Constancy's Waltz: Fiddling With Murder, #1

By D. H. Parker

Constancy Grace Stafford never lived up to her middle name, but stumbling over a corpse turns into her worst trip ever. Danny Egan, town cop and master fiddler, defies a direct order and takes on the case. Only he knows how much this waltz with danger could cost him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053662

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Constancy’s Waltz

Donna Parker introduces you to her main character, Constancy, an unassuming elementary school teacher, who quite accidentally falls into things she never expected, like mystery, intrigue, and romance. Donna weaves Christian principles throughout Constancy’s Waltz. Once I started reading, I could not put it down. If you want a clean, yet captivating and entertaining book of romance, Constancy’s Waltz is perfect reading!

—Teresa Hampton, author

Leading Ladies

Come to the Garden

THIS IS A RELATIVELY gentle mystery, and I am loving it. The main characters are dears, and there is enough suspense to make this one hard to put down.

—Radine Trees Nehring, author

"MYSTERY LOVERS AND romance lovers alike will fall in love with Constancy’s Waltz. It’s a book for the keeper shelf."

—Laura V. Hilton, author

Constancy’s Waltz

D. H. Parker

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Cozy Mystery Novel

Editor: Leslie Hodges

Copy Editor: Karen Babcock

Senior Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pat Casey

Cover Photo by: Neal B. Parker

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2008 by Donna H. Parker

ISBN  978-1-59705-366-2

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

In memory of my dad , and for my mom, who always believed in me. With grateful appreciation for all my wonderful family, who never said a discouraging word, and to friends, old and new, who patiently answered countless questions for me.

Special thanks to:

Vern Dougan, Richard Fredendall and Richard Henebry, who helped me learn about Danny’s job.

Wendy McLemore, Patti Kusturok-Lamoureux and the ladies and gentlemen of Patti’s former Fiddle Forum, who taught me something about what it’s like to be a fiddler.

Marion Barnette, whose Bible classes and encouragement helped me in so many ways.

One

My first reaction—the normal, instinctive reaction—is to take a quick glance around and hope there’s been no witness. Then I wish I were invisible or a million miles away.

Finally, I pick myself up, brush myself off, laugh with the inevitable spectators, and get on with my life. Having already spent about a quarter century tripping over anything within range, I had the routine down to a science.

Gracious, Constancy! Did you hurt yourself? My great-grandmother, Amanda Casey, and her best friend, Irma West, were sitting straight up in their 1950s-era, green metal lawn chairs, peering at me with anxious eyes.

I leaned back against the trunk of the old maple whose knobby roots had tripped me and brushed at the grass stains on my slacks. I’m okay. Disgusted with myself, as usual. Embarrassed, even with these two. But not physically hurt.

Reassured, their anxiety melted away, and Gram’s mouth crinkled at the corners. You’re likely to break your neck one of these days if you take a notion to run every time we get on this subject.

I could go out for the Olympics if I made a serious habit of running every time you get on your pet topic. But I wasn’t running. I was just going in the house to—

They flashed identical, disbelieving grins. They weren’t buying it, even if it was the truth. I couldn’t help grinning back, even if I did know better than to encourage them. I don’t know what to do with you, I said. Both of you could give stubborn lessons to mules.

No better than you could, Gram said. Missouri folks naturally come that way.

Especially Missouri folks in our family, it seems to me. I shot a look at Irma. And their best friends.

Gram chuckled. It’s born and bred in all us old-timers. People lacking a bountiful supply of stubborn couldn’t make it in the Ozarks back when our ancestors moved here. Ones that didn’t have it soon moved back to softer and safer places. Or died out quick. Now. What was I saying before you fell down?

I gave up on the grass stains. They were as impossible to brush off as Gram and Irma and their eternal scheming. Dearest Gram, I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve forgotten. But, look, whoever this newest victim of yours is, he can’t have any idea what getting involved with you and Miss Irma means. They never do until it’s nearly too late. Then they could win Olympic medals.

Well, you don’t help things any.

And I don’t intend to start. How many times have I told you that? Luring them over here with fresh-baked pie! It’s probably illegal.

Since when is baking a pie for somebody illegal?

It should be for you, considering your motive. Can’t you just behave yourselves and leave these poor guys out of your dastardly plots?

Irma let off one of her lady-like snorts. Dastardly plots, my foot, she said. This boy’s a good deal better for the job than Ellis Nowland.

You had Ellis Nowland in your sights? I had nothing against Ellis. In fact, Ellis was a definite cut above several of the others they’d targeted, but... Ellis is an undertaker.

He prefers to be called a funeral director, Sweetie. And where would we be without funeral directors?

You have to admit it’s a steady job, Gram said, with not a trace of a twinkle.

Irma grinned. It’s a calling we appreciate more at our age. We did give Ellis some serious thought. He’s a nice boy. He’s a good citizen and a school board member. That might come in handy, since you’re a teacher. He’s not hurting for money, either. We both thought he was about perfect until we found out... Irma’s mouth clamped into a hard, grim line.

I sighed. Gram and Irma, unlike some people I could name, didn’t get their fun from spreading gossip, but they eventually heard everything that was going around. Poor Ellis.

Gram shook her head sadly and took up the tale. You know that boy won’t touch a piece of pie? Never has liked it, he tells me.

It was all I could do to keep the laughter bottled up. Poor Ellis, indeed! Ellis ought to be on his knees giving thanks that he didn’t like pie—only I sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell him so.

Still, the pie business was a major blow to Gram’s and Irma’s plot development. I’m surprised you didn’t switch the bait to cookies, I said.

Didn’t need to. Gram glanced at her friend with that conspiratorial sparkle I had come to dread. Irma came up with somebody even better. He’s a policeman. Hasn’t been working in Fraserton long. I caught him in the post office the other day. He’ll do. No use looking any further. He’ll do just fine.

Give me patience! You can’t tell me you found a rich cop.

Some qualities are more important than money, and you know it, Irma said. He’s got everything else.

You’re not serious.

Why not? I could kick myself for not thinking of him sooner. I’ve known his family for years. They live up in Morris County. Amanda’s already invited him over for pie, and he said he’d be here as soon as he could get a minute.

"Well, you’ve done it this time. When he finds out what you’re up to, he’ll charge you with entrapment. Or something. You’ll both end up in jail. I wasted a glare on each of them. Come to think of it, though, maybe having you in jail for a few days would buy me a little peace."

They giggled like they were thirteen instead of eighty-three.

They were impossible.

They were contagious, too. I never could keep a straight face when they got started.

That’s more like it, Gram said. You don’t laugh anywhere near as much as you ought to these days.

Irma’s face wrinkled into an impish grin. Tomorrow’s the last day of school, she said to Gram. She’ll soon perk up now. I remember my first year of teaching. By the time it was over, I felt as worn out as a moldy old dishrag. The school year wasn’t nearly as long then as it is these days. And kids back then had the knack of sitting still and mostly doing what they were told. If they didn’t, they knew their parents would be on them harder than we were.

I’ll bet you didn’t have nearly as much paper work, either, Miss Irma. I have about a ton of that left to do before I can call myself finished for the year. Tomorrow may be the last day for the kids, but if I don’t get all the red tape finished up, I’ll have to stay a couple of days longer. I ought to go home and get started on it.

Ten minutes extra won’t make any difference, will it? Gram asked. You haven’t had your lemonade yet. Why don’t you run in and get it for us, if you can spare the time. I put the glasses out on the table.

"Ten more minutes won’t make a bit of difference, as you well know. I wouldn’t think of leaving without my lemonade, and that is where I was going when I tripped." I retreated to the kitchen before they could comment.

Despite my clumsiness, Gram had always trusted me with the Waterford crystal tumblers that once belonged to her grandparents. I filled them with ice and put them, along with the matching pitcher full of freshly squeezed lemonade, on the ornate silver tray we had used forever.

This was entrapment, too, but I was a willing victim. The Sunday afternoon ritual of lemonade in summer, hot lemon tea in winter, and the company of these over-aged adolescents had been a comfort and an anchor I’d clung to for most of my life.

Bless their conniving hearts. Gram and Irma didn’t mean any more harm with their cozy little plots than that maple tree had by growing its root where I needed to walk.

...But a policeman!

I carried tray, pitcher, and glasses very carefully back to the yard, and was delighted to see more company coming around the house.

Hi, Joan! I said.

Joan Russett and I had gone to school together at Lucian Fraser Elementary. Now we were two-thirds of the kindergarten teachers there. Gram and Irma wouldn’t be plaguing me while she was with us.

Gram beamed. Get another glass, Constancy.

No, Joan said quickly. No, thanks. I can’t stay. Her words came too fast. Mom asked me to drop these green onions by. She thought you might like some. She handed a bag to Gram, and the pungent scent of fresh spring onions wafted through the air. Joan turned to go.

Tell her I’m proud to have them, Gram said. I’ll share them with Irma, and we’ll both enjoy every bite. Why don’t you sit down for a spell? You look worn to a frazzle.

I would, but I’ve got an awful lot to do. See you tomorrow, Constancy. And she hurried away. That wasn’t like Joan.

Well, Irma said, gazing after her.

It was obvious from her expression that I was now going to be quizzed about Joan, unless I could distract her attention. What kind of cookies did you bring today, Miss Irma?

She reluctantly turned her attention back to our refreshments. Oatmeal-hickory nut. I just baked them yesterday.

Ummm. My favorite!

You say that every week. It doesn’t matter what I bring.

These are the absolute best.

Irma always provided the cookies to go with our lemonade or tea. All of them were delicious, but the oatmeal hickory-nut ones were extra special. She fought major battles with the squirrels each fall to see who would harvest the most nuts from the giant hickory tree that shaded her front porch. Even when she won the squirrel wars, though, getting the nuts out of the hard, thick shells was a challenge. She could have used pre-shelled pecans from the store, but that stubborn streak demanded homegrown hickory nuts. The flavor was worth it.

She handed me the carton full of cookies, along with the first volley of the inquisition. Looks like this year’s been harder on Joan than it has on you.

I took my time selecting a couple of especially fat, nutty treats, then passed the carton on to Gram, trying to think of a way to avoid talking about Joan’s problems. Why do you say that?

She looked bad just now. Reminded me of her great-granny back in ’37 when Maude was getting over typhoid. All eyes and bones. And nerves.

I was worried about Joan, myself. Since spring break, she had looked worse every day, and somebody had begun spreading some vicious rumors about why she looked so sick. Even so, it had been fifteen or more years since Joan and I had whispered our secrets to each other. I was in no way qualified to speculate on what was bothering her now. Did you really know her great-grandmother?

Nothing extraordinary about that. I know yours. She and Gram exchanged fond smiles.

We knew her great-great-grandmother, too, Gram said. The Russetts have been in these parts since before the founding Frasers got here.

They could’ve named this place Russettville just as well as Fraserton except the Frasers made a bigger splash, Irma added.

Always have, always will. Gram had once been married to the Fraser patriarch for whom the elementary school was named. It was a time of her life I knew better than to ask about, even if old Lucian had been my great-grandfather.

What’s wrong with Joan? Irma never got totally distracted from a conversational topic until she was ready. That ancestral stubbornness again.

Don’t know, I muttered around a convenient mouthful of tasty cookie.

Constancy Grace, I didn’t teach school for fifty years without an occasional visit to a teachers’ lounge. I know what goes on.

I still had to cringe when either of them used my totally inappropriate middle name, but I knew what Irma meant. She had the dynamics of the teachers’ lounge pegged exactly. Tiny Village Syndrome, she called it. Gossip by any other name.

Come on, Constancy. Can’t you tell us anything? She waved the cookies at me again.

I am not going to pass on any stupid rumors about Joan. Even to you. Even if you never give me another cookie.

She gave me another cookie. Take two while you’re at it, she said. You know I don’t want to hear ugly rumors. I want to know the facts. I like that girl. I don’t like seeing her looking so puny and hunted.

Hunted. That was exactly the word.

"All I know is that lately Joan’s been as jittery as a banty hen with a new batch of chicks. Any little thing makes her jump like she’s scared to death. That malicious gossip, which I’m sure you’ll eventually hear from other sources whether you want to or not, doesn’t help any. Every bit of it’s ridiculous. The worst thing is that it’s got so bad Joan and Karmalyn aren’t even speaking to each other now."

Karmalyn Burch was the final third of our kindergarten teacher trio. She hadn’t grown up in the Fraserton area and was several years older than Joan and I, but normally we all got along well enough.

Irma rolled her eyes upward. Personally, I would consider it a relief and a blessing to have Karmalyn not speaking to me.

Don’t gurgle in your lemonade, Sweetheart.

Gram still felt obliged to correct my manners when they lapsed. I no longer felt obliged to resent it. Sorry, Gram, but have you ever had a conversation with Karmalyn?

Not that I recall.

You’d remember if you had, Irma said. For one thing, it would have been too lopsided to be called conversation. Karmalyn is, well, I guess to be nice you’d have to call it ‘perky.’ A little of that’s an advantage in a kindergarten class, I’ll admit, but she goes way beyond the daily minimum requirement. And that’s not gossip. That’s fact.

She doesn’t confine it to the classroom, I said.

That’s just it. Karmalyn seems to think all the world’s her classroom. She treats nearly everybody she meets like they’re still in kindergarten, or should be. Folks don’t like that ‘Karmalyn knows best’ attitude. It makes them feel little. Maybe she means it kindly, I don’t know. But I worry about that child. Irma stopped for a reviving swallow of lemonade.

Irma worries about everybody. Gram’s eyes had a wicked twinkle now. And she misses that teachers’ lounge something awful since she retired.

I do, Irma admitted, with a reluctant smile. On the surface, Fraserton’s about as quiet and boring as day-old white bread, but underneath it’s a different story. May I please have another glass of lemonade, Constancy?

I refilled Irma’s glass and mine. Do you want more, Gram?

While you’re up. Thanks. She sighed. Fraserton puts me in mind of that earthquake fault over at New Madrid. It’s been quiet over there a long time, but you know one of these days something’ll give and there’ll be another almighty upheaval.

I don’t know about New Madrid, but we’re past due here in Fraserton, Irma said. And you can always hear the first rumblings in a place like the teachers’ lounge.

Only if you make a habit of listening for them. I’d rather not. Ignorance is bliss. That’s my motto.

Irma’s forehead wrinkled. I don’t know. I like to be prepared for what’s coming, she said. Ignorance may be bliss, but if you want a cliché to live by, ‘forewarned is forearmed’ might be safer.

Safer, maybe, but not nearly as comfortable. I got up and put my glass on the tray. As much as I’m enjoying this, ladies, I really have to go home. I really didn’t want to go. Tomorrow may be our official last day of school, but it’s going to be a long one, thanks to our thoughtful school board. We’ve got a special teacher’s meeting scheduled after the kids go home at noon.

Special?

Read long and boring and a total waste of time. Mrs. Schmidt is convinced we need some immediate inspiration. She’s going to lecture us on how to become perfect teachers before we come back to work next school year.

Irma laughed. Velma Schmidt and Karmalyn. Somebody’s always trying to improve us whether we want to be improved or not. There’s one in every generation.

Gram was giggling, although she was fighting it for all she was worth.

What is the matter with you? I don’t think it’s a bit funny that we have to listen to her yap on and on when we could be doing something much more constructive.

Gram and Irma looked at each other. Big mistake. It was fire to a short fuse.

I waited. Nearly five minutes later, the fallout from the explosion of laugher had settled down enough for them to try to make a little sense. You want to tell me what’s going on? I asked.

Irma was the first one to be able to get some words out. It’s V-Velma... yap... She wiped her eyes and tried again. Every time somebody mentions Velma, we get visions of Emily Classen’s yappy little Pekinese dogs.

Miss Irma, shame on you!

We are ashamed of ourselves, but we c-c-can’t help it. And they were off again.

When are you two going to grow up?

We did.

Reviews for Constancy's Waltz

[watermillchurch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

We enjoyed this book and the others in the series. There was nothing particular about Christianity in these books although the main characters did have Christian values. They were suspenseful and funny and full of unexpected twists. The clumsy sweet kindergarten teacher as a murder suspect and the tall Irish police officer made for a romance that keeps you wondering if it will ever actually happen. LKC