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  An Education in Murder

  A Bailey Homeschool Mystery

  Patty Joy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permissions except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Patty Joy

  Cover art © Katherine Cobert

  Published by Quillavendel Press, Moline, IL

  Also by Patty Joy

  Bailey Homeschool Mysteries

  An Education in Murder (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Patty Joy’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Patty Joy

  An Education in Murder (Bailey Homeschool Mysteries, #1)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

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  Also By Patty Joy

  About the Author

  Dedications

  To write is to dream, and to dream is to create.

  As I have cared and supported my family’s endeavors over the years, they have encouraged my creative dreams.

  To my family, without you this book would not exist. To my husband, for starting us down this road. To my children, for the hills and valleys we have traveled, together.

  To Caleb, Amy and Marilyn, who helped me fine tune the story.

  And to the original Patty, always loved, never forgotten.

  Chapter One

  The faded street lamp illuminated the utter mess in perfect muddy detail.

  I could almost hear the imaginary reprimand, "Rainbow Bailey, I safely delivered your family home after another trip into farm country. The least you could do is give me a bath."

  For over twelve years she has met the challenge of transporting my family never once stranding us on the side of the road. Bessie, our mid-sized Astro van, deserved loving attention with a good cleaning inside and out. Traveling with five children on a four-day weekend created plenty of clutter

  My father taught me young the art of the car wash. Young, and always full of energy and creativity, I used my set of paintbrushes set on a new canvas: the dirty cars and trucks in my Uncle's hardware store parking lot. Using a stool and water in a pail, I painted "wash me" on the filthiest vehicles in the lot.

  As I finished the "A" on the seventh car, my father swapped my paint brush with a sponge and poured car soap into my bucket. The first car was fun, the second not so much. By the time I had finished washing all seven cars, I was in tears. He finished the last spray down, thanked the customer for their patience, and bought me a soda.

  Choosing his words wisely, he only said, "Love, Respect, and handling money. The only three things you need to get along in this world. Today was a good lesson in the first two."

  I have instilled those lessons into my own five children. Their mess meant their cleanup. This time, however, I barely had time to unload the children and dirty laundry at the house before I drove away. I was already late for my kick-boxing class.

  Being late forced me to park in the only spot available, next to the dumpster. The next hour I kicked out every kink, and punched every problem until I had stretched every stressed muscle in my body. It was my attempt at staying sane now that my oldest were teenagers. I wrapped up the night with two hours of cleaning the gym as part of my free membership. The long day was ending and I just wanted to head home to my husband and a good night's sleep.

  Bessie's voice in my head was right, and I knew it. Washing the outside would have to wait until daylight and an easy to reach hose, but the inside was another matter. I was already filthy from the morning farm work, workout, and parked just a few steps from a dumpster. What was one more mess to clean up for a good cause?

  After tossing the gym's trash bag into the dumpster, I slid open the side door, and dug out the treasures my inquisitively busy children had left behind. Eating out was a rare treat for our large family, but Grandpa's list of projects lasted longer than expected, requiring dinner on the road. Separating the half-filled soda cups, sandwich wrappers, and the stupid restaurant toys, from the beloved Barbies and Lego creations, was never an easy task. My youngest two still enjoyed the little restaurant trinkets, while their older brothers enjoyed dissecting them to uncover their secrets. This trip had generated a fresh crop of the plastic trinkets.

  In between melted crayons and spilled gummy worms destined for the trash bin, I found the twins' geometric graphing calculator. That cost me a pretty penny at the beginning of the school year. I held on the calculator with one hand while reaching into the last corner under the seat. Yuck! Dear Lord, I prayed, please let the little round fuzzy things be nothing worse than old Cheerios.

  "That should do it." I muttered, dropping my last handfuls of trash into the dumpster.

  Clunk, Clunk.

  Oh, bummer! Looking down at my empty hands, that distinctive hard plastic on metal ding had to be the calculator. Originally costing almost two hundred dollars, leaving it behind was not an option. Digging into dark smelly trash containers late at night ranks right up there with cleaning up my kid's vomit at three in the morning, but I couldn't risk the garbage truck coming early tomorrow.

  My inherited five-foot, zero-inch frame did not even allow me a view inside the industrial-sized dumpster without some form of elevation. Grabbing my keys, I unlocked the gym's back door, and grabbed a chair from the back hallway. I could see inside, but only lumpy dark shadows greeted me. The dumpster's high sides blocked the closest street light from illuminating the half-filled bin. Nothing could block the smell, though, as I recognized the rotten banana peels from the smoothies sold in the gym's shop. Bummer, dumpster diving looked like a distinct possibility if I couldn't reach the top layer.

  I needed more light. My ever-prepared husband, Martin, kept a flashlight stocked in the emergency kit. With that in hand, I stepped up to look again. The beam of light easily cut through the darkness as I looked for the shiny silver calculator to reveal itself. Glancing past foil wrappings, an old clipboard, my eyes roamed until, just below and maybe just in reach, the calculator reflected the light. I stretched my fingers, and rose upon my toes. I could feel it with two, now three fingers. Just one more inch.

  "Aaahhh", I yelped, somersaulting into the dumpster, my back landed on the lumpy bags that shifted and slid under my weight.

  My plan for a relaxing Mom's night out was ruined, I thought as I reclined on the icky gooey mess now oozing out of the broken trash bags. These bags, obviously not made by Heft
y, shredded into pieces, releasing their foul smells, as I scooped up the prize calculator. Priority number one was finding a way out before I sunk deeper into the muck.

  The beam of light zigzagged as I looked for something steady to hold my weight. The dancing light reflected off a basic tennis shoe that had one amazing quality: it was still holding a socked foot and panted leg. Who would throw away a store mannequin, with clothes? And here? Jensen's department store had mannequins, but that was on the other side of the town.

  As a home-schooling mom, I could always find some use for the mannequin once it was cleaned up. Maybe I could salvage this horrible adventure with a new-to-us treasure after all?

  Following the flashlight up the shoe and the leg, I looked for any other pieces that were available.

  My search didn’t last that long, at least I don't think it did. I really don't remember anything between seeing the leg and waking up with my cousin, Police Sergeant Corbin Cross, leaning over me.

  "Boo, are you okay? Here, let me help you sit up." Corbin had inherited the height in the family. Couching down, his strong arms gathered my small frame into his shoulder. "Easy now. The ambulance will be here soon."

  Squinting into his brown eyes, I asked, "What ambulance, Corbin? Can you turn off those stupid flashing lights? They are giving me a headache."

  Corbin laughed wryly, "I think the headache is from the bump on the side of your head. I was hoping you could tell me why I found you lying here, smelling like a garbage truck just spit you out?"

  I looked over at the dumpster and it all came back. The calculator, the fall, the smells, the shoe, and most of all, the leg. I vaguely recalled a crumpled body topped off with a hairy face, a mad scramble up and over the side of the dumpster, diving in the van for my phone on the front seat and dialing. To whom, and what I said, my mind was still a blank.

  All that flashed in my brain as my stomach flipped like I was on top of a tall roller coaster heading down. When we were kids, Corbin had been the one who talked me onto the Screaming Eagle at Six Flags, and was blessed with a second look at that day's lunch. So, when I looked up in Corbin's eyes, shakily pointed a finger at the dumpster and whispered "dead Harvey," he knew right away to spin me away from him. Just in the nick of time, too. This time, as my earlier chicken nuggets dinner reappeared for all the world to see, it didn't land on my cousin. No, no, no. I, Rainbow Bailey, had the distinct pleasure of throwing up all over Corbin's new boss, Chief of Police Jonathan Flint, who had just walked up on my other side.

  Chapter Two

  What was the etiquette for meeting the new Chief of Police after you have thrown up all over his spit-shined shoes and expertly pleated pants? I didn't know, but that was the least of my worries.

  Corbin released me in favor of surveying the crime scene. Using his industrial strength flashlight plus his six-foot frame, he peered into the dumpster.

  "She's right, Chief. There is a body partially covered by a plastic trash bag." Corbin bent further over the edge, confirming what I already knew. "The body is cold and there are no vital signs."

  That grabbed the Chief's attention from his filthy shoes, as the whooping sirens announced the arrival of the ambulance. Issuing orders, the new Chief directed Corbin to assist the paramedics in my quick removal from the immediate area, least I contaminate it more.

  After the gurney was wheeled to the other side of the ambulance, Todd Standford, a veteran paramedic of ten years took the lead. "Okay, Mrs. Bailey, tell me what happened. What hurts?"

  Chris Maurey, who graduated paramedic school just six months ago, pumped the blood pressure cuff as I began my story.

  "I fell into the dumpster."

  Todd smiled, "Dumpster diving a new hobby? Let me give you a hint: feet first."

  I shook my head, then winced in pain from the movement. "I wasn't. I know that. I mean I didn't mean to. Oh, bummer."

  "Whoa, slow down. Take a deep breath. Let me look at your eyes." Todd said, blinding me with his flashlight. "Are you dizzy?"

  Breathing deeply, I began again. "No, not dizzy. It was just an accident. I was reaching for something I dropped. I remember scrambling out, and then waking up under the stars with Corbin leaning over me. Can you kill the lights? They are giving me a headache the size of Mount Everest."

  Chris reported, "Blood pressure normal range. I will stop the flashes for you, Mrs. Bailey."

  "Bless you, Chris."

  The Chief walked into view, heading to speak with the newest arrival, Doc Caleb McCarthy, the county coroner.

  Seeing the Chief, I whispered to Todd, "Then I threw up all over Chief Flint's shoes."

  I knew the minute I spoke, it was the wrong thing to say.

  Todd frowned. "Let's get you to the hospital."

  "Nope," I said, turning to Todd. "Nada. Not going to happen."

  "Mrs. Bailey, vomiting is an indicator a serious concussion. You need to get checked out at the hospital."

  Having three rambunctious boys and two energetic girls at home, I was all too familiar with clunked heads and their danger symptoms.

  "No," I repeated. "I know my rights. I am not leaving here in that ambulance!"

  My very few memories of my mother come from a sterile-white hospital room. She lost her battle with breast cancer when I was four years old. I did not want to relive those memories, nor did I want similar memories to haunt my children.

  "Is my favorite combative patient giving you trouble, Todd?" Doc McCarthy had been our family physician until he retired last year from the daily commitments of office appointments. He still wanted to stay connected, so he became the county coroner, and he still helped at the hospital as needed. "Chris, nice to see you on the job."

  "Thank you, sir," Chris replied.

  Todd demanded, "Doc, she needs to go to the hospital. She has at least three signs of a major concussion: head injury, bad headache, and vomiting."

  "Once! It was once, and my stomach feels fine now." I rebutted.

  "But your headache is still going strong. I can tell." Todd stated. Though not a doctor, he was good at his job. Identifying and reporting symptoms was a major job component for a first responder. "Plus, you fainted, and your eyes are just a bit dilated, though it is hard to tell in this light."

  "Alright, kids, that is enough," Doc McCarthy scolded. Doc turned to Todd, "You know Rainbow has the right to refuse care."

  I started to smirk until Doc added, "Plus, she is as stubborn as a mule on this topic."

  "Hey, be nice to the injured party. I've had a rough night." I pouted.

  "I only speak the truth," Doc said with a weary smile. "Now let me take a good look at you before I escort the body to the morgue."

  Thinking of Harvey sobered me up, as did Doc's poking and prodding of my head. "Ouch!"

  "I concur with Todd," Doc announced. "Mild concussion possible. However, I know the Bailey family has dealt with this before, so Rainbow can rest at home." Doc turned to me. "But, young lady, if you get dizzy or vomit again, I expect a phone call. From. The. Hospital. Nurse."

  "Yes, sir." Mock saluting, I tried to get up, but Doc pushed me back down.

  "You might as well rest here for now. Chief Flint said he still wanted to talk to you."

  I wanted to glare back, but knew that wasn't Doc's fault. He was just the messenger. Leaning back on the gurney, I tried to relax.

  Chris handed over some clean rags and water bottle to let me clean up a bit, while Todd held out a water bottle for drinking purposes only.

  I hate bottled water. It tasted like liquid plastic that congealed into a lump in my stomach. Still, I sipped the water every minute or so to keep Todd happy. His frustration at my refusal was written all over his face: deep down inside, he was plotting a way to drag me to the hospital. To my advantage, Todd believed in the doctor's credo of "do no harm". Of that, I was glad. He would respect my choice for now. But if my health gave any indication of going downhill, he would rush me to the hospital in a heartbeat.

  Th
e cool wet cloth washed off the dirt, but didn't put a dent in the throbbing pulse. To push my mind off my headache, I went back to the first question. Was I supposed to apologize to the Chief tonight, while he was busy? Or wait until tomorrow? Of course, I would pay for the cleaning, or replacement any item, if necessary.

  More questions rolled in the stormy brain clouds. Did he know I was Corbin's cousin? Would the Chief hold it against Corbin? The Chief would find out sooner or later. Charlottesville, a small town of under ten thousand, had a well-developed grapevine, much to the dismay of many young citizens over the years.

  Being new in town, the Chief was currently at the center of grapevine conversations. I tried to stay out of the loop on purpose, having been burned on a few occasions myself. Everyone deserved privacy and second chances.

  The town newspaper didn't share my ideas. General information on the candidates was printed on the front page before the final City Council vote, revealing the new Chief was a decorated detective hailing from a St. Louis precinct. Second page grapevine column spoke of his widower, childless status. All were true. Thomas Brubaker, the editor, insisted on reliable documented sources. But the second page ruminations were none of our business. Why the big city detective applied for this small-town Chief's job was anyone's guess. He was voted the best qualified applicant for the job based on his professional credentials and that was all that should matter when posting a job.

  Chief Flint certainly had everyone working hard tonight. All three police cars, plus a few of the ambulance lights, lit up the scene. I did my best to block it out as the alternating flashes did nothing for the headache pounding at my temple, but refused to close my eyes. I did not want to give Todd a reason to load the gurney and make a run for the hospital. My evening plans included my comfy bed, my husband of sixteen years and my children. Tomorrow I would awaken to realize this was all just a bad nightmare.