Dropped Dead (A Jettine Jorgensen Mystery Book 2) Read online

  DROPPED DEAD

  A JETTINE JORGENSEN MYSTERY

  BOOK 2

  S. L. MENEAR

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2022 by S.L. Menear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-269-6

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Afterword

  Before You Go…

  Acknowledgments

  Dead Ends

  Also by S.L. Menear

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Chief Pilot Kelly Mahon

  and the unique Mid America Flight Museum

  in Mount Pleasant, Texas, where vintage

  aircraft are maintained in flying condition

  and come alive for the visiting public.

  ONE

  The banyan tree strains,

  bearing a tragic burden

  caught in leafy limbs.

  * * *

  Just when I thought my life had returned to normal, the strangest thing happened.

  Sophia DeLuca, my trusted friend, and dog nanny, strolled beside me as we followed my four-month-old Timber-shepherd puppies across the broad back lawn. A cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean on my six-acre estate on Banyan Isle, a residential barrier island off the eastern mainland of South Florida between Singer Island and Juno Beach.

  She pointed at the dogs and laughed. “I love to watch them wrestle and play.”

  “They’re smart too. I think it’s the timber wolf in them.” I watched as they paused under a tree and stared up at something.

  “That’s odd. Look how still they’re sitting with their noses in the air.”

  I glanced up. “Buzzards are circling.”

  “Something stinks.” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a hawk left his kill in the tree.”

  I called, “Here, Pratt! Here, Whitney!”

  The puppies, named after my favorite aircraft engine manufacturer, looked back at us, hesitated, and ran to me.

  Pratt, a honey-colored male, and Whitney, a black and tan female, seemed agitated about something. Each dog gave a sharp bark then bounded back to the tree.

  Sophia frowned. “Might be an intruder hiding. Where’s the armed guard?”

  “I think he just started his check of the front yard, and I didn’t bring a weapon.” I pulled out my cell phone in case I had to call for help. “I wasn’t expecting trouble, especially this early in the morning.” The ground was still moist with dew.

  “No worries.” She pulled a Glock from under her shirt at the small of her back. “I’ve got us covered.”

  At five-nine, I towered over her four-ten, slender, hour-glass frame. Now sixty, she looked too tiny for the weapon in her hand, but she wasn’t afraid to use it. The Italian beauty and feisty daughter of a late New York Mafia kingpin feared nothing.

  A massive banyan tree, its canopy spreading over multiple trunks, looked like a small forest. We eased under it to where the puppies sat, their noses skyward.

  I brushed aside my waist-length black hair and gasped. “Holy cow, I wasn’t expecting this!”

  Glassy blue eyes, wide open in a macabre look of terror, stared down at me. His clothes ragged and torn, a man in his late twenties, tangled in stout branches, had his arms bent at odd angles. A thin line of dried blood ringed his neck. But it wasn’t until my gaze traveled to his lower legs that murder was evident. His feet formed the most bizarre pieces of the puzzle, mired in concrete-filled buckets wedged between branches.

  Sophia, accustomed to seeing corpses because of her Mafia family, commented, “Looks like somebody meant to fly over and drop him in the ocean but hit fifty yards short.” She shook her head. “Reminds me of my relatives. I don’t approve of what they do, but they’re pros. They wouldn’t have missed the water.”

  My stomach churned. “This is terrible. His family will be devastated, and what will the police think when I call in another dead body?”

  “Who cares what the cops think? You don’t know the guy in the tree, right?”

  I studied his face. “Oh geez, I didn’t recognize him at first.” Memories of awkward teenage kisses and fun dates to the movies flooded my brain. We had been classmates at Banyan Isle Prep School all four years and briefly dated in our junior year.

  “Who is he?”

  “Chad Townsend. His parents live five houses down.” My voice caught. “Haven’t seen him in years.”

  “A sad waste of a handsome young man, and his parents will be crushed.” Sophia put an arm around me. “I’d be devastated if anything bad happened to one of my boys.”

  I bit my lip and hit the number for Mike Miller, my old boyfriend from college days, now a detective with the Banyan Isle Police. Six years ago, he broke my heart when he stopped speaking to me because I joined the Navy. Recent events had forced him to talk to me again, and his cold attitude toward me had thawed now that my stint in the Navy had ended.

  “Mike, it’s Jett.”

  His deep voice held a neutral tone as he answered, “You sound upset. What’s wrong?”

  I hesitated, not sure how he’d react, considering the murders here last month. “Sorry about this, but I found a dead guy in one of my trees.”

  Silence for a few beats. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “
Positive.”

  “I hope he isn’t hanging from a noose.”

  “No, I think he fell from the sky.”

  “His parachute caught in the tree?”

  “No parachute.”

  He groaned. “How high up is he?”

  “About fifteen feet, and you’ll probably need Fire Rescue and a CSU.”

  “What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “His concrete overshoes were my first clue, and the bloody ring around his neck looks like a garrote injury.”

  A sharp intake of breath on his end was followed by, “Do you recognize him?”

  I choked out the words, “It’s Chad Townsend—we were friends in prep school.”

  Another groan. “Did you touch anything?”

  “No way. He’s fifteen feet above me.”

  “Okay. Which tree?”

  “The one with the buzzards circling it.” I pocketed the phone, nausea gripping my stomach.

  Sophia glanced at her watch. “I’ll take the puppies back to the house before all the cops and emergency vehicles roll in.”

  “Thanks. I’ll wait here, not that poor Chad’s going anywhere.” I looked down at the dogs and pointed at the house. “Pratt, Whitney, go with Sophia.”

  “Come along, my angels.” She turned and trotted toward the house, which was actually a four-story, Nordic-themed, stone castle. It was built over a hundred years ago by my great-great-grandfather from Denmark as a tribute to his Viking heritage. An only child, I inherited the estate after my parents were murdered in a plane crash two years ago.

  The puppies followed Sophia onto the back terrace where she sat with them.

  Before long, Mike jogged around the house and headed toward me. Thirty, fit, and six-two with movie-star good looks and sexy brown eyes, he looked boyish with his black hair tousled in the ocean breeze. A blue polo shirt and tight jeans hugged his muscular body in a way that sent my heart rate into the danger zone, despite my sadness over finding Chad’s mangled body. Emotions are such complicated things.

  I had been home from the Navy almost three months, and Mike and I were still in the not-trusting-each-other phase. Our mutual attraction was obvious, but neither of us wanted to risk getting hurt again.

  He stopped beside me and looked up. “You’re right, it’s Chad Townsend.” He sighed, clenching his fists. “The garrote injury reminds me of my brother’s murder years ago.” He sighed. “He was only sixteen.”

  “I remember.” I clutched his arm. “Matt and I were classmates, and everyone was traumatized after that.” I hugged him. “Sorry to stir up painful memories.”

  “His unsolved murder is what drove me to become a police officer.” Mike’s voice caught. “This is going to devastate Chad’s parents.”

  TWO

  After I gave Mike my official statement, I joined Sophia and the puppies on the terrace. We watched the CSU techs and the Fire Rescue crew work on extricating Chad.

  Sophia pocketed her cell phone. “While you were gone, I called one of my sons in Brooklyn and asked if he knew anything about a Mob hit on the guy in the tree. He said it wasn’t anyone connected to the family, and it sounded like an amateur trying to make it look like a professional hit.”

  “Well, thanks for asking, but I’m leaving this one to the cops. The murder can’t have anything to do with me because I haven’t seen Chad in about ten years. We went to different colleges after prep school, and then I joined the Navy.” I checked the time. “Karin Kekoa will be here soon to interview for the part-time position as my special-events chef. Think I should reschedule?” My stomach was still churning.

  “Not if you’re planning to use her for your charity ball next month. Time is short.”

  “You’re right. Even though it’s the end of the social season, I’m hoping to have at least a hundred guests, and I need to make a great impression with my first ball.”

  “And you’ll bring in plenty of money for the women’s shelter.”

  “That reminds me, I met a woman at the shelter who’s an expert hacker. She’s the perfect cyber person for my new Valkyrie Private Detective Agency.”

  Sophia’s jaw dropped. “You met her at the shelter for battered women? I hope you did a thorough background check.”

  “Of course. She’s twenty-five and deserves a chance at a good life.”

  “Good. Your apprenticeship starts soon, and she can help you with cases.”

  “She’ll be living here, but I’m not sure how to handle her dating and possibly having men spend the night. I mean, she must not be good at choosing quality men or she wouldn’t have ended up in a women’s shelter. Any suggestions?”

  “I’ve been out of the game ever since my Vinnie took a permanent dive into Long Island Sound twenty years ago.” Sophia paused a moment. “If she meets someone she likes, maybe suggest inviting her date here for a meal so we can get a read on him.”

  “Good idea.” I checked my cell phone for messages.

  “I can only imagine how she’ll react to your Uncle Hottie when he visits. She’ll probably swoon over him.” She smoothed her shoulder-length auburn hair. “Just a glimpse of him makes my day.”

  “Hunter already has more women than he can handle, so there’s no danger of him getting too friendly with a new resident.”

  “The danger is her going crazy over him, but no worries.” Her hazel eyes twinkled as she drew her Glock. “I’ll protect him.”

  I did an eyeroll. “I’d rather you find a way to maintain order without gunplay.” I reached down and ruffled the fur on Pratt and Whitney. “The puppies have already seen two people shot in this house. I’d hate for them to think that’s normal behavior.”

  “Hey, I only shot one dirtbag here. You and Mike shot the other guy.” Sophia holstered her pistol.

  “That’s the thing. You and I are raising the puppies, which makes us their role models.”

  “Look at the bright side. Gunfire doesn’t scare them because they became accustomed to it in their first weeks here. Could be an advantage when they’re older.”

  I looked at my adorable fur babies. “I guess you’re right.”

  My cell rang. Hugo, Gwen’s French chef from next door, was calling. “Jett, what is happening?”

  I explained what we’d found. “The police are handling it. Must’ve happened overnight.” I hesitated. “Are you sure about the chef candidate you recommended?”

  “Oui, Karin Kekoa, originally from Hawaii, graduated from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.” He paused. “She’ll be there in ten minutes. I hope the police won’t be a problem.”

  “I guess it’s better if she knows what she’s in for right from the start. Would you like to be here for the interview?”

  “Mais non, I’m making hors d’oeuvres for today’s Art Appreciation Hour. Au revoir.”

  Hugo Fournier’s fiancé, Leonardo Pérez, owned the Gourmet Art Gallery on Main Street in Banyan Isle. Art Appreciation Hour was a lot like Happy Hour at a bar, except the food and one glass of wine per customer were free. Select art was offered at a discount from five to seven every evening.

  Hugo and Leo lived next door with my best friend, Gwen Stuart Pendragon, and Leo managed her household. Gwen recently earned her detective shield with the Palm Beach Police. That was also the month her last name changed from Stuart to Pendragon. Not by marriage. Her uncle, Lord Clive Pendragon, Duke of Colchester, England, having no children, legally adopted his niece so she could inherit his ancestral estate and titled land, including Colchester Castle.

  My thoughts returned to the present when I glanced at Sophia, who watched the firemen hand down the body, bucketed feet first. My stomach twinged.

  She commented, “Guess they’ll have to jackhammer his feet out of the concrete so he’ll fit in a casket for the funeral.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not the sort of problem grieving families usually encounter.”

  “Speak for yourself. My late husband is still wearing concrete overshoes.”

&nb
sp; “Your family is hardly the norm.” I glanced at my watch. “The chef candidate will be here any minute. Feel free to participate in her interview.”

  The dogs bared their teeth when a security guard rounded the corner. He pointed at the police and emergency vehicles. “What’s happening back there?”

  “Somebody dropped a murder victim into my tree last night. Didn’t the night guard report it?”

  “No, ma’am, nothing unusual was noted.”

  “Then he must’ve been sleeping on the job.” Sophia shook her head. “We need better guards.”

  “I’ll ask Hunter to help me find a new security company.”

  The dogs’ ears perked up an instant before the doorbell blasted Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” throughout the house. I hurried inside and jogged between ten-foot winged Valkyrie statues in the spacious foyer.

  A curvaceous, exotic-looking woman smiled when I opened the door. She had bronze skin, long brown hair, and a round face with expressive blue eyes and full lips. At thirty-four, she stood five-six in flat sandals and wore a pink cotton sundress.

  “Welcome to Valhalla, Karin.” I offered my hand. “I’m Jett Jorgensen. Thank you for coming.”

  She shook my hand and glanced around. “Thanks for granting me an interview.” Her eyes paused on a life-size portrait of my late mother. The painting hung on the foyer wall partway up the south staircase and depicted her with long black hair, high cheekbones, and golden skin wearing buckskin. Flanked by wolves, Mother’s golden eyes seemed to look directly at us.