Checking the Traps Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Joan Livingston

  Artwork: Adobe Stock © pixels_poet

  Design: Soqoqo

  Editor: Miriam Drori

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019

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  and something nice will happen.

  For Teresa Dovalpage,

  my friend, teacher,

  and an inspiring author

  Acknowledgements

  I extend my appreciation to anyone who encouraged me to write, as well as those who read my books. In many cases, they have been one in the same.

  And a special thanks to Laurence and Steph Patterson, of Crooked Cat Books, and my editor, Miriam Drori.

  About the Author

  Joan Livingston is the author of novels for adult and young readers. Checking the Traps, published by Crooked Cat Books, is the third in the mystery series featuring Isabel Long, a longtime journalist who becomes an amateur P.I. The first two are Chasing the Case and Redneck’s Revenge.

  An award-winning journalist, she started as a reporter covering the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. She was an editor, columnist, and the managing editor of The Taos News, which won numerous state and national awards during her tenure.

  After eleven years in Northern New Mexico, she returned to rural Western Massachusetts, which is the setting of much of her adult fiction, including the Isabel Long mystery series.

  For more, visit her website at www.joanlivingston.net. Follow her on Twitter @joanlivingston or Instagram JoanLivingston_Author.

  Praise for Checking the Traps

  “Joan Livingston has created a most endearing investigating duo in Isabel Long and her mother, Maria. The author weaves mystery, suspense and humor in equal measure in Checking the Traps, her third novel in the series. Isabel Long is a compelling detective and Joan Livingston is an author to watch.”

  Val Penny

  Author of Hunter’s Chase, Hunter’s Revenge and Hunter’s Force

  “Joan Livingston has a knack for a good story. All the right qualities are there: colorful, wonderful characters; a setting in a small town where you feel at home though you've never been there; and dialogue that hits a home run each with each and every word and phrase. Of course, there is a death—this time, a jump off a bridge that really wasn't. No shortage of suspects—each one more colorful than the other. And then there's Isabel, the sleuth sporting a sling from her previous case. Checking the Traps is a 5-star read. Interesting, fun, and well-worth your time. Sit back and strap in because once you begin, the pages keep turning almost by themselves.”

  Joseph Lewis

  Author of the Lives Trilogy, Caught in Web, and Spiral into Darkness

  “A twisty small town mystery that stays with you.”

  J. V. Baptie

  Author of The Forgotten and The Departed

  “Tough, tense, and compelling, Joan Livingston’s Checking the Traps, grabs you by the collar and shoves you into the mysterious underbelly of Western Massachusetts. Her gritty heroine, Isabel Long, finds herself once again at the center of a raucous whodunnit. Be careful. Once this book gets a hold of you, you might not be able to pull yourself away.”

  Tom Halford

  Author of Deli Meat

  Praise for Redneck’s Revenge

  "The second book in the Isabel Long Mystery Series bounces along with humor, plot twists, colorful voices and rich character development. Redneck’s Revenge is also a human story, a well-crafted tale of small town secrets, complicated relationships, life changes and lies. A romantic storyline adds spice and warmth to this cozy mystery."

  Teresa Dovalpage

  Author of Death Comes in through the Kitchen,

  A Girl Like Che Guevara,

  and The Astral Plane

  "Set in the frozen Northeast, author Joan Livingston’s spellbinding descriptions of small town America and classic Yankee characters weave humor and a love story with murder. The story sweeps us along and there are enough plot twists and turns in this deftly written work to satisfy the most hard-core mystery fan. A great choice."

  Brinn Colenda

  Award-winning author of

  Homeland Burning and

  The Callahan Family Saga

  "I particularly like Joan Livingston’s folksy, no frills style. I think that’s a nod to her years as a newspaper editor (something her main character, Isabel shares with her). She knows how to turn a phrase. The reader has a sense of the setting. One can see it, feel it and smell it. I have the itch to go explore Western Mass. because of her writing. The characters are colorful and entertaining. It is almost as if I know them somehow, and you will too."

  Joseph Lewis

  Author of Author of Caught in a Web and

  the Lives Trilogy

  Praise for Chasing the Case

  "The story unfolds in a small town in New England at the onset of winter, a community so vividly depicted you can hear the snow fall. Written with meticulous attention to the details mystery readers relish and a welcome playfulness, this novel zips along like a well-tuned snowmobile. I can’t wait for the next installment in what promises to be a great series."

  Anne Hillerman

  Author of the New York Times bestselling

  Chee-Leaphorn-Manuelito mysteries.

  "Joan Livingston has delivered a smart, fast-paced mystery, with a savvy and appealing protagonist who knows her way around the backwoods of the New England hilltowns. I can’t wait to read more about journalist turned private investigator Isabel Long."

  Frederick Reiken

  Author of Day for Night,

  The Lost Legends of New Jersey, and

  The Odd Sea

  "Lurking beneath the surface in small town, Back East life, there is always a mystery. In Chasing the Case, Joan Livingston, as only she can do, digs down into the underbelly of a small town to solve a crime. Take a trip to the land of pot roast and murder with Joan. I did, and I liked what I read."

  Craig Dirgo

  Author of The Einstein Papers,

  The Tesla Documents, and

  Eli Cutter series

  Checking the Traps

  The Third Isabel Long Mystery

  Also available:

  Chasing the Case

  Redneck’s Revenge

  One-Armed Bartender

  It’s Friday night at the Rooster Bar and Grille, and I’m behind the bar taking care of business with my one good arm. The other is in a sling. A broken collarbone and a few badly bruised ribs are souvenirs from my second case, that and the satisfaction I nailed the bastard who ran my car off the road. I’m right-handed, and luckily, my injuries are on my left side, so it’s a piece of cake, really, snapping the caps off Buds with the opener mounted on the back of the counter. I only need one arm to reach for beers in the cooler and drop empties into the carton below. I’m not able to deliver food or clean tables, but then again, I have a very understanding boss. You remember Jack Smith, don’t you?

  Besides, my getup is a conversation starter here at the town of Conwell’s only drinking establishment. The Rooster’s True Blue Regulars, of course, are all aware of what happened two weeks ago, but being nosy New Englanders, they prod me for details. They can’t get enough of the stor
y. I gladly accommodate them. They’re friendly guys and good tippers.

  “Isabel, how fast were you goin’ when Pete hit the back of your mother’s car?” one guy asks when I hand him his beer.

  “Last I looked it was eighty.”

  “Damn. On that road? You and Barbie were lucky you didn’t get yourselves killed.”

  Uh, that might have been Pete Woodrell’s intention when he tailed us in his pickup. His wife, Barbie, was terrified and screaming beside me in the front seat. I didn’t blame her. I felt like screaming, too, but I had to pay attention to the road.

  Hold on a minute. I have a line of customers stacking up. The dinner crowd has come and gone, or come and stayed if they’re making a night of it. The kitchen is closed, and I hear Carole, the cook, cleaning inside. The Back Door Men, tonight’s band, are hauling their instruments and speakers through the side door. There’s a full house tonight, which makes Jack, who owns the joint, one happy man.

  Being the start of April, the snowmobiles are gone because the snow is pretty much gone. We are in the thick of mud season, at least on the back roads, so the Rooster’s floor is getting awfully gritty. That’s okay. The Rooster is almost a shack in the woods, no frills, except for the large-screen TVs for sports games mostly, the jukebox, and thankfully, a clean women’s room. Jack told me he’s getting ready to spruce up the bar’s interior with some fresh paint and a new toilet in the men’s room. He couldn’t recall the last time the Rooster was painted, oh, maybe when he first bought the place. As for the men’s room toilet, it’s probably an original.

  “What’ll it be tonight, Luke?” I ask the guy in front of me as if I don’t know what he’ll order.

  “Make it a Bud.”

  I reach inside the cooler.

  “You sure? We do have a fine selection of beers on tap.”

  He smiles to himself as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Most folks here pay cash for their drinks and meals although Jack started taking credit cards years ago.

  “You think the murder charges will stick?” he asks.

  I smile to myself, too.

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Jack raises his tray of empties while he maneuvers through the crowd. His eyes meet mine as he steps closer. Yeah, he’s grinning.

  Sometimes I forget what a good-looking guy Jack is. He’s got a square jaw and brown eyes on the large size. He’s a big bear of a guy who jokes about his weight. His hair is mostly dark even though he’s in his sixties, and it’s not dyed, I know for certain. That’s not Jack’s style.

  “You sure you’re okay, Isabel?” he asks when he drops the tray on the counter.

  “I’m doing just fine, boss. Right, boys?” I ask the men sitting at the bar.

  The drinkers bob their heads.

  “Yeah, Isabel is putting on quite a show for us,” one of them says.

  The crash was two weeks ago. Like the good Portuguese woman she is, my ninety-two-year-old mother has been nursing me back to health with kale soup. As kids, we used to joke the stuff puts hair on your chest. Now, I call it a miracle drug. The FDA might want to register it.

  These days, I need my mother’s help with the cooking and everything else I can’t do myself. She doesn’t mind; she actually enjoys it. Tonight, she pinned up my silver hair since it’d be too hard one-handed. My wardrobe selection has dwindled to anything I can get over my head without hurting myself or I’m able to pull up or down with one hand. With the weight I’ve lost on purpose, it’s manageable although I’ve had to be inventive about putting on a bra. Luckily, there’s no dress code at the Rooster, and besides, I wear an apron that covers most of my body. Yes, Jack had to tie that for me.

  Jack wouldn’t allow me to work the first Friday after the accident although he admitted when he came over later that night, it was hell handling the bar alone on music night.

  “How did I ever do it all by myself?” he moaned.

  “Maybe it’s time I asked for a raise,” I joked.

  “Sure. You can have two free beers instead of one,” he joked back.

  “That’s mighty generous of you, boss.”

  Besides, it was more than a full house that Friday. Jack said people were asking for me all night. They came expecting I’d be there to share the details of my second case and were disappointed I was a no-show. Customers wanted more details than were in the stories that appeared in the newspapers, which I heard sold out at the Conwell General Store. As promised, I gave an exclusive to Sean Mooney, the reporter from the Berkshire Bugle who supplied me a few helpful tips.

  “I was just about ready to bring you here and set you up there with the band, so they could all ask you questions,” Jack said.

  Aw, that guy.

  I glance up when I hear my name hollered above a Lynyrd Skynyrd tune the Back Door Men are destroying on their debut night at the Rooster. I cringe at their version of “Gimme Three Steps,” which is usually a cinch for every other band that plays here. Then again, I cringed when Jack told me the band’s name. Do these guys actually think they’re studs sneaking around a back door for sex or do they wish they were? I’m not about to ask. Actually, they look like your average hilltown guys with flannel shirts, jeans, and hair way overdue for a decent cut.

  The dancers bouncing around the floor don’t seem to mind the Back Door Men are stinking up the place, so Jack will probably give them a return engagement. It’s all about keeping the customers happy.

  But back to the yelling, I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Annette Waters hollers my name as if she’s in trouble at the other end of the barroom. My mother and I nicknamed her the Tough Cookie. Her cousin, Marsha, aka the Floozy, lets out a savage whistle. I smile. Right now, I count these two women among my friends. For Annette, I cleared up a mystery and her father’s name by solving that case. My mother and I are set for free maintenance on our cars for life. So is my P.I. boss, Lin Pierce. For Marsha, I proved she had a bona fide alibi in my first case. The cousins don’t know quite what to make of me since I’m a newcomer and will always be one no matter how long I live here. But I’m okay in their book. They’ve told me so.

  “How’s it hanging?” Annette says when she and her cousin approach the bar.

  “Right now, I’d say only one arm.”

  Both women make snorting laughs.

  Marsha’s dry bush of brown hair shakes. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, booze, and B.O. when she bends forward.

  “You’re too much,” the Floozy says.

  “Uh-huh, you’ve said that before.”

  Annette slaps dollar bills on the counter.

  “I think I found a car for your mother,” she says. “One of those old lady Fords she likes.”

  “Is it red? She likes red cars.”

  Annette closes one eye.

  “You’re shittin’ me. Right?”

  “No, I’m not shittin’ you. Red’s her color.”

  Annette elbows Marsha.

  “Then, she’s in luck. Come see me next week. If she likes it, fine. If not, I can get another buyer.” She leans in. “Found a new case yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ve gotten a few calls but nothing that grabs me.”

  Annette’s got a smile all over her face, which is a pleasant change. The Tough Cookie typically has a tight expression like she’s about ready to snap off somebody’s head, well, except when she’s flirting with a guy. The woman appears more relaxed these days. Thanks to me, she proved everybody was wrong about her father. And she’s helping her rather aimless son, Abe, get on the right track.

  “Like my case?”

  “Yeah, like your case. You two coming Sunday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Annette says as I place two Buds on the counter.

  “Good. My mother will be pleased.”

  Sunday is my mother’s ninety-third birthday. Ma didn’t want me to make a fuss about it, but I’m going to anyway. Of course, the kids will be there, but I invited a few people in th
e hilltowns she’s gotten to know like Jack, of course, the Floozy and Tough Cookie, and Mira Clark, the town librarian who keeps getting my mother those smutty romance novels she likes so much. Daughter Ruth’s in-laws are driving up from Connecticut.

  Annette elbows her cousin. She tips her head toward the tables on the far side of the room.

  “Hey, check out who’s over there,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Thought you weren’t seein’ him no more,” the Floozy says.

  “Not tonight.”

  Then, with a squeal and a yell, the two women turn their attention elsewhere. That’s okay. Annette and Marsha were hogging the counter, and now, I have a line of thirsty buyers.

  “Hey, there, handsome,” I say to the old coot who’s next. “What’ll it be? Let me guess. A Bud?”

  He gives me a toothless smile.

  “Ha, you remembered. Tell me, Isabel, how’d you figure out somethin’ was in that patch of mud?”

  I slip the cap off the bottle.

  “I had a hunch.”

  “Hunch? What’s that?”

  I slide the Bud forward.

  “Haven’t you ever gotten a feeling about something, and it turned out to be right?”

  He works his mouth as he thinks.

  “Maybe,” he says finally.

  “There you go then. I just kept thinking something was under that snow.” I smile as he ponders that piece of information. “We okay here? Good. Next?”

  A young guy with sideburns to his jaw steps forward. I flip the top off a Bud.

  “Hey, Isabel, what’d you think’s gonna happen to Pete?”

  I shake my head.

  “Frankly, I hope he fries in hell.”

  The guy nods and laughs as he fishes into his back pocket for his wallet.