Without Mary Hagen’s personal approach in writing, significant historical realities would perish.

 

Mary Hagen writes western historical romances and contemporary suspense.

She grew up on her parent's ranch in southeastern Wyoming. History of the west surrounded her and she spent days searching Native American sites, riding the trails, and looking for buried treasure.

Today, she lives on a fish farm not far from the Wyoming border. In her spare time, she hikes, climbs, snowshoes, skis, and writes books.

“Sometimes ideas just come to me. I grew up in a small Wyoming community where nothing happened in my mind. One day, I was playing "suppose" and the idea of a murder in a small western town came to me. The story grew and I started writing.”

 Synopsis of her latest book, Murder in Stopover

Murder shocks the citizens of a small town in Wyoming when a body is discovered in the city park. Townspeople speculate and gossip about who would kill Pat Sullivan, a respected member of their community.

Sheriff CJ Roberts and Beth Perkins, his assistant deputy, begin an investigation and find their skills quickly challenged. Hal Hansen, also a deputy in the department, immediately steps in and guides them on how to conduct the gruesome task. Threatened by his knowledge, Beth is torn between solving a murder, her own ambitions, and falling in love with Hal.

Step by inconceivable step, the three discover hidden secrets about the victim, his family, and his business. They find themselves ill-prepared for the atrocities they ultimately uncover.

 

 

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Contact author at maryhagen14@yahoo.com

I highly encourage you to visit Mary Hagen’s website to read the fascinating stories behind her books. This author “gets out there” and in her adventures has been triggered by historical evidence of past lives to write intriguing stories. Without Hagan’s personal approach in writing, significant historical realities would perish.

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Excerpt from MURDER IN STOPOVER

When the call came in at nine a.m., I had just entered the sheriff’s office. I grabbed the phone before I put my handbag and lunch on the table. My mind did a double-take as I listened.

 

“Beth, it’s Zoe.” Her voice sounded raspy. “I’m freaking out. You aren’t going to believe this.” She drew in a breath as I waited for her to get to the point. “Well, I was finishing my morning run around the park, you know? And then there’s a dead man lying right in the track. A dead man! Oh my god, what’ll I do?”

 

“Calm down, Zoe. You’ve done the right thing. First, are you sure he’s dead?”

 

“Oh yes, he’s definitely dead. No one could live with a bullet hole between the eyes, not even Pat Sullivan.”

 

Pat Sullivan was one of the most respected men in town. “Are you sure it’s Pat?”

 

“Positive." Zoe’s breath came in quick bursts.

 

Impossible. Not in Stopover. I struggled to regain my own voice. “Get to your car, lock the doors, and wait there. I’m hanging up to make some calls. We’ll be there shortly,”

 

“Okay.”

 

As soon as I was off the line with Zoe, I punched in Jim Black’s number at his veterinary clinic. His assistant answered the phone.

 

“I… Cher, this is Beth Perkins at the sheriff’s office. I need to speak to Jim immediately.”

 

“He doesn’t like being bothered when he’s on his rounds,” Cher answered. “I’ll have him call you back.”

 

“I need to speak to him, now. We have a murder on our hands,” I shouted into my cellphone as though she was hard of hearing.

 

“A murder? Oh, come on, nobody ever gets murdered in Stopover.”

 

“We’ve got one now. Get Jim on the line!”

 

“Okay, okay. You don’t need to yell at me.”

 

“Geez, Beth, I don’t think you should joke about a murder in Stopover. We have never had one here before.”

 

“It’s not a joke. Zoe Martin found the body of Pat Sullivan in the park on her morning run. As the coroner, you need to get over there. CJ and I’ll be right there, too.”

 

“Pat Sullivan? I played golf with him on Sunday. You must be kidding.”

 

“I’m not. I’ve got to call the highway patrol.” I hung up before he could say more and placed my call to the patrol.

 

Sheriff Roberts walked in, placed his briefcase on his desk, and removed his hat as I hung up my phone.

 

“Bring me coffee with two teaspoons of sugar and one teaspoon of cream.”

 

Just like every other morning. Only this morning didn’t want to be like every other morning.

 

“There’s no coffee. We’ve got a dead man in the city park, Pat Sullivan,” I said.

 

CJ turned and faced me. “What? Pat Sullivan? The guy is healthy as a horse.”

 

“It sounds like murder. I’ve called Jim and the highway patrol. They’re on their way. I told him we’d be right over.”

 

CJ stared at me in disbelief. “Grab my briefcase and the keys to the jeep and lock the jail. I’ll call Beatrice. She will fill in for us here. I want you with me.” He walked toward the door, “Call Hal. He’s on his way to the Gilbert ranch to check on reported vandalism to his mailbox and gate.”

 

I grabbed the requested items, namely my cellphone, locked the jail, and snagged my new thirteen-inch computer before walking out the door to record notes. I’d purchased it with my own money after the town board turned down my request. It meant taking money out of my savings—intended for getting out of Stopover—but I loved it.

 

As we drove to the city park, I called Hal. I heard his wheels screech and gravel hit against metal as he turned his car around. Before hanging up, he said, “A murder in Stopover. I may be new in Stopover but I'm surprised.”

 

Hal was my nemesis. I admit, I resented him. He got the job as CJ’s deputy—the job I wanted—because he wasn’t a woman. Add to that, he'd only been in Stopover three months.  So instead of being his deputy, I worked as CJ’s assistant deputy, dispatcher, and did whatever else needed doing. I even went with him on calls, which usually involved barking dogs, post-game parties, drunk driving accidents, and the occasional domestic dispute.

 

CJ is lazy, so the job of sheriff in Stopover is perfect for him. His uniform is always pressed and starched because of his wife, and he wrinkles them up by spending most of his days snoozing in his office.

 

As we drove to the scene of the crime, CJ kept shaking his head in disbelief. I knew exactly how he felt.

 

The closest thing to murder in our town occurred some thirty years ago, before I was born, when two ranchers, Lou Smart and Bob Curtis, got in a dispute over right-of-way passage. They shot at each other but missed and the issue was solved by our town lawyer, I don’t remember his name, and Judge Hubert Booker. We still have the same judge but Bill Smith is our town lawyer now.

 

Stopover is in the middle of the short-grass prairie country, and is fifty miles from the nearest big city, Cheyenne, Wyoming. We have one hill in our town and the park—shaped like a football field boasting a small pond—is located at the bottom of it.

 

CJ stopped the Jeep near the coroner’s vehicle, a van painted with a dog, cat, horse, and cow at four corners around his name, Jim Black, Veterinarian Large and Small Animals. The highway patrol and Hal had not arrived.

 

Every time I saw Jim my heart went into triple time. I got all mushy inside and I could feel heat rush up the length of my body. I know my face turned red. I couldn’t help myself. He was tall, one of the few men who made me feel short and was my idea of the perfect lover. I had the biggest crush on him. I imagined running my hands through his thick black shoulder-length hair and staring up into his deep brown eyes. Unfortunately for me, he had his sights on our beautiful, petite librarian at our ancient Carnegie Library.

 

I pulled my rushing heart and mushy interior under control and caught up to CJ who stood over the body.

 

“Looks like a suicide to me,” CJ said.

 

Jim tugged at his medical gloves. “Afraid not. It’s murder. Got shot right between the eyes. No sign of a struggle, no gun powder residue so I think he was shot from a short distance by someone he knew.” Jim stood, towering over CJ and me. “How you doing, Beth? How’s that dog you found?” The sound of his deep voice almost made me melt into a puddle right at his feet.

 

CJ pulled on his earlobe. “You certain?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

With sirens blaring, the ambulance arrived and two medics jumped out. They opened the back doors and pulled out the stretcher and rolled over to Jim, CJ, and me.

 

The two stopped short of running over Pat Sullivan. “My God, Pat? Dead? Can’t believe it,” Eric Green, one of the medics, said.

 

CJ nodded. He glanced at our other medic, Virginia Sites, who squatted next to the body and stared.

 

“Geez, a murder in Stopover and none other than our esteemed Mr. Sullivan. Can’t believe it,” Virginia muttered.

 

I was ordered to photograph the body before Eric and Virginia bagged him. I'd learn later from Hal the coroner is supposed to do this.

 

CJ did his best to act the part of a seasoned investigator and that included taping off the crime scene. I thought he was out of his element, but all of us were. That is, until Hal Hansen roared down the slope, slammed on his brakes and ran over to us.

 

“I want to see the body.” Hal snapped his medical gloves onto his hands. Reluctantly, Virginia unzipped the bag and Hal studied the corpse. He poked the body a few times before turning to Jim, “We’ll need an autopsy. How soon can you get it done?”

 

Jim’s mouth dropped open showing his beautiful white teeth. I took in my breath.

 

“I’ve never done an autopsy on a human body. Besides, we’ll need to talk with Pat’s wife. Get her permission,” Jim protested. He glanced at CJ for backup.

 

“We don’t need her permission. This is murder. You’ve done animals. You can do a human.” As usual, Hal would not take no for an answer. “Any idea of time of death?”

 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I can't know for sure, but I'd guess at least ten or twelve hours. Maybe Doc Olivas will have a better idea and will give me a hand doing the autopsy.”

 

While the medics loaded the ambulance with the body, the three men, CJ, Hal, and Jim, shifted their weight from one foot to another, I walked in ever-widening circles around the crime scene in search of clues and continued to take photos. That is until Hal barked at me, “What the hell are you doing? Disturbing the ground.”

 

I resisted the temptation to snarl at him. Instead, I answered sweetly, “Looking for clues,” without adding “you Jerk.”

 

Hal was almost as tall as Jim but not nearly as good-looking. He wore heavy rimmed glasses, both dark and clear. At the moment, his dark glasses were pushed up on his forehead and he was frowning. Hal was the town’s newest resident; the town’s second-newest residents were the Sullivan’s who came five years before Hal, followed by George Blackmore, Pat’s friend, who moved here 4 years before that.

 

With the increasing tourist traffic, the town council decided we needed a seasoned deputy to help with crime that might occur in our park. In the wisdom of the council, they had authorized the establishment of three RV campsites with hookups at the end of our park for travelers to and from our national parks. The RVers could stay three nights free before they had to move on. It was hoped they would spend money in our fair “city” and I guess they did. The season was almost at an end with the start of schools around the country.

 

Did an overnighter kill Pat? Had a serial killer stayed in our park?

 

Our new deputy had retired from the navy. He had been in special forces, fought in Afghanistan, and been with an elite investigative group. He was such an egotist he made me puke. I had no doubt, he was aiming for CJ’s job as sheriff of our large county in central-eastern Wyoming. So, he had more training than I did.

 

I did have to admit, he had nice blue eyes and light brown curly hair I would die to have. Mine was as straight as spikes of wheat.

 

The ambulance left with Pat Sullivan.

 

“Well, I have to get back to my patients,” Jim said. “I’ll let you know when the autopsy is done.” He waved as he walked back to his van.

 

Hal joined me searching for clues until CJ called, “Come on, Beth, we’ve got to give the bad news to Anna. I hate this part of my job.”

 

As far as I knew, CJ had rarely, if ever, had to tell a wife her husband had been murdered. I didn’t bother to say goodbye to Hal Hansen and he didn’t look up when I left.

 

“You drive.” CJ handed me the keys to the jeep. “That poor little woman. Jeez, I hate to do this.”

 

Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan lived in a large one-story house built in the style of southern antebellum houses with pillars across the front, windows with green shutters, and two matching entry doors. No other house in Stopover came close to such magnificence. They seemed to have a great deal of money, but no one knew where it came from. When they moved to town, they brought with them a cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener. There was speculation that Anna was an heir to a large oil company in Pennsylvania.

 

Their house overlooked the city golf course, if you can call it that, nine holes in all located in prairie grasses near the country club. I parked the jeep and we walked up the sidewalk to the front door, neither of us saying a word. The housekeeper opened the door. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

 

“I’m Sheriff Roberts. This is Miss Perkins. We would like to speak with Mrs. Sullivan.”

 

The housekeeper’s face paled. “Has something happened?”

 

CJ did not answer her question but repeated, “We would like to speak with Mrs. Sullivan.” He showed his badge as if his uniform wasn’t enough for her to know who we were.

 

“Come in,” the housekeeper said.

 

We entered a large room with a closet on one side of the entry and a powder room on the other. I had never seen such a beautiful entry hall and I couldn’t help but stare. I knew they had money, but I never dreamed they had so much even though I had served on committees with Anna at the First Congregational Church. Anna was one of the nicest women I knew. She never put on airs and seemed as common as the rest of us, though she never invited any of us to her house. Strange, I thought.

 

As we waited for the housekeeper to return with Anna, I realized the help p in the house never mixed with the locals like me. In fact, I hardly knew they existed. I wondered where they went on their days off. Questions entered my mind about Pat. He was gone a lot. Where did he go? I’d always assumed he went to Pennsylvania on business matters. Anna never said anything about his absences. He always returned in time for his volunteer work with the Boy Scouts, who seemed to worship him.

 

Anna entered the hall and, with a wave of her hand, led us into a large living-room. I sucked in my breath at the sight of it—thick white carpets, blue sofa, matching chairs, and teakwood end tables and coffee table. Beautiful blue and white flowered drapes accented the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the room. The whole thing framed the golf course perfectly.

 

“Please,” she said as she pointed to the chairs, “have a seat.”

 

She sat on the sofa across from CJ and me and crossed one leg over the other, her gray pumps and light gray nylons showed off her shapely legs. Her flowy red and gray flowered dress showed off the rest.

 

I watched CJ squirm in his chair.

 

CJ leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. “I,” he paused. “I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news for you, my dear.” CJ was struggling.

 

Just say it and get it over with.

 

“Yes,” Anna said.

 

“We found Pat in the park. He had been shot.”

 

Anna’s reaction surprised me. She did not cry out. She said nothing. She did not move, not even uncrossing her legs. She simply stared at CJ. I don’t know if it was in disbelief or something else.

 

Getting to his feet, CJ walked over to her and sat next to her. “We’ve taken him to the morgue. An autopsy will be done and we’ll know more.”

 

“If you’re implying he committed suicide, he did not. I know him. He would not do that,” Anna said between tight lips. She unfolded her legs and put her hands in her lap. Her eyes were dry.

 

Why didn’t she cry? Didn’t she believe CJ?

 

“I don’t want an autopsy done.”

 

“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, the choice is out of your hands, my dear.”

 

For the first time, Anna let out a dry sob. Tears filled her beautiful brilliant blue eyes and she struggled to find a tissue. Without hesitation, CJ handed his handkerchief to her.

 

“Who shot him?” she asked between sobs.

 

“We don’t know, yet, but we will get to the bottom of this. I promise you.”

 

To my surprise, I thought I saw her form a “no” on her full-lipped mouth.

 

Impossible, I thought. She must want to know what happened. It must have been my imagination.

 

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted him dead?” I blurted. No point in wasting time. CJ sent me a warning with his eyes.

 

“We do need to ask you some questions, Anna, but we can come back later.” CJ placated her.

 

“No need. I do not know of anyone who would want to kill him. Everybody loved Pat. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

 

As I watched her, I had the distinct impression, she was not telling us the truth. She did know something, but I had no way of digging the information out of her.

 

"Come in, Mrs. Stewart."

 

I turned to see the housekeeper enter the room. She walked behind the sofa and put her hand on Anna's shoulder in what I thought was a possessive manner.

 

"Come sit next to me," Anna said.

 

 “I heard what the sheriff said. I’m in a state of disbelief, as you must be. Do you want to lie down? I'm sure you want to rest after this.” She faced CJ. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ll take Anna.  You must know what a shock this is. Now, we must prepare ourselves to tell the boys as soon as they get home from school.”

 

"Wait. We need to ask her a few questions," CJ said.

 

Mrs. Stewart opened her mouth to protest, but Anna stopped her.

 

"Of course. How can I help?" She dabbed her eyes with CJ's handkerchief.

 

"When was the last time you saw or spoke to Pat?"

 

"Pat has been in Thailand. He was due home last night. I came in a little after eleven and he wasn't here so I assumed he'd been held up. I thought he'd call me, but I fell asleep. This morning, I checked the answering machine. He hadn't checked in. Sometimes he doesn't so I didn't worry. I knew he'd call as soon as he could." Her chin quivered and she spoke so softly, CJ and I leaned forward to hear her.

 

"What was he doing in Thailand?"

 

"The pharmaceutical company he and George Blackmore work for is located in Bangkok." Burying her head in her arms, her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Mrs. Stewart put her arm around her back as Anna stuttered, "He can't be dead."

 

"May I take her to her room, now?"

 

Without waiting for an answer from CJ, she led Anna out of the room. Anna didn’t so much as wobble one step on her incredibly high heeled shoes.

 

CJ and I let ourselves out of the house and got into the jeep. I drove. It was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive. He spoke first.

 

“She didn't try to contact Pat when he didn't come home. Sounds strange to me. She’s hiding something, I swear,” CJ said. “

 

I nodded in surprise CJ had not been taken in with her weak answers. “Where does that leave us? Do we push?” I asked.

 

“Not yet. We’ll get permission to talk with the boys, with an adult present, of course. I’d rather it isn’t Anna.”

 

At the station, Hal sat beating two pencils on his desk like he was playing the drum. He glanced from CJ to me and back to CJ. “We’re still stuck on step one?”

 

“Seems so.” CJ hung his wide-brimmed hat on a coatrack next to the door. “Beatrice still here?”

 

“I sent her home when I got here,” Hal said.

 

“Lunch is on the county. We’ll eat at Milly’s and discuss the case,” CJ said.

 

“I can’t. I’ve got to pick up Chips from the groomer,” I said. “I don’t know anything anyway.”

 

“Get your damn dog and we’ll see you at Milly’s,” Hal snarled.

 

To soothe the obvious dislike between Hal and me, CJ said, “We need you so take care of your dog and join us.”

 

I couldn’t ignore CJ.