Jessie Chandler - Bingo Barge Murder

Bingo Barge Murder: A Shay OHanlon Caper 2011 by Jessie Chandler.

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

First e-book edition 2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738728032

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration Rick Lovell

Editing by Nicole Edman

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Acknowledgments

This endeavor could never have come to fruition without the help and support of a number of people.

Thank you doesnt even begin to cover it, but here goes to my awesome acquisitions editor, Terri Bischoff; my crack production editor, Nicole Edman; my amazing cover designer, Lisa Novak; publicist extraordinaire Courtney Colton; and to Midnight Ink/Llewellyn Worldwide for giving my writing this chance to shine.

For believing in me even when I lost faith, encouraging me to follow my dreams, and putting up with the hours and days I was there but really wasnt, an immense amount of gratitude and love goes out to my wife and partner, Betty. There is no way on earth I could have done this without your unflappable enthusiasm.

To JM Redmann and Micky Knight. Without the two of you, Id have never put my fingers on a keyboard.

Thank you to Ellen Hart, who gave me the courage to believe; and Lori L. Lake, for continuing to guide me safely through writings treacherous territory. I am happily indebted to you both.

My Hartless Murderers: Joan Murphy Pride, TJ Roth, and Brian Landonyou are my rock.

Pat & Gary at Once Upon a Crime Mystery Bookstore in Minneapolis, Ruta Skujins at True Colors Bookstore, and all my Borders peepsI cant begin to thank you for your support and encouragement.

I want to thank NaNoWriMo, BABAs Pat Cronin, Chris Paynter, Judy Kerr, Sharon Carlson, Verda Foster, Lori L. Lake, and Mary Beth Panichi for their advice and assistance. To my friends and family: April McGuire, Angel & Monte Hight, Pearl Hedlund, Paul & Sue Hedlund, Mary Hedlund-Blomberg & Gene, Susie & Scott Augustson, Alyssa Augustson, Jean Janeksela, Alice Parsons, Marie Oslund, Bill Anding, Terry & Wendy Chandler, Jim & Gayle Knutson, Betty Jean Turner, and so many othersthe unbelievable encouragement you have given has meant the world to me.

For Mom,

who I hope is watching from above and laughing in delight;

and for Lucky Dawg,

whose tongue was legendary and whose canine heart was solid gold.
You are both loved and forever missed.

The morning that upended my usually uneventful existence was balmy for mid-November in Minneapolis. Sunlight beamed through wispy white clouds floating low in a pale blue, postcard sky. In the backyard behind my caf, the Rabbit Hole, more commonly known as the Hole, I heaved a paper bag full of coffeehouse castoffs into a recycling bin that sat beneath an old maple tree. A car crept along the alley behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to watch a Minneapolis Police Department squad car pass by.

I pivoted to head inside when someone grabbed my sweatshirt and jerked me backward, almost off my feet. Too surprised to do anything else, I stumbled and fought to keep my balance. I was dragged a few long steps through a side door into an old double-car garage. Dusty darkness shrouded my sight as if Id been blindfolded. It all happened so fast that I didnt have a chance to utter a sound, although my pulse went from seventy to about a thousand in three seconds flat.

My shirt was released, and more in reaction than with any real plan, I whirled toward the threat. My fist actually connected solidly with some body part.

Goddamn it, Shay!

My arm fell to my side, and I squinted through the dust cloud our scuffle had kicked up. Coop?

Jeez, I think you gave me a fat lip. Damn, you have a fast fist for a girl.

Anger overtook panic. My knuckles smarted as I shook out my hand. What the hell? Were not seven years old anymore, you know. One of these days youre going to wind up with a whole lot more than a fat lip. I propped myself against the rusty door of my truck, using it to help support my shock-weak legs. My best and sometimes most idiotic friend, Nicholas Christopher Cooper, Coop to me, tended to attract trouble. The man is a cross between a computer genius and a drama queen.

Shay, listen. Ive got to tell

For the love of I interrupted, my heart still rocketing. You could have talked to me outside, you big oaf! I glared at him. Whats wrong with, Shay, psst, come here, I want to talk to you. Or how about, Hey Shay, step into the garage with me for a minute. Or what about saying hello like a normal human being?

Im sorry, okay? Theres a cop car right outside the fricking door and Coop trailed off and settled his big hands on my shoulders, forcing me to face him. Grime-covered windows long ago ceased to allow more than a trickle of light inside the musty garage, but my eyes had adjusted. I took in the pinched, terrified expression on Coops face. For once, he was even paler than me. Shaggy, tangled ash-blond hair fell into his eyes, and his chest heaved as if hed just completed a triathlon. At six-four, he towered over me by a good seven inches, a sapling-thin scarecrow.

My anger dissipated in an exhale. Id never seen my lifelong friend in such an agitated state. Even back when wed gotten into typical-teenager hot water, hed never looked like he was going to stroke out or throw up on me, unless he had bonged one too many beers. Whats wrong?

Im in serious trouble.

Trouble like you knocked up the preachers daughter, or trouble like you lost your job and cant pay your rent again?