Meet “Too Old To Live”

I forgot to add the first few chapters of the first of the Tourist Town Mysteries So Here It is. And be watching as it will be published in Kindle within the next two weeks, to be followed in paperback.CHAPTER ONE

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

FRIDAY, 7:30 P.M.

Vivian Lee Carlson Ryan, already comfortable in a cotton nightshift like her ninety-eight-year-old mother’s, padded barefoot onto her mountain cabin’s smooth wooden deck. Gulping in the pungent aroma of pine, she smiled at the sun casting its last golden glow on the trees that surrounded her.

 There was never a time when she stepped out to survey her domain, that she didn’t once again feel the peace and joy of escaping the frantic life she had lived in the big city below the mountain. There, in New Stockford, she had the constant stress of maintaining a demanding real estate agency. And yes, she had to admit, of also worrying constantly about her daughter Nancy and her three husbands all of whom had battered and bruised her physically and emotionally. And even though Vivian had three precious grandchildren from those terrible matches, it was no longer enough to endure the endless drama of trying to keep Nancy’s marriages and divorces straight.

 This was particularly true since Vivian herself had dumped her one and only husband, Randall, after ten grueling years of being the sole money maker while he gambled it all away. After he was forced to leave, they saw so little of him that she hardly realized he was still in the world. And her precious Nancy all but forgot him as she was only three when she ran him off.

 Now that she lived up here, sixty miles away from her grown child’s problems, the daily frustrations had lessened.

 It was more than she could have hoped for when, four years ago, her mother had suggested that they pool their money and lives and move to Hundred Pines. Without a second’s thought, she jumped at the chance. Here, life was simple and easy.

 Unless it was a holiday weekend. Earlier she had driven through the four-mile, eight-block western style downtown area of her beloved Hundred Pines. Famous for its all-season activities, she discovered it was already bursting with tourists taking advantage of the long holiday weekend. They had caused so much traffic that it took her twice as long to drive over the two-lane road to get home.

 Frowning, she shook her graying head and grumbled to the air around her. “Darn visitors!  I don’t care that they bring money into the town. I just hate the inconvenience they cause.”

 She shoved aside her upset over being inconvenienced and made her way into the house. Her round face wrinkled in an additional thought. I wonder, when we get that new Senior Housing, if it will put an end to the crowds? Like so many of the town’s Big Shots think.

 A strident whine greeted her. “Is it going to rain?”

 “I don’t think so Mother. Didn’t look or smell like it.”

 “Then why’s my arthritis bothering me so bad?”

 “I don’t know Mother. Maybe you don’t move around enough to limber your joints.”

 Gretta Schmidt Carlson’s thin, ancient shoulders bent. “Don’t start that with me,” she snapped. “You know how much I hurt.”

 Vivian headed for the kitchen without looking at her mother. She didn’t need to. Her mother’s face was always the same. Grim and scarred with lines created by pain that was as much imaginary as real.

 Soon after moving in together, her mother had turned into a taskmaster that made Vivian often regret the move. Yet she loved her new life in the little community. Despite Gretta’s demands, her mother could still be a pleasant companion when she felt like it. Which was often enough to make the living arrangements tolerable.

 And let’s face it, she reminded herself. Mother controls the purse strings.

 At that thought, which came too often, the lines between Vivian’s eyes deepened. If only I’d been smarter with all the money I’d made. She sighed. But I didn’t. Between helping Nancy and her bums, poor investments, and yes – the trips I took which I loved – most of it just slipped away.

 She shrugged and forced her lips to form a small smile to clear up her frown. Good and bad. That’s life. Even though I’m beholden to mother it could be worse. I could be living in some dumpy condo in New Stockford. Like my brother.

 She chased the negativity from her mind and called out to her mother “I’m getting a cola,” she called. “Do you want something? Tell me now before I start sewing.”

 Through the years she had finally learned how to keep Gretta’s demands somewhat manageable. “I don’t want to have to get up to wait on you when I have a big quilt on my lap.” Her hand on the refrigerator door, Vivian waited for a whiney response.

 “Bring me a pudding. Chocolate if we still have it.” The old woman’s voice, still sprinkled with a small German accent after over seventy years in America, sneered. “That is if it’s not too much trouble to help me.”

 Without a word, Vivian served her mother then plopped into the leather recliner alongside Gretta’s. She lifted a spool of red thread from the table between their chairs and threaded her favorite needle. Putting her legs up on the end of her seat, she settled a large red, white, and blue quilt on her lap and started stitching its binding. 

 Gretta turned up the volume on the television remote until the noise of the Golden Girls’ musical introduction blasted throughout the house.

 “For Heaven’s sake Mother! Turn that down!”

“Then I can’t hear my programs.”

 “You could if you’d wear your hearing aids. You know they help.”

 “I hate them. They hurt my ears. And they don’t work. Not that you care.”

 When her daughter ignored her, she continued. “I suppose you’ll be gone all day tomorrow. What with all the doings in town?”

 Vivian sighed. “Not all day. I will, of course, be at the quilt show. I entered my rose design.”

 Gretta’s lips puffed into a pout. “You’ll be leaving early then? To take it to the Civic Center?”

 “No Mother. Laurel’s putting it up for me. I took it to her office today.” Vivian’s voice grew tight. “Never fear. I’ll be here to fix your breakfast. Like I always do,” she dded loudly.

 Just then the doorbell rang.

 Vivian started up from her chair. “Wonder who that is?”

 “Ignore it. They’ll go away.” The first scene from the Golden Girls appeared on the television screen and Gretta leaned forward to see it better.

 “I can’t do that,” Vivian said. “Might be important.”

 Her mother shook her head. “Probably just somebody else in this town wanting you to work on something.” Her tone deepened. “Tell ‘em no. You do enough.”

 “Mother stop!” Vivian exclaimed as she reached for the door. When she opened it, her face brightened as though sun light had struck it. “Well hello! What a wonderful surprise.

She hugged her guest. “Come in! Come in!”

The visitor stepped inside and joined the ladies in their family room.

Gretta giggled and reached slightly to turn down the television. “Velcome! Velcome! Put coffee on,” she ordered Vivian. “Get the cookies.”

Before her daughter could obey, four shots filled the room.

CHAPTER TWO

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

SATURDAY. 7: OO A.M.

 Laurel Franklin carried her first big mug of coffee out to her backyard patio. In cotton pajamas and fluffy slippers resembling stuffed bears, she nestled into her chaise lounge and looked out at the lake that was surrounded by clusters of one hundred pine trees that were the inspiration for the town’s name.

 The lake, its water a deep sapphire except when the twinkling lights of the sun danced on it like fireflies was Hundred Pines’ main attraction. Its fishing was first rate as was boating and in the shallow parts, swimming. But many folks, particularly the residents, just enjoyed sitting next to its peaceful tranquility. 

  Though her house was quite distant from the lake, the view of it was one of the reasons she and Carter had purchased it when they moved back seven years ago.

 The other reason was even greater. Their modern log cabin was next door to the woman who had raised her since she was thirteen after her parents and four-year-old brother had been killed in an automobile accident.

 When her father’s trust sent her to live with his older sister, whom she barely knew, Laurel just wanted to end her short life but her aunt, flamboyant, funny and the epitome of optimism, had started right in to heal her with love. Eventually that devotion sufficiently helped her put aside her heartache so that she became a healthy teen-ager who could again look forward to a life worth embracing.

  Now her beloved Aunt Mags was opening her door. In a flowing purple floral caftan, she led a tiny light brown Yorkshire Terrier, dressed to match in a velvet purple collar and leash, onto the small driveway that separated their houses. Called by dog lovers Yorkies, they were famous for having a big dog attitude in a small body, a willfulness that defied obedience and enormous self-confidence. Her aunt’s spoiled canine, at only five pounds, perfectly lived up to his breed’s description  

 “Aunt Mags! You’re up early!”

 The older woman laughed as she watched her pet perform his duty. “Dickens insisted I get up. He’s so bossy! Worse than any man.”

 Laurel waved her coffee mug at her and started to get up. “Come on over. I’ll get you some coffee.”

 “Don’t bother Dear. I’ve already got the tea kettle on.” Margaret Magnolia Bergstrom, who everyone called Maggie, turned back toward her front door. “I know you’ve got a big day today.” Reaching down, she scooped up the little dog who immediately started wiggling. “You still need me at the Civic Center?”

 “Desperately. You know how hard it is to find volunteers. Especially on a holiday week-end.”

 Maggie gave her a mock salute. “Then I’ll be sure to be there. Even on time! You know how I love the quilt show.” She gently shook her dog, who was now yapping to be put down. “Dickens,” she scolded as she opened her front door. “I do wish you’d be a good boy.”

 For a few more minutes, Laurel sipped her coffee. Then she did what she always did every morning. Watched the tall pine that held the birds’ feeding station as a gentle breeze swayed it. Already Blue Jays were gobbling the seeds she kept there when suddenly, as she expected, one special animal shoved them away.  

 “That’s right Bossy Bertha,” she said to a large gray squirrel who had staked her claim not only to the feeder but also to the run of Laurel’s patio. “Get your way. As always.”

 She climbed out of her chaise and shuffled to the feeder. “Here you little Hog!” Pulling a peanut out of her pajama pocket, she offered it to the squirrel.

 Immediately, the little rodent grabbed the delicacy with her front paws and began chewing on the shell.

 Laurel laughed. “Honestly! I don’t know why I like you so much.” Then she sobered. “Yes, I do know. Because you’re an inspiration to me. Gutsy and determined not to let anything knock you down. Not the ornery Blue Jays. Or the other squirrels. Or even God.” She frowned. “Especially God!”

 She gave the squirrel another peanut and sighed. Not like me. I can hardly face each day when it comes.

 Her eyes filled and she quickly blinked them dry. Oh Carter! Carter! It’s been two years today since you died. Left Gregory and me. And I’m still so lost without you.

 Under her tousled chestnut hair, horizontal lines blanketed her forehead. “Stop that!” she yelled to herself, causing the squirrel to run away. “Don’t you dare think about your husband’s death. Not today!”

 Entering her house, she glanced at her bedroom door with a longing that filled her stomach. It was a familiar feeling. Whenever she missed Carter, all she wanted to do was escape to bed. To try to hide from the emptiness that was her world.

 Instead, she padded to her bathroom and frowned at the face in her mirror. Her lavender eyes, usually soft and bright, threatened to embrace dark sadness and she squeezed them shut then opened them immediately. It was a trick she had learned to fight off her paralyzing depression.

 “This is a big day,” she told herself. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. There’s tons to do and if you want to keep your new job, you’ve got to do it.”