Death Comes Knocking (The Thea Kozak Mystery Series, Book 10)

by Kate Flora

  Death Comes Knocking

  A Thea Kozak Mystery, Book 10

  Kate Flora

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

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  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Flora All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Published by ePublishing Works!

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-039-5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Before You Go…

  Death Sends a Message

  Also by Kate Flora

  About the Author

  One

  Most people would think the soft gray-green we’d chosen was an odd color for a baby’s room, but it was peaceful and soothing. The baby I was carrying was an acrobat. A night owl. A perpetual motion machine. I didn’t yet know whether when MOC—our abbreviation for Mason, Oliver, or Claudine—appeared Andre and I would have a son or a daughter. What I did know was that whoever we met in the delivery room, the child would need peace and soothing. Or we would.

  I was prying the lid off the paint can and wondering whether it was safe for a woman shaped like a whale to climb up the stepladder when the doorbell rang. I hesitated before heading for the stairs. We didn’t know many people in our new town, which meant it was likely one of Andre’s siblings. I like them well enough. They’re family, after all, but they have a different sense of time from mine. Their visits go on too long and their sense of personal boundaries seems nonexistent. I wasn’t keen on a discussion of my girth, or my birth plans, or whether I was planning to breastfeed, never mind whether MOC would be baptized. Or was it christened?

  Still, family is family so I headed downstairs and opened the door. The woman I found on my doorstep was no one I’d ever seen before. I’d remember her if I had. Anyone would. She was absolutely stunning. She had long, straight black hair and piercing blue eyes and alabaster skin. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a dress that looked like she’d stolen it from hippies—a flowing multicolored extravaganza that screamed exuberance. I’ve never in my life owned something that bold. Tall women with big chests try to minimize their physical footprint, though those who know me would agree I’m no shrinking violet.

  She smiled at me and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Jessica.” She gestured back down our sloping lawn toward the street. “I’ve just moved into the cottage. Jeannine, down at the library, said you were my neighbor and that we should meet.”

  Ah. Small towns. You hardly had to mind your own business because your neighbors were minding it for you. I shouldn’t complain, though. Andre and I had looked forever for a house, and this was as close to being our dream house as a piece of real estate could be. I never expected having a house could make me so happy.

  At my skeptical glance toward the cottage, she nodded and turned back toward the small, shabby house mostly hidden behind a hemlock hedge. “Yeah. It needs work. A lot of work. But it will be cute when I’m done.”

  It was only when she turned sideways and gestured toward the hidden dwelling across the street that I realized the crazy dress was hiding a pregnancy about as advanced as mine. Maybe more, given how short she was.

  “Thea,” I said. “Come in. Welcome to the Whales Club. Would you like some tea? Or coffee? And I’ve got some lovely Finnish coffee bread.”

  “I would love some coffee,” she said, following me into the house, “but I’ve given it up. Do you have any herbal tea?”

  I did. Andre calls it ‘gerbil tea’ and says it tastes like a cup full of straw, but I’ve grown rather fond of it since I’ve cut down on coffee. Anyway, hibiscus and berry didn’t taste like straw. Neither did blueberry. In the kitchen, I put the kettle on, got out the bread, and sliced it. For a woman who often forgot to eat and usually had a depressingly empty refrigerator, I was becoming awfully domestic. Maybe having a house was changing me. Not a house. A home.

  Jessica took a chair and studied my kitchen. “Wow. This is lovely. I’ve always wanted a place with tall glass cabinets like this.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed. “Although it means there’s no way of hiding the mess. We looked a long time before we found this place. So you’ve moved into the cottage? It looks like a place with possibilities from the outside. Is it nicer inside?” In truth, it looked like a shabby wreck, but I didn’t want to daunt her optimism.

  She hesitated before answering. “Like I said, it needs some work. Well, a lot of work. But it will be nice and cozy when that’s done. Hope I’m not overestimating how much I can do before the baby.”

  We chatted in the way women do, comparing our babies’ antics and what we surmised about their personalities. As our talk went on, I realized that while she was a pleasant conversationalist, whenever I asked about her background, where she’d moved from, or why she’d chosen Stover or pretty much any question that might give me insight into who she was, she deflected the conversation to a different subject. I’ve interviewed a lot of people, many of them reluctant to talk to me, so I recognize those deflections. It was odd, since she’d chosen to visit me, but I had no reason to pry. After a pleasant hour, during which we, mostly Jessica, managed to eat almost the entire loaf of bread, I realized that she knew a lot about me, and all I knew about her was that her name was Jessica and she was expecting a baby girl. There had been no mention of husband, boyfriend, or significant other. None of family or work. I didn’t even know her last name.

  Her deflections were so skillful that I wondered if she was hiding something. Or from something. For all her attempts to appear casual and easy, once or twice, when Andre’s dad and his cousin, who were working out on the barn, roared up the driveway in a
truck, or dropped something with a clang, she was instantly alert and on the edge of her chair.

  “My father-in-law and my husband’s cousin,” I told her. “They’re fixing up the barn so we can put the cars there in the winter. And so Andre—my husband—can have a workshop out there. He loves to make things. He’s made a beautiful cradle for MOC.”

  “Mock?” she said. “Is that what you’re going to name your baby?”

  “M.O.C. It’s a nickname. Short for Mason, Oliver, or Claudine. We decided not to learn the baby’s sex, so it will be a surprise.”

  “It will stick, you know.”

  “That’s what everyone says. What about your baby. Do have a name?”

  Jessica smiled and patted her roundness. “Amaryllis. Amy for short. Her dad picked it out.”

  Then she went silent, her small teeth biting her lip, like she’d said something she hadn’t meant to say.

  “What does her dad do?” I asked. I didn’t want to say ‘your husband’ because she wasn’t wearing a ring, and anyway, relationships these days were often undefined.

  “Oh,” she said, giving little Amaryllis another pat, “he’s not in the picture.”

  I’ve been reading people for a long time, and it was clear to me, from her wistful tone, that his absence wasn’t her choice, and that it was very possible his absence was permanent or his return uncertain.

  I waited for more. When it didn’t come, I changed the subject. “I’m a consultant to independent schools. Private schools,” I said. “My partner and I run EDGE Consulting. Right now, I’m working from home. Actually, this morning they said I was making them nervous and threw me out of the office. Told me not to come back until Monday. I think they’re hoping by Monday MOC will have debuted, but it’s too soon. This kid needs more cooking. Maybe they just knew I needed some time to paint the baby’s room.” I shrugged. “I can’t help it if I can’t find a comfortable position, and my shifting makes them nervous. I’m still getting plenty of work done.”

  I looked over at the clock on the wall. In fifteen minutes, I would be calling in and Sarah, my secretary, would be updating me on all the crises that needed my attention. I might be gone, but I wasn’t forgotten. “Do you work?”

  Yes. A rude question. But I was too curious to hold it back.

  Jessica smiled. “I’m a consultant, too. To…uh…it’s a government job. Something I can do remotely. I just need to get the cable people out to get the cottage updated. Which, so far, seems like a difficult task.”

  She looked around the kitchen, finished enough to give a deceptive sense of the house, some of which still felt like a construction zone. “Have you had trouble getting service people in?”

  She’d almost given something about herself away, though I had no idea what. I wasn’t going to learn it any time soon, though, because abruptly, she was on her feet and heading for the door, saying, “Got to go. Sorry. Thanks for the tea.”

  I followed her to the door, answering her question with, “Yes. It can take a while to get phone and cable out here.”

  I had no idea what I’d done to upset her, maybe nothing, but she was definitely done here. So much for another new mother in the neighborhood. Maybe she was just shy or had something in the oven that would burn, so I tossed out, “I’m going shopping tomorrow to get some baby stuff. Want to come along?”

  She hesitated, like it was a big decision, then said, “Sure. I’d like that. I’ve pretty much done nothing to get ready and I don’t know where to go. Though I expect Amazon delivers here, right?”

  “They always know how to find us.”

  For some reason, that remark made her nervous, or was it the idea that Amazon might need her address? I plowed on, unsure why I was doing so. Maybe that she seemed lonely? On a shopping trip, spending more time together, she might be more forthcoming. “Pick you up at ten?”

  She looked down at her wrist, where there was no watch, then back across at the cottage. “Sure. Ten. That would be great.”

  “Wait,” I said, “let me give you my number. In case something comes up.”

  She hesitated like an animal on the cusp of flight while I went to my office and grabbed a card. She tucked it into a pocket in the wild garment. She was the one who’d reached out to me, but now she seemed to be having second thoughts.

  “It’s just shopping for baby things,” I said. “I’m going anyway. Be nice to have you along.”

  She nodded and was gone.

  I stood in the doorway and watched her trot down the rolling green lawn, hesitating at the road and looking around her like she was afraid of hidden bad guys. She was definitely afraid of something. Then she hurried across and disappeared behind the hedge that shielded the cottage from the street.

  The rest of the day went quietly. I opened all the windows and finished painting the baby’s room. I may not be the world’s best painter, but it looked great when I was done. As I put my painting supplies away, I wondered idly what kind of accommodations Jessica had for her baby. The place didn’t look inviting, but maybe she was one of those decorating geniuses who can bring cozy out of squalor.

  Decorating is so far from my thing that it is a miracle we have furniture, though I’m trying to do better. Andre is more interested than I am. He likes comfort. The color blue. And surprisingly, antique tribal rugs. To look at my handsome husband, with his firm jaw, nearly military-short hair, and fierce eyes, never mind the broad shoulders and six-pack abs, you’d never imagine he’d have opinions on window treatments. He’s taught me a lot about not underestimating people, as has my work as a consultant to independent—read private—schools. I like it when the surprises about people are pleasant. Unfortunately, such is my fate that I more often meet those whose surprises are not. Often enough that I sometimes wonder if I’m a bully magnet.

  I was heading for the stairs, planning to explore dinner possibilities in my uncooperative refrigerator, when I looked out the big window in the hall. From there, I could see over the hedge to more of the cottage. There was a small black Honda in the driveway, and Jessica and a taller, older blonde woman were standing beside it, arguing.

  Two

  Intriguing as my encounter with my new neighbor was, never mind my curiosity about the woman she’d been arguing with, I’d pretty much forgotten about her by the time I’d checked in with my secretary, Sarah, and developed a daunting to-do list. I wondered if this was more of Suzanne and my other colleagues’ attempt to bring on baby MOC. A bit of “let’s stress Thea and see if it induces labor.” They aren’t mean, just anxious.

  I left the list on my desk and made a broccoli and cheddar quiche for dinner. Maybe real men don’t eat quiche, but Andre does. It helps that the broccoli is from our garden. Having some land for a vegetable garden was one thing that had drawn Andre to the house. He knew what he was doing, gardening-wise, but it was my first experiment with growing vegetables. I still consider every bit of successfully raised produce a miracle. I’m also discovering the difference when food is freshly picked.

  The quiche was coming out of the oven just as Andre got home. He made a salad with our own lettuce and we spent a quiet evening without either of us getting interrupted by crises. That’s not always easy since he’s a detective with the Maine state police. I may think he belongs to me, but they think he belongs to them.

  The next morning I worked until just before ten, when I’d said I would pick Jessica up. I might have had visions of lots of neat stores to shop for baby things, but after asking around, I figured that we would head up to Freeport and hit some of the outlets, like Carters and Baby Gap.

  She was waiting in the yard. There were two cars there, a gray Volvo and a black Honda, but she was alone. Given how skittish she’d been about personal questions, I didn’t ask about the cars. Maybe when—if—she got more comfortable with me, I’d learn more. Today she wore an oversized blouse with a swath of wild design and denim capris. Her hair was in a fat braid. She smiled and waved when I turned in, and climbed a
wkwardly into the passenger seat. If I had swallowed a basketball, she’d swallowed a beach ball.

  “Whew!” she said as she fastened the seatbelt. “I’ve seen plenty of pregnant women but I never imagined I’d look like this. I was thinking, ‘I’m fit. I’m young. This will be a piece of cake.’ Right? And look at me! If I fell over, I’d be stuck on my back like an overturned turtle.”

  I laughed. It was fun to have another pregnant woman to share these things with. I’m such a slave of duty I’m not sure I know how to hang out. “That’s so true. Guess it’s not something you can imagine until it happens. Who would have thought it would be so impossible to find clothes?” I said.

  “You’re lucky that you’re tall, though. More room for Mock to grow, right?”

  “Lately I feel like I’m the gym and this kid is an acrobat practicing for the circus. So, today I’m shopping for basics and a car seat. What about you?”

  “The same. Basics. And I need a crib or this little girl is going to be sleeping in a cardboard box. Not that she’ll notice at first.”

  “Right.” I told her where we were going as we headed out. It was another beautiful summer day and we drove with the windows down. “I love August,” I said. “Farm stands. Gardens. All the green and the sky is so blue. I’ve spent so much time over the years at the office and on the road, I usually miss summer completely, or it’s something I see through my car windows. I’m trying to reform, to practice slowing down before this kid arrives. The last thing MOC needs is a crazy busy mom.”