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56 pages

English

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Description

Having recently become acquainted with her biological father during their one and only meeting, Abigail is stunned by a disturbing article in the morning Gazette. The article names her father as the victim of death by exposure near his exclusive residential care facility. He had told her to expect a bequeath of a secret portion of his fortune. To her shock, his attorneys contact her and she learns she is heiress to a tidy sum from his estate.

Only four short years later, she reads the paper and learns of another similar incident at the same facility! Compelled to ease the renewed grief she feels, she searches for information and finds various indications that the deaths may not have been accidents. Could they have been someone else's calculated actions? Murders perhaps?

Sujets

Policier & Thriller

Policier

Detective

Mystery

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	14 mai 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781951960193
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Two for the Price

Roger Baker

© 2021 Roger Baker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission from the author or publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, companies, institutions, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

Compass Flower Press
Columbia, Missouri
compassflowerpress.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905796
ISBN 978-1-951960-18-6 Trade Paperback
ISBN 978-1-951960-19-3 Ebook
Contents
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
About the Author

Chapter 1
As I walked up the street, going home from my third shift at the Creg Neighborhood Women’s Clinic, I watched the paper boy throw the Saturday-morning paper onto the porch of my little duplex apartment. When I reached my front step I picked up the Gazette and scanned the front page.
I read the headlines, and sour stomach acid bubbled up into my throat and burning tears trickled down my cheeks.
Here we go again , I thought to myself as the lead story caused me to relive almost the same headlines from four years earlier.

Sal Calone, an old resident of the city, was found dead of exposure or drowning in the duck pond at Kendell Park. No foul play suspected.

As I entered my home, I continued to read the article, becoming more and more mentally upset. Four years earlier I was forced to live out almost the same story, except it read:

Bob Carew, a resident of the Knight’s Gate Retirement Home for Mature Gentlemen, was found dead this morning, huddling in the rear entry door of a local business on Park Street. He was an apparent victim of last night’s freezing temperatures .
As I recalled the earlier story, I once more burst into a deluge of tears. Bob Carew was my father!
The news article continued, “Mr. Calone was a resident of Knight’s Gate, a home for elderly men, and had evidently broken out a window of his room so he could get to the duck pond to feed the ducks and geese. A bag of bird food was found in the pocket of the lounging robe he was wearing when his body was found.”
The story of my father’s death was similar—it was believed he managed to get out of the building by watching as someone entered or exited the door, and he slipped out. Then he became lost or disoriented and tried to keep warm by huddling in the doorway of a business that was closed for the night, but he succumbed to the cold.
I’m not the type who believes every conspiracy theory, but two deaths in four years, same place, with almost the same circumstances? I couldn’t believe it was simply coincidence. But, if as I started to believe, it might have been murder, then what was the motive? Any act of that magnitude, if it was not a coincidence, would have to have a huge and rewarding motive.
I’m sorry, but the headlines of another old man’s death caused me to forget my manners.
My name is Abigail Devine. I’m thirty-four years old, and a divorcée. If you saw me on the street, you might consider me a pretty woman but not a beauty. I stand five feet, seven inches tall with a slender body. My hair is short, medium-brown in color, and I have emerald eyes in a round face.
Earlier I told you Bob Carew was my father. But in reality, only by a purely biological connection. Carew and my mother were never married, and he departed their relationship before I was born. My mother worked for Bob Carew, or maybe I should say she performed services under Mr. Carew.
I never knew the true story of my conception until about five years ago when my mother learned she was dying of cancer. In her final days she decided to clear her soul by telling me about herself and my father.
I’ve always gone by her maiden name of Jordan. Devine is my married name.
I suppose Bob Carew saw my mother’s and my name in her obituary. A few weeks after her burial I was doing household chores on a Sunday morning when someone knocked at my apartment door. At the time I had just gone through my divorce and started working at the Creg Women’s Clinic as one of the office personnel. When I answered the knock I found an elderly gentleman standing across the threshold. He made no move, only simply stated, “Abigail, I’m your father.”
For a few moments I stood speechless as he dropped his eyes toward the toes of his shoes and waited. After the pause, all I could think to say was, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
After drawing a deep breath he stammered out, “I’m so sorry, Abigail, that I’ve neglected you for so long, and sorry to hear of the loss of your mother.”
Although numbed by his surprise appearance and still almost speechless, my training and habit enabled me to manage a reply: “Thank you for your concern.”
Then he asked if he could come into my apartment. Before I could think clearly I said, “Yes. Please come in.”
Before he entered he looked right and left and then behind, I supposed to see if anyone was watching. That movement scared me a lot, but too late, he was already inside and seated in one of the padded easy chairs.
He must have sensed my concern as he quickly stated, “Don’t be afraid, I was checking to make sure my wife or one of her sons wasn’t following me.” He once more dropped his eyes and continued, “May I call you Abby? In my thoughts I’ve always called you by that name.” I nodded yes and he once more continued, “Abby, I’m ill and everyone watches me to keep me safe, so they say. They say I have dementia. Maybe I do, but there’s something I have to get done before anything happens.”
He paused and thought for a few moments, and then I heard determination in his voice.
“Abby, I never did right by your mother or you, but I’m going to do right, right now. I have a small house, here in the city, that belonged to my father. I also have a small monetary inheritance that he also left. The house and money are in a trust that my father set up for me before his death. When I married I never divulged its existence to my wife or her sons. I had a roving eye, so I kept it to myself to support my woman-chasing compulsion. I know you understand because you are an issue from my lust for a beautiful young woman. I never used the wealth, and now at my death, it will pass to you. Don’t talk to anyone about this until I am gone, because my wife and her sons will try to take it from you as part of my overall estate. You will be contacted after my death and the finance firm will explain everything to you.”
As all he had said soaked into my mind, I tried to object, but he once more stopped me and said, “You are my only blood child and I want you to remember that I was not totally rotten, and though I never helped raise you, I have always loved you and yes, also your mother. But, I was a rat for most of my life; now for a little while I want to be honorable.”
All I could think of to say was, “Thank you, and I will never forget that you are my father.”
Then in an old man’s demeanor, he labored up from the overstuffed chair, stood for a moment to gain his balance, and shuffled to the door. As he stepped out into the daylight, with tears in my eyes, I managed to whisper loudly, “Daddy, I love you!”
Without turning toward me he raised one hand above his head and waved as he disappeared down the street.
I never saw him again, and knew nothing more about him until the story of his death appeared on the front page of the Gazette .
As my mind wandered back to that day, I suddenly remembered the one thing I would never forget. He had my emerald eyes. Or, I guessed really, I have his emerald eyes. That one fact probably was what convinced me he really was my father. The rest of him appeared simply worn and used up.
A few weeks later I was contacted by a law firm to inform me that my father’s trust had been transferred to me.
My grandfather’s small house amounted to a beautiful ranch-style home in one of the suburbs, and the monetary amount was about three million dollars.
Since I had a job and was living comfortably, I decided at that time there was no reason for me to change the trust in any way. So I just left it hidden in the event I needed it later. The house had been rented for years and was cared for by a company hired by the finance firm.
The lawyer told me my father had transferred everything to me under the name Abby Carew. I asked how that was possible as my name was Abigail Jordan. He then explained that there was a birth certificate in the trust file and it listed my name as Abigail Carew. I supposed my mother had listed the father’s name when I was born.
Then it suddenly dawned on me that no one needed to ever know about my inheritance unless I wanted to tell them. Later as I deeply contemplated what I had been given, I decided, if necessary, I would spend it all to learn what happened to Bob Carew and Sal Calone during their time of living at Knight’s Gate Retirement Home for Mature Gentlemen. And if they were harmed by a person or persons, to attempt to deliver those parties to justice.
Chapter 2
For the next few days I carefully watched the local news on TV, continued to fully read the Gazette , and followed social media to determine if anyone had any questions pertaining to Sal Calone’s death. I was surpris