Susan M. Hooper
Barnaby Moss and Arnie Kotkin have been friends since their boyhood days of schoolyard fights and choirboy impersonations.
After graduating from college, they realized they were more than friends, and it was not long before Arnie’s upscale condo in the Belle Harbor section of Lawton, New York had a second occupant.
In their first month together, the two young men found themselves facing everything from attempted murder to the real thing.
Last autumn, roughly 18 months into their relationship, they traveled to Maple Grove Junction, Vermont, where they were not only joined in a same sex union, they were also on the guest list for a murder.
With another summer behind them, they have been called down to Connecticut by Arnie’s natural parents after the brutal slaying of their elderly neighbor, and the reluctant sleuths have one more deadly puzzle to piece together.
Susan M. Hooper was employed as a legal secretary/legal assistant for 23 years before hitting the craft circuit as a doll maker in 1996 and beginning to write comedic fan fiction pieces about a year later. Another Day Another Murder is her third novel, and it features some of the characters from her first two novels, Belle Harbor Skeletons and Murder Junction.
Ms. Hooper resides in Connecticut with her family, which includes members of the four-legged variety as well; specifically three cats and two yellow Labs...so walking is an obvious hobby.
The blaring of the television almost completely disguised the noise at first. It was impossible for the nearly sleeping old man, whose head nodded like a misshapen apple on a twisted branch, to distinguish the slamming of a door down the hall, from the sound of TV detectives shooting it out with the criminals of the week just a few feet away.
The first notice Will Raynard had of someone else being in the house came when the intruder walked into the living room and said, “Hello, Will. It’s been a long time.”
As he jumped back from the edge of sleep, Will’s hand automatically tightened around the cell phone that lie in his lap, partially hidden by the warm wool shawl that covered his frail body. He clutched the phone closer to his stomach, letting the shawl cover his hand completely.
He looked toward the sound of the voice; it was a voice he knew. Irately, he asked, “Why did you come here? How did you get in?” He knew he had locked his front door, and it was a long time since tonight’s visitor had enjoyed free access.
The gatecrasher held up a small silver object, and said, “I still have my key, Will. I’d never have used it, if you’d returned my calls. It really wasn’t nice of you to ignore me.”
Will’s body may have been frail, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. Pursing his shriveled lips, he said, “Even though you said you’d gotten rid of it, I always wondered if you were lying.”
Speculation like that would have caused a man freer with a buck than he was, to change the locks, but not Will--he was tighter than the skin on a potato.
Annoyed, but lacking fear, for he considered his unwanted guest to be harmless, he nonetheless chose to be economical with the truth, saying, “I’m expecting someone to stop by. Tell me what you want, and then get out of here.”
The trespasser recognized the lie, and felt the hot bite of anger. With an almost maniacal loathing for the old man suddenly appearing in the interloper’s familiar eyes, the words, “Money’s been tight for me lately…I think you owe me something more,” were spit into the stale air of the room.
The ailing widower felt the first fingers of fear squeeze around his heart, but he met the disquieting gaze evenly. “We settled the old score years ago,” he said. His shaky, shrill voice a far cry from the strong, forceful voice of his youth, he added, “I’ve nothing left to give you.”
The trespasser contradicted him, saying, “I think you do…and remember, Will, we share more than one secret.”
A sudden burst of anger making him forget his severe physical limitations for the moment, Will retorted sharply, “I gave you a small fortune! How dare you ask for more?”
“Well, now, Will…let’s be honest.” The intruder’s voice had taken on a mocking tone. “It was a nice sum, but it was hardly a fortune…”
“Get out…just get out,” Will commanded, cutting off the words of his nocturnal visitor.
Angered by the streak of obstinacy still lingering in a body so weak it had no right to possess it, the unwanted guest snapped, “I’ll tell what I know…”
Again, Will’s voice cut off the threatening words, as, with fingers weak and deformed by arthritis, he held up the cell phone he had been concealing against his body and said, “If I were you, I’d run now. I’m calling the cops.”
In trying to get the upper hand, the old man sealed his fate.
Knowing that a weighty object had once called the spot home, the intruder quickly turned toward the living room’s stone fireplace; on the mantel above it, the dust-covered, bronze statue was still in its place.
Even though the trespasser paused for a moment to calmly pull on a pair of gloves, the old man knew he did not have time to punch in the emergency number. The intruder seemed agile and surprisingly robust, while he was clumsy and weak.
