Milford Coal & Ice Read online

  MILFORD COAL & ICE

  Book 2 in the Gwendolyn Strong Small Town Cozy Mystery Series

  J A HODA

  Copyright © 2022 by J A hoda

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All character are purely fictional. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Look out!” I yell.

  The kid pulling his sled up the hill backwards is not looking where he’s going. He turns, his eyes wide. Like a matador, he sidesteps us in the nick of time.

  Our toboggan flies down the hill past him. My youngest granddaughter, April, shrieks joyfully as snowflakes kiss her face. The wooden slats undulate under our bums as we skim over the snow.

  This is the best place for sledding in all the county. The Bloodstone family mansion reopened as Milford’s Commerce and Industry museum two years ago. The snow-covered lawn steeply drops towards the state highway, and the river beyond is perfect for a winter day’s outing with my adorable grandchildren.

  My son, Wesley, and my oldest grandson, Caleb, are trying their best to catch us. The race is on. My daughter, Erin, and her middle child, Jesse, are laughing too hard to steer straight, although steering a toboggan is an interesting proposition at any speed.

  We arrived this morning bundled up complete with mittens and scarves as the first intrepid group to test a foot of virgin snow, and we’ve been up and down the slope dozens of times before lunch, each time going faster and faster as more arriving sleds pack the snow into a sheen of white ice.

  I took one look at the weather forecast the night before and gleefully planned for a snow day.

  For thirty-five years, I was Gwendolyn Strong, kindergarten teacher. That was until the Board of Education shuttered Milford Elementary this past fall. My child-like excitement always ramps up when I hear the school-closing announcement on the radio.

  At dawn, I looked out the window to the blanket of white fluffy snow. I excitedly talked my unmarried son into taking a personal day from his work as an accountant to join me, Erin, and my three grandkiddies for a morning of tobogganing. My husband, Ken, had pulled three curve-nosed wooden toboggans from the rafters of our garage, and we waxed them the night before in anticipation of our snow day.

  Erin met us in the mansion parking lot. Food trucks with their generators humming had already arrived, preparing the day’s sustenance for the anticipated horde of sledders.

  “Whee!” April and I yell together as we cross the finish line five yards ahead of Wes and Caleb. I dig my heels into the snow, and we come to a stop twenty yards before the snow disappears into rows of trees and laurel along the state highway.

  Our breathless clan makes it down the hill safely. My fifty-seven-year-old legs are in better shape than both of my sedentary kids. I hoist April on my shoulders, and we make our way up the long, steep hill to the promise of tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, roasted chestnuts, and hot chocolate.

  Yoga and walking this autumn turned what could have been a depressing slide into voluntary retirement into an active lifestyle to go with my unexpected encore as an amateur sleuth.

  Wesley calls me a shameless shamus. Erin tells any curious townspeople that everything her mother learned about solving mysteries, she learned in kindergarten. My daughter homeschools her oldest two by day, but she also works as a civilian contractor for the FBI at night, gathering intelligence from select social media sites. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of how all the cable TV true crime cases are solved, but we don’t share any of these little tidbits with the public.

  I, on the other hand, have been told that I am the one with an observant eye and who has a solid grasp of human nature. There must be something about teaching kindergarteners for thirty-five years, I guess. These gifts allow me to look at things a bit differently and has led to some interesting conclusions. My family is split on the idea of a wife and mother chasing down clues in her spare time. The men would like me to pursue other interests. Erin is my biggest fan and confidant.

  Abe Schatz and Emelina Bidwell at the yoga studio refuse to allow me to slink off into the sunset. They tell me often I have something special, and if I did not to share it with the good folks of Milford, it would be a damn shame. They use more colorful language, though.

  April and I are first up the hill, and we look back at the laggards. “C’mon, you slow pokes!” I yell.

  “C’mon, you slow pokes!” April mimics me mischievously. We make a great pair.

  As if it was planned, my better half arrives with his truck. Ken is joining us for lunch. We stand in line with the rest of our clan after throwing the toboggans into his truck bed.

  “How was your morning, dear?” I ask.

  Ken is Milford’s most sought-after home remodeler, handyman, and woodworker. He restores homes throughout the area. This week he started working on a mansion built before the Civil War. The latest owner, a retired pulmonologist from the city, wants to return it to its antebellum condition and also update it with solar on the back roof to power the electric heat, air conditioning, and a hot tub tucked away in a backyard gazebo.

  “I feel like a ping-pong ball getting paddled between the building inspector wanting things brought up to code and the historical commission wanting to preserve the building to its original condition.”

  “That is a definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place,” I say.

  “A prior owner walled off the coal furnace and replaced it with oil years ago. You would think that I am doing an archaeological dig when I go to knock down the studs and paneling to remove the coal furnace. They both want to be there this afternoon when I do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Environmental hazards. They are worried about asbestos.”

  “Everybody has to have a say.” Secretly, I am glad they are worried about asbestos. It’s my husband’s lungs at risk here, but I won’t say it out loud as long as the professionals are doing so.

  “I know, I know, but it just slows my work down. I’m already starting to get backed up,” he says.

  Usually, wintertime is his slow season, but he has just finished a big project for Abe and was handed this one on top of all the handyman requests he gets. He’s busier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He feels like he can’t turn down any work after I volunteered to take a lay-off. The union is haggling with the school board on how to calculate my sick time and vacation time lump sum payouts, so I will exhaust the unemployment benefits until I take my pension.

  We’ve gone over the numbers a few times. We have no big e
xpenses; everything is paid off. The house we are rehabbing now, which we live in, was bought with cash. We will be able to flip it for a tidy profit in the spring. Ken is not showing any signs of slowing down and loves what he does. I can’t get the man to take a vacation; he just wants to get up in the morning and work with his hands all day. It keeps him physically fit and mentally sharp. Who am I to argue with that?

  The food trucks are doing a booming business, making me think about another possibility that is warming in my oven of opportunities. Centenarian Emelina Bidwell has decided to use her formidable baking skills to begin selling her prized chocolate chip cookies and other goodies. She wants somebody to pass the recipes onto. That somebody is me. Ken upgraded the kitchen at the yoga studio to commercial grade, and the final inspections are completed. Her food license is awaiting Board of Health approval at the next town meeting. She is going to bring a dozen of her finest to set next to the coffee urn, but only after the meeting starts. The board will have to smell them as they plod through the agenda.

  We find a picnic table and brush off all the snow. A cornucopia of winter treats is passed around, family style. My grandkids are well-behaved, especially as they are outnumbered by the adults, and everyone has a huge appetite. Everything that is supposed to be warm is warm, and the tomato soup and hot chocolate are as you would expect on a cold wintry day. The snow has stopped and the sun gleams through icicles hanging from the rows of maples and elms that ring the mansion’s rear parking lot. A Norman Rockwell painting or two comes to mind as I stare with joy at my family gathered on this impromptu feast day. I know that not every family is blessed with harmony and closeness. Tragedy can happen in a blink of an eye. I am grateful for all that I have.

  I offer nine-year-old Caleb twenty dollars to shovel our driveway upon our return to the house. His eyes are like saucers at the thought of making so much money. Wesley agrees to supervise while the girls go about the serious work of building snow pals. Inclusive language is not new to me, but Erin and the grandchildren are much more practiced. We settle on making nameless big, medium, and little ones.

  We must keep our little doggie from peeing on them, though. Ken and I rescued Billy from the shelter just before Thanksgiving. He is part beagle and part cocker spaniel and is just over a year old. Normally on a leash with me on my jaunts around town, he frolics in the snow between us on the lawn and the boys on the driveway. He has learned the words “stay” and “come”—he won’t run away.

  “Mrs. Pearce gave you quite the gift, Mom,” Erin says. “Do you have any plans for using it?”

  My daughter reminds me about how Billy and I recovered her prized award-winning Australian Cattle Dog. The money is a sizable sum more than the posted reward, but a lot less than the ransom.

  I offer her a wide smile. “Don’t forget she gave a hefty contribution to the animal shelter,” I say.

  “An endowment fund in your name,” Erin replies proudly with a knowing grin.

  She lifts a basketball-sized ball of snow onto the biggest one. Six-year-old Jesse finds a suitable carrot from my pantry and coal from our tool shed to decorate the face.

  “CrimeCon is in Vegas this year, Mom,” Erin says excitedly. “We could do another girl’s weekend. I could write it off on my taxes to offset the money I make from the FBI.” She is talking about an annual gathering of all things true crime. Thousands of aficionados camp out for a long weekend at a destination hotel to gorge on unsolved mysteries. Guest speakers and cable stars of the crime networks are the main draw, but the convention hall is also filled with rows of podcasters who have changed how cold cases get solved by crowdsourcing them. Erin and I know a little about podcasters crowdsourcing investigations into cold cases.

  Remembering our trip to New Haven the year before, I say, “We do learn a great deal at those things, honey.” We help the girls roll up the base for the middle snow pal.

  “Besides, learning new skills for your new career will come in handy.”

  “New career? I am not sure you could call it a new career.”

  “You told me that you don’t need to earn an income. You can do anything your heart desires.”

  We deadlift a large round mound of snow onto the base, while the girls start forming the head of the medium one. “I know, but I have another opportunity to explore. Emelina Bidwell wants to start selling her cookies and other baked goodies.”

  Erin says, “See, you are never too late in life to start a business.”

  “And she wants to teach me her recipes.”

  “I’d say she is a pretty good teacher, Mom. She continued mentoring you after she taught kindergarten for forty years.”

  “I think there is more to it than that. She never married or had kids. I might be the closest thing to family for her.”

  “You’re a pretty good baker yourself. You taught me everything I know.”

  I close my eyes to savor the memories of Erin standing on a stool and pouring batter on the cookie sheets next to me in the kitchen. Smells of cinnamon and molasses come flooding back. “I know, but people fight over her chocolate cookies. Your dad redid her bathroom just for a large batch. He didn’t even share one with me and kept them hidden until they were all gone.”

  Erin laughs. “I get it. But is she really serious about it?”

  “Dad built a baker’s kitchen at the yoga studio for her, and she is getting her food license at the next board meeting.”

  “I guess there are no exemptions for one-hundred-year-olds, huh?”

  “Not when it comes to collecting license fees. Just ask your dad every time he has to renew his.”

  “So, what are you thinking, Mom?” she asks.

  “I think it would be fun to learn Emelina’s secrets. The money, if we made any, would be like a paying hobby for me.”

  “Not a side hustle?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, that is up to Emelina. I am just the trainee.”

  Caleb and Wesley are done shoveling the driveway. One gets paid, the other will get a back rub on the floor in front of the fireplace. The girls have already moved onto baby snow pal.

  “Why can’t you do both?” Erin askes me.

  “I don’t know, Milford is a small town. How much mystery can there be?”

  “Bill Spencer, the private investigator from the Stillman case, would hire you in a New York minute. You know he would put you on his license. All you have to do is say yes.”

  I blush, even though my cheeks are numb from the cold. “I know, but I’m not sure I want to look into that for now.”

  The mid-afternoon sun disappears behind dark clouds. Another round of snow is forecast for later this evening.

  The girls make quick work. The adults fawn over their snow sculptures. We take photos of them with their creations, then they run into the house to get warm just as Ken pulls into the shoveled driveway.

  “Caleb and Wesley took care of it for you,” I say, pointing of their effort. Ken gets out of his truck and doesn’t look where I am pointing or say anything in reply. Something’s not right. My husband appears agitated. He is not connecting with me and has a faraway stare. Ken is pale, sweating, and swallowing repeatedly. Something is definitely wrong. Is he about to have a heart attack?

  “Why are you home so early? Everything go alright with the inspection?” I try to act calm, keeping concern out of my voice.

  Erin closes in next to me and glances at me with a worried look on her face and then stares at him. “Daddy?”

  He closes his eyes, sways on unsteady feet, and grabs the trucks door frame. “We found a dead body.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The grandchildren happily watching TV and playing games on an iPad in the den. Billy scampers in to be with April. The adults wait for Ken to speak as he stares at the fire crackling in the fireplace. I hand him a mug of coffee. We will stay with him until he’s ready to speak. He sips and sighs. Closing his eyes, he is either shutting out the discovery in his mind or recalling it.

/>   “I guess there is a first time for everything,” he starts. “Over the years, I have gone into basements or attics and found things left by the prior owners. I always ask permission of the new owners if they will let me keep anything of value as I sort through the junk before carting it off.”

  “I remember you found an entire collection of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries,” Erin says. “They were dusty, but in mint condition. When my kiddos are old enough, I will bring them out of storage.”

  I know Ken is physically safe now, but I’ve never seen him this circumspect. I think it was the surprise as much as anything that has him searching for words.

  “Didn’t we get one of our toboggans that way, Dad?” Wesley asks.

  “Yes, it was from Mrs. Penn’s garage,” he says while staring at the flames. He sips and sighs.

  Found treasure, we called it. Recipe books with twenty-dollar bills stuck between the pages. Family bibles which Ken took to the historical society, as the birth, death, and marriage information of generations were better than what you would find on the genealogy databases. Stock certificates stuffed in old Life magazines. Martin acoustic guitars with a string missing. Forgotten treasure.