Shake Down Dead

Shake Down Dead

A Jennifer Penny Mystery

Diane Morlan

Published by Cozy Cat Press at
Smashwords.com

Shake Down Dead © 2011 by Diane
Morlan.

All rights reserved. No part of this
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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

Cover design and illustration by
Cecilia Rockwell

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Crochet pattern by Celt’s Vintage
Crochet, copyright 2000-2011
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/celtsvintagecrochet/

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or
locals is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any
control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or
third-party websites.

Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Date

LCCN: 2011939376

Morlan, Diane, 1943—,

Shake Down Dead
/ Diane Morlan.— 1st ed.

Thanks to the following—

Deb McManus, my editor. You made my
story better with your comments, even the snarky ones. I am so
grateful for your help.

Shirlee, my daughter, Steven, my
grandson, and Jim, my son. Thanks for your
encouragement.

Cecilia Rockwell, my cover designer
extraordinaire, for her terrific cover art.

Patricia Rockwell, my publisher and
friend. Thanks for all you do for me, I truly appreciate
it.

DEDICATION

To my BFF, Jennifer Walker,

My number 1 fan and casino
buddy.

Thanks for introducing me to Bennie and
Cleo.

1

Charlie was a rock star before he
became a politician. Sometimes I forgot that until I heard his
theme song on the radio. The radio cut out when I turned off my car
in front of Trudy’s Lace House in the tiny town of
Itzig.

I found myself humming “City Lights”
while gathering my purse and the tote bag filled with my crochet
supplies. A cold gust of Minnesota wind tore my tote bag out of my
hand, and tossed three skeins of fluffy white yarn across the small
parking lot. I scrambled to pick them up, dusting off the dirt and
leaves they had picked up on their journey. I walked past a terra
cotta planter filled with marigolds and mums that matched the
tumble of orange, yellow, and brown threads and yarns in the shop’s
front window.

I set my tote bag on an empty chair and
greeted Lisa and Whitney, my crochet buddies. “It’s so warm and
cozy in here. It’s cold and windy out there.”

I know,” Lisa said. “Won’t be long
before we’re up to our knees in snow.”

“Doesn’t anybody in this state talk
about anything besides the weather?” Whitney snapped.

“
I doubt it.” I smiled at
the women. “Where’s Trudy?”

“I’m right here,” a voice called out
from behind the counter. Trudy’s head popped up. “I just got in an
order of yarns in some yummy winter colors. How did the rally
go?”

“It went okay for me. These are all the
cookies left over.” I held up a white bag and set it on the table.
“Help yourselves.”

“Oh, I love cookies. No one ever brings
treats to the emergency room. Whose rally?” Lisa stuffed half a
cookie in her mouth.

“Jennifer is catering the campaign
events for Charlie Jackson’s run for governor.”

“Who’s Charlie Jackson?”

“Did you grow up in a cave?” Whitney
looked up from the tablecloth she was crocheting. “Everybody who
grew up in Hermann knows him.”

“I didn’t grow up here,” said Lisa
Vetter.

“Where are you from?” I
asked.

“A little town in northern
Iowa.”

“Why on earth did you pick Hermann?”
Shaking her head, Whitney picked up a cookie.

“I have five brothers and sisters.
There was no money for me to attend a four-year university. My aunt
invited me to stay with her and go to college here.”

“You moved here to go to Hermann
Community College?” Whitney chuckled and bit into her
cookie.

“Didn’t you know that they have the
best nursing program in the mid-west?”

“Didn’t know, didn’t care?”

“Whitney, be nice,” Trudy
said.

“So, you never heard of Charlie
Jackson?” I asked Lisa.

“Nope, never did.”

Trudy looked up from the box of yarn
she was putting on the sale table. “So, then, maybe you heard of
his band, Captain Jack and the Walleyes?”

“Wow! That was Charlie Jackson’s band?
I didn’t even know they were from Minnesota. Is Charlie the sexy
lead singer?’

“No,” I said. “That’s Jack Jackson.
Charlie’s cousin.”

“Kind of,” Trudy said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Trudy sat down, setting the box of yarn
at her feet. “Charlie and Jack aren’t really cousins. They met at
Boy Scout camp when they were teenagers.”

“But, they have the same last names,”
said Whitney.

“Yah,” said Trudy. “There’s lotsa
Jackson’s, ya know. Ever hear of the Jackson Five? They aren’t
related to Charlie either. The boys liked to sing and they—what do
you call it? They ‘bonded’ at camp and stayed friends. Jack lived
in Minneapolis and he had the connections to get the band
started.”

“How do you know all this, Trudy?” I
asked.

“Ray and I have been playing with our
friends, Vic & Clare Schmidt in our polka band since the ‘80s.
You hear things when you’re in the music business. Even though
we’re just a polka band, we recorded our albums at the same studio
that the Walleyes used. Ach, you don’t want to hear about all that.
So, Jennifer, how’s Charlie’s campaign doing?”

“Who cares about that? One politician
is the same as another,” said Whitney. “My father used to say they
were all a bunch of crooks.”

“Actually, Whitney, you should care,” I
said. “The group home where you work is funded by state and federal
subsidies. You should know each candidate’s views on funding group
homes before you cast your vote.”

“I’m not sure I’m even going to vote.
One vote won’t make that much difference.”

“Oh, no, Whitney,” Lisa said. “You
should always vote. My high school social studies teacher said that
it’s not just a right, it’s an obligation.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in high school
anymore and neither are you. Life’s a lot harder than we were led
to believe.” Whitney dipped her head down as if concentrating on
the pattern in front of her.

Filling the awkward silence that
followed Trudy said, “Well, now, let’s get started, Jennifer. Do
either of you two ladies have any questions before I get Jennifer
going on her project?”

Whitney shook her head. Lisa said, “I’m
good.”

Trudy read the directions and I started
crocheting the skirt of a christening dress. My daughter was having
a baby in a few months and the gown was my gift to my first
grandchild. After a few minutes, I had the hang of the pattern for
the skirt and was crocheting along.

“So, Jennifer,” Trudy said, “Is Charlie
going to win the election?”

“I don’t know. He talks a good show. If
all his old fans vote for him he’ll win hands down.”

Charlie, a tall, blond, charming real
estate mogul, by Hermann, Minnesota standards anyway, had bought up
an amazing amount of real estate in this area. Somewhere along the
line, he decided he could run the state better than the present
governor. He was probably right.

“Are you catering all of his political
events?” Trudy asked.

“No, just the ones in southwestern
Minnesota. Charlie wanted me to take over all the events he has
left before the election. But I turned him down.”

“You turned down a job?” Lisa asked,
arranging the doily she was crocheting on the table and smoothing
out the edges. “Can you afford to turn down a job like
that?”

“Charlie isn’t paying me that much. I
gave him a deal because Megan Murphy talked me into it. I do supply
the coffee for all his events, at a discount, of course. I’m a
coffee roaster, not a caterer.”

“He should stick to real estate,”
Whitney piped in. “He’s the realtor who sold my home to Sister
Bernadine. And he found us the tiny townhouse that was the only
thing in town we could afford. Mother hates it but at least we
don’t have mortgage payments. Not that anyone would lend us
money.”

Breaking the silence from Whitney’s
remarks, Trudy asked, “How did Megan talk you into working for
Charlie then?”

“Charlie is her newest beau. She’s all
gung oh over him right now and his campaign seems to be the best
part of the relationship. She’s organizing it to the
hilt.”

“Is she good at it?” Lisa
asked.

“Oh, yes. She loves being in charge and
she has a way of getting people to do what she wants.”

“Maybe I should hire her to talk Randy
into getting me a new car,” Lisa joked.

“Yah, I’m sure she could do it, too.”
Trudy said.

Lisa, who was working on a large round
doily, sighed. “I love sitting here crocheting. It’s so peaceful
and I love the ambiance, surrounded by all these lovely threads and
soft yarns.”

“Yah, me too, agreed Trudy. “ Sometimes
I come out here when Ray is watching football to sit and quietly
work on one of my projects. One night he couldn’t find me and said
he was sorry that he’d ever converted his garage into my shop. I’m
sure he didn’t mean it.”

“I just like getting out of the group
home for a while. It gets so hectic there at times.” Whitney said.
“When I first started there I thought it would be like going home
every day. In fact, it’s just a reminder that this is my life now.”
She scowled and jabbed her crochet hook into the tablecloth in her
lap.

Whitney had once lived in the spacious
house next to Trudy’s shop. Whitney’s father had been the president
of Herman Bank. The house was sold after he died and discrepancies
were found at the bank. Talk around town was that he committed
suicide.

“Yah, sometimes I think you should ask
Sister Bernadine to put you in one of the other group homes,” Trudy
said.

My friend, Sister Bernadine—Bernie to
me—was the Director of Mary’s Haven Group Homes. She and I, along
with our friend Megan Murphy had been friends since second grade.
The diocese put her in charge when they took over two group homes
that were mismanaged. Since then she had opened three more homes.
Sunrise Group Home was the home where Whitney worked.