Dearly DepartedA 1960s Cozy Mystery
Carly Winter
Edited by Divas at Work Editing Cover Design Mariah Sinclair: TheCoverVault.com
Westward Publishing / Carly Fall, LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Carly Winter
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.
Cover Designer:
Mariah Sinclair | TheCoverVault.com
This book is for my mother. As a young woman in the 1960s, she longed to become a stew to see the world. Her family forbade it.
So, here you go mom.
Love you.
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
Epilogue
Also by Carly Winter
About the Author
About this book
The year is 1965 and Patty Byrne is flying high as stewardess… until her life crashes when she finds her neighbor murdered.
While cooperating with the police, she meets FBI agent Bill Hart, who shows an interest in both her and the victim's activities. When he asks Patty to introduce him to a couple of the suspects she knows, she immediately agrees, harboring groovy visions of leaving her stewardess job behind and becoming the first female FBI agent.
But as they dive deeper into the case, it only becomes more confusing. When Patty's life is threatened, she realizes murder investigations aren’t for the faint of heart. Can she untangle the web of clues to find the killer, or will she be the next victim?
Chapter 1
Pushing my way through an anti-war protest in the streets of San Francisco carrying a suitcase was not my idea of a good time. All around me people yelled, One, two, three four! We don't want your stupid war! as they marched down the street, their fists in the air. However, there were hundreds of them, and somewhere in the crowd up ahead there seemed to be a traffic jam. I was caught in a sea of angry demonstrators.
“Excuse me,” I said as I became jostled between two men. “Just trying to get through, please.”
They ignored me. For people who said they only wanted world peace, they sure were low on manners. Forced to become more aggressive, I gave one of them an elbow to the ribs, and he finally stepped aside and allowed me to pass.
My cab had dropped me off a block away from my building due to the protests jamming the streets. I had the option to either attempt to move through them to get to my apartment or wait them out. Considering I'd just gotten off work, I really needed to get home to replenish my supplies and do a load of laundry before returning to the airport first thing in the morning for another flight. A bubble bath and a glass of wine wouldn't be a bad idea, either.
“Excuse me,” I yelled again, trying to maneuver my way through. “I need to get home!”
The woman glanced over at me, then nudged her companion. They had a few brief words, and the hulking man standing over six feet muscled his way over to me. His long brown hair hung down the sides of his face, John Lennon style.
“You a stewardess?” he asked as he studied my uniform, a navy-blue pencil skirt, matching blazer, white blouse and a red and blue scarf.
“Yes. I have to get home! It's just down the block a bit!” Someone knocked into me from behind and I teetered on my heels and almost kissed the pavement until the John Lennon wannabe grabbed my elbow and set me upright.
He took my suitcase and kept his grip on my arm, then pushed through the crowd with me in tow. When we broke through the swarm of people and he deposited me on the sidewalk, I sighed in relief. “Thank you so much,” I said, taking my suitcase from him. “I really appreciate your help.”
“Sure. Things can get pretty riled up during the demonstrations.”
I nodded and tucked a lock of black hair behind my ear just as someone shoved me from behind once again. “They certainly can,” I muttered as I caught my balance.
“Are you for the war?” he asked and I answered with a grin. I had a strict policy in place not to discuss politics or religion with anyone, especially strangers.
Just as I was about to thank him again and give him a non-answer, a group of people came around the block, marching right toward the anti-war demonstrators.
Right on!
Take Saigon!
Victory to the Vietcong!
Uh-oh. A clash of pro and anti-war protestors that would most likely dissolve into violence. It had been happening all over the country.
“I better get inside,” I said as the huge man turned to his enemy, raised his hand in the air and began yelling.
I hustled into my apartment building and almost choked on the smoke in the lobby. A metal garbage can had been set ablaze and our super stood over it with a fire extinguisher.
“Mr. Killian!” I shouted as I covered my nose and mouth with my hand and started to cough. “What in the world happened?”
“The anti-war protestors came in here and lit it on fire,” he said, spraying the can once again.
“Oh, my goodness!”
“Dang kids don't know what the heck they're talking about with all their chants and destruction,” he growled with his cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. After setting down the fire extinguisher, he strode over to the door and glanced out, muttering under his breath. “You better get yourself upstairs, little lady,” he said, turning to me. “Things are getting a bit wild outside and may spill indoors again. Get yourself to safety.”
I nodded and headed for the stairs, not bothering to take the elevator. The crackling of fear up my spine drove me to hustle as fast as
