The turkish connection, p.1
The Turkish Connection, page 1
Table of Contents
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Book Club QuestionS
Author Bio
The Turkish Connection
Copyright © 2023 D.A. Spruzen. All rights reserved.
4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
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Cover & Typesetting by Autumn Skye
Edited by Joseph Mistretta
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023934147
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-897-8
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-898-5
Audiobook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-899-2
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-900-5
Acknowledgements
I am forever grateful to my mentor, author and professor Fred Leebron, who has offered so much wise advice and guidance over the years. I also send love and thanks to my writing group buddies, Gwynyth Mislin and Josh Hagy, who are ever-encouraging and ever-vigilant.
1
Leafing through the local paper one September morning in 2017, I spotted an intriguing ad in the help wanted section.
Ghostwriter for memoir. Live-in, good pay, generous leisure time. Call for appointment.
Funny, it didn’t mention experience or educational requirements. But what the heck, it was a job. I called immediately and met Lin Thoren the next morning.
I had never seen anyone like her. She looked like a fairytale ice princess—her cascade of pale golden hair framed a face stunning in its carved symmetry. I suppose my awe was obvious because her smile bordered on a smirk.
The first thing she did was show me the basement suite that had been set aside for the lucky candidate.
“As you can see, it’s a walk-out. I’ll order some patio furniture next week. We had this space completely renovated after we moved in. The previous owners had a particular use for it that was quite unsuitable…” Frowning, Lin closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if pushing down a bad memory. A sudden draft raised the hair on my arms. “But it’s spacious, and you’d have your own bathroom and plenty of closet space. We had a little suite built for the maid above the garage, so she won’t intrude on your privacy. I can provide a computer if you need one. You are always welcome to spend time upstairs with us or to enjoy the garden.”
“Actually, my laptop is on its last legs,” I said, hoping that didn’t sound too eager.
We went upstairs and settled down. We established that I had a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing, that I had had some short stories published, and that I was working on a novel, which I might finally be able to finish.
“I have had an unusual life,” she said, clasping her hands on her lap. “I own a detective agency in town, although I’m semi-retired now. My former assistant—now partner—takes care of most cases, only calling me in as needed. Our specialty is missing persons, and we’ve developed quite a good reputation.”
“My aunt, Peggy Lambert, wrote to me about a case a few years ago involving girls brought over from Syria. Was that you?”
A smile lit up her fine Nordic face, but that was all that moved. It creeped me out a bit. “Yes, it was. Well, I want my story told. Not just my cases, but my life. No one must know, not even my husband. When no one else is home, I will come down to you and talk. You will record it. Your job is to put everything together in a bookish-kind-of-way. You know, good English, chapters, and all that.” She shrugged. “I have the education, but not the patience. We will begin with a brief explanation of my origins, then cover my first major case. That will probably be a whole book in itself. If all goes well, we can move on to another.”
“Why the secrecy?”
She lowered her voice and leaned toward me, although no one was around that I could see. “As I said, my life has been unusual … to say the least. You will understand as we begin our work together. My husband, Hunter, is fanatical about privacy. He would not approve. Ever since Venice. But I’ll tell you about that later.” Returning to her normal volume, she added, “I’ve met your aunt, by the way. A nice woman. Sweet dog. The job is yours if the terms suit.”
The terms suited. I couldn’t believe my luck. A well-paid job, a place to live, a new computer. Move in Sunday, start work Monday. And close to Aunt Peggy. Too good to be true? That crossed my mind, only to be shunted aside. My twenty-four-year-old mind didn’t go for hitches and hurdles.
“One more thing. These memoirs cannot be published until my lawyers notify you. That may be many years from now. We will have left the area by then. If you find a publisher, you may take full credit and ownership.”
“That’s very generous and … well, a little odd.”
She shrugged again. “I know. Everything about us is a little odd by your standards. Anyway, I’ve been on the board of the Salton Symphony for about five years. We have a concert tomorrow, and I’d like you to come as my guest. The little theater we use has been my pet project since I more-or-less retired. It opened nine months ago. The competition for stage time from all our local arts groups is fierce, as I’ve worked hard to keep the rental reasonable. I love to show it off. When can you start?”
“I have nothing going on at the moment, so any time.”
“Great! The season’s first concert is tomorrow evening at eight. Why don’t you meet me in the foyer at 7:15, and I’ll show you around. You can move in Sunday.”
“Thank you. I look forward to it. Will your husband be there?”
“No, classical music isn’t his thing. You’ll meet him on Monday.”
Lin handed me a $100 bill for “a little starting money,” as she put it, and I hurried off home to tell Auntie Peggy. I’d miss her, especially her spaniel Sam’s warm body at the bottom of my bed every night.
I shared my good news with Auntie while she frantically knitted woolly hats for the homeless as if winter might descend tomorrow. I asked if she remembered meeting a Mrs. Thoren.
“Why yes, dear, I did. It was at a reception after the symphony’s holiday concert last year. We had a lovely chat about Sam. She loves dogs, but her husband wouldn’t let her have one. So sad.” Auntie’s knitting needles stilled for a moment before flying across the rows once more. “She came to tea the next day. Of course, the attraction was Sam rather than me. Beautiful woman. I’m so pleased you’re going to stay around.” We hugged, and despite a knitting needle poking my ribs, I felt as if my world had righted itself. “I know you’ll be in good hands, Mary.” When Sam came nosing between us, he got a hug too.
I’d come to Salton to stay with Auntie Peggy, my mother’s sister. I loved her dearly, and she always came when I needed reassurance and comfort. Mom had died only six months before in Scranton, my hometown. Daddy died when I was nine. My sister had left home at eighteen to get married. She lives in a small house in Wilkes-Barre, weighed down by wet diapers and money worries.
After I finished my master’s degree in Philadelphia and wrapped up the small estate, at nearly twenty-four, I found myself in a vacuum of sorts. No writing jobs in Pennsylvania, no friends left in town, boyfriend gone with the wind. After my friends went away to college, none of them came back. I hung out a few times with a few high school acquaintances who hadn’t gone on to university, but after the first half-hour, we couldn’t find anything to talk about anymore.
I called Auntie Peggy, who urged me to stay with her until I “got myself straight.” Thanks to Mom, I had a little nest egg, so I could coast for a while. Auntie was a healing soul. I started feeling better after a few days of home cooking, gentle conversation, and snuggling with her Cavalier King Charles spaniel, dear little Sam.
I arrived as planned in the foyer of Salton’s small community theater, where I found Lin chatting with friends. She greeted me warmly, introducing me as her “writer in residence.” Everyone looked suitab
Still holding my arm, she leaned close and whispered, “I’m afraid there’s a pickpocket in the house. I’ll deal with it. Just bear with me.” She gestured with her chin toward a pear-shaped woman in magenta silk who stood chatting with a disheveled young man, who blithely ignored her air of bored endurance accompanied by sighs and eye-rolling. He threw his arms around a great deal.
We wandered over. Lin nudged me to the puny youth’s side while she stood opposite, next to the lady. My heart beat faster, anticipating a little drama.
“Good evening, Laura. May I introduce Mary Lambert? Mary, this is Laura Kalich, a long-time and very generous supporter of the symphony.”
Mrs. Kalich shook my hand with unusual enthusiasm, no doubt sensing a reprieve.
“Charming. My young friend here is a writer. The silly boy wants to work on a biography of my husband,” she drawled, her voice dripping with condescension.
Young Friend looked put out.
Lin locked his eyes in one of her uncomfortably penetrating gazes. “Do you, now? Well, my friend Mary here is a writer. She will be staying with Hunter and me for a while to work on some of her projects. Maybe you two should get to know each other.”
Why do people think writers belong to some sort of coven that draws its members together like fridge magnets? I stuck out my hand. “I’m Mary.”
He looked at it without raising either of his and said, “I know. She said.” Graceless brat.
“Well, please excuse us, Laura. I have to check on a few details at the box office,” Lin said, her gaze finally moving off the young man to smile at her friend.
We moved toward the theater doors, then swept around to the back of the foyer. We chatted about the Salton Symphony and the new little theater, all the time watching Mrs. Kalich from behind. We edged closer.
One of Young Friend’s emphatic gestures sent Mrs. Kalich’s bag crashing to the floor, where it burst open. Apologizing profusely, he bent down to retrieve it, shoveling everything back in as fast as he could. Mrs. Kalich made a few abortive attempts to bend down that far, only achieving a head-butting for her pains before leaving him to it.
With the bag retrieved and returned to Mrs. Kalich’s grasp, I saw Lin sprint to Young Friend’s side. At least, I did, and I didn’t. She moved so fast she seemed to arrive before my brain could catch up—like seeing it in slow-motion replay. I scurried toward them, fearing I might be hallucinating.
“Laura, dear, what happened to your beautiful sapphire pendant?”
The woman clutched at her neck and let out a little screech. “It must have fallen. Help me look!”
People started to gather. In another snaky move, Lin grabbed Young Friend’s wrist and pulled his hand out of his pocket. His bone snapped with sickening crispness. He screamed and turned white.
The lobby became quiet as my stomach churned unquietly.
“Let go—you’ve broken my arm. What are you doing?” He bawled like a banshee.
Lin maintained her grip, although some in the crowd murmured concern. She fished in his pocket with her other hand. “Here you are, dear.” The pendant sent syncopated shafts of light over the crowd as she swung it back and forth.
Mrs. Kalich grabbed it. “You little sneak thief,” she huffed in tones of tragic betrayal.
Lin fished around in his other pockets. He offered no resistance, looking about ready to pass out. Sweat ran through his eyebrows and over downy cheeks, pooling in patches on a grubby collar. I wasn’t doing so well myself.
One tightly permed woman said in a quavering voice, “He’s only a kid. You’re hurting him.” Murmurs ran through the little crowd, some for and some against.
“Anyone missing this?” Lin brandished a hunter-green leather wallet.
A portly gentleman, one of those tut-tutting Lin’s conduct loudest, squawked, “That looks like mine.” He felt around his inside pockets, found them bereft, and marched up to the boy in a markedly less sympathetic frame of mind. “Thief!” he spluttered, snatching his wallet from Lin’s hand without so much as a thank you.
Lin said, “All right, we’re done here. I’m going to show this young man outside. I think he’s learned his lesson. Time to go on into the auditorium, everyone!” She looked over at me. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She marched the wilting boy outside. Naturally, I followed, reeling in my challenged state of mind.
She pulled him round to the rear, near a clutch of trash cans, and wedged him into a corner. A reproduction Victorian gas lamp dappled the duo in sepia light and shadow as he wept and pleaded. Letting go of his wrist, she gazed into his face while starting to grow like the Nutcracker Christmas tree. Her arms morphed into hovering black wings, and her face contorted into a chalk-white demonic grimace as she hovered far above him. The boy’s panting and gasping were all that broke the silence.
The creature bared her teeth and growled as a big wet spot appeared on the front of his pants. She looked madly hungry. I wanted to scream, but my throat wouldn’t cooperate. My knees felt unsupportive too.
“If I ever see you or hear about you plying your dirty little trade again, I will pay you a visit. You will not enjoy it. Go.” Her voice could have sliced granite.
She pushed him away. Sobbing once more, he stumbled over the concrete, clutching his wrist against his chest. In the minute or so it took Lin to sort of dissolve back to her normal state, I tried to back away, but shock rendered me clumsy on the loose gravel.
Her head whipped around. “So, you saw.”
“Yes.”
“When you start work on Monday, I will explain. Now, we have a concert to enjoy.”
She grabbed my hand, and we strode back into the now mostly empty foyer. The few who remained congratulated her, except one man, who approached, frowning.
“Lin, what’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Oh, Joe, just a silly young pickpocket who thought he could get away with it. Don’t worry; he won’t be back.”
“I thought your detecting days were over. You should have called me to deal with it.”
Lin patted his cheek, which didn’t seem to improve his outlook, and led me into the auditorium, more-or-less holding me up. Joe, she explained, was a police detective assigned to this district and had served on the symphony board for some time, having initially become involved to catch a notorious serial killer who’d been on the symphony board. That rang a bell. I’d have to ask Auntie Peggy.
The orchestra was already tuning up. A group of seats in the front row had been reserved for board members. We claimed the last two.
I was still trembling, and Lin must have felt it. Her constant side glances and amused smirk got on my nerves. My mouth was dry as a Sunday sermon. I pulled a small bottle of water out of the bag still slung across my body and took a couple of swigs before shoving it back in. I decided to sit on my hands. The crack of that bone still careened around the caves of my memory.
“Did you ever see those Harpy Girl comics?” she whispered in my ear.
“Yes. My cousin loved them.” I could visualize the character now that she mentioned it. “Oh, I see. Good job! You looked just like her.” I just congratulated a demon?
“My daughter loved it too. It took a lot of practice to get it right.”
I considered her pride unseemly.
The conductor arrived to the enthusiastic applause of everyone except me because my wrists still felt horribly vulnerable. The music began. The noise washed over me, and my hands started to ache. Here I was, sitting next to God-knew-what and moving into her/its house tomorrow.
Should I? Dare I turn her down? I need the job!
Fricking nightmare.
And so it was that I first saw Lin Thoren in action.
2
Auntie Peggy treated me to a white-knuckle drive to the Thoren’s house on Sunday afternoon while telling me all about the local serial killer, Rose Hale. She frequently turned to me while explaining the sequence of events, gesticulating as the story got more exciting, mercifully, with only one hand. I vaguely remember hearing something on the news. At least it took my mind off the possible nightmare I faced.
