Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Grace Topping

  “May I join you?”

  I looked up to see Detective Spangler. “Please do.”

  He sat down and unwrapped a giant bear claw pastry and took a big bite. That gave me a chance to speak while he had a mouth full.

  “I’m glad I ran into you, Detective. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Monica Heller.”

  I waited for him to finish chewing and swallow, which seemed to take forever. I seemed to be spending a lot of time recently watching people chew. What was with these men and their big bites? Didn’t they know you can choke on a bite that size?

  He then slowly took a sip of coffee. “You’re going to say she’s a friend of yours and she could never have killed someone. Is that it?”

  That was far from the truth. “Not really. My relationship with Monica has never been a friendly one and, given half a chance, she might stab me in the back. Figuratively, not literally. But I can’t believe she stabbed Damian.” Perhaps I should have said Sister Madeleine couldn’t believe that. I still had my doubts.

  “Figuratively, okay. What did you want to say about her?” He finished the bear claw in about four bites.

  This was going to sound just about as stupid, but I decided I might as well just jump right in. “You know we never saw Monica stab Damian. She swears she only removed the knife.”

  “Yes, she’s stated that, but there’s nothing to prove it. No other suspect, no one seen running from the scene of the crime by you or anyone else. We see this all the time. We catch someone with a smoking gun. When we ask, ‘Is that your gun?’ we get a response. ‘Not my gun.’ As though it had just appeared out of thin air. Do you have anything concrete you can present to prove Ms. Heller didn’t stab Damian Reynolds?

  “No, but that’s what I want to get to. I think you need to look more closely at a possible link between Damian’s murder and Ian Becker’s murder.”

  He took a long swallow of coffee and eyed me over the rim of his cup. “Ms. Bishop, give us some credit. Don’t you think we’ve already done that? Other than both victims being stabbed, we found no other link. What possible link do you think there could’ve been?”

  “Maybe art? Ian’s aunt was a member of the local art group.” It still sounded pretty weak.

  His eyes narrowed and he slammed his coffee cup on the table. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been questioning people about these cases.”

  “No, not really…well, maybe a little. When you are in business, you come into contact with people.”

  “And someone told you because Ian’s aunt dabbled in art she might have had some connection to a world-famous artist?”

  “My Aunt Kit suggested—”

  He groaned, the equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Suggested what? That because they both had lifted a paintbrush there was enough reason to connect the murders?”

  “Wait. There’s more.”

  “Please tell me. I can’t wait to hear what other reasons you have. When you were younger, did you want to be a police officer?”

  There was no warming up to this guy, regardless of how attractive he was, and single. “Did you know that Ian’s aunt, Doris Becker, named two local people in her will and that one of them was Ian’s illegitimate son?”

  “But how does that link the two murders? In one of those mystery novels you read, that might’ve been a motive in Ian’s murder. But considering Doris Becker left little to any of them, that’s not enough to suspect them of killing Ian.”

  “There’s always that possibility. Ian’s son Brandon was really angry at his father for deserting them when he went off to New Zealand.”

  “Angry enough to want to kill him as soon as he arrived in town?” He paused. “We’ve already questioned Emily and Brandon Thompson. I didn’t learn that Brandon had tried to contact his father, so I’ll look at him again. Even if it were true and Brandon was responsible for Ian’s death, that doesn’t link him to Damian’s murder.”

  “Did you know that Brandon took some classes from Damian at the college?

  Detective Spangler pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, I didn’t know that. And you think what, that he could have taken revenge on Damian for giving him a less than desirable grade?

  I gave him a withering look. “Don’t you see? He could be the link between Damian and Ian.”

  “Okay. I’ll check it out.”

  Maybe another tactic might work. “Did you know that Damian’s ex-wife blamed him for their daughter’s drowning? She lives only a couple hours’ drive from here. And he was unable to paint because of the trauma of the accident.”

  “Yes, we know all that.”

  “And that Damian and his agent argued? And his agent resented Monica.”

  “Yes. Anything more?” He wadded up the paper wrapping from his bear claw, preparing to leave.

  “Okay, here’s this: Did you know that Professor Albertson’s wife and Damian had a history and the professor resented him because of it? Professor Albertson is on the faculty at Fischer College

  “You’ve got me there. I didn’t know that, but I’ll check it out.” He stood up, ready to leave. “Did you hear me? I’ll check it out.”

  “Can you let me know what you learn?”

  He groaned again. “Ms. Bishop…”

  “Yes, detective?”

  “Stay safe.” With that, he walked away.

  Drat! I forgot to ask him about the knife used to stab Damian. If it had been one from his kitchen, whoever killed him could have become enraged and reached for it. If however, the knife wasn’t one of his, the killer must have brought one with him. That could prove the murder was premeditated. The same thing could’ve been said about Ian’s murder. What about that knife?

  Monica said she went to Damian’s house to find out why he wanted to cancel the decorating orders. She probably wouldn’t have gone armed with a knife for that discussion. Would she?

  Chapter 38

  A home for sale as-is can sit on the market months longer than homes that are move-in ready.

  It was one thing trying to solve the mystery of two murders, but it was another thing trying to do it while attempting to make a living. Fortunately, we had been getting calls from people who’d picked up our flyers at the Small Business Fair. I’d spent the last two hours doing a consultation with a man who wanted to sell his home and move to Florida. I didn’t realize it would be just him there. And although he was a nice man, I decided in the future I would take Nita or Tyrone along on calls from men. You just can’t be too careful.

  After I had gone over his home and made recommendations, we stood on his porch talking. “Since my wife has gone down to Florida to take care of her mother, that leaves all this staging to me. Sometimes I think we should ship everything to Florida and sell the house as it is.”

  “That’s entirely up to you. But with vacant homes, buyers are in and out within minutes and make quicker decisions. They’ll stay longer in a furnished home, and the longer they stay, the more likely they are to imagine themselves living there. If you’d like to move your things sooner than later, we could always bring some furnishings in to make your home look lived in. Also, be aware that if you sell it as-is, it could sit on the market for a while. We could help you get it in condition to sell.”

  “All at a cost?”

  “Yes, but within your budget. The staging cost will be far less than your first price reduction if it doesn’t sell right away.”

  “Yeah. Furniture or no furniture, it needs to sell fast. The house across the street will be going up for sale soon, and I don’t want to be competing with it. I thought it would go on the market by now, but the nephew of the woman who owned it was murdered. I don’t know what’ll happen to it now.”

  “Murdered?” I looked at the large Victorian home. “Was that Doris Becker’s house?”

  “Yeah, it was. Did you know Doris?”
<
br />   “No. I just read about her nephew in the paper.” It didn’t serve any purpose telling him that I’d been one of the people who found him.

  He slowly shook his head several times. “Sure was a shame about him. He used to spend summers with her when he was a youngster.”

  “Did you know Doris Becker well?”

  “Not really. She kept pretty much to herself. But the times I talked to her, I found her to be a real nice lady. She was a painter, but we never saw anything she painted. Too afraid people would laugh at it. Darn shame she developed dementia. Got to the point where she didn’t know who we were.”

  I looked over at the house with its large wrap-around porch and a huge turret. With all that natural light, the turret must have been a lovely place for Doris to paint.

  “Sad she lived there all alone for so many years.” I felt a pang thinking about how lonely she might have been. It made me think of Aunt Kit growing older and living alone in another town.

  “She used to have friends come and go, but over the past few years, the only person I saw was that woman from the arts group—Anne somebody.”

  “Anne Williamson?”

  “Yeah. That’s right. We’d see her going in a couple of times a week. She’d carry in groceries and occasionally bring things out. I went over once to ask if I could give her a hand loading up her car, but she said she was managing fine. Said she was taking some of Doris’s things down to the Salvation Army to donate. I have to give it to her. For a woman her age, she didn’t have any problems carrying that stuff. Awfully nice lady to help Doris as she did.”

  The grand old Victorian house had seen better days. The shrubbery was overgrown, the paint was chipping off, and one piece of decorative grillwork around the top of the porch was barely hanging on. “The house could use some work.” I wondered what it looked like inside.

  “That’s another reason I’m anxious to sell soon. The more neglected that place becomes, the harder it’ll be to sell. And it’ll affect prices around here.”

  As I drove back home, I used my cell phone to check in with Kimberly, Monica’s assistant, and made arrangements to see her tomorrow about another project. Just as I hung up, I received a call from Nita.

  “Did you schedule an appointment to meet with someone this afternoon?” Nita asked.

  “I don’t believe so. Or if I did, I don’t remember it. Everything has been so chaotic. Why?”

  “We received a message on our website confirming your appointment with an M. Cassatt at two.”

  “Oh, dear.” Great for business, but not great for my schedule. I pulled over to the side of the road and entered the address Nita gave me into my phone. Looking at my watch, I had just enough time to get there.

  “Thanks, Nita. It would have been embarrassing if I’d missed that one. I’ll check in with you when I’ve finished there.”

  I drove to the address Nita had given me and parked in front of the mid-century modern home with a large For Sale sign hanging out front. M. Cassatt must be a real estate agent I didn’t know. Thank you, Nita, for alerting me. I didn’t want to miss an appointment with an agent since they referred work to us. Finding a better method for keeping track of appointments needed to go on my to-do list.

  No other cars were parked nearby, so thankfully, I wasn’t late and had arrived before Mr. or Ms. Cassatt. That would give me time to evaluate what attention the outside of the house might need. As I got out of my car, I looked toward the house and saw the front door was open. That was strange. Perhaps M. Cassatt had parked in the back.

  I knocked on the door, and receiving no response, pushed it open further. “Hello, anyone here?” Still no response. Perhaps the agent had left the door open for me to get in and would be back. Well, if nothing else, it would enable me to look at the house and be better prepared to discuss a staging approach. I pulled a notebook from my canvas tote bag ready to make notes.

  The home was empty, so we wouldn’t have to deal with furniture that might not be in good shape or attractive—or with furniture not in keeping with a mid-century modern home. Homeowners frequently selected furniture so out of character with the style of their homes. I could never understand why someone would buy a modern home and then fill it with Victorian furniture.

  I noted the terrazzo floors in the living and dining rooms and then headed down a long hall toward the bedrooms. I scrunched up my nose at the musty smell that permeated the house and pointed to a need for a good airing—or maybe something more drastic. I made a note about needing some charcoal air filter bags to help with the musty odor.

  I turned into the first bedroom and gave it a quick look. The carpet was a bit worse for wear and would need to be replaced or pulled up. With any luck, terrazzo flooring would be under the carpeting.

  The master bedroom was a good size. As I stepped into the room, suddenly something dark flapped over my head and strong arms wrapped around my middle. Before I could react, I felt myself being pushed forward into the nearby closet. I hit the closet wall and felt pain shoot across my shoulder and down my arm. My knees buckled and I collapsed onto the floor with a thud.

  The door slammed behind me, and I found myself enveloped in darkness. Once I had gotten over the shock, I realized that I still had some type of cloth or blanket covering my head. I struggled with it and once I got it off, I could see a thin band of light at the bottom of the door.

  When I could get my wits about me, I stood and tried the door handle. It turned easily, but when I pushed against it, it wouldn’t budge. I pounded on the door. “Help. Let me out.” A lot of good that was going to do. Whoever had locked me in wasn’t going to respond to my pleas for help.

  In the struggle, I’d dropped my bag and along with it my cell phone. All I could do was hope the person who’d locked me in the closet was satisfied to leave me there and that was all. I shuddered to think for what purpose?

  Chapter 39

  Packed closets will give the appearance of limited storage space.

  Hours later, or what seemed like hours, I was hoarse from yelling for help, thirsty, and desperate to use a bathroom. The air conditioner was running in the house, but not enough to reach the confined area of the closet. I was dripping with perspiration.

  Each time I heard a car drive by, I shouted for help, but to no avail. My hands ached from pounding on the door. Then I thought of my little Inky and hoped Aunt Kit was home and would feed him.

  I couldn’t believe I was locked in a closet. What would possess someone to do that? Did that person plan to come back later to let me out, or worse? I took in several deep breaths and let them out slowly, trying to stave off a panic attack. I tried to center myself as I had learned to do taking Yoga.

  At the last house I’d visited, I thought it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to go alone to houses unless there was a woman there. Now I’d have to take someone with me to empty houses. Was there any place safe for women these days?

  A car door slammed. I pounded on the door and shouted, “Help! Help me!” Then it occurred to me that it could be the person who imprisoned me who had come back, and I started to shiver all over. Still, I shouted.

  I heard a faint voice calling my name. I kept shouting for help, but being inside a closet, it would be difficult for someone to hear me. Fortunately, the house was a rambler, and the bedroom was on the ground floor and faced the street.

  “Laura? Are you in there?” It was Tyrone. Thank God.

  “Yes, yes. I’m in here.” I shouted as loud as I could and pounded on the door. “I’m locked in a closet.”

  Tyrone’s voice got louder. “Hold on, I’ll try the front door.”

  “Forget the front door. Break the window.” Mrs. Webster was there with him. I sent up a double thank you.

  “Okay, Laura, stand back. I’m going to throw a rock through the window,” Tyrone called.

  Since I wasn’t anywhe
re near a window, that made me laugh. It felt good to laugh considering how desperate my situation had been.

  I heard a crash and then the sound of glass falling—followed by another crash. Mrs. Webster must have thrown a rock too.

  “I’ve got it, hold on,” Tyrone called out. “It’s a crank out window.”

  Seconds later, the door opened and Tyrone stood in the opening. Fresh air filled the closet and helped revive me. “Hold on Tyrone. I’ll hug you once I’ve gone down the hall.”

  I finished in the bathroom and when I came out, Tyrone and Mrs. Webster were waiting for me. I hugged each of them. “I don’t know what brought you here, but thank you.”

  “It was Nita,” Tyrone said. “When you didn’t call her back or answer your cell phone, she got concerned. She called to ask me if I had heard from you.”

  “Girl, you had us good and worried, especially when we pulled up and saw your car parked in front and everything locked up.” As strong as Mrs. Webster usually appeared, she looked shaken. “We decided to circle the house and heard your cry. If the bedroom had been on the second floor, we probably wouldn’t have heard you.”

  “But how did you decide to look here?”

  “Nita said you had an appointment at two at this address. I had just picked Gran up from one of her church group meetings and was heading home. I told Nita we would drive by here on our way. We thought maybe your meeting had taken longer than expected, and with your history of not having a cell phone that always gets reception, we figured you might not have thought to or been able to call Nita to check in as you’d said you would.”

  “That was my old phone. My new one gets good reception, but I dropped my bag with my phone in it when someone grabbed me.”

  “Who was the rascal that locked you in there? Are you hurt?” Mrs. Webster picked up my bag from the floor and handed it to me. I was thankful it was still there.

  “I never saw anyone. I found the house unlocked and went in thinking the agent had left it open for me to view and would be back. I thought perhaps the agent had gone for coffee or something. If I had been smart, when I saw that no one was here, I would have called the agent listed on the For Sale sign. Life learned the hard way.”