Detective Sunny (Royal Sun) Cloud's life is the stuff of country and western songs. He's been shot up, fed up and his woman is gone. He has one last murder to investigate and then he's off to a Florida retirement.But this last case proves to be his most challenging. Library Director Ian Fisher has been bludgeoned to death with a paperweight, and the fingerprints on the murder weapon belong to Joanne Gallagher, mother of rookie detective Mitch Gallagher. A former alcoholic, Joanne Gallagher is newly sober and newly separated. Only a few details stand in the way of her redemption - those prints on the murder weapon and the scratches on the victim's face both came from her hand. She tries to explain but no one is listening. She's considering making a false confession in order to save her son's career.
Detective Sunny Cloud thinks Joanne Gallagher is as cute as a new baby chick and as guilty as hell. Will she be able to convince him of her innocence before it's too late?
About Kathleen O’Connor
Kathleen O'Connor is a graduate of the Iowa Writer's Workshop where she was awarded a James Michener fellowship. She is also a recipient of the Connecticut National Writing Awards. Her short stories have appeared in Woman's World, Good Housekeeping, Seventeen Magazine, St Anthony's Messenger and Liguorian. She is the author of three novels: No Accident, described by Harriet Klausner of Best Reviews as "an exciting police procedural; The Way it Happens in Novels, called a "romance leavened with wisdom" by Publisher's Weekly and her new book, No Doubt, a baby boomer mystery. In No Doubt, fifty-two-year-old Joanne Gallagher finds a handsome younger man interested in her. Unfortunately he's a detective and he thinks she killed the town's library director.
Joanne slowly walked into the kitchen and stared at the floral mug in the sink - concrete evidence that the police had visited. This hadn't just been a bad dream. She hugged herself and walked back into the living room. Ice cubes flowed through her veins and her hands trembled uncontrollably.
A mournful, keening sound emerged from her dry mouth as she looked at the place where the detective had sat. Soon the man would arrest her. He might even do it in front of her son. Was God punishing her for her lack of control in the past?
Take a pill! Take lots of pills! Go to sleep! "No," she screamed to the empty walls. If she popped a lethal dose of painkillers, the world would believe she had killed Ian Fisher. Stay calm, she advised herself. God is not vindictive. Just go find a friend. Get another perspective on this.
She didn't want to worry her daughters. Her friend Patti was at work. But there was somebody. She would have to go find him though. He didn't have a phone.
She shouldn't be driving but there was no alternative. She drove carefully and cautiously, clinging to the steering wheel with wet, clammy hands. Joanne was relieved to see his mustard-colored dilapidated car half hidden in some bushes by West Lake. She parked behind Victor's vehicle and went in search of her vagrant friend.
Down by the water's edge, she called, "Victor." When there was no response, she screamed, "Happy," and threw a stone towards the small, partially ice-covered lake.
Victor's dog barked in the distance and soon came scampering towards her. She used to be afraid of dogs - thought they could stare right into her stained soul with their sad eyes. But Happy had taught her that even the most spiritual of dogs would overlook human deficits if peanut butter-flavored dog biscuits were politely offered. Joanne hoped God would be just as forgiving.
Happy nosed into the pocket of her jacket as Victor called to his dog from across the lake, "Be nice. Be nice."
She smelled Victor's sweet excesses at fifty feet. He only went to AA to panhandle people like her. He would no more give up booze than he would give up reading Carlos Casteneda or Herman Hesse. "Joanne, you don't look well."
You were in deep doo doo when a homeless person pronounced you unwell. She smiled. "Can you come over to the house? I've got some cans for recycling. Thought you might like to get warmed up. Have a shower. Maybe some lunch."
He nodded with stoic dignity. He allowed her to minister to him because he knew she had a fierce, unmet need to mother. Victor was a slight boy and perhaps to camouflage his lack of stature he had turned a ragged blanket into a poncho and wore it over layers of sweaters. He readjusted the poncho, scrutinized her with his stern, close-set eyes and noted her trembling hands. "You better let me drive."
Joanne could picture the horror on Gene's face if he ever found out a hung over, homeless person had driven the Lexus and that his huge, hairy dog had sat king-like in the back seat. She smiled again and handed Victor the keys. "Yes, you drive. Please do."
