Blue Ridge Blues: The Sandeen Mysteries, Book Five

By Dennis E. Smirl

Sandeen's at it again. He and his gal pal, Amanda Carter, tried to live the simple life by moving to the mountains of North Carolina and opening a small gift/espresso shop in a quaint resort village. They avoided their blood-stained past for a while, and then trouble walked into their store.

Richard Bowman wanted to know what happened to his brother Michael, a professor at nearby Appalachian State University. A year earlier, Michael had disappeared, and Richard demands that Sandeen discover what happened to his brother or face the prospect of having his past exposed—a situation that might have a fatal outcome for both Sandeen and Amanda.

Reluctantly, Sandeen sets out to find the missing brother, and in the process, turns up a raft of very nasty secrets shared by some of the solid citizens of a little University town in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Spurred on by demands that are impossible to ignore, Sandeen begins to unravel the mystery of Michael's disappearance, and in the process, almost becomes one who has disappeared, himself. Hang on to your hat as Sandeen and Amanda Carter race toward a fiery finish in this high-octane thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis E. Smirl
• Release date: May 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311511843

Dennis E. Smirl

Dennis E. Smirl has been an Air Force officer, a salesman for a Fortune 500 company, a school psychologist, a computer science instructor at several colleges and universities, and a business owner. Married to his college sweetheart for more than half a century, he has spent time in Mexico, Japan, and South Vietnam, but prefers to take family vacations in the USA and Canada. A writer for as long as he can remember—he attempted a first novel at age ten—his first taste of national publication was a race report written and published in 1965. A science fiction fan for almost the same length of time, Mr. Smirl joined the Science Fiction Book Club when member numbers were much shorter. Beyond his interest in Science Fiction, he has had a lifetime interest in horseback riding, auto racing (as a driver), golf, photography, computers and information processing, and mystery novels. He has written thirteen novels and more than seventy short stories and novellas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Thursday afternoon, mid-summer

The guy spooked me. He'd been in my store for almost half an hour, hadn't bought a thing, and wasn't really looking at anything I had to sell. My hole-in-the-wall store in Blowing Rock, North Carolina had only seven hundred and fifty square feet of retail space, and a chunk of the space was taken up by an espresso bar yet to earn back what I'd invested in putting it there. The rest of the store was devoted to local handicrafts I tried to buy cheap and sell dear. So no matter where I looked, there he was.

Seeing someone—particularly a guy—linger in front of the hand-made quilt display for almost twenty minutes was out of the ordinary. I'd thought about pressuring him a bit to either buy something or move on, but as the customer is always right, hoped that if I ignored him, he'd go away.

The bell on the door jingled and I saw a couple of well-dressed, middle-aged lady tourists leaving. They hadn't bought anything, either. Now, it was just me and the guy, and he was walking my way. Looking to be in his early forties, he was about 5' 10", a bit underweight, fair-skinned and blue-eyed. His hair was sandy, already showing pattern baldness, and so curly I wondered if he'd had it permed. Sporting a NASCAR T-shirt, tan cargo shorts, hairy legs and strappy leather sandals, he ambled over to the espresso counter and looked at the drink menu fastened to the wall above the shelves of custom-blended coffees.

What can I get for you? I asked.

Nothing, he said in an edgy tenor. I was about to reply with something regrettable when he added, By the way, I've read a couple of your books.

I stared. I have no idea what you're talking about.

Really? He reached into the cargo pocket on his right thigh, produced a well-used, paperback copy of a book I'd written ten years earlier, and handed it to me.

Hmm, I said.

You used to live in Topeka, Kansas.

I did?

He moved closer to the bar and lowered his voice. In your books, you tell us that you're good at finding people.

Some people are better than others.

He paused for a moment and then said, My brother's gone missing. I want to know what happened to him.

I tried to look interested. I can see how that could happen.

Do you own this place? he asked. I had no idea why.

I own the business, I lease the building.

He pointed. The business license on your wall says your name is David Jenkins.

Yes, it does, because that's my name.

When did you stop being Sandeen?

I handed the book back to him. You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension.

You shave your head, grow a beard, wear tinted glasses. It's not the best disguise in the world. You might have considered plastic surgery if you really wanted to hide.

I crossed my arms. Why would I want to hide?

Maybe you don't want certain people to find you.

And why would I not want them to find me?

Shrugging, he replied, Too many skeletons in your past?

I took a breath before I said, Maybe you should leave.

He shook his head. I know who you are. I know what you say you can do. I want your help finding my brother.

I managed a professional smile. You have the wrong guy. I sell quilts and espresso. I don't hunt for missing people.

He shrugged. Why deny the truth?

I decided to change the subject. "What do you do for a living?"

He tilted his head to the right before saying, I'm a school teacher.

Off for the summer?

Does it matter?

No. What you do with your time is your business.

He looked around a bit before saying, Yeah, I guess it is.

You're mistaken about the book.

No, I'm not. You didn't cover your tracks sufficiently. You only think you did.

A mini-gaggle of potential customers entered the store. I need to see what these folks want, I said, giving him the raised-eyebrows look. We're done here.

Nope, he said. We'll talk again.

You need to leave. Now, I said very quietly. I didn't want to disturb the other people in the store by ripping one his arms off and beating him half to death with it.

He shrugged again and walked out. I looked at the handful of people in my store and asked in my cheerful voice, Would anyone like something from the espresso bar?

Can you make a raspberry mocha? one of the blue-haired ladies asked.

Indeed, I can, I replied. Small, medium, or large?

Medium, she said. Just as she did, Amanda Carter entered through the front door, carrying a stack of quilts. She'd been out and about in the North Carolina mountains, and evidently found something else we could sell to tourists for a nice profit.

&&&&

You look upset, Amanda said after she put the quilts on a shelf. Of course, Amanda wasn't the name she was using. To anyone who asked, she was Edna Hanks, nee Edna Peabody, originally from Omaha, Nebraska.

There weren't any customers in earshot, so I said, Guy walks in here and wants me to help find his brother. He said he was a schoolteacher. He said he knows who I am.

She took a slow breath before saying, Obviously, we didn't do a good enough job of disappearing.

Maybe we should pack up and move. I suddenly feel in the mood to assume another identity.

Could be the guy's legit. Maybe he really does want you to help him find his brother.

And maybe we're being set up.

I watch the news as much or more than you do. The bodies we buried have stayed buried. There's never been anything to suggest otherwise.

I shivered. I don't think I ever thought about it quite so bluntly.

She smiled. She was pretty when she smiled, even when it was because she'd just gotten under my skin. You think he'll be back?

He said he would, I said.

Maybe I'll be here the next time he shows up.

What good would it do?

She nudged me. Maybe I'll shoot him.

I rolled my eyes, and then a customer who smelled of lilac asked for a skim-milk, decaf, no fat, sugar-free vanilla latte. I called it a 'why bother?' without saying the words aloud, and began the task of fixing a drink which cost me half a buck and which I'd sell for four dollars. I fussed over it, poured a rose into the foam, and handed it to the nice lady.

She tipped me two bucks. Maybe she liked roses. Or lilacs.

Amanda saw a customer who was showing interest in one of the new quilts she'd just brought in. I watched as they haggled a bit over the price, and then backed away from the register as the sale was rung up. A hundred and a half, plus tax, and a cash sale to make things sweet. Plastic is nice, but fresh, crisp, one-hundred dollar bills feel so much better in the hand.

As the happy customer left with her treasure, Amanda said, I bought the quilt for fifty.

"But you probably burned twenty dollars in gas finding it. It isn't all profit in this business."

She nudged me again.

I liked it.

&&&&

We regularly closed the shop at seven. The time was posted on the door. As I was heading the front of the store to lock up, the cargo shorts guy entered.

It's after business hours, I said.

I'm not here to buy anything, he replied. We weren't nose-to-nose, but I knew we could get there in a heartbeat.

You don't believe in signs? I asked.

I'm here asking for your help. It has nothing to do with your store—or its hours.

Amanda walked by the two of us, locked the front door, and turned off the 'OPEN' sign. Then she walked back to stand so she flanked the guy. Do you have business with us? she asked.

Are you his partner?

As good a word as any, she replied. What do you want?

I've already told Mr. Sandeen what I want.

My name is David Jenkins. Do I need to remind you again?

No, he replied. And Sandeen's not the name you were born with. To repeat myself unnecessarily, I need your skills. I want to know what's happened to my brother.

I know what you want but I don't know how I can help you. I'd purchased three tables and a dozen chairs to support the espresso part of my business. I pointed to one of the tables. "Let's sit down. And then you can tell me your name."

When he and Amanda were seated, I asked, You want a cup of coffee? It's on the house.

No. He shook his head. I just want to talk.

I took the chair opposite him. Amanda stood to his right. So talk, I said.

My name is Richard Bowman, he said. I'd prefer you didn't call me 'Dick' or 'Rick' or by any nickname.

Okay, Richard Bowman, I replied. Why are you so determined to annoy me?

Didn't I answer the question to your satisfaction?

No, you did not. I stared for a while. Not even close.

I tried the police, he said. They were no help. Most missing-person cases get filed and forgotten. There's not enough money for everything. It's all about priorities.

Amanda nodded. She was agreeing with him because it was the truth. She asked, What's your brother's name?

Bowman turned his head to look at her. Michael Bowman. He lives—or did live—in Boone.

What did he do there?

Two years ago he made full professor in the Physics Department of the University.

Appalachian State, I said. Decent school, or so I'm told.

Bowman nodded.

When did he disappear? Amanda asked.

A year ago. He didn't come to work one day. Didn't call in sick. His students showed up for class, he didn't, and some of them went to the Dean's office to voice their concern.

Motivated learners, I said.

Maybe they just wanted their money's worth. Bowman took a deep breath. The Dean's office called his house. No answer. He'd never missed a day of work in the time he'd been at the University, and the administration grew concerned. They asked the Boone Police Department to execute a welfare check. When they sent a officer to the house, he found everything in order. Mike's car was in the garage. But he wasn't there.

No sign of anything which might lead the police to think something unlawful and/or violent occurred? Amanda asked.

Bowman shook his head. No.

And he's been gone for a year, Amanda said.

Close enough.

He's made no attempt to contact anyone in the family? she asked.

No.

How old is your brother? I asked.

He just turned fifty—if he's still alive.

Any history of early onset Alzheimer's in the family?

Huh-uh. He rubbed his fingertips on the tabletop. Could I take you up on the offer of a cup of coffee?

I got up. How do you like it?

Cream and sugar, but light on both.

I poured coffee for three. I fixed Bowman's cup the way he ordered. Amanda and I both preferred black. Bowman took several sips before the conversation picked up again. Talking about this disturbs me.

I can imagine, I said.

Can you help? he asked.

I shook my head. You keep confusing me with someone else.

He put his mug down. We both know better. I don't know why you stopped being Sandeen, nor do I care. I'll call you whatever you choose, but I want your help.

This has been an interesting conversation, I said. But I have to clean up my store, and then my partner and I have to have dinner. I'll walk you to the door.

You're turning me down, he said.

We seem to be engaged in some rather intense miscommunication. I'm not so much turning you down as you're wasting your time.

We got up. He said, Mike's been missing for a year. I guess a few days won't make a difference. You'll change your mind.

As I opened the door, I asked, Where do you live, Mr. Bowman?

Charlotte.

Quite a drive, coming up here, I said.

Pretty scenery, all the way.

Drive carefully as you go home. There are a lot of dangerous curves in Highway 321.

He gave me a hard stare. I know the road. I really don't need driving tips.

I closed and locked the door behind him. Amanda was standing beside me. I don't trust him, she said. I don't know why, but my gut tells me the SOB's phony as the day is long.

I couldn't disagree.

CHAPTER 2

Thursday evening

You gave Bowman hope, Amanda said, after she'd had time to think about it.

I did?

She put her hands on her hips. You didn't turn him down flat and then kick his butt out the door. Why?

I had to think about it for a moment. Maybe I miss looking for people who've disappeared.

I'd been wondering when you'd admit it, she said.

"What about dinner? I hope it hasn't disappeared."

I have a stew in the crock pot. But we need a loaf of French bread.

The car was out back. We double-checked the locks and exited through the back door. I got in the passenger's side—it was her car, after all—and she drove to the small, but well-stocked grocery just a block and a half away. I jumped out, dashed inside, bought the bread—and a tub of Ben and Jerry's—and hopped back in the car. Ten minutes later, inside our rented house, Ben and Jerry were in the freezer, and we were eating beef stew and enjoying a fine, locally-grown and produced red wine.

About half-way through what she'd put in her bowl, Amanda said, Being Sandeen again may be a very bad idea.

I broke off a piece of French bread and applied some butter. I'm dying of boredom.

She nodded. If you go back to what you were, you might die of other causes.

But I really am bored.

I don't know if you're being honest. I think you enjoy running the store. She drank some wine. Then again, if you aren't who you want to be, what's the use in living?

You're beginning to understand, I said.

I'm good at understanding. Maybe it's why I wasn't the best cop in the world.

"And now you're a shopkeeper, too, I said. Do you miss being a cop?"

She tilted her head to the right. At times.

I had a bit more wine. It was delicious. "What do you miss about it?"

"The rush. There are times... there were times... when I wondered if I was going to survive, and it's when I felt more alive than at any other time in my life."

I ate some more stew. Action junkie, I mumbled once I'd swallowed.

Pot meet kettle, she replied. Then she smiled. I liked her smile. So what are you going to do about our Mister Bowman?

I shook my head. I don't know. So far I haven't admitted to being Sandeen, even though he tried hard enough to get it out of me. If I admit it, what happens then?

Maybe you could make a better guess if you knew who the guy really is?

You don't think he's a schoolteacher? I asked.

No, I don't, she said. I see him more as a cop and a guy who'll step on anyone to get his way.

I agreed with her. I could ask Boris check him out.

There was one piece of bread left. We were both eying it. Finally, she pushed it my way. You want this more than I do.

I shook my head. Not really. I'm ten pounds over where I want to be.

Yes, and it shows.

That hurt like a knife in my gut.

I could throw it out back for the squirrels, I suggested.

Okay;. Right after you call Boris.

Why not? I hadn't talked with my favorite hacker, cracker, and netspionage agent for a long time. Certainly not since we'd moved to North Carolina and become different people. I helped Amanda clean up after our simple meal and then settled in the recliner and zipped through the list of contacts I'd transferred to my new phone. Yup. Boris's number was still there. I dialed it, waited through a few clicks and buzzes, and then got a message telling me the number was no longer in service. I tried a second time and encountered the same disappointment.

"The number is not in service," I said, doing my best impression of a telephone operator.

Amanda was reclining on the couch. She let what I said sink in a moment before saying, Not good. Finding a working number for him won't be easy.

"Perhaps I could find what I want without his help."

Or not. She got up and paced. Maybe pacing was part of what kept her so slim.

"What does Bowman really want?" she asked.

I have no idea. I paused, letting an idea make a safe landing in my brain. Maybe if I went to the University tomorrow and asked around?

What would you expect to accomplish?

I could see if they're missing a physics professor named Michael Bowman.

She stopped pacing to look at me. And what if they are?

"If they are, I said, then maybe Richard Bowman's on the level. Or at least telling part of the truth."

By getting involved in such a manner, you revert to being Sandeen—whether or not you use the name.

And that's not a good thing?

She continued to pace, but in the opposite direction. She was wearing red shorts and a tight black t-shirt. I was having trouble concentrating.

We came out here because some very unpleasant things happened in Topeka, she said. People died, and its a sure bet that some of those people had friends and relatives, a few of which might be seeking revenge.

So why don't they just do a drive-by shooting? Or walk into our store and start blasting away?

"But what if they took their revenge against someone who isn't Sandeen? Maybe they don't want to take the chance of getting it wrong."

I couldn't stay in the recliner. I had to get up. Bowman has located us. Maybe tomorrow someone comes in the store and shoots me, I said, looking out the window.

Maybe, maybe not. Bowman wasn't so sure. He accused you, but I saw uncertainty. My worry is if you continue to do things the way you used to, his suspicions could be confirmed.

"Of course, he could be telling the truth. He could be asking for help."

She shook her head. Don't bet on it.

We left it there. And without having to discuss it, we retired to the room I'd converted into a home gym and started moving large pieces of iron and then putting them back where we found them. We also spent some quality time on the treadmill, the stationary bike, and the rowing machine. We took turns without having to talk about it, and after an hour we were both sweaty, loose, and at peace with our own demons. After sharing the shower stall, and getting all steamy and soapy, we rinsed off, dried off, and headed for the king-sized bed and even more strenuous recreation. When we were spent, going to sleep was easy.

&&&&

Eight hours later—or maybe a bit less—the alarm clock interrupted some very pleasant dreams. It was six o'clock, and just like every other day of the week, I would open my shop at seven. I took another shower—a quickie—got dressed, and started making coffee for the caffeine addicts who always showed up right on the dot, ready for a morning fix to kick-start their hearts into gear.

As I worked, I nibbled at a day-old sweet roll. I also sampled my own private coffee blend and found it maintaining an almost unnaturally high standard. As I worked through a ritual of tasks, each of them equally important, I realized I didn't miss my shop—or my life—in Topeka. However, if I hadn't opened the shop in Blowing Rock, I would probably have gone mad.

I needed the customers—but not for their money. I needed the interaction. I needed people who would show up every morning, drink the coffee I made for them, compliment me on how good it tasted, and unfailingly ask for a refill that they could take to work. In between, we'd talk about weather, North Carolina's basketball rivalries, the growing traffic, the idiots in the state government, and dozens of other innocuous subjects keying me into the community I had begun to call home.

Seven o'clock arrived, and I opened the doors to a small rush of customers. Few of them were espresso aficionados, so it was mostly a matter of coffee and pastries—nothing I couldn't handle by myself. When things slowed, I saw one of my regular customers at the end of the line. When it was his turn, he ordered a medium coffee to go and a cherry Danish in a Styrofoam box. As I was making change for a twenty, I asked, Don't you teach at Appalachian State?

A thin, pale, balding 6-footer looking to be in his late fifties, he wore a suit, white shirt, and tie, wing-tip shoes, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Stereotypical, but his appearance made it easy for me. As he added cream and sugar to his coffee, he said, I do. But I prefer living in Blowing Rock.

Do you happen to know a Physics Professor named Michael Bowman?

He looked up with a quizzical expression. Actually, I've met him. Why do you ask?

It's been a while since I was in college, but I seem to remember taking a refresher class from him. One of my customers mentioned his name a few days back, and I can't seem to stop thinking about him. Maybe I should pay him a visit.

He snapped a plastic lid on his coffee. It would be difficult.

Oh?

He... ahhh. Dr. Bowman stopped showing up for his lectures about a year ago. No one seems to know why or where he's gone.

Really? I tried to look both surprised and concerned.

Unfortunately, yes. He nodded. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

Goodness, I said. I don't know what to say.

He smiled. I'm sure he'll turn up one of these days. Then you can have your reunion.

I handed him the box with the Danish in it. Thanks for coming in. Enjoy your coffee.

I'd taken my first step toward being Sandeen again.

&&&&

Amanda showed up a bit later, looking fresh, rested, and delightfully attractive. Never the exotic beauty, as Elaine had been, she always looked lithe, well-scrubbed, and ready to laugh at the insanities of everyday life. I indulged in a salacious thought or two and then poured coffee for a gaggle of well-dressed shoppers.

You look smug, she said, once I wasn't busy.

"I talked to a customer who teaches at the University. He said Michael Bowman is among the mysteriously missing."

You're going to start digging, aren't you?

I shrugged. I don't know. But I am curious as to why a mild-mannered professor of physics would suddenly disappear.

Her eyes twinkled. Who said he was mild-mannered?

Oooops. She'd caught me trying to be clever.

She leaned forward and gave me a look from beneath her eyebrows. You know if you go asking a bunch of questions you're likely to get yourself in trouble again.

Maybe it's in my DNA, I said with the best grin I could manage.

Stop trying to look cute. You might have gotten away with it fifteen years ago, but today...?

I wanted to reply, but a well-dressed fellow about my age ordered a medium caramel mocha. As I made it for him, I wondered if he had his priorities right and I didn't. Maybe the medium caramel mocha was the high point of his day and contained all the excitement he wanted or needed. I told him the price, including sales tax. He handed me a fifty-dollar bill and I made change without grumbling. But two or three more of those, and Amanda would have to make a run to the bank to get more change.

Nice day, he said. He was standing in front of the counter, but as there were no customers behind him, it wasn't a problem.

I've always been a big fan of Fridays, I replied.

He gave me a straight look. It disturbed me. Was I getting paranoid? He shrugged and then ambled away, content with his steaming, over-caffeinated, over-priced drink.

Why so pale? Amanda asked. Evidently she'd noticed my discomfort.

I didn't like the way the guy looked at me.

How so?

I can't explain it. He just made me uncomfortable.

She rubbed her face. You just let your imagination run wild. Tell me what you're thinking.

I'm worried I may be seeing people who want me behind bars.

If that's so, why aren't you already in cuffs?

You're not feeling this, I said.

Nope, she said. Not a bit.

I didn't get it. We had left Topeka because my last project there turned distinctly sour. I'd looked into a missing wife, and turned up a ring of child-abusers. I hadn't seen the warning signs of impending violence—at least, not all of them—and several people died. Out of the group of unfortunates, two deaths bugged the heck out of me. I'd swing-kicked a man because he wouldn't stopped fighting, probably ruptured an important artery or vein, and he'd expired before we could even think about getting him help. In the same melee, Amanda had seen one of our opponents as more than we could handle—even though I hoped I was winning—and center-punched him with a .40 caliber round. By any stretch of the imagination, we were each guilty of some level of homicide.

Proving our complicity in those crimes would be difficult—probably impossible—as we'd done a good job of covering our tracks and getting rid of evidence—including the bodies. Even though I felt Amanda and I were in the clear, I had a deep sense of guilt, one all but bordering on a need to be punished for my indiscretions.

Blame it on a Calvinistic upbringing. As an adult, I thought I had my own beliefs totally under control. I felt I operated from a sense of right and wrong stemming from being one of the good guys, and whatever misfortune I dealt to the bad guys was a result of their nefarious agendas and pursuits.

But killing someone who wasn't a definite threat? In a split-second, I'd stepped over the line, as had Amanda. No matter how I tried to whitewash those actions, they nagged at me and draped a hair shirt of guilt over any good times I might try to have or create. I was uncomfortable, a bit paranoid, but determined I wouldn't turn myself in, or if arrested, admit my guilt.

Where'd you go? Amanda asked. One minute we're talking, the next, you're zoned out.

Just thinking, I said.

Don't, she admonished. You're not that good at it.

CHAPTER 3

Sunday afternoon

I closed the store at noon on Sundays, which meant I only worked six and a half days each week. I'm not sure why I maintained such an intense schedule. When I owned the shop in Topeka, it was open longer hours, but I had people working for me—people I trusted—so I could play absentee owner whenever I wanted. Maybe this was penance for my previous sloth and my guilt demanded denying myself vacation time—or time for much of anything else. When we'd first opened in Blowing Rock, I'd kpet the store open on Sunday afternoons. In a way, it made sense. Blowing Rock is a resort town and crawling with tourists all weekend. But the policy had resulted in some serious difficulties with Amanda and after rechecking my priorities, I decided we could reduce our open hours without hurting a thing.

We