On Borrowed Crime Read online

  On Borrowed Crime

  A JANE DOE BOOK CLUB MYSTERY

  Kate Young

  For my family, with love.

  With special gratitude to Kendall, who eagerly reads everything I write. You have been a blessing from the beginning.

  Acknowledgments

  It’s impossible to measure and adequately express my gratitude for all those who had a hand in bringing this book to publication. I’m incredibly grateful to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, for helping me find a home for this series at Crooked Lane Books.

  Thanks to the entire Crooked Lane Team: my fabulous editor, Jenny Chen, for her superb editorial advice that exponentially improved this book, the illustrator, who blew me away with the gorgeous cover, and the copyeditors who made the book shine.

  Thanks to my super supportive husband, kids, extended family, and friends who make up my personal cheering section. And a special thanks to my best friend, Julie Bromley, for her endless support, beta reading, and suggestions that make my books better. And lastly, to all my readers, thank you for reading.

  Chapter One

  The white wrap-around dress would have me in hot water if my mother heard I’d committed the heinous crime of wearing white after Labor Day. In the Moody household, September marked the arrival of fall fashions, and my mother always said that here, in the deep South, everyone who was anyone heeded that rule. Nevertheless, my uncle Calvin instructed me on the phone last night to wear something professional to work this morning, and it was the only dress left in my closet, since my best friend and next-door neighbor had borrowed half my wardrobe for her cruise. There were more important things than adhering to society’s whims, like being on time for work.

  Stuck three cars behind the train track as the locomotive moved at the speed of poured molasses, I feared I’d be late. Cousins Investigative Services was a new venture for me. My uncle had needed a receptionist/secretary after Harriet Wiseman took maternity leave to have baby number three. I’d leaped at the opportunity. Much to the chagrin of Mother and Daddy, who always envisioned me married and raising a couple of children by now. I liked men. I liked men a lot. I just hadn’t found one I wanted to keep forever. And if not married, and despite the fact I’d studied psychology, Mother would rather see me behind the makeup counter at Belk or helping out with one of her many charities. She thought working around her brother, who’d been a detective for sixteen years before retiring to open his own private investigation firm, would only further enhance my fascination with murder and true crime. Mother believed the Jane Does, my mystery book club, to be abhorrent and a complete waste of my time.

  Here in Sweet Mountain, forty-five minutes north of Atlanta, old Southern families resided. Our tea was sweet, our accents were sweeter, and our ladies were expected to be the same. Murder didn’t quite fit in.

  The railroad crossing gate lifted, and I thanked my lucky stars. I pressed down on the accelerator of my late-model cherry-red Maxima. Bessie shimmied forward a couple of yards, then made a little clunking sound, followed by a groan, and hissed to a stop in finale.

  “Not now, please.” I attempted to start the engine again. The car made a tick tick tick sound, and then smoke billowed from under the hood. Those rude folks behind me laid on their horns. After I turned on my flashers, I rolled down my window and waved for them to go around. As if it were necessary. Anyone with eyes could see the vehicle wasn’t going anywhere. When the lane cleared, I got out, slung my bag over my shoulder, and tiptoed in my sling-back pumps off the tracks, crossing the street to the gas station. My cell buzzed inside my carryall. It was Uncle Calvin.

  I blurted without preamble, “I’m so sorry. My car broke down on Old Mill Road. Don’t fire me.” I wasn’t sure why I’d added the last bit, but I’d felt remiss not to.

  “Calm down, Lyla. I’m calling to tell you the meeting’s been moved to the Lee, Martin, and Harvey law offices. You wouldn’t make it to Atlanta with the morning traffic being what it is.” I heard his blinker. “It’s not a problem, and now I know you’re having car trouble, I’ll forward the office’s calls to your cell.”

  “Oh.” I walked up under the Fast Trip’s awning and stood beside the door. “Okay then.”

  “Do you want me to call roadside assistance for ya?”

  The wind whipped around, and I held my dress against my bare legs with my spare hand. “No. That’s okay. This is an important meeting. I’ve got it. Break a leg.”

  He chuckled at my comment and disconnected the call. This account would be a real win if we could get them to sign on. My uncle was a utilitarian sort of man. He was plain speaking, without an ounce of finesse, which suited his profession. And he was excellent at his job. But I hoped that, with my attention to detail, analytical brain, added sparkle, and penchant for charm, I could help land more clients. After all, I firmly believed in taking advantage of what the good Lord gave you. And he gave me an ample portion of the gift of gab and a curious mentality, along with a great head of copper-colored hair and porcelain skin that I took excellent care of. Mother taught me well.

  After I phoned Triple A, I went inside to get myself a fountain drink and maybe a doughnut. A doughnut should be out of the question since I needed to lose a few pounds before the holidays, where I historically put on anywhere from five to eight, but, after seeing Bessie, my cherry-red beauty, bite the dust, I needed some therapy. Sugar was my crutch.

  With powdered sugar on my fingertips and carrying my large drink, I walked outside to check on whether help had arrived. A car whizzed around the corner and slammed on the brakes, a few inches from me. My drink slipped from my fingers and splashed on the hood of the black BMW sedan, splattering all over my dress. An unladylike word left my lips at the sight of my ruined garment. Covered in bright blue splotches, I looked like I’d been in a paint gun war. When I lifted my gaze to meet the culprit’s behind the wheel, ready to give them a piece of my mind, my jaw dropped. In the driver’s seat, blubbering her eyes out, sat Carol Timms, a member of the Jane Doe Book Club. And in the passenger seat I spied an unrecognizable individual with a camo baseball cap pulled down over their eyes. Before I could say a howdy-do and inquire to her state, Carol backed up and sped off from the gas station.

  * * *

  After I thanked the Triple A driver, I hopped out of the front seat of the tow truck and walked up the bricked driveway of Mother and Daddy’s grandiose home. I grew up on a street of pre–Civil War, plantation-style houses. The structures were designed to handle Georgia’s hot, humid weather, with large, deep front porches that boasted comfortable rocking chairs and whirling ceiling fans. Front porch sittin’ fostered a sense of community. Having a glass of iced tea and chatting with a neighbor made a hot, humid evening more bearable. But if you asked my daddy, he called the monstrosity a money pit and a heating and cooling nightmare. Daddy liked to complain. Especially when Mother was around to hear him.

  Mother came waltzing out the front door and stood next to one of the white pillars that framed the grand front oak doors. “Lyla Jane Moody! Land sakes alive, what happened to you, child?”

  “Bessie broke down. Your house is the closest.” I mounted the bricked steps.

  Mother’s face held both shock and horror at the sight of me. “Are you wearing white?”

  I fought an eye roll. Mother wouldn’t abide such a gesture, finding it highly unbecoming.

  She clucked her tongue as Gran joined us on the front porch.

  “My, my, looks like you had quite a mornin’.” Gran was smiling. “Something interesting always happens when my little Lyla is around.” Gran had moved in with us when I was thirteen, after my grandfather suffered a heart attack. She’d been a coconspirator in all my endeavors and remained one of my best friends. These days she w
as slipping a little. Symptomatic of aging, Daddy said.

  “Daisy, don’t encourage her.” My mother fiddled with her pearls, a nervous habit of hers.

  Gran winked at me. Where Mother always dressed in what most folks referred to as their Sunday best, Gran preferred to be comfortable and casual. Daddy had inherited her laid-back personality and charming wit.

  “Young lady, you and I need to have a serious conversation.” Mother’s stern face, with an undertone of pity in her eyes, gave me no desire to hear anything she had to say.

  My ego had already taken a major blow, and hearing how disappointed she was in me wasn’t going to improve my mood.

  “Come on inside, sugar, and we’ll get you a change of clothes. I ordered you the new Sue Grafton mystery.”

  “Y Is for Yesterday?” I gave Gran a little smile as she nodded. I’d been dying to buy a copy and suggest it to the book club.

  “I got same-day delivery too. You’ve got to love this online shopping.” Gran had managed to figure out how to use her new smartphone Daddy bought her.

  “My soul, she doesn’t need to read that sort of novel. You know how impressionable she is. She’ll never stop going to the dead club.” Mother rubbed her index finger between her creased brows.

  “The Jane Does,” I corrected Mother, which she didn’t seem to appreciate. She opened her mouth, I assumed to lecture me on my manners, when Gran jumped in.

  “Better get this girl out of these wet clothes. And aren’t you going to be late for the hospital fundraising meeting?” Gran shook her head at Mother in a chastising sort of way.

  It wasn’t that I enjoyed distressing my mother. It was simply that being true to who I was and perusing my interests conflicted with what she found suitable.

  “My stars.” Mother glanced at her watch. “Young lady, our discussion will have to wait.”

  Gran looped her arm through mine and directed me into the house.

  The first floor of my parents’ house had high ceilings, an enormous foyer, a sweeping open stairway, a grand dining room, and a formal living room we never used. The chef’s dream of a kitchen was located at the back of the house, where wonderful meals were made by caterers. Adjacent to the kitchen was the place everyone gathered, the great room. The floor-to-ceiling windows brought in abundant light. Off to the left of the great room, Daddy had converted the library into his home office. The second floor held six bedrooms, each with an en suite. The house, furnished in custom-designed furniture to mirror something out of Southern Living magazine, pleased my mother.

  There wasn’t a speck of dust in Mother’s house, unlike my townhome. She had a cleaning service come in three times a week. “Cleanliness is next to godliness” I’d heard all my life.

  Gran and I were in my old bedroom, where Mother still kept the clothes she continued to buy for me. Mother loved to shop. I’d given my grandmother the lowdown on the events of my morning while I’d changed into a pair of tan slacks and a baby-blue tunic that matched my eyes, and slipped my feet into a pair of flat gray Mary Janes.

  Gran had an odd expression as she stood behind me. In the reflection of the full-length mirror, her wrinkled lips puckered. I’d inherited my looks from her. Mother’s side of the family were dark-haired. Mother’s hair had been highlighted to a caramel color, and her piercing emerald-green eyes stood out on her pale face. In her youth, Mother had won the Miss Georgia beauty pageant.

  “What is it?”

  Secrets and Gran were an oxymoron. I loved that about her.

  “Well,”—Gran got really close and lowered her tone—“you didn’t hear this from me, but that Carol Timms has had several appointments with your daddy. Like several months of appointments. Bless her heart, she’s been experiencing some, um, emotional problems.” Gran’s pleased-as-punch expression to be able to share a piece of juicy gossip almost made me smile.

  Unbeknownst to my sweet, nosy Gran, seeing a psychiatrist did not fall into gossip territory. We all had issues, and these days folks weren’t ashamed to seek help. Progress, I’d say. Still, I wondered how Gran came to be privy to Carol’s doctor visits. “Did this come from a reliable source? Not Sally Anne at your beauty parlor?”

  “Came straight from the horse’s mouth.” Gran folded her bony arms across her chest.

  “If by ‘the horse’ you mean Daddy, I don’t think so.” Daddy never discussed his patients. It wouldn’t matter if God himself had scheduled an appointment. Doctor–patient confidentiality was serious business.

  “James left his office unlocked, and I might have had a peek at the file on his desk.” Gran had the decency to blush a little.

  Daddy would be livid if he found out. No one was allowed to go into his office without permission. He kept an extra set of files on his patients at home in case an emergency arose. While his practice had gone digital years ago, my old-fashioned daddy kept hard copies as well. If Gran found a folder on Carol out of the cabinet, it could only mean she was a new patient or she had more problems than Gran let on.

  My phone rang. I held up my finger, and Gran nodded. “Cousins Investigative Services.”

  “I need to speak to Calvin,” a gruff voice demanded.

  “He’s offsite at the moment. Can I take a message?” I rummaged through my bag for my tablet and stylus.

  “Have him call Judge David Timms. My wife is missing.”

  My eyes went wide as I met my grandmother’s curious, cool blue gaze.

  I put the stylus down on the ruffle-covered mattress of my old canopy bed. “Judge Timms, this is Lyla Moody. I just saw Carol at the Fast Trip about an hour ago.”

  “Are you sure? I haven’t seen or heard from my wife in four days. Her purse, cell phone, keys, and car are here, along with all her clothes. She would never go anywhere without her purse.”

  I swallowed hard. He was right. There wasn’t a Southern woman anywhere that would leave her bag full of essentials behind.

  The judge did sound distraught and completely truthful. But I was positive it had been Carol who nearly ran me over.

  “Yes, sir. She was driving a black BMW, and there was someone else in the car with her. She seemed upset.”

  The line went dead silent.

  “Judge Timms, are you there?”

  Gran kept mouthing, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m here. I’m going to need you to tell the police what you saw. I want everyone on this, including your uncle. Someone has abducted my wife.”

  Chapter Two

  The Jane Does, the members of the Jane Doe Book Club, rotated through all the members’ homes, going to a different one each time for our monthly meeting. A time or two we met at the local library when our numbers were higher and we had a special guest, usually a mystery author. Once, we hosted a retired special investigator from Atlanta, who discussed the ins and outs of investigations in reference to John and Jane Does, a special interest to our group. True crime stories always intrigued the club.

  Tonight, Valerie Heinz, a founding member, hosted us at her new Craftsman-style house in Love Creek. The latest development in Sweet Mountain offered its residents a whole host of amenities. We were all sitting around in her living room, the night air circulating through the open French doors that led out to her backyard. The group totaled four tonight, as Melanie was on vacation and the Lord only knew what was going on with Carol.

  “Did David say anything else?” Val was going around refilling wineglasses.

  When she made it around to me, I held mine up. “Nothing more than what I told you. He sounded shaken and deeply concerned. I left a message for the officer in charge of the investigation, like he asked me to.” I took a sip of Merlot, allowing the subtle black cherry and plum flavors to dance on my tongue before swallowing. “I also gathered from his phone call that, for some reason, the police weren’t doing enough. He wanted to enlist Calvin as well.”

  “Well, the police must have good reasons for not going all out. Like she obviously isn’t missing.” Patsy rais
ed her manicured index finger as she sat down next to Amelia on the leather reclining sofa, after powdering her nose. She’d given birth to a set of twins three months ago and was constantly telling us how hard it was to lose her baby weight. I thought she looked beautiful. Motherhood suited her.

  “Okay,” Patsy clasped her copy of And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie, between her hands, “I’m so happy we decided to start adding in classics every other month. Because, y’all—wow!”

  “Wait a sec, Pats. But who was the guy in the car with Carol?” Amelia took a block of cheese from the tray on the coffee table.

  Amelia Klein and her lovely husband were transplants. Born and raised in Maryland, Amelia had been thrilled to find our little group last year after her husband’s job brought them to the metro area. She told us the second she and her husband laid eyes on our sleepy little town, it stole their hearts. They loved the historic downtown district, breathtaking mountain scenery, and our award-winning wineries, and felt his commute to Atlanta would be worth it. I explained that, in fact, Sweet Mountain had now been deemed part of the heart of the North Georgia wine country. Amelia and I immediately connected, finding commonality in our nonconforming ways. She had tight, curly silver hair she’d decided to never color, big chocolate-brown eyes, and a flawless copper-colored complexion.

  “I have no idea. And it might’ve been a woman.” I placed my wineglass on the end table next to me, slipped off my Mary Janes, and rocked back in the recliner. “Y’all should have seen her mascara-streaked face.” My heart ached every time I thought of her distress.

  “Carol has always been prone to dramatics.” Val ate a Kalamata olive off a toothpick and placed her book on her lap.

  “That’s true.” Patsy sat forward. “Remember when her stylist moved away? She bawled her eyes out for three days. I mean, I understand how important it is to find someone you’re comfortable with, but the way she carried on was ridiculous.”