She slipped outside into the warmth of the early September, blue-sky, Colorado day to check on her puppies sniffing around their new territory in the backyard. Leaning over the deck railing facing the lot to the east, she gazed into the bottom of an open excavation where a basement was being poured. Someone had parked a tractor down in the dirt, and near it a white cowboy hat lay on the ground. A man’s hand stretched toward the hat’s brim. Had someone fallen into the pit? Jane bounded down the deck stairs and out the wooden gate, only stopping for a moment to secure the latch. She rounded the corner of her new house and rushed to the adjoining lot, pausing near the edge of the concrete that formed the basement’s foundation. A man was shoved against the corner of the foundation wall. His torso and legs were partly covered with dirt. The cowboy hat concealed the top of his head. His left hand almost touched the brim, as if he were about to take off his hat and say “Howdy do.” A large manila envelope lay a foot or so away from his other outstretched hand. On the envelope tall, block letters spelled out: “Jane Marsh—welcome to your new home.” Praises for Karen C. Whalen’s first book in The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries Series “Take one feisty widow and her appealing friends, add a gourmet dinner club, sprinkle with murder and you have a recipe for a delightful read!” ~Laura DiSilverio, national best-selling author of the Readaholics Book Club mysteries ~*~ “This culinary cozy mystery [EVERYTHING BUNDT THE TRUTH] dishes up a serving of humor, wit, and a desire to keep turning the pages to find out whodunnit.” ~Rhonda Blackhurst, Author of Shear Deception ~*~ “Whalen will have you simultaneously cooking up recipes for your own dinner club and eyeing everyone suspiciously.” ~Rachel Weaver, author of Point of Direction Not According to Flan by Karen C. Whalen The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries Book Two 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. Not According to Flan COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Karen C. Whalen 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: [email protected] Cover Art by Kim Mendoza The Wild Rose Press, Inc. PO Box 708 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2017 Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1464-8 Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1465-5 The Dinner Club Murder Mysteries Published in the United States of America Dedications To our sons, Drew and Garred, and daughters-in-law, Lisa and Joy ~*~ Also to the dinner club members: Mary and Dean Harris, Sandy and Russ Van Houten, Barb and Pete Buchanan, Cindy and Owen Hamilton, and Michele and Dave Bollig Chapter 1 Slam! Chink. The brown packing box fell off the dolly with the tinkling sound of glass on glass. Jane sighed as the mover stacked the box labeled “kitchen” back on the dolly and thumped down the basement stairs with it. Never mind. She’d sort it out later. She slipped outside into the warmth of the early September, blue- sky, Colorado day to check on her puppies sniffing around their new territory in the backyard. Leaning over the deck railing facing the lot to the east, she gazed into the bottom of an open excavation where a basement was being poured. Someone had parked a tractor down in the dirt, and near it a white cowboy hat lay on the ground. A man’s hand stretched toward the hat’s brim. Had someone fallen into the pit? Jane bounded down the deck stairs and out the wooden gate, only stopping for a moment to secure the latch. She rounded the corner of her new house and rushed to the adjoining lot, pausing near the edge of the concrete that formed the basement’s foundation. A man was shoved against the corner of the foundation wall. His torso and legs were partly covered with dirt. The cowboy hat concealed the top of his head. His left hand almost touched the brim, as if he were about to take off his hat and say “Howdy do.” A large manila envelope lay a foot or so away from his other 1 Karen C. Whalen outstretched hand. On the envelope tall, block letters spelled out: “Jane Marsh—welcome to your new home.” Jane’s hands flew to her throat. “Ethan,” she breathed. Her eyes took in the three cement walls rising out of the dirt floor and at the rear, a crumbling slope of dirt spilling into the pit. Starting toward the back slope, she hesitated. The soil might not be stable. She lifted two planks, plunked the long ends of the boards into the pit, and climbed down. The smell of turned earth filled her nose as she skirted the tractor, a small, front-end loader. Falling to her knees, she lifted the cowboy hat, then dropped it. She felt the man’s wrist for a pulse. It wasn’t there. Then her hand moved toward the envelope with her name on it, but she drew back. After yanking a cell phone out of the back pocket of her worn jeans, she punched in 9-1-1. “A man fell into a construction pit… I’m pretty sure he’s dead…no, he’s beyond help.” The dispatcher asked for the address, and she gave it to him in a shaky voice. “Yes, I’ll stay on the line.” The makeshift bridge was harder to get back up than it was to get down. After making it to the top, she crossed the lot and rushed through her front door. “Caleb!” “Yeah? Whatzup, Mom?” Her grown son appeared from the kitchen. He was almost a foot taller than she, but with the same slim build and a cap of the same rich brown hair. “Ethan Valrod. The construction manager for the builder. He fell into the basement pit next door. He’s 2 Not According to Flan dead.” Breathless, she took a deeper breath to stop her ears buzzing and her heart pounding. “What the?” Caleb’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Ethan Valrod’s dead. I’ve called 9-1-1 already and they told me to stay on the line.” Jane lifted the phone to her ear, but the operator was silent. Legs shaking, she led the way, and Caleb followed her out the door. Her son stationed himself on top of the foundation, hands clenched to his sides, while taking in the sight below. She plucked at his sleeve. “Are you going down to look?” He nodded his head and descended the plank. In only a few moments he was back, dragging her by the elbow over to the concrete curb where they sat together facing the street. After hearing a voice spluttering from the phone, Jane spoke into it. “I’m all right. I’ve got my son here with me now. We’ll wait together.” She hit the mute button and shifted the phone from her right hand to her left. Caleb slid a folded piece of paper out of his tight jean pocket and handed it to her. “I forgot to give you this.” In a tremulous voice, she read out loud, “Mrs. Marsh, I stopped by to give you a welcome packet with the keys. I’ll come back later.” Ethan Valrod’s signature was scrawled across the bottom. She gazed into the distance for a moment. Caleb lifted his hands, palms up. “It was on the counter when I got here. The movers set a box on top of the note, and I didn’t want it to get lost, so I put it in my 3 Karen C. Whalen pocket.” “Okay, thanks.” Swallowing hard, she darted a quick glance over her shoulder, but no one else was around. “It looked like someone used the tractor to cover the body with dirt.” “I noticed. And there were marks on the ground, like someone rolled his body into the corner first.” “Did you see the blood on the tractor bucket?” “Yeah.” Caleb gave his mother a pop-eyed stare and she returned the look. Her ears seemed sharper than usual. The dogs barked from the other side of the fence. A plane’s engine droned from overhead. Police sirens approached from the next block. Moments later, two police cars screeched to a stop at the curb. Caleb and Jane catapulted to their feet as she told the dispatcher, “Thanks. The police are here now,” and disconnected. The officers exited their cars and strode over to them. Jane gave one the brief facts as the other scaled the boards into the pit. He came back and issued the command, “Wait in the house.” Not needing to be told twice, they dashed inside. Jane explained to the head mover, “We found a man dead next door.” The movers’ eyes flew back and forth between one another, but they didn’t pause in their work and continued to bustle about, unloading the boxes and furniture under Caleb’s direction.