Done to Death

by Charles Atkins

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Charles Atkins

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Recent Titles by Charles Atkins

  THE CADAVER’S BALL

  GO TO HELL

  THE PORTRAIT

  THE PRODIGY

  RISK FACTOR

  ASHES, ASHES *

  MOTHER’S MILK *

  The Lilian and Ada Mystery Series

  VULTURES AT TWILIGHT *

  BEST PLACE TO DIE *

  DONE TO DEATH *

  * available from Severn House

  DONE TO DEATH

  Charles Atkins

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which is was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicably copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Charles Atkins.

  The right of Charles Atkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Atkins, Charles author.

  Done to death. – (The Lilian and Ada mystery series)

  1. Campbell, Lil (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Strauss, Ada (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Older

  lesbians–Fiction. 4. Television programs–Fiction.

  5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8374-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-523-9 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out, Ada Strauss mused as she stared at the flat screen, her fingers poised over the keys. She scanned the Medicare application. She’d filled them out for others in the retirement community of Pilgrim’s Progress, now it was her turn. Happy Birthday … another day older and closer to death. Anxiety bubbled in the pit of her stomach as she clicked through the boxes: date of birth, marital status − widow … unless she and Lil formalized things, which was now legal in Connecticut. Aaron, her out-and-proud nineteen-year-old grandson, was on board for that. ‘It would be awesome,’ he’d said, rapidly followed by, ‘It would kill Dad.’

  Thoughts of Aaron were like a balm on her turmoil. And yes, she wouldn’t miss his father Jack, her right-wing Nazi of a son-in-law, if he mysteriously vanished. Wishing someone dead seemed wrong. Now if he dropped dead on his own − possibly choking on his small-minded bigotry − that would be fine, she mused … but you should never wish it on someone.

  She read the next question, which sent her tabbing to a separate screen. There she had the options for the various Medicare insurance plans. Just fill this out, she told herself. Get it done.

  Caught in the complexity of tables designed to clarify the pros and cons of different health-care plans, but which in fact confused the issue, she didn’t hear Lil. A teaspoon clinked against a mug and, like a Buddhist monk being called to prayer, she turned.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Lil asked, placing Ada’s tea on the coaster − an antique Minton tile, part of a Victorian fireplace surround they’d found suet-stained and caked with old grout at the local flea market.

  ‘Fine,’ Ada said, feeling Lil’s strong fingers on her shoulders as they gently pressed and massaged. ‘That feels good. And by fine, I mean someone is dancing on my grave.’

  ‘You’re not old,’ Lil said.

  ‘Yeah, filling out a Medicare application pretty much says … you’re old. I’m sixty-five.’

  ‘And I’m sixty-three,’ Lil said. ‘We’re not old … we’re just us. Look at your mom, she’s … ninety-five. The woman runs circles around people half her age.’

  ‘Maybe not run, but she’s still sharp.’ Ada shook her head. ‘I know it’s just a number, you’re as young as you feel …’ Ada felt the warmth of the tea through the mug. She took a sip … good and strong, with two sugars and milk. ‘I’m in a funk,’ she admitted. ‘It’ll pass.’

  ‘Well,’ Lil said, and she leaned down and nuzzled a particularly sensitive spot behind Ada’s right ear. ‘Maybe I can help with that.’

  Ada groaned, and putting down her tea leaned back into Lil. ‘Maybe you can. I’ve always thought you’d have made an excellent therapist.’ She swiveled her chair and came face to face with Lil. She stared into chestnut eyes, her hand on the side of Lil’s cheek. Her fingertips brushing tendrils of wheat-blond mixed with gray. ‘You are so beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Back at you,’ and Lil’s lips found hers.

  With Ada’s tea and Medicare application forgotten, they headed to their bedroom for a bit of mid-morning therapy.

  After, with cheeks flushed and a pleasant glow coursing through her veins, Ada pushed back in bed. She gazed out the sliders to the distant views of protected wetlands, with last year’s cattails providing contrast to tender green shoots.

  ‘So what’s really wrong?’ Lil asked, rolling on her side, her long hair loose around bare shoulders.

  ‘It’s a feeling,’ Ada said, staring out at budding trees and clumps of marsh grass.

  ‘The getting old thing?’

  ‘I suppose, but more … with Aaron off to college, and you with your column. It sounds bad, but as I looked at that Medicare application, it’s like this is it. I’m really old. Time to … what? Go on Elderhostel trips? We already play bridge and mah-jong. I don’t like golf. I know I’m being ridiculous.’ She met Lil’s gaze. ‘Stop smiling.’

  ‘I get it,’ Lil said. ‘Why do you think I took that stupid job at the antique center a few years back?’

  ‘To have a front row seat to the antique dealer murders,’ said Ada. ‘Admit it.’

  ‘Well … that too.’ Lil chuckled. ‘But it was also about needing something
to do. Obviously that wasn’t it, but it was this feeling that I had to do something. We’re so lucky, Ada, I try not to lose sight of that. We have each other, our health, and we’re not hurting for money.’

  ‘I know … and that’s why I feel ridiculous. I should be content. I am.’

  ‘And you’re not,’ Lil said, finishing her thought.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You want more,’ Lil said. ‘I get it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Any idea what?’

  ‘No.’ She wiggled her toes. ‘Here’s the thing … it’s like all of my life I’ve been the one behind the scenes. With Harry’ – referring to her deceased husband – ‘I ran Strauss’s, but he was the showman. I handled the books, payroll, dealt with the buyers, the designers, the properties, called the plumbers, oversaw store renovations, but it was his name that went out front. Which isn’t to say I did it all, we were partners.’ She looked at Lil, and felt for her hand beneath the sheets. ‘I wish I knew what my problem was. I think having Aaron around helped … but he’s at college now, and while looking after Mom is important … Rose is having a renaissance here and doesn’t want me butting in. I really thought I was going to lose her after her second heart attack, but she’s stronger than ever.’

  ‘Yes, and a lot of that has to do with you and the decisions you made. She’d still be isolated in that apartment on the Lower East Side if you hadn’t forced her hand. And yes,’ Lil said, before Ada could interject. ‘Clearly having the assisted care facility we moved her into burn down couldn’t have been predicted, but it’s turned out well in the end. She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. And so now you want something of your own. I get it. I’ve got my column, and am over the moon with this syndication thing. I love going out and doing the interviews, researching the antiques and the history behind them. Love it.’

  ‘So what’s this week’s about?’ Ada said, wanting to change the topic.

  ‘Reality shows and the local antique dealers who’ve been featured on them. And …’ Lil bit her bottom lip.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m on to a potentially juicy exclusive.’

  ‘Really?’ Ada squeezed Lil’s hand. ‘Care to share?’

  ‘Of course. This morning I got an email from someone connected to Lenore Parks,’ Lil said.

  ‘As in Lenore Says? And “I can do everything better than you” Lenore?’

  ‘Yes, Lenore Says, Weeknights with Lenore, Living with Lenore, bedding by Lenore and … you know she has a country home in Shiloh. So this producer person, Barry somebody,’ Lil got out of bed and grabbed her blue fleece robe, ‘wants to talk with me about the local antiques scene. Apparently he read my columns and thought I’d be a good resource on Grenville; they’re planning on shooting something here, or at least thinking about it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘I was going to call this afternoon. Maybe get lucky and get a thirty-second interview with her highness, Lenore … although that’s doubtful.’

  ‘If you don’t ask …’

  ‘True,’ Lil said, toeing into her slippers. ‘I’ll do it right now, we’ll put him on speaker phone.’

  ‘Tease.’

  ‘You wanted something to do,’ Lil said, grabbing an elastic off her side table and sweeping her hair back into a ponytail.

  ‘Fine, Medicare can wait.’ Ada threw on slacks and a silk tee and trailed Lil to her office.

  It was hard shaking her Medicare funk. She thought about her mom, Rose Rimmelman, who’d pretty much taken over Ada’s condo next door. Rose, who’d come kicking and screaming from lower Manhattan to an assisted living facility in Connecticut, which subsequently suffered a devastating fire, had become the poster child for the retirement community of Pilgrim’s Progress. They’d had breakfast together − as they did every morning − and then Rose was off with a busload of her new friends for a day at the Indian casinos. On Saturday, she’d board another bus for a Broadway matinee. Three days a week she went for water aerobics at the health center, and recently she’d been getting chummy with a widowed firefighter named Stan.

  She watched as Lil pulled up her browser and her emails. Glancing over her shoulder she scanned the message lines. Some referencing interviews Lil had done or was doing for her weekly ‘Cash or Trash’ column. She felt proud that Lil was finally pursuing her lifelong ambition to be a writer. Her column had been picked up by a syndicate and appeared in over forty papers, and her blog got thousands of weekly hits. But Ada could now put a name to at least some of her disquiet − You’re jealous. This won’t do.

  ‘Here it is,’ Lil said, and she clicked on the message from a Barry Stromstein.

  Ada read the short message asking to talk to Lil about Grenville’s antiques industry. It included his numbers and good times to call.

  Lil dialed and pressed the button for speaker phone.

  As it rang, Ada had another thought, which made her feel worse. For decades she’d been the brains behind the Strauss’s department stores, and Harry got the credit. Yes, they’d been a team, and a successful one. But here she was again, literally standing behind Lil. Face it, she told herself, you were the woman behind the man, and now you’re the woman behind the woman.

  TWO

  Barry Stromstein felt the migraine coming. His vision had wavy lines around the edges and it was hard to focus on Lenore’s face. There was her trademark auburn bob and arresting green eyes; admittedly, her hair was wavering to the right and, at the moment, she had four eyes. He heard her words, but struggled to put them into sentences. Just nod and smile, he told himself, hoping he could make it through, knowing it was her perfume – Lenore’s ‘Possession’ − that triggered what was blossoming into a headache that if he didn’t take his Rizatriptan in the next ten minutes would leave him desperate for his bed and a dark room for the next three days. ‘Right,’ he parroted her last sentence, ‘local color … petty jealousies, fun characters.’

  ‘Are you even listening?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think you’re getting this, Barry, and to be honest, your first treatment I wouldn’t use for toilet paper. Bargain Bonanza? What kind of crap project is that? We’re not cable access. You either pull this together fast, or I’ll give it to Carrie. And if that happens …’

  He wanted to scream, and he knew she wasn’t kidding. ‘I’ve got it, Lenore,’ and, struggling to find the words, he blurted, ‘you want blood, guts, expensive tchotchkes and scenic New England. Kind of Antiques Roadshow meets The Hunger Games on the set of Gilmore Girls.’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘Hallelujah!’ she said, closing the space between them.

  Her perfume, like a wave of noxious gas, engulfed him. He had to get out of there. ‘I’m on it.’ He backed away. ‘I’ll have something on your desk by morning.’

  ‘That’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘And Barry, if you don’t …’

  He took that as his cue and, holding his breath, bolted from her inner office. Half-blinded by the oncoming migraine he raced out of Lenore’s penthouse suite and down the hall. He bypassed the elevators and flew down eight flights of stairs, his thoughts fixed on the pill in his upper desk drawer. He sprinted to his offices and banged his knee on a glass top desk in the reception area.

  Celia, his secretary, looked up. ‘Oh crap,’ she said. ‘You’ve got migraine eyes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said without stopping, the words thick on his tongue. It was always the same. First the vision went, then his words, and then came the actual headache, like a vice squeezing his eyeballs while a steel pike pounded into his brain. He jerked the drawer open, grabbed the little blue box, pulled out the ridiculously expensive pills, fumbled at the packaging and finally popped the melty lozenge under his tongue. It tasted like chalk and like something trying to be a pastille mint, but bitter and metallic. He closed his eyes, and heard Celia as she quietly walked around his corner office closing the blinds and shutting out the spectacular views of Central Park and midtown.


  ‘Do you want me to cancel your afternoon meetings?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You got it … you should go home.’

  ‘Can’t. Need to come up with a new concept. She hated Bargain Bonanza. Give me forty-five minutes. Wait!’ Still tasting the pill’s remnants on his tongue, he thought through Lenore’s directive. ‘Tell the team to toss everything on Bargain Bonanza but the locale … I think that’s still OK – in fact, I know it is. Tell them blood lust and collectibles, and to be ready to pitch by one. And no one’s leaving till we have a winner.’

  ‘Will do. Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No … it’s just got to run its course. Thank God for the magic melt-under-the-tongue pills.’

  ‘It was her perfume, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell her?’

  Barry looked at his assistant through hooded eyes. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Right,’ Celia shrugged, as her phone rang. ‘Hope you feel better,’ and she shut the door.

  Just breathe, he told himself, his head in his hands, his eyes shut tight. Let it pass. What a bitch! After three years with Lenore, Barry had no illusions. Either he came up with an acceptable pitch in the next twenty-four hours or he could take his résumé and try to find another producing job in an industry where thirty-five is over the hill and forty is washed up, and he was thirty-eight. To the outside world this was a great gig, a high six-figure salary, bonuses, a team of young and energetic wannabes snapping at his heels. His NYU Alma Mater, Tisch School of the Arts, wanting him to take interns, holding him up as an exemplar of someone making it in the entertainment industry. And in a single day it could all turn to ashes. Lenore was desperate to stay on top … of the ratings, of her celebrity, of everything and everyone. She was hunger personified, a gaping maw always wanting more. ‘She’s a monster.’ He cracked his eyes open, and thought of his one point five million dollar apartment that was barely eleven hundred square feet, with a tiny patio, two modest bedrooms − one for him and Jeanine and the other for three-year-old Ashley. He pictured his gorgeous wife and their little girl, with blond ringlets that would darken with time, bright hazel eyes − they were his two treasures, his salvation. You have to pull this together.