Dr. Hallie Malone Cozy Mystery (4 Book Box Set)

by Liz Turner

  Hallie put her hand on his hand reassuringly. “That’s quite alright, Milton. I’m sure this is just my husband’s mistake, not yours. I’ll find him and we’ll straighten it all out. Is he in his room now, by any chance?”

  The young man sighed with relief and some of the red drained out of his face. “I haven’t seen him since he left this morning, ma’am.”

  Hallie’s ears perked up. “This morning? Around what time did you say?”

  “Er, well, I would say about eleven o’clock.”

  Disappointed, Hallie said, “Oh, and you’re sure he didn’t leave before that? He was in his room all morning? What about last night?”

  The concierge seemed confused, but he answered anyway. “I’m sure, ma’am. I see everybody that comes in and out of the hotel. They have to pass right by this desk. As for last night, well, you’d have to ask the night concierge. But I came in around six am and didn’t see him come in or out, I’m sorry.”

  “Alright, well, thank you for your help, Milton,” Hallie said, turning to leave. If Lewis hadn’t been seen leaving his hotel room until eleven this morning, then how would he have somehow left during the night, killed Smith, then returned a few hours ago, without anyone noticing? Somehow Hallie doubted that Lewis, with his imposing frame and loud energy, would have been capable of sneaking past two concierges. No, his skills lay in bullying the vulnerable, smooth-talking his way into someone else’s wallet, not delicate subterfuge.

  “Would you like someone to fetch your bags from your car up to your room?” Milton asked.

  “No, that’s alright. I think I’ll just wait for my husband to come back.”

  “The hotel restaurant is serving lunch now if you’d prefer to eat while you wait, Mrs. Lewis,” the young man said, pointing to a door to his left. Hallie’s stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten at all today after dashing out on James this morning. Perhaps a hearty lunch wouldn’t hurt.

  Hallie chose a table in the darkest corner. She needed some time to think. After ordering a coffee and a sandwich, she pulled out a pen and pad of paper and began to make a list of what she knew. She looked up, tapping her forefinger on her temple in concentration. Suddenly, she gasped.

  Sitting at a table on the other side of the room was Lewis. He was wearing a bowler hat and a newspaper he was reading partially covered his face, but Hallie was certain it was him. She quickly slid out of her chair and darted behind the bar which was still closed for the day.

  She peeked over the edge. Lewis was there alright, drinking from a teacup and reading the Warrenton Gazette. He checked his watch, then held up his wrist in front of his face and pivoted in his seat. What is he doing? Hallie wondered. Then it hit her: he was checking his wristwatch against the clock on the wall. He was waiting for someone—and they were clearly very late to arrive. Perfect, Hallie thought. Now I can see exactly what his plan is. As the minutes passed, both Hallie and Lewis grew restless. Hallie’s stomach grumbled audibly. Shush, she thought. This is no time for food.

  Finally, the young concierge arrived and headed straight for Lewis’ table. Hallie started. Was the concierge somehow involved? But the man just said something to Lewis and handed him a folded paper. Hallie ducked as he turned around and left, walking right past the bar. She watched as Lewis read the paper. He grunted and then left abruptly. With some surprise, she noted that Lewis still used his cane and limped the same way he had in her office. Hallie tailed him out of the restaurant, being careful to avoid looking suspicious. He strode out of the hotel and Hallie followed just in time to see him get into a car parked right aside and zoom away. It was a dark blue Pontiac.

  Kicking herself for not being prepared to jot down the license plate number, and for again missing the opportunity to get a glimpse at the driver, Hallie went back inside. Lewis’ table was still as it was when he had left. She hurriedly went over, hoping that note was still there. She spotted a white corner peeking out from under the gravy boat. The note was half-drowned in the thick gravy that had spilled over the edge in Lewis’ haste to leave. Wrinkling her nose, Hallie blotted a napkin over the note as best she could and tucked in into her handbag.

  Once inside her car, Hallie opened it. The writing was smudged considerably, but she could make out some of the words:

  Relax, I took Don’t leave Finish the job. Then it’s 11:30

  I’m outside.

  The name signed at the bottom was smudged too badly for Hallie to decipher. Cursing her luck, she headed back inside the hotel toward the reception desk. She needed to know who handed in the note.

  “Milton, funny little story, I’d like to know—” Hallie asked as she approached the desk, waving the gravy-stained note.

  The concierge grew pale as he saw Hallie. “I’m sorry ma’am, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” He began aimlessly picking through the paperwork behind the desk. Hallie was confused. What could he be so afraid of? Then he motioned for her to lean in. “I am so terribly sorry, Mrs. Lewis. This is a delicate situation,” he said, whispering and looking furtively from side to side.

  “What do you mean?” Hallie asked.

  Taking the note from Hallie, Milton continued in a low voice, “I’m not supposed to divulge the actions of our guests to other guests, even—and in some cases especially—to their wives, but I like you, Mrs. Lewis, so I’m going to tell you the truth.” Hallie leaned in eagerly. Did the concierge know something? “This note was handed to me by a pretty young woman,” he finished, sighing sadly and shaking his head. “It’s such a shame that these acts go on around here. I think they were meeting here. She was quite insistent about my giving Mr. Lewis that note, and just as insistent that I not tell anybody about it. I’m sorry Mrs. Lewis.”

  Hallie sighed in disappointment. The concierge clearly thought her “husband” was merely having an affair. But perhaps he could tell her something after all. “What did she look like, this woman?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment, blushing deeply. “Well, young, pretty, with bright red hair.”

  “Thank you, Milton, you’ve been a big help!”

  ***

  Detective Jackson phoned Hallie a little later that day. “Could you come down to the station, Doctor Malone? We’ve got some leads on the murder of Alan Smith, but we’d also like to ask you some questions.”

  Hallie agreed, and soon she was heading toward the police station in the center of town. The building was a rectangular brick structure, with about a foot of snow still piled up on the roof. Hallie had once found it proud and imposing, a building worthy of protecting Warrenton. Today, however, the place was dwarfed by the tall snow drifts surrounding it, and it almost seemed to be drooping in the wet winter weather. Any hopes she might have harbored for an easy resolution by way of a quick arrest dissipated as she stepped out of her car and was hit by a gust of icy wind.

  Detectives Jackson and Jones led her into a small conference room and shut the door behind them. “So, Doctor Malone,” Jackson began, settling heavily into a chair across from Hallie. “Murder weapon. Swift blow to the right side of the head.” He pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing the bookend from Smith’s home and slid it toward Hallie. “The murder occurred sometime between one and five am this morning.” Hallie’s estimation had been correct. The killer had stayed inside Smith’s home for at least three hours after the murder. But why?

  “As for a motive, well, we can’t say we have a clear answer, but we uncovered hundreds of files, dossiers, financial records, and even some detailed—in some cases unkind—notes on personal affairs, for dozens of Warrenton citizens, including some of his own family,” Jones interjected. He took a seat across from Hallie.

  Hallie scooted forward. “You’re saying that any number of people might have had a reason to kill Smith?” She bit her tongue to keep from saying more. Her mind was racing. If, as the detectives were alluding, Smith was murdered to keep him from spreading information about a client—or perhaps to steal a certain document from him—t
hen one of his clients must be the killer. Hallie was certain that was the angle the detectives were taking. Yet, she knew that every one of Smith’s clients would have known exactly where to find their file; Smith would traditionally show each client where he stored their file, a way of demonstrating his discretion and guaranteeing the file’s safety. It was all part of his method.

  The detectives nodded. “It seems that way, yes,” Jackson answered. His gravelly voice sounded even more somber than usual.

  “And, given the state of the place when we arrived—all the papers shuffled around, that lock box broken into—we have reason to believe that Smith was murdered because of a document he had his in possession,” Jones added. “That’s what we brought you down here to ask you, Doctor Malone.”

  Hallie froze. Should she tell them about Lewis? Some part of her didn’t think so. In retrospect, she was surprised that Lewis had requested to meet her today and was going ahead with his blackmailing. After all, if he had just killed someone—or had someone killed—to protect his scheme…he had far more to lose now than money if he were exposed. And then there was that note and the dark blue car… She was beginning to think—

  “We found a series of, ahem, personal letters from a Mrs. Gladys Dean. We think she might have been Smith’s closest confidant. It could be that she knows a lot more about who might have wanted to kill Smith than anyone else in this town—certainly more than she’s letting on,” Jones continued, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Gladys?” Hallie asked, genuinely taken aback. Gladys had never mentioned a personal relationship with Smith. The detectives nodded.

  Chapter 6

  An Unlikely

  Romance

  H allie followed the detectives in her car down the winding road out of town to Gladys’ house. She bit her lip. Why wouldn’t have Gladys brought up a relationship with Alan Smith? Hallie asked herself, nervous to find out the answer. Gladys had been the one to mention Smith in the first place. If they were close friends, or in a romantic relationship, it made sense, then, that Gladys would know exactly what sort of documents Smith kept on hand, and been able to assure Hallie that he would have a copy of her notes and the x-ray she needed… and Gladys had had his telephone number awfully handy when Hallie had asked about it, plus there was that painting of Gladys’ hanging prominently in Smith’s house.

  But still—surely, she would have told me about a close relationship at that moment, right? Hallie mused. Gladys had never been anything but forthcoming, explaining in detail the history of the town, the stories of all of Hallie’s neighbors. But Detective Jackson’s words rang in her ears: Gladys Dean knows a lot more about who would have wanted to kill Smith than anyone else in this town. More than she’s letting on.

  As Hallie gripped her steering wheel, she felt a chill settle in her bones despite her best efforts to remain dubious. Gladys was her oldest friend in Warrenton, but that only meant Hallie had known her longer than anyone else in town, which wasn’t long at all, only a year. And Gladys was a longtime resident, having lived in her large house outside town for more than forty years. She had housed many-a-newcomer to Warrenton in her rented rooms. It was not impossible that Gladys could have some deep-seeded alliances or old foes in town. Could it, could it be true that she did indeed know something about Smith’s death? Or even—Hallie shook her head briskly, chiding herself. Of course Gladys didn’t have anything to do with Smith’s fate. Hallie had to start trusting people, especially Gladys, or she would never be able to relax. That was why she had insisted she come along with the detectives to question Gladys. She wanted to make sure she was treated fairly, and more importantly, Hallie needed to hear it from Gladys herself if…

  Hallie rubbed her temple with one hand. …. If the detectives’ suspicions were right, and Gladys did have something to do with this mess.

  ***

  The tires crunched in the frozen snow as they pulled into the drive. As they approached the door, Hallie nodded at the detectives, determined to appear un-rattled by the prospect of interrogating her dearest friend about a gruesome murder.

  “Hallie! I tried to telephone your office but your nurse said you were out. I’m very curious to find out how your—” Gladys stopped short when she noticed the detectives walking up behind Hallie. “Oh, ahem, hello, gentlemen,” she said, tilting her head at Hallie. She was clearly waiting for an explanation.

  Hallie pulled the old woman into a quick hug before beginning formal introductions. “Gladys, these men are detectives here to ask you some questions.” Detective Jackson flashed his badge, and Jones offered his gloved hand for Gladys to shake. Gladys peered intently at Hallie, no doubt wanting to ask some questions herself. Dropping her gaze, Hallie said, “Well, shall we go inside?”

  Gladys bustled ahead and steered them into the living room. “Of course, of course, come in. I’ll put on some water for tea.”

  The group settled into arm chairs, and Detective Jackson pulled out his small notebook. Hallie leaned over nonchalantly to catch a glimpse of it. He had written a series of questions, some of which were punctuated with exclamation points. Gladys informed them that the tea should be ready in a few minutes but insisted the detectives “get on with what they came here for.” She sat facing the three, her back straight and her hands clasped primly on her knees.

  “Mrs. Dean. You were married, yes?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, I was. Benjamin died nearly ten years ago though. Hold on,” Gladys replied. She cleared her throat and added, “Before I go on answering your questions—apparently about my personal life—” Gladys shot a discerning glance at Hallie. “I think I deserve an explanation as to what this is all about! You gentlemen are making me nervous, coming into my house unannounced like this. I only agreed to entertain you—you clearly don’t have a warrant to speak to me or you would have mentioned that straight away, so as far as I know, I’m doing you a favor right now—because Dr. Malone is a friend of mine, and I would do anything to help her out of trouble.” Gladys ignored the detectives’ mumbled responses and turned to Hallie. “Now, is this about that Lewis character?”

  When Hallie didn’t answer, Detective Jones looked at Jackson, then sighed. “Mrs. Dean. I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but we have reason to believe you might know something about a murder that happened early this morning.” Gladys stiffened. The young detective leaned forward, his face sympathetic. “Mrs. Dean, Gladys… Alan Smith was killed in his home about eight hours ago.”

  Hallie watched Gladys’ face carefully. The woman seemed frozen in shock. Finally, she bit her bottom lip and her eyes turned sad. To Hallie, her emotion seemed genuine, as did her surprise at hearing Smith was dead. But she still seemed to be hiding something.

  Gladys put a trembling hand to her mouth. “I see.” Just then, the high-pitched whine of a tea kettle came blaring from the kitchen. Gladys immediately stood up and disappeared into the next room. When she came back, she was carrying a tray of steaming cups of tea and cream and sugar. Hallie noticed that although she appeared distraught, she seemed less unsettled than before. “That is upsetting news, detectives. But, what is it that you think I can help with?”

  Jackson grunted. “We, er, we found your correspondence with Smith among his belongings.”

  Gladys reddened. She took a small sip from her teacup and, shooting a longwise glance at Hallie, sighed. “So, I suppose you think that, because Alan and I were… close at one point, that I know something about who killed him?”

  “In short, yes, we do Mrs. Dean. So, you admit you and Smith had been involved romantically prior to his death? When did the relationship first begin?” Jackson asked. Hallie sat rooted in her seat, unable to take a single sip of her tea.

  Gladys frowned. “Well Alan was a dear friend of mine, and I suppose for a while we became more like partners. I would say we first began entertaining each other about two years ago; after his daughter moved away, he was lonely, and so was I, and we began having dinner every few weeks.”
Gladys met Hallie’s gaze. “We mostly kept the affair a secret because, well, I didn’t want to complicate our simple relationship with the town gossip I knew would ensue if too many people got wind of it.” Jackson scribbled some notes. Gladys continued, “Though, I should say, you’ve got the wrong idea if you think I would know something about why he would have been killed. I hadn’t seen him for months.”

  “Oh? And why’s that?” Jones asked, looking intrigued.

  “He broke it off. He said he had met someone else,” Gladys said regretfully. Turning to Hallie, she said, “That’s partly why I didn’t mention our past when I suggested you go see Alan about your notes. I was ashamed of the whole thing. Jilted, at my age? And to make it worse, I found out that Alan’s ‘someone else’ was younger than half his age. I would rather just put it all behind me.”

  Hallie’s mind was working quickly. Gladys’ story made perfect sense, and Hallie believed now that she had nothing to do with Smith’s death. Their past relationship was clearly painful to speak about. But something didn’t add up. Smith was only a few years younger than Gladys, in his late seventies. He wasn’t particularly wealthy, so what did he have to offer a woman so much younger than him?

  “I’m sure Smith’s betrayal must have hurt you badly, Mrs. Dean. Perhaps you would have been very angry, even months later,” Jackson was saying.

  “Wait a moment,” Hallie interjected. “Gladys, will you hand me that lamp over there?” Hallie pointed to a ceramic lamp that stood on the table next to Gladys. When she hesitated, confused, Hallie just nodded encouragingly. Gladys gripped the lamp and attempted to pass it over to Hallie but her arms shook with the weight. Hallie reached over to take it. “That’s fine, thank you, Gladys.” Passing the lamp to Jackson, she said, “See? This lamp is lighter than the bookend that was used to bludgeon Smith! Gladys can barely lift it! She couldn’t possibly have driven to Smith’s in the middle of the night and attacked him.”