Euphoria Lane
Authors: Tina Swayzee McCright
Winner of the Desert Dreams Contest
Winner of the Hot Prospects Contest, Contemporary Series
“A surprising twist in every story!” —Tia Dani
“[She] . . . has a true gift for writing sympathetically and insightfully. Even her villains are compelling and three-dimensional . . .” —
The Long and the Short of It
“[
Liquid Hypnosis
] has such a twist to it that when it happens you wonder how you didn’t see that coming.” —Fallen Angel Reviews
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015
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This book is dedicated to the memory of Shirley Mays, a positive influence in many lives. She helped me realize I had finally found my writer’s voice. She is greatly missed.
I would like to thank my beta readers for their time and insight: Rosie Mays, Jeanette Lyons, Pat McCright, Kathy Froncek, and Mari Dominguez. A special thanks is due to Kathryne Kennedy, Tia Dani, Carol Webb, my husband, and my daughter, Jackie, for their advice, support, and assistance.
ONE
Andi Stevenson stood in front of a two-story condominium building on Euphoria Lane, clutching a shiny, gold key in one hand and a copy of her mortgage papers in the other. Relief mingled with an overwhelming sense of pride. No more apartment leases for her. No more drunken college students stealing her assigned parking spot while wearing underwear for hats. No more landlords repairing ancient appliances with duct tape and bailing wire month after month. And no more neighbors screeching out rap songs at all hours of the day and night. She’d truly bought a piece of euphoria and she wouldn’t allow anyone else to ruin her portion of heaven on Earth.
The rented moving van, parked at the curb, reminded her of the work ahead. Basking in the glow of homeownership, she walked down the cement path leading to her ground-level home. The spring breeze fluttered the fuchsia-colored petals on the bougainvillea next to her front door. She slipped the key into the lock and wondered if she should say a few words to commemorate the momentous occasion.
“You having a stroke?”
The familiar voice belonged to her sister.
“What?” Andi turned to find Jessica, nicknamed Jessie, carrying a box too big to handle alone.
“You have that vacant look that says nobody’s home.”
“My mind wandered for a moment,” Andi confessed. “Let me help you with that.” She reached out to assist, but her sister stepped out of the way.
“I got it. Just grab the door.” Jessie struggled to hold on to the box while walking. A jerky movement sent her Diamondbacks baseball cap flying off her blonde hair.
Disappointed that she wouldn’t be the first person to carry her belongings inside, Andi quickly unlocked the portal to her new life and pushed the door open. She scooped the cap up off the cement and followed Jessie into the foyer.
The sisters had been roommates since Andi had become a teacher six years ago. The arrangement had allowed her to save money for the down payment on the condo. Jessie was also saving for a down payment—on a detective agency. After ten years as a police officer with the city of Glendale, Arizona, the eldest Stevenson sister now wanted a career with fewer rules, no boss, and better hours. Two more paychecks and the agency would be hers.
Andi tossed Jessie’s cap onto the kitchen counter and surveyed the room. Brand new, stainless-steel appliances reflected the morning sun shining through the window. She couldn’t wait to try out her cookie creations in her brand-new oven. Since the counselor at her school told her she needed a hobby to release the tension brought on by teaching in a gang-infested, poverty-stricken neighborhood, she had poured her creative energy into baking.
Jessie entered the kitchen and dropped the oversize cardboard box next to the wall with a resounding thump. She stretched and grinned. “Hope your mixing bowls weren’t breakable.”
“I hope I don’t accidentally drop your collection of lava lamps,” Andi teased.
Jessie narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” Andi chuckled and followed her outside for another load. Her mixing bowls were stainless steel and her sister knew it since she’d licked the frosting from them countless times. “When we’re done here, I’ll pick up something to eat.”
“Anything but pizza. Five days in a row is my limit.” Jessie jogged ahead of her to the back end of the moving van.
Twenty boxes later, Andi’s shoulders ached from the strain. “Are you ready for a break? I know I am.” She snatched empty Styrofoam cups and water bottles from the countertop. “I’ll make coffee after I throw out the trash.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll search for the filters and coffee pot.” Her sister tugged open a box labeled “Essentials.”
Carrying the lumpy plastic trash bags outside, Andi walked the quiet residential street toward the dumpster. She tilted her left arm to check her digital watch. The salesman at the store had promised the new sofa would arrive between noon and two. She still had time to grab lunch before they arrived.
With her hands full, she used her pinky finger to flip up the latch on the gate to the fence surrounding the oversize trash bin. She poked her tennis shoe beneath the wood and tugged the gate open with her toes. Tossing the first bag of garbage into the dumpster, she noticed an adorable wooden dollhouse resting on top. It must have taken someone days, perhaps weeks, to assemble and paint the three-foot-by-three-foot toy structure.
Why would anyone throw it away?
Next to the dollhouse, a red-and-white sock stuck straight up in the air.
What? Socks aren’t usually stiff. Not without a ton of starch . . .
She stepped closer to get a better look. Under the sock, visible above the mound of trash, she saw a white, plump, hairy leg. Screams erupted from Andi’s throat. She couldn’t stop. Each explosion of sound bellowed out longer and louder than the one before.
Memories of zombie movies flooded her mind. Dead souls walking about in dirty, shredded clothing with their arms outstretched. Each one craving a live person to devour. She dropped the remaining trash bag and trembled.
Please don’t climb out of the dumpster if
you’re dead
.
From behind came the sounds of doors opening and people shouting, but Andi couldn’t turn from the horrid sight of death. Terror seized every cell of her body.
The rhythmic pattern of someone running over the asphalt grew closer. Jessie stepped into her line of vision. “What’s wrong?”
Andi tilted her head in the direction of the dumpster. Even that simple movement took all her will to complete.
Her sister placed one hand gingerly on her shoulder, then leaned close to the metal container to glance inside.
“Great housewarming gift.” She reached for the body.
“No! Don’t touch it!” Andi grabbed hold of her sister’s arm like a drowning woman gripping onto a life preserver.
“Calm down,” Jessie cooed. She patted Andi’s arm, then casually leaned toward the mountain of trash as though finding a dead body in the dumpster was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps in her line of work, it was. “I need to move the trash bags to see if she’s alive.”
“It’s Bernice,” a teenage boy yelled. He balanced one foot in front of another along the top of the brick wall surrounding the complex. “She’s dead, all right. I can see her face on this side of the dollhouse. She’s all fat and gray.”
“Her face is always fat.” The raspy voice belonged to a woman wearing a leopard-print, spandex jumpsuit. She ambled over next to Jessie and the dumpster. Judging by the lines fanning out from her heavily painted eyes, she had been celebrating her fortieth birthday for over twenty years.
“Now it’s gray.” The teenage boy, sporting a Mohawk, stood on his toes to get a better view from his perch several yards away.
The crowd closed in around Andi. She had no idea where everyone had come from and, frankly, she didn’t care. People on all sides of her spoke at once.
“A dead body?”
“Who is it?”
“Bernice. She must have fallen off her patio.”
“Where did the dollhouse come from?”
“It’s part of her
Wizard of Oz
collection. That’s the house that fell on the wicked witch.”
“Another case of life imitating art.”
“Maybe she lifted the house, lost her balance, and fell into the dumpster. That’s her condo up there.”
“I was about to throw my trash out. I could have found the body.”
“If I had found her body, I would have passed out.”
With her sister close by, Andi found she could now breathe easier. She glanced up at a patio overhead. Foliage from a healthy plant occupied the corner near a chocolate-brown wicker chair. Nothing appeared odd or out of place. A broken porch railing would have explained the situation.
The spandex-clad woman lit up a cigarette and blew smoke rings that floated up and over the dead body. “Pretty ironic, if you ask me.”
Andi studied the amused expression on the stranger’s aging face. “What’s ironic about someone dying?”
The woman gave her the once-over. “You’re new, so I’ll fill you in. Bernice was a bigger gossip than the Hollywood paparazzi. Since she was the president of the homeowners’ board, she had the goods on everyone. Her tongue never stopped flapping. What’s ironic is that finding a dead body in a dumpster is the most exciting thing to happen around here, and she’s not alive to spread the news. Life is sweet.” With that, the woman lifted the cigarette back to her dry, chapped lips.
Andi’s jaw dropped.
Who are these people
?
An attractive blonde wearing violet-colored medical scrubs and a hospital badge indicating she was a nurse stepped from the crowd. “Speaking of the board, you’re going to receive a warning for parking in a fire lane.”
“What?” Andi gestured toward the rented van. “I’m moving in today.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She pointed down the road. “You have to leave the van in guest parking and unpack from there.”
Andi studied the area indicated. “That’s a building away.”
“The board doesn’t care if it’s a mile away. The rules—”
“Are the rules,” the crowd finished in unison.
The teen shook his head with obvious disgust. “But, Mom, the Wicked Witch is dead.”
The nurse shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Her flying monkeys are still alive and they’ll send a report to the property manager.”
The crowd murmured their agreement. Andi furrowed her brow in confusion. She waited for her sister to snap her cell phone shut before asking, “Do you think she fell off the patio?”
Jessie shrugged. “We won’t know ’til after the investigation.”
This woman’s death had to be an accident. If it wasn’t, that meant murder.
The next morning, Andi woke to furious pounding on her front door. Squinting, she peered through the peephole to find her scowling father. She twisted the deadbolt with a low, guttural moan. If the marines needed a few good men, why had they let her dad retire? He could still bark orders with the best of them—and often did.