Praise for the Laura Bishop Mystery Series
“A promising series debut with pleasing characters, plenty of suspects, and helpful tips on home staging.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“A delicious read! Well-researched and authentic to the true life of a home stager, Staging is Murder will keep you guessing about whodunit, while taking the mystery out of marketing a home. The fun staging tips in each chapter are worthy of as much investigation as the crime.”
– Debbie Boggs,
Co-Founder, Staging Studio
“A first-time home stager, fascinating settings, and meddlesome characters make Grace Topping’s Staging is Murder an engaging read and delightful series debut.”
– Debra H. Goldstein,
Agatha-Nominated Author of One Taste Too Many
“I liked how this mystery was staged from the first chapter, giving me just enough intrigue to whet my appetite for more and the more I read, the more I enjoyed what was going on throughout this tale…Overall, an enjoyable read.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
“Staging is Murder has everything any cozy reader could want in a mystery with a side of humor and so much more.”
— Sherry Harris,
Agatha-Nominated Author of All Murders Final!
The Laura Bishop Mystery Series
by Grace Topping
STAGING IS MURDER (#1)
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Copyright
STAGING IS MURDER
A Laura Bishop Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | April 2019
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Grace Topping
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-487-4
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-488-1
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-489-8
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-490-4
Printed in the United States of America
To my mother, Dorothy Marchetti,
who taught me that reading a good book is more important
than dusting. And to Barbara Sicola and Lynn Heverly,
my sisters and biggest cheerleaders.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My path to publication has been on a long one, filled with numerous potholes and detours. I’m thankful every day that as I traveled that path, I had people walk beside me, pull me out of holes, and point me in the right direction.
My deepest appreciation to everyone who reviewed multiple drafts, gave me guidance, patiently answered questions, and befriended me at conferences. I wouldn’t have this book if it weren’t for all of you.
Donna Andrews, Linda Barnes, Connie Berry, Janet Bolin, Kait Carson, Jen Danna, Elaine Douts, Ellen Dubin, Diane Davidson, Luce Dudinow, Lin Fischer, Susan Froetschel, Barb Goffman, Debra Goldstein, Nancy Greene, Janet Guinn, Sherry Harris, Lynn Heverly, Martha Huston, Sousan Kunaish, Marilyn Levinson, Kendel Lynn, Susan McNally, Rachel Otto, Terryl Paiste, Neil Pennington, Janelle Peters, Antoinette Pavone, Mai Pham, Sandra Pierce, Shari Randall, Linda Reilly, Paul Rinn, Chris Roerden, Barbara Ross, Barbara Sicola, and Diane Vallere. Thank you to everyone I haven’t named. To name everyone who cheered me on would fill this book. Thank you.
My thanks to members of the Sisters in Crime Chesapeake and Guppies Chapters; Steve Alcorn of the Writing Academy; Debbie Boggs and Andress Eichstardt of Staging Studio; my agent, Dawn Dowdle, of the Blue Ridge Literary Agency; and everyone at Henery Press.
And a special thank you to my husband, John, and daughters, Lesley McArthur and Laura Goulet, for their loving support.
Chapter 1
Your home is a stage.
“You work for that woman and you’ll end up killing each other. Even your horoscope says so.”
I put down my cappuccino, took the newspaper my friend Nita Martino pushed at me, and read the horoscope for Capricorns: A difficult person will cause you to take rash action.
I laughed and handed the paper back to her. “Last month it predicted a financial windfall and then foreign travel. Neither came true. I don’t think I’ll be knocking off my first client—at least not until she pays me.”
Nita read our horoscopes the mornings we met at Vocaro’s for coffee. Chinese fortune cookies would have been more accurate.
Nita shook the paper. “I’ve warned you, and now your horoscope is warning you. Why won’t you listen?”
“Because if I’m going to build a reputation as a home stager, I need the reference Victoria Denton can give me. She may be difficult, but she knows everyone in town.”
“I’ll give you a reference. You helped lots of friends stage their homes, including my mother-in-law. Talk about turning ugly ducklings into swans. They’d still be waiting for buyers if you hadn’t helped them.”
“That was for friends. Now it’s business. Turning Victoria’s mansion into a showplace will speak volumes, especially since it’s such a large undertaking. If it would help, I’d stage a house for Hannibal Lecter.”
“Believe me, Hannibal would be easier to work with.”
Wanting to change the subject, I rummaged around in my large Land’s End canvas bag, pulled out a small box, and proudly handed it to her. “Look at this—my new business cards.”
Nita read the card I handed her. “‘Staging for You, Laura Bishop, Professional Home Stager.’ This is so exciting. Now you can do something you enjoy—and get paid for it.”
“The sooner the better. My budget is so slim it’s squealing.” I didn’t mention the crushing debt I incurred because of my mother’s illness and funeral expenses. I needed to make a success of my business or it was back to the well-paying IT field that bored me to death but would pay the bills. The staging business would also help me move on from the life I’d left behind.
“Laura, I’ve told you before I can help—”
“Thank you, but no. With two kids in college, you can’t risk your savings on me.”
Nita frowned and ducked behind her newspaper. “Uh-oh, there’s trouble.”
Monica Heller stood at the counter, tapping her foot as she waited for her order. Her linen sheath and sleek, golden, chin-length hair screamed money and sophistication, neither of which Nita nor I possessed in abundance.
“As always, she looks stunning.” I sighed, hoping I didn’t sound envious.
“If we were from wealthy families, do you think we’d look that good?”
“It’s in her genes.”
“Genes certainly lacking in my gene pool.” Nita took a bite of sticky bun. “Monica may be the best-known designer in town, but Victoria showed real smarts hiring you instead of her.”
“Only because starting out I come cheap. Besides, designers add the owner’s personality to a hom
e. Stagers remove it. That way buyers can imagine themselves living there.” I took my last sip of cappuccino and sadly eyed my empty cup. My tight budget wouldn’t stretch for a second one.
Nita peered over the top of the newspaper again and grimaced. “Drat. She’s heading this way. If she bothers to talk to us, she’ll have a motive.” The heavy scent of Obsession reached us before she did.
“Hello, Laura, dear.” Monica gave me a smile that never reached her eyes and barely glanced at Nita.
“I hear you’re going to try staging the Denton place. That’s quite an undertaking for you. If you find you’re in over your head, have Victoria give me a call. I’m sure my assistant could come to your aid.” Without waiting for a reply, she glided away like a tarantula that had just injected venom into its prey—me.
I bit hard on my lower lip to keep from saying something I’d regret. She’d made my high school years a misery, and even now, over twenty years later, she still managed to find my weak spots.
Nita ran her fingers through her short, dark curls. “Just seeing Monica makes me feel like I should have my hair done.”
Reflexively I smoothed my straight, blondish hair that needed fresh highlights. “I know what you mean. I’ve decided not to let her get to me like she did when we were at Louiston High.”
Nita shook her head and eyed me critically. “All these years later and you’re only now deciding that? She might be ticked off because Victoria didn’t hire her. Forget about Monica. When do you start?”
“Tyrone and I are going there as soon as he gets off work, which should be any minute.” I looked toward the counter to see Tyrone Webster handing a coffee cup to an attractive young woman, who gazed at him adoringly. I couldn’t blame her. He was the image of a college-aged Denzel Washington. I waved at him and pointed to my watch. He gave me a thumbs-up and turned back to the cute young thing he was serving.
A few minutes later, Tyrone approached. “Hello, ladies.” He slouched into a metal chair and stretched his long legs in front of him. Scanning the room as though what he was about to impart was top secret, he leaned toward me and whispered, “I heard Victoria Denton is in debt up to her eyeballs and the bank is threatening to foreclose.”
I slumped back into my chair and thought of the stack of bills lying on my desk. I had a lot riding on this project. If it backfired, Victoria wouldn’t be the only one who was broke.
“Do you think Mrs. Denton can sell her house before they foreclose on her?” Tyrone squeezed his basketball player build into my small Corolla. Money had been tight in his family, so he could sympathize with Victoria’s plight.
“Tough question. Not many people are in the market for a mansion built before the Civil War. Especially one jammed to the rafters with stuff. We have our work cut out for us.”
The drive to the Denton house helped me relax and push aside the thought of Victoria’s problems or how I could ensure we’d get paid. It was a pleasant ride with the lovely Allegheny Mountains stretching out in front of us. Opening my car window, I breathed in fresh, warm air. Spring was gradually coming to Pennsylvania, and I was ready for it.
As the small city of Louiston spread out behind us and we approached Lookout Hill and the Denton house, I turned to Tyrone. “Please be careful what you say in front of Victoria. If we’re critical of her décor, she’ll feel we’re being critical of her. No rolling your eyes, even if something strikes you as awful.”
“Okay, okay. I guess that means no gagging sounds either?”
“No!”
“Only testing.” He gave me a cheeky grin. Tyrone always perked up my spirits. Even while he juggled a number of part-time jobs to help pay for college and help out at home, his spirits remained high, and his zest for life was contagious.
I turned into the Denton driveway, which was lined with giant oaks that would soon create a green canopy over the long approach. At the end of the drive a massive three-storied, limestone building loomed before us. The historic mansion was as old as the town itself. For years the family had opened it for tours each April, and I’d visited it with a school group. When Skip Denton married Victoria and she moved in, she stopped the tours.
Tyrone looked up in amazement. “What a fortress. Does it have a dungeon?”
“No. Only a resident witch.”
Tyrone laughed, and I decided I’d better practice what I preached.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. She can be difficult, but she’s also having a hard time. The Scottie dog she adored died recently, and she’s still mourning the loss. Remember, she’s also being forced to sell a place she loves. That has to be awful.”
“The place looks haunted. It’s not, is it?”
“No. It just needs the right buyer to appreciate it. Our challenge is to make the outside welcoming and transform the inside into something bright, breezy, and beautiful.”
Tyrone eyed the gray stone dubiously. “You mean instead of dark, dank, and detestable?”
“You could say that. I’m looking forward to how it will look when we finish.”
I parked in front of a garage that had once housed carriage horses. “I’ve already met with Victoria and made suggestions. If we can pull it off, it’ll mean future business for me and more tuition money for you.” If we can’t, Monica Heller can say I told you so. I was determined not to let that happen.
We climbed the steps to the large stone porch. Dried leaves covering the floor and the remains of a dead chrysanthemum standing sentinel next to the front door did little to make a good first impression. We would definitely have to do something to make the entrance more welcoming.
Before we could ring the bell, the door flew open. Victoria Denton stood in front of us, a frown creating deep furrows on her face. She had been attractive once, but years of discontent had drained the liveliness from her manner and etched a permanent scowl on her face.
“You’re late.” She waved us in with a hand weighed down with four clunky rings and a cigarette. As she led us through the foyer, she paused and ground her half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray atop a mahogany table. I admired the beautiful inlaid wood on the tabletop but cringed at the burn marks surrounding the ashtray. A strong smell of smoke and what might be fried fish hit me. I made a mental note to add air fresheners to my shopping list. People became accustomed to the smell of their own home, which could put off prospective buyers.
We followed Victoria into the living room, where she sank into an overstuffed, flowered sofa that enveloped her petite figure. Ignoring us, she picked up the framed photo of a dog from the nearby table, caressing the photo gently before replacing it.
Tyrone whispered, “Should we sit down?
“If we wait for an invitation, we could be standing here all day,” I whispered back and took a seat.
Tyrone struggled to keep a straight face as he gazed at the large collection of Royal Doulton and Hummel figurines and other knickknacks that covered every surface, along with a thick layer of dust. Heavy dark draperies covered the windows and beat back any sunlight trying to get in.
Victoria pointed to Tyrone. “So, who’s this, your moving man?”
“This is my assistant, Tyrone Webster.”
“That name rings a bell.” Victoria eyed Tyrone critically. “How old is he? Nineteen, twenty?” When I nodded, she said, “At his age, how much experience can he have?”
“Enough to help you sell this place.” I tried to hide my irritation as she spoke about Tyrone as though he weren’t there. “He’s studying design at Fischer College and also has experience designing theatre sets for the Louiston Players.”
“As I’ve mentioned before, I’m moving to Florida and want to sell this place. Quickly. It’s fine the way it is, but my real estate agent and my ex-husband ganged up on me to stage the house as they called it.”
I leaned forward. “In this market, staging will—”
“Watch that vine,” she shouted. “Carlos, if one of your men ruins my wisteria, I’m going to report your workers to immigration officials.” She slammed the French doors and turned to face us. “It took me years to train that wisteria. I’m not going to have a peasant cutting it off at the bottom with a Weed Wacker.” She sank back onto the sofa and placed her still-burning cigarette on the lip of the astray.
Tyrone looked stunned. I had experience with Victoria’s viper tongue, but he only knew her by reputation.
“Since I can’t move out while you do your staging thing, try not to be disruptive.”
I watched Tyrone turn away from Victoria and roll his eyes, doing exactly what I’d told him not to do. Young people and their eye rolling. He saw the warning look I gave him and mouthed, “Sorry.”
Victoria stood abruptly. “If we’re finished here, I’ll be in the library upstairs. I’m expecting someone from Hamilton Real Estate soon. Please let him in when he comes.” She left the room, leaving her cigarette burning.
I stubbed it out. “No sense letting the house burn down before we can stage it.”
Tyrone grimaced. “So much for being sensitive to her feelings.”
“Sorry, Tyrone. I need the business, but you shouldn’t be subjected to her rudeness.” I picked up a stack of magazines Victoria had knocked over. “Try to remember how hard leaving this house will be for her.”
If Victoria weren’t so unpleasant, I could almost feel sorry for her. Growing up in a less affluent section of town, she took great pride living in the grandest house in Louiston. If the rumors were true, Victoria had married Skip Denton more for the house than the relationship. The marriage had ended, and now she was going to lose the house as well.
Staging is Murder Page 1
