This is the first chapter of the first book in the Patty Byrne Cozy Mysteries titled, Dearly Departed, a 1960s historical cozy mystery series.
Copyright © 2026 by Carly Winter
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Chapter 1
Pushing my way through an anti-war protest in the streets of San Francisco carrying a suitcase was not my idea of a good time. All around me people yelled, “One, two, three, four! We don't want your stupid war!” as they marched down the street, their fists in the air. However, there were hundreds of them, and somewhere in the crowd up ahead there seemed to be a traffic jam. I was caught in a sea of angry demonstrators.
“Excuse me,” I said as I became jostled between two men. “Just trying to get through, please.”
They ignored me. For people who said they only wanted world peace, they sure were low on manners. Forced to become more aggressive, I gave one of them an elbow to the ribs, and he stepped aside and allowed me to pass.
My cab had dropped me off a block away from my building due to the protests jamming the streets. I had the option to either attempt to move through them to get to my apartment or wait them out. Considering I'd just gotten off work, I needed to get home and do a load of laundry before returning to the airport first thing in the morning for another flight. A bubble bath and a glass of wine wouldn't be a bad idea, either.
But more than anything, I was eager to tell my neighbor, Charles, about the passenger I'd encountered today—a businessman who'd spent the entire flight scribbling what looked like coded messages in a notebook, then tearing out pages and shoving them in his jacket pocket. I'd found it fascinating and wondered what the man had done for work. Perhaps he was a mathematician, a scientist, or even a spy, writing out encrypted notes. Charles had a way of listening to my stories about customers at work that made me feel seen and heard.
“Excuse me.” I tried again, attempting to maneuver my way through. “I need to get home!”
The woman glanced over at me, then nudged her companion. They had a few brief words, and the hulking man standing over six feet muscled his way over to me. His long brown hair hung down the sides of his face, John Lennon style.
“You a stewardess?” he asked as he studied my uniform, a navy-blue pencil skirt, matching blazer, white blouse and a red and blue scarf.
“Yes. I have to get home! It's just down the block a bit!” Someone knocked into me from behind. I teetered on my heels and almost kissed the pavement until the John Lennon wannabe grabbed my elbow and set me upright.
He took my suitcase and kept his grip on my arm, then pushed through the crowd with me in tow. I wished people moved for me the way they did for him. When we broke through the swarm of people and he deposited me on the sidewalk, I sighed in relief. “Thank you so much,” I said, taking my suitcase from him. “I appreciate your help.”
“Sure. Things can get pretty crazy during the demonstrations.”
I nodded and tucked a lock of black hair behind my ear just as someone shoved me from behind once again. “They can.” I caught my balance.
“Are you for the war?” he asked and I answered with a grin. I had a strict policy in place not to discuss politics or religion with anyone, especially strangers. My rule had served me well thus far.
Just as I was about to thank him again, a group of people came around the block, marching right toward the anti-war demonstrators.
Right on!
Take Saigon!
Support our boys in Vietnam!
Uh-oh. A clash of pro- and anti-war protesters that would most likely dissolve into violence. It had been happening all over the country.
“I better get inside,” I said as the huge man turned to his enemy, raised his hand in the air and began yelling contradicting slogans.
I hustled into my apartment building and almost choked on the smoke in the lobby. A metal garbage can had been set ablaze and our super stood over it with a fire extinguisher.
“Mr. Killian!” The smoke made me cover my nose and mouth with my hand as I started to cough. “What in the world happened?”
“The anti-war protesters came in here and lit it on fire,” he said, spraying the can once again.
“Oh, my goodness!”
“Dang kids don't know what the heck they're talking about with all their chants and destruction.” His cigarette hung out the side of his mouth. After setting down the fire extinguisher, he strode over to the door and glanced out, muttering under his breath. “You better get yourself upstairs, little lady,” he said, turning to me. “Things are getting a bit wild outside and may spill indoors again. Get yourself to safety.”
I nodded and headed for the stairs, not bothering to take the elevator. The crackling of fear up my spine drove me to hustle as fast as my tired feet could carry me. If Mr. Killian thought I could be in danger, I wanted to remove myself from the area as fast as possible.
On the third floor, I fished my keys from my purse as I kicked off my shoes and picked them up. Once inside the bright, airy apartment, I locked the door and sighed, relieved to be home, until I noted the mess.
The smell of cigarettes still hung in the air, beer bottles littered the coffee table, and dirty plates sat in the sink. Nylons and bras had been laid over the lampshades and the back of chairs to dry. I shared the one-bedroom apartment with another stew named Donna. I loved her like a sister, but she had a problem with her drinking and partying. Our schedules rarely overlapped, but I oftentimes came home to evidence of her chaotic life.
After dropping my suitcase, I went to the window and opened it, hoping for some fresh breeze to air out the place. I also had a birds-eye view of the demonstrations. The two groups yelled and screamed at each other, and after a moment, the fists flew and blood flowed from a few noses. Sirens howled in the distance, and I suspected Mr. Killian to have summoned them. I cringed at the hand-to-hand fighting and shut the window once again. It only drowned out a bit of the noise, so I walked over to the record player and dropped The Beatles on the turntable, set the arm to the beginning of the album and turned it up.
As I surveyed the apartment, I decided the first thing I needed to do was get out of the uniform and girdle. I dug through my drawers and located my gray sweatpants and red sweatshirt then disrobed, tossing the girdle on the bed. I hated the wretched thing. Since I watched my weight, I shouldn't have to wear one, but the airline mandated it on all stews. We represented them, and flat tummies and slim hips were an absolute must in order to keep working.
On the bathroom counter, I found a scrawled note from Donna.
Ringo is next door with Charles. Sorry about the mess. I overslept. Hope to see you soon. Love, D.
Ringo was our cat. A smile tugged at my lips as I thought about Charles doting on the tabby. Before retrieving Ringo from our neighbor, I decided to clean up a bit first so I could give all my attention to both of them. Charles asked about my flights with genuine interest, and I looked forward to telling him about today's strange passenger with the coded notebook. Unlike most people who heard “stewardess” and thought “cocktail waitress in the sky,” Charles seemed to love to hear about my travels and the passengers I encountered.
“You see people when they think no one's watching,” he'd told me once. “That makes you smarter about human nature than most folks realize.”
I sang along to The Beatles as I dumped the empties into a garbage bag and dusted the tables. I soaked the dishes, then unpacked and laid my own bras and nylons into a tub of soapy water. After picking up all of Donna's undergarments, I folded them and set them in her drawer. Every now and then I'd glance outside. The police had arrived but seemed to be having trouble breaking up the melee. I hated the very idea of war, yet, I understood sometimes it was necessary. I didn't know if the Vietnam conflict would fall under that category, but I didn't like the way the veterans who came home were treated by the anti-war protesters. Yes, one had rescued me from a pickle today, but spitting on someone who has served his country did not sit well with me—especially thinking of Charles and what he'd endured in Vietnam. I didn't know much because he didn't like to discuss it, but he'd shared bits and pieces.
War was, and always would be, a horrible thing.
I scrubbed the dishes and set them to dry next to the sink. After rinsing my clothing, I hung them up around the apartment, just as Donna had done. I couldn't wait to change the sheets on the bed and get some sleep.
With the apartment in order, I took out the trash to the shoot, then headed back inside and looked out the window. The protest had been broken up. A few demonstrators sat on the sidewalk in cuffs, their faces bloody, while the police chased the other stragglers away. I opened the window once again to air out the apartment and hoped the violence had remained on the street and hadn't oozed into our building.
It was time to fetch Ringo and catch up with Charles.
I hurried next door to Charles' apartment, who suffered from some mental issues from serving his time in the military, but I'd never asked him for the official diagnosis. It wasn't my place. What I did know was that spending time with Ringo helped calm him, and he loved taking care of our cat when we were out of town. More than that, our conversations had become something I looked forward to. Oftentimes, I didn’t feel heard when I spoke, but that wasn’t the case when I talked with Charles. He was a good friend.
After knocking on the door—softly so as not to distress him since loud noises often did—I waited for him to answer. Chances were high he was home as he didn't go out much. Sometimes he asked Donna and me to pick up a prescription or groceries for him, and he had other friends who dropped by, but I'd rarely met any of them except in passing. I found that quite strange. Yet, I'd never questioned Charles about it. Live and let live was my motto. If Charles didn't want his friends to get acquainted with me, that was fine. He was kind to us and loved Ringo like his own. We helped each other and I had no reason to stick my nose in his business.
“Charles?” I knocked again.
I pressed my ear against the door and thought I heard voices. Perhaps the television? Then Ringo's distinct meow came through. The cat sounded like he was right on the other side of the door.
“Hi, Ringo!” I hoped Charles would hear me. “You okay, fella?” The cat meowed again, and I rapped my knuckles on the wood. “Charles?”
Maybe he'd gone to sleep? He'd often complained that he was up at all hours of the night due to his mental issues from the war. When he did sleep, he'd told me it was like he was dead to the world.
I knocked one time. “Charles? It's Patty. I'm back from Chicago!”
My only response came from Ringo and I figured Charles couldn't hear me over the television.
With a sigh, I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I stepped inside and scooped up Ringo. “Charles, it's Patty! I just came for Ringo! Wait until you hear about this passenger I had today—”
A John Wayne movie blared from the television perched on a small table in the living room, but no one sat on the sofa to watch it. A desk sat in the corner piled high with newspapers and books. The smell of something burning also caught my attention, and I hurried into the kitchen to find a pot on the stove, the ingredients caked to the bottom. At one time, it may have been chicken soup. After removing the pot, I turned off the burner. At least it hadn't caught fire.
An IBM Selectric typewriter sat on the kitchen table with a stack of papers next to it. I recognized his memoir—the one he'd been working on for months. Charles had started sharing pages with me, asking for my thoughts on whether his stories made sense to someone who hadn't been there, and he seemed to appreciate my input.
“Where's Charles?” I stroked Ringo's head as worry settled in my chest. The man may have had mental issues, but he'd never have forgotten food on the stove. Charles was careful, methodical. It's what had kept him alive in Vietnam, he'd said.
Gunshots went off in the living room, causing me to gasp and just about jump out of my skin. “It's that television.” I shook my head and hurried over to turn off the T.V. An eerie silence fell over the apartment. A couple of sirens wailed in the distance, and I heard the neighbors walking down the hallway.
Yet, something was wrong. I could feel it in the chill that traveled up my spine and the goosebumps that crawled over my arms.
Holding Ringo close to my chest, I walked toward the bedroom. The door lay half-way open, and I stared at it a moment. “Charles?” My voice came out smaller now.
As I pushed open the panel, my heart thundered and my knees weakened. A scream escaped me when I found Charles lying on the floor, a knife protruding from his stomach, his blank gaze staring at the ceiling.
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