Can't Go Home - A Trinity Calhoun Mystery Series by Melinda Di Lorenzo - Extraordinary Personal Favorite Read in One Sitting!

 

Although the seedier parts of Whimsy aren’t really all that seedy when compared with Vancouver’s downtown core, there’s still a sharp turn for the worse as I guide my car through the streets toward Schmidt’s. The buildings are more rundown. A slightly acrid scent permeates my car. And evidence of neglect dominates the sidewalks. Right before I’m about to turn onto the street that houses the bar, I spy an overflowing garbage can and a pleased group of crows, digging their way through it. I want to shake my head at the mess. I know for a fact that Whimsy’s city crew comes through here only when they have to. Which means the cleanup coincides with important events. The big opening ceremony at the university every fall. The Winter Festival in December. And, of course, the start of spring tourist season. It irks me. Maybe even more now than it did when I actually lived here. I’m not naive enough to think that a little more attention will completely eliminate the problems that go along with relative poverty. But having grown up in the poorest of the family-oriented neighborhoods in Whimsy, I can vouch for the feeling that nobody cares. And if nobody cares, then why try to get out of what can only be fate? Ordering myself to stow the bitter emotions, I pull my car into Schmidt’s dilapidated lot and take inventory of the exterior of the bar. The building is short and squat, with a flat roof that visibly sags in some places. The siding is brick, broken in a few spots and covered in dark moss in others. An awning—once bright yellow, but now faded to a sallow shade—juts out above the main entrance. The lettering on the fabric has long since disappeared. The idea that it meets any kind of code is ludicrous. And how the local fire department hasn’t yet torn it down is a miracle. As I climb out of my car, it’s hard for me to imagine either Asher or Gabe choosing this as a place to drink. Even brokenhearted Gabe or the current version of Asher don’t quite fit with what I think must be the bar’s usual clientele. What about a cop? I ask myself. Like the one Asher described. Can you imagine a law enforcement official hanging out at Schmidt’s on purpose? “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” I say under my breath. I reach the door and close my fingers on the handle, cringing as my palm meets with something slightly sticky. I give a forceful tug then quickly release my hand and slide my body through the entryway. I want to go straight to the bathroom so I can scrub down with whatever it is that Schmidt’s has in the way of soap and water. I don’t follow through, though. I can already feel every eye on me, and the last thing I want to do is alienate the customers and staff. People are reluctant to answer questions when they think they’re being looked down on. So I stow the urge to get clean. I walk directly up to the bar and seat myself on a stool instead. For a good two or three minutes, the sixty-something bartender, who’s sporting a beard worthy of Santa Claus, ignores me. Though I know he’s seen me, he continues to unload, dry, and put away a set of glasses. I don’t care. I’m happy to wait it out. But I do use the extra time to steal a look around. I’m careful not to make it too obvious, primarily taking my glances via the dingy mirror behind the bottles of even dingier liquor. There’s a man alone at one table, his head propped up on one of his hands, his eyes closed. There’s a group of three other men, sitting in a booth and playing cards while sipping from their pint glasses. A third table hosts a couple who are sitting so close together that it’s impossible to tell much about them other than that they’re both blonds. The only other person in the dimly lit space is a big man—tattooed, enormously broad-shouldered, and thick across the middle—standing beside an antiquated jukebox with his arms crossed, and who I assume must be Schmidt’s answer to security. I see nothing particularly interesting or concerning. So when I glance over at the bartender once more, I’m glad that he’s finally deigned to pay attention to me. “Drink?” he grunts. “Just a beer, please,” I reply, knowing that whatever he gives me will be watered down to the point of not being alcoholic at all. He grabs one of the glasses that he just finished wiping, fills it at the tap, then sets it down with a slosh. “Four bucks even.” “Thanks.” I pull a twenty from my wallet and set it on the bar. “Keep that.” His eyes find my face as his hand finds the money. “You a cop?” “I am,” I admit. “Cop night is Wednesday.” I’m curious about what he means by the statement. Is he referring to a designated evening where the police can simply unwind? Or a day when the local PD drinks for free? Or something with an even more corrupt undertone? But I don’t ask. It’s not what I came for. “I’m not here on official business,” I say instead. “Cops are always on duty, whether they admit it or not,” the bartender replies. “Accurate to some extent, I guess. But I’m just trying to figure out the truth about a fight that happened in Schmidt’s a few weeks ago.” “That’s not gonna narrow it down. Someone tries to get the shit kicked out of themselves here pretty much every other night.” “This fight would’ve involved an older man.” I wince inwardly at the description; I really hate it that that’s what Asher has become. “Thin. Wild gray hair. Clothes might not have been the cleanest. A little confused, but smart as hell.” “Ah,” the bartender says with a knowing nod. “Ah?” I repeat. “You’re talking about Prof.” Relief makes my shoulders sag. “Yes, that’s him. Do you remember the fight? It would’ve been between a month and two months ago.” “I do,” he tells me. “Weird fucking few minutes. Prof was in here a lot up ’til then. Always quiet. Out-to-lunch when he’s in the mood to talk. But polite. That was the first time I’ve seen him on a Wednesday, though.” I don’t bother to cover my surprise. “He was here on a cop night?” “Yep. Before that, he was strictly a Monday and Thursday guy.” I let that process for a second. Asher being here on a night designated for police lends credibility to his story. At the very least, it explains his interpretation of the situation. “What about the guy he got into it with?” I ask. “Was he a cop?” The bartender snorts. “Gabe?” This time, I don’t let my surprise show. “You know him, too?” “Yeah. I’ve known him since he was a shit-disturbing kid, trying to sneak in here underage. Moved back to town a couple of months ago, I think. Been coming in most Wednesdays since then.” I bite down on the inside of my lip, now adding that revelation to the stack of other facts. Why did Gabe lie about spending time at Schmidt’s? Was it really a lie, though? I ask myself. He didn’t say that he never came here. Just that it wasn’t his usual kind of place. He might’ve just been embarrassed. “Do you know how the fight started?” I ask. The bartender gives me both a shrug and another nod. “Prof came up and sat beside Gabe, said a few things. Couldn’t hear what, exactly. Then he started yelling about some woman. Figured it was a sex thing. Prof used to be a bit of a stud.” I decide not to comment on the last bit—I have no desire to discuss either Gabe’s or Asher’s sex lives. And I also don’t prompt the bartender by identifying Jennika. I’ve already let her name slip once today. And besides that, it would feel too much like leading a witness. But a question pops to mind, and even though I know it really has no bearing on the facts, I want to pose it anyway. “Can I ask your opinion about something?” I wonder aloud. “Go for it,” the bartender replies. “So long as you’re sure you want to hear it.” “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” I tell him with a smile. “Then hit me.” “What I want to know is if you think either man was more responsible for the fight than the other.” He tilts his head, visibly considering the question. I take a sip of the watery beer, waiting. I don’t know what I want his response to be. I have no desire for either man to be at fault. One would be as bad as the other. I loved Asher. I still do, on some level. And Gabe… Just the idea of Savannah’s brother being the aggressor in a fight makes my heart hurt. I want to think he’s moved on from that angry kid he used to be. And what all of it has to do with the missing women is another thing altogether. Or it’s not a thing at all, says my subconscious, much to my own frustration. Finally, the bearded man opens his mouth again. “Here’s what I’ll say. Gabe didn’t look put off or surprised to see the good old professor. They sat together for a few minutes before any shit went down. The more that Prof said, the more agitated our other friend got. Then came the yelling about the girl. Pretty sure Gabe told the old guy to mind his own business. There were some shoves. Couple of punches. Then my security man and one of the cops broke that shit up.” Well, I think. It’s about as neutral as I could’ve asked for. Except it’s also unsatisfying. I have an explanation for why the two men’s stories have conflicting details. And based on cohesive state of mind, Gabe’s is likely the one that’s more accurate. But I can also see how, addled as he is, Asher would mix things up the way he did. It also begs the question of whether or not he really can’t go to the police. Though it’s not quite as bad as starting a fight with a cop, I suppose that starting a fight in a roomful of them isn’t exactly trust-inspiring, either. “Does that give you what you need for your unofficial business?” the bartender asks. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I do appreciate your help.” He grunts an acknowledgement, then grabs a cloth and turns away. I watch him polish the dented brass on the bar for another moment before I slide my stool out, stand up, and exit the building. When my feet hit the cracked concrete outside, I see that it’s splotched with rain. As I hurry back to my car, several droplets hit my head. And by the time I actually put the vehicle into drive and start to pull out, a full-blown storm is nearly in effect. Even with the wipers on the highest setting, the water on my windshield doesn’t clear fast enough. It puts a kibosh on my desire to go immediately to Asher’s—the roads out there are unpleasant when it’s pouring, and downright treacherous when it’s like this—and I decide to try to call him again instead. But three attempts yield me nothing but voicemail and frustration, so I resign myself to heading back to the hotel. The going is slow. It probably takes me twice as long or more to drive back to the Queen Inn as it ought to. The rain has brought extra traffic—likely people trying to get home before the onset of Whimsy’s version of rush hour—and an accident requires me to reroute three times. But at last, I get there. And with Asher’s folder tucked under my arm, I make a mad dash for my room. As fast as I go, I still manage to slosh through a puddle, soaking my pants. And my hair is plastered to my head and face, too. My soggy state and my hurry to get out of it are probably the reason that I don’t notice immediately that something isn’t right. My hand is already outstretched to take the knob when I see the tiny, open space in between the frame and the door.

~~~

I love book series where, after reading them for a long time, you get to know the characters as actual family members, working together, or fighting, or coming together, often to solve a mystery... On the other hand, there is nothing like starting a book by a writer you've never read before, and finding that the style of writing is so perfect, that the constant moments when the author leaves you hanging, wanting to know more, or, just, the awareness that this book is something very special, a book that perfectly matches what type of story you most enjoy reading... I started reading this book Tuesday--some of you might know what was to happen that night--but that was not part of my plan even if the book hadn't been pulling me forward for every single page! Seriously, this writer had me hanging to the climax... and then wasn't satisfied, she had to include a type of afterthought which leaves you wondering whether what you just read was correct?! Wow, I finished the book about 2:30 Wednesday morning and fell asleep smiling...

We meet a character, who always has a backstory as to why she chose to be doing the job she has chosen. In this case, Trinity Calhoun had chosen to become a cop and was successfully handling case after case in Vancouver where she was living...when she got the call...

But that was after a talk with her boss about her needing to take some time off, clearly making Trinity understand that she needed her to come back, fully able to engage in her job again. Trinity was not quite sure she understood what her boss meant, but it was clear that arguing with her was not the answer. Trinity would take some leave she'd built up... not even considering what she was going to do, since her job was really the only life she had. Maybe that was the problem?

The call was from a former professor at Whimsy where she had attended college in her hometown. Truth was, she'd had a more personal relationship with him as well and still cared about him. But on the phone, even then he seemed confused, even using a wrong name when he asked Trinity whether he remembered Sylvia who had been killed when she was still home. Trinity immediately went on the alert, Savannah had been her best friend and she still mourned her and thought about her constantly... But it had been more than a decade since her body had been found, murdered. And never solved...

A too-long moment of silence. “Professor Phillip? Is… Are you there?” “Trinity…do you remember Sylvia?” A chill. “You mean Savannah.” “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Savannah.” A throat clear. “But do you? Remember, I mean.” “Yes. Of course.” “Trinity, I need you to come home.” A pause. “Home? Asher…” “Trinity. I need you here.” “What do you mean?” “Can you come?” “I can. But—” A click. “Asher? Are you there? Asher?” Dead air...

Trinity knew that, even if she hadn't just been committed to take time off, that she would have immediately left to find out what was wrong with Asher, a man she had once loved, even while she knew he was right to push her away when he said he was not going to change his life for a future with her... Still, she was very confused by how he seemed on the phone. He wasn't that old--she figured out he was 56, but he'd sounded like he was close to dementia... And when she finally got there and saw him, long messy hair, baggy clothes, piles of papers all over the house and completely unable to even complete a coherent sentence, she immediately thought this was not something she could help with! And thought about immediately turning around to go home. Until he told her there had been another woman taken... Finally to calm him down, she said she would check out what she could...

Whimsy was one of those towns which was more concerned about having a good reputation as a college town than to ensure public safety was routinely handled. Trinity quickly learned that she could not depend upon the police to help in any way and quickly learned that little had ever been done to find out what had happened to Savannah. Instead it has been left to slowly be moved to the Cold Case Files...

But then one bright surprise occurred when Trinity accidentally met Gabe, who was Savannah's older brother and, of course, she had not seen since her funeral. In fact, Gabe had left town immediately after the service. And, as he told her, had only returned about three months ago... Still, the meeting was very tentative since Gabe had never learned that Savannah had called her the day she had later disappeared. And, Trinity had purposely chosen not to call her back, since they had been estranged for months. She had never forgiven herself, knowing that she had been the only person who Savannah would have reached out to for help...

Nevertheless, Trinity had agreed to stay a few days, especially after he had shared that there were two Whimsy students who had disappeared, one of which had been reported missing by her roommate... Trinity had pressured the professor to put together a set of documents supporting his opinions. What he gave her was a stack of unrelated papers, but a copy of her final paper she had written about Savannah's murder case. Perhaps he thought that would be incentive enough?

And, while she had brought her badge in case she needed to contact local officials, she was soon upset that she had chosen not to also bring her gun... Because now the professor was remembering that Savannah had been gone for quite some time before her body was discovered. Perhaps the latest, Jennika, could still be alive? Soon Trinity was talking to her roommate and discovering details that could lead to the possibility that she was indeed alive...

Be prepared to be frustrated. Clues coming together sometimes would lead where Trinity didn't want to go... When she found herself visiting her home where she had once lived, she also realized that there could be somebody following her. As she calmed herself down, she stopped to listen, realizing somebody was jogging, just like she had been doing to get there. But then she recognized the running pace of that individual... Dare she assume it was alright to come out of hiding???

I loved this book, Mystery and Suspense at its finest! Do consider this a book that you just might enjoy as much as I did! Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Something was very wrong. As soon as he put his palm on the door handle, he knew. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was experience. Or maybe there was something more tangible behind it. A subtle, physical change that he’d picked up on subconsciously. Whatever the case… He. Just. Knew. Except the knowing wasn’t enough. A second too late, he dropped his hand. The door came flying open. The heavy wood—they sure as shit didn’t construct stuff like that anymore—slammed straight into his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground; the pain paralyzed his limbs and made his eyes water. Then…there she was. The girl.