the monitors, Sunny had tacked a lacy heart streamer. Cupid cutouts were taped around the window.
“Roger that,” Sunny said slamming down the phone. “Chief is on the way. Looking forward to his short stack and cuppa with the mayor.” She swung around to face him. Rather—the set of pulsating red lips pinned to her chest faced him. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Rory stood. “I don’t suppose Powell filed the patrol logs from last night. Where is he anyway?”
“In the file room.”
Rory grimaced.
“Have you decided on a Valentine’s Day gift for your sweetie?” Sunny beamed a smile in his direction. “Esther don’t need no chocolates this year.”
“What’s wrong with candy?”
“You had a whole weekend to pick out a gift. Don’t tell me you squandered the time.”
“And that would be your business because…?”
“Us girls got to stick together. Don’t be getting her a vacuum cleaner either. It’s about time you presented her with something personal.” She studied him through squinted eyes. If her intent was to make him feel uncomfortable it worked.
“What do you suggest? I could do a nice dinner in the city and a dozen roses.”
“That’s a cop out.” She grinned. “No pun intended. Esther deserves more, and you know it.”
Yeah, he knew it. But wondered what the right thing was. They’d been seeing each other for a year but he knew Esther would hate the sweetheart and sentimental route as much as he did. Maybe a nice evening out. A place they hadn’t been, maybe a fancy restaurant in Omaha.
“Officer Thacker’s got himself a girlfriend.” Sunny’s grin lit her face. It was plain that she wanted to gloat, thinking she knew more than Rory did.
For the past year, Clarence Thacker had been his roommate in the apartment above the old Hillard Department Store. What had started out as a convenience while Rory recovered from ankle surgery grew into a full-fledged friendship. Thacker, a rookie when Rory arrived in Winterset, had progressed from street guide, to detecting assistant, to policeman during that time. Although there was a twenty-five-year gap in their ages, they had formed a bond. His and Thacker’s schedules differed, allowing them their personal time to themselves. Apparently, too much time. Rory had no idea the younger man was dating.
He scratched his forehead trying to decide if the news was good or bad. “You sure about that?”
“ ‘Course I’m sure. I ain’t blind to love like some old geezer I know.”
“Huh? Who are you calling old?”
The door connecting the police department to the city offices opened; Sergeant Richard Powell stepped in. He cleared his throat, ran a finger around his starched collar, and gave Rory an accusing scowl. Without greeting, he crossed to the duty desk and turned abruptly to face Rory.
The first thing Rory noticed was the bold red bow tie. Then he spotted the disapproving expression. “ ‘Morning, sergeant.”
“You had best warn Thacker about that girl,” Powell said.
“He can make his own decisions.” Did everyone except him know about Thacker and his friend? And what was wrong with the girl anyway? Powell would take too much pleasure in Rory’s ignorance of the situation. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Thacker is a grown man. He does as he pleases.”
Powell harrumphed. Rory frowned.
“Chief’s here…” Sunny sang out.
Rory glanced at the surveillance monitors. The screen displayed Mansfield’s office and showed the chief hanging his coat on the rack, then moving to his desk. The detective went to face the inevitable.
In his early fifties, Bryce Mansfield, had thick gray hair, deep, hooded eyes, and a chiseled jaw. From behind a large mahogany desk, he jutted his chin and roared, “Naysmith, I need that update.”
“There’s nothing new to tell you, sir.”
“Don’t give me that. I need concrete headway to take to Mayor Becker.” He crossed his arms as his frown deepened. “I’m not going empty handed.”
“The mayor will understand that the theft is unsolved. If it could be, I would have done it already.”
“You’re not getting insolent; are you?” The glare from his hooded eyes bore into Rory’s.
“Our best hope is another break-in,” Rory said calmly. “This time drawing attention during the act, or at least in a location with working surveillance cameras. The power tools taken from Hutchinsons didn’t have serial numbers, therefore, there’s no way to recognize them once they’re sold or fenced. I’ve talked to all the pawn shops in town. They’ll keep an eye out and will let me know if anyone is trying to move them.”
“I can’t carry excuses to the mayor.”
“You won’t need to if you distract him with an update on his pet project, Janus Chances. That’ll keep him happy.”
“Ahhh, Janus Chances.” The chief rubbed a finger under his chin. “That does seem to be moving along nicely.”
“With several prominent citizens offering to employ the parolees from county jail,” Rory grumbled. “Beats me why they’re coughing up jobs that will fulfill community service obligations. But it’s taken off. All thanks to our mayor.”
Mansfield relaxed his shoulders and picked up a report from the in-box. “Here is the latest—”
“Spare me the details.” Taking convicted criminals and placing them in the hardworking, trusting citizens’ homes begged for trouble. Rory agreed they deserved a break, had served their time, but the proximity to the worldly goods and big hearts in town worried him.
Behind him the wall-mounted monitor that displayed the patrol car video downloads must have started up. From his position he couldn’t see it, but Mansfield’s attention was immediately drawn to the screen. The chief sat forward and picked up a remote-control device. “Damn thing is still a nuisance,” he said, pressing the button on the remote. “It’s Thacker arriving for duty. Or is he ending his shift? I can’t keep it straight.”
“Should be ending his shift,” Rory said turning to view the monitor. It was black. “Thacker wasn’t home when I left this morning.” He stood, crossed to the door, and paused. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but can I ask if you plan to give your wife a gift for Valentine’s Day?”
Mansfield looked surprised. Rory cringed. Oops. Too personal? He decided against sharing his insecurities with his old police academy classmate.
Mansfield surprised him by answering. “We don’t usually exchange gifts. Heck, Betty and I’ve been married for over two decades. Not that our devotion to each other has waned, but there’s no need to exchange gifts to prove our love for one another. It’s not like you and Esther.” Rory felt his face flush. Mansfield continued, “And it’s not like Thacker and that new gal.” He shook his head, a sly smile on his lips. “Young love.”
So, Chief Mansfield knew Thacker had a new girl, too. Rory was the last to know.
“I’ll tell you what”—Mansfield slid his middle drawer open and reached in—“I have two tickets to the Literary Awards Banquet. Betty is keen to go, but I’m really not a poetry fan. You know what I mean?” He held them out to Rory. “Take Esther to the shindig. She will thank you. Gals eat that written love sonnet, sappy poetry stuff up. It will soften the blow when you don’t give her the gift she wants.”
“What do you mean?” Had Esther shared her expectations with Betty? He wasn’t so hot at reading subtle female signs. He excelled at solving crimes and failed at understanding most women—unless they were criminals. He did know he enjoyed Esther’s company. A feeling, he hoped, she reciprocated. Esther wasn’t a frilly girl, and they weren’t teenagers.
After thanking Mansfield, Rory tucked the tickets in his pocket and went back to his office hoping to find Thacker there; he wasn’t. Rory fingered the tickets, then pulled them out. Across the top the words Winterset Literary Guild Award Banquet were printed, and below, Old Orchard Restaurant. In smaller lettering he read the time, tomorrow evening at seven.
Rory picked up the phone and called Esther. It went to voicemail, and he left a message.
By the time she returned his call, he’d forgotten all about Key West and soft spring breezes.
Chapter Two
Rory parked the city issue sedan on the street and walked around the house to Esther’s back door. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes as he stepped into the homey kitchen. In his opinion, Esther radiated health and had a substantial look which he called handsome. Both led to his amazement that she had never married.
At fifty-two, gray had begun to lighten her thick auburn hair. Tonight, Esther wore attractive dark slacks, and a sweater topped with a pearl necklace. He noticed her low-heeled shoes. The fact that she was six feet tall might intimidate a lesser man, but it didn’t bother him.
“How fancy do you think this award ceremony will be?” she asked. “I opted for comfortable over fashionable.”
“You look stunning.”
She lifted one brow. “So, you approve?”
“Naturally. We aren’t the ones being honored.”
“I spent some time looking into the affair.” She handed him her wool coat. As he helped her into the garment, she said, “There are three poets reading: Phoebe Sheehan, a retired librarian; Lillie Anderson, an English professor at the community college; and Perry Benson, a local boy. I didn’t find much on him. There is almost too much info on Professor Anderson. I’ve done taxes for Phoebe Sheehan the last two years, although I wouldn’t call her a friend and was surprised to discover she is a poet.”
Excitement brought a flush to her face. “The write-up in the Gazette says each poet has a poem featured by the literary magazine, Sandhill Whispers. It’s not so much an award ceremony as it is to celebrate local talent promoted by the Winterset Literary Guild. Plus, Adeline Yost, the Nebraska State Poet, is presenting. I love her work.”
He nodded, taking her by the elbow and escorting her to the car as she chattered. “I read there is a local movement to appoint a Winterset Poet Laureate. This puts three local artists in contention for the honor.”
“So, you know one, and are familiar with the work written by the other two,” he said.
“No, not really, but they must be talented. After all, they’ve been published.”
Rory wasn’t so sure that publishing a poem in a magazine qualified them as talented. He’d reserve his opinion until after hearing their readings.
Once they were on the road, he asked, “Why would Winterset need a Poet Laureate? What would he or she do?”
