I stood in the doorway of a classroom at Holy Spirit School and smiled at the small, gray-haired nun sitting at a large oak desk, nearly hidden by stacks of papers. It was after school hours, but I knew I would find Sister Madeleine still there, preparing for the next day’s lessons. On impulse, I decided to talk to her about my promise to Mrs. Webster. It might be unusual to consult a nun about murder, but Sister Madeleine wasn’t your typical nun.
Sister Madeleine had been a very young nun when she taught me, and she always had a special fondness for the young girl whose mother had been less than attentive. She had been the one who promoted the friendship between Nita and me, hoping the large and loving Romano family would take me into their hearts. Over the years, Sister Madeleine and I developed a longtime friendship, partly fed by our mutual love of mystery novels.
As a youngster, I’d been shocked to discover Sister Madeleine enjoyed mysteries. A nun reading about murder!
“Do you think we only read religious works?” Sister Madeleine had asked me. “That would leave us awfully lacking in entertainment. What might be shocking is a nun who writes murder mysteries. Maybe I will try my hand at that someday.” Over the years, Sister Madeleine had passed along mysteries to me, and I’d become an avid reader.
Now, hearing my question, Sister Madeleine looked up from her desk, a wide smile at the sight of me. “I always have time for a mystery.”
I sat down in a miniature desk chair, which was far too small for my tall frame to fit comfortably. “I have to find a murderer.”
Sister Madeleine smiled. “Any murderer in particular?”
“The one who killed Victoria Denton.”
“Ah. I read about her death in the paper. Tragic affair.” She straightened a stack of folders on her desk, took off her wire-framed glasses, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “And why are you taking on this task? Are the police not investigating it?”
I explained Tyrone’s situation and his grandmother’s plea for help. “For some reason, Mrs. Webster has faith in my ability to help Tyrone. I promised her I’d do whatever I could, but I don’t know where to start. Not that I expect you would…”
“Would what? Know how to expose a murderer? I’m not sure I’d know either. Look, Laura, it’s admirable you want to help Tyrone, but getting involved could be risky—and stupid.” Sister Madeleine was never one to mince words.
She scrutinized me with an intensity that never failed to intimidate her students. “I also have the feeling I would be wasting my breath trying to talk you out of it.”
I sighed and nodded. “You’re right, but I have to do something, no matter how little.”
Sister Madeleine picked up a stack of folders. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have a meeting with a parent I cannot miss. Walk with me and we’ll discuss it on the way.”
I followed her down a corridor lined with student drawings. The building looked very much as it had when I attended school there and still smelled of crayons.
“It may not help, but you could start by asking yourself what Father Brown would do.”
I quickened my pace to keep up with the older nun. “Father Brown? I don’t remember him. Was he at this parish?”
“No.” Sister Madeleine smiled. “Father Brown of the mystery series by G. K. Chesterton.”
“That Father Brown. It’s been a long time since I read that series.”
“Great books, even if a bit dated now. Father Brown had a keen understanding of human nature. He was like a clerical Miss Marple and solved crimes by following his intuition. So, for a start, trust your intuition.” Sister Madeleine paused at the door leading to the school library. “He also recognized people sometimes become boxed in and kill out of sheer desperation. Look for the person around Victoria Denton who became desperate.”
Chapter 10
Remove all evidence of pets. Some buyers won’t consider a home with pets. To ensure the comfort and safety of your pet, find a place for Fifi to stay on the day of open house.
The next day seemed unusually warm for spring, and greenery was beginning to pop out all over. As I drove down Battlement Drive, the beauty of the flowering dogwoods and blossoming cherry trees along the road washed over me, easing the tension that had started wearing me down. Their bright blossoms and other signs of spring renewal reminded me there’s always hope.
I needed a jolt of hope since my promise to Mrs. Webster weighed on my mind. Awakening before dawn, I’d tried to think of ways I could find Victoria’s killer. None of the mystery books I enjoyed for entertainment had prepared me for this.
Find the person who had become desperate. Thinking of Sister Madeleine’s advice about Father Brown, I wished now I’d paid more attention to the protagonists’ techniques in books by my favorite authors. What would Anne Perry’s Hester Latterly do in this situation?
As I approached the turnoff for Lookout Hill, I noticed an older man picking up litter along the roadside. I recognized him as the man I occasionally saw when I drove to the Denton house. It would have been hard to forget him with his low-slung jeans, beat-up cowboy hat, and green plaid jacket that reminded me of the upholstery on my grandfather’s Barcalounger. With his weathered face and western-style clothing, he looked like he would have been more at home in Texas than in a small town on the East Coast.
On a whim, I pulled over, turned off the engine, and stepped out onto the gravel shoulder. Might as well get started. I wasn’t quite sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I had to start somewhere with my investigation. At this point, any information I could gather from anyone remotely near the Denton house might help. Also, this way I could honestly report to Mrs. Webster I’d started making inquiries. Though, knowing Mrs. Webster, I was certain she would expect detailed reports.
“Hello, there.” I tiptoed gingerly toward the man, not wanting to slip on the gravel. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
The man stopped what he was doing and watched me approach. He patted the dog beside him, and the dog sat obediently at his feet. I eyed the Brittany Spaniel and wondered whether it was safe to approach. He might smell Inky and jump at me. My childhood experience of being chased by a Boxer had left me wary of all dogs. Fortunately, this dog looked more interested in taking a quick nap than in me.
“Well, sure, sweetheart, I’d be happy to talk with you.” The old man had a bit of the Southwest in his voice. He took off his hat politely, revealing grizzled hair and a weathered face with deep lines that spoke of a lifetime working in harsh weather. The way he looked me up and down and the twinkle in his eyes let me know he approved of what he saw.
Oh, dear. I hoped he didn’t think I was trying to pick him up. I cringed at the thought. “I’m Laura Bishop. I’ve been working up at the Denton house on Lookout Hill getting it ready for sale.” I pointed to the hilltop.
“Read about the goings on up there.” He replaced his dusty hat and extended a rough hand. “Will Parker. I live down the road a bit with my daughter and her pack of kids.”
I shook his hand and then wished I hadn’t. My fingers ached from his crushing grip.
He leaned down and stroked his dog. “This here is Pinto, named after a pinto horse I once owned, because of the pattern on his fur.”
I refrained from petting the dog, even though he looked friendly, or as friendly as he could look, lying stretched out on the grass taking no notice of me. “I’ve seen you picking up litter on this road.” I stretched my fingers behind my back to ease the pain. “That’s civic-minded of you. Have you been doing it for long?”
“About a year. Somebody has to do it, or it’ll turn into a right mess. Besides, it keeps me busy now I’m retired. My girl, Claire, insisted I come East to live with her, saying I was getting too old to care for myself. A lot she knows. I mainly come out here to get away from the grandkids and to walk Pinto. The kids are too rambunctious, if you know what I mean.” He winked at me. “This here stretch of ro
ad belongs to me.”
“To you?” I was puzzled.
He pointed to the Adopt a Highway sign farther along the road inscribed with “Cowboy Will.”
“That’s me.” His wide grin showed his pleasure. “I was on the rodeo circuit before I came here.” At my lack of recognition, he shrugged. “Anyway, this here’s my road. I come along most days and gather up whatever trash has landed. Mostly it’s plastic bags or newspapers, but I’ll occasionally find a few beer cans the Harper boys toss out so as their folks won’t find them. If it gets to being more than a few, I’ll have a word with them.”
“Since you’re on this road most days, you must see what’s going on around here.”
“There’s not much I don’t see. I’ve watched you driving through here plenty of times, sometimes alone, sometimes with that kid.”
“Did you come along this road last Monday?”
“You mean the day the Denton woman was killed?” When I nodded, he paused, removed his hat, and scratched his head as though searching his memory. “I walked my route that day, but I don’t recall seeing anything out of the ordinary, maybe excepting those panel trucks parked up there.”
“That would’ve been the men working on the house. Did you see any cars you don’t usually see coming through this area?”
Will shook his head. “Right now, I don’t recall any. We don’t get much traffic up here. Mostly the local folks and a few motorcycles cutting through to the highway.” He looked as though he was about to say more but then changed his mind.
I rummaged in my tote bag for one of my business cards and handed it to him. “Listen, if you think of anything else, would you please call me? It’s important.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” He took the card, put it in the pocket of his plaid jacket, and then patted it. Grinning, he reached down and picked up the Yuengling beer bottle lying near our feet. “I’ll definitely call you.”
I got back in my car and locked the door, my intuition telling me that giving him my number might have been a big mistake.
Chapter 11
Before an open house, bake something with cinnamon or another fragrant spice. The smell of baking will make your home feel cozy and inviting.
When I arrived at the Denton house, I opened the door and peered inside, reluctant to enter. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the bright area before me. Thanks to Nita’s suggestion, the mirrors had transformed the foyer into a welcoming space and would now make a good first impression on buyers. Also, seeing their reflection in the mirror would help them visualize the house as their home.
I lifted my shoulders to steel myself for what I might find, walked in, and carefully locked the door behind me. Knowing the police and Skip had gone over the place from top to bottom helped me relax a bit. As I walked from room to room, I was relieved to find it in fairly good condition after the police crime scene investigation—I’d expected far worse. Black fingerprinting dust around the front door had been the first sign of things out of the ordinary. The police had dusted around the door handles and frames and on other surfaces throughout the house. I was thankful the dust they had liberally applied hadn’t been on the freshly painted walls.
Skip had pulled down the yellow crime scene tape earlier. Paper coffee cups and bags from Hibbard’s Bakery littered the kitchen table and counters, and furniture had been moved. For the most part, the place was pretty much as I’d left it. I didn’t know what condition the basement might be in, and I didn’t plan to find out. The memory of Victoria lying on the cold concrete floor still made me shake.
Continuing to walk through the house, I entered the living room. The paint job Nita’s brother Angelo and his crew had completed there almost transformed the home. The white wainscoting gave the living room and the dining room a fresh look that would work with both traditional and modern furniture. But even with that, there was still so much to do.
I got to work cleaning off the black fingerprinting dust throughout the house and found it came off with soap and water and a little pressure. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to ask Angelo to repaint areas he had already painted. He had enough to do.
As I worked, thoughts about the sale of the house filled my mind. Would having a murder committed in a house be something an owner must disclose to potential buyers? Or, for that matter, would Skip even be able to sell the house? It was turning out to be such a terrific place, and I couldn’t bear the thought of someone not having it to enjoy. Being the site of a murder would definitely turn off a lot of buyers. Whoever bought it would need to relocate the washer and dryer upstairs to avoid the basement. I couldn’t imagine doing laundry down there now.
I pulled my clipboard and work plan out of my tote bag. I needed to go through the house to determine where we were with the staging. It was then I realized there was no longer a we on the project. Now there was only me and whomever I could hire to help me. I really missed Tyrone.
If I were going to succeed in this business, I would run into all kinds of problems in the future and would need to develop some contingency plans, like finding back-up help. I couldn’t succeed as a one-woman show, at least not with big jobs like this one. Tyrone had helped with a lot of the heavier work, but if I got another commission soon, I would need to have someone fill in until Tyrone was free. Tyrone had a good eye for design, and I missed his contribution to the project and his company. It also helped that he was someone I could rely on.
The thought of Tyrone and my promise to Mrs. Webster depressed me. Taking a break from my work, I sat with my pen poised over a pad of paper, ready to write down ideas for solving the crime. After several minutes, the paper remained blank.
The door chimes sounded, and when I answered it, Nita was standing there holding a paper bag and a cup carrier. My relief at seeing her was so great I reached out and hugged her. Being in the house alone had proved to be as eerie as I’d expected.
“Wow. I haven’t received a greeting like that in a while. I guess I was right in thinking you might be feeling a little uneasy being here again, so I’ve brought lunch.” Nita held up the bag and walked inside. “And Vocaro’s coffee, although it isn’t as good as when Tyrone makes it. Everyone there misses him, especially Luigi. I also thought I’d take photos of your work in progress while I’m here.”
“Nita, you’re a jewel.” I exhaled in relief. “I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how I’m going to find Victoria’s killer, and I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I realized what I’d said and to whom.
“You’re going to do what?” Nita stared at me as though I’d morphed into another being.
“Find Victoria’s killer,” I mumbled, knowing that letting Nita in on this would be like opening Pandora’s box, only worse. She couldn’t keep a secret, no matter how hard she tried. She was like an open book, and what she knew, everybody knew.
“Are you joking? For a start, if the police can’t find the guilty person, and we know it isn’t Tyrone, how will you be able to?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I promised Mrs. Webster I would, or at least try. I also need to find the killer before the Quincy Scholarship Committee members make their selection. Tyrone applied for it, but they definitely won’t select him if he’s still in jail, and they’ll be making the decision in the next few weeks. Do you think the library carries a book on how to solve murders?”
“Try the internet. You can find anything there.” Nita removed the lid from her coffee cup and spread out the Greek salads and chocolate brownies she’d brought for lunch. Her surprise at my announcement hadn’t diminished her appetite.
I sipped my coffee and let out a sigh of contentment. “I needed this.” As I reached for the salad Nita brought, I realized how hungry I was.
“Don’t put me off.” Nita munched on her salad. “If you’re really serious, how do you expect to solve this cri
me?”
At least she hadn’t laughed at me. What a friend. “Well,” I paused, knowing I was going to sound totally inept. “In mystery novels, the protagonist usually starts by questioning all the people who had any dealings with the victim. So, today I conducted my first interview.” I relayed my conversation with Will Parker.
Nita paused with her fork in the air and studied me as though I was that other being again. “Listen, Laura, this isn’t Nancy Drew and her pals. With Tyrone in jail, the real killer is out there and doesn’t want to be found. This whole thing could endanger you.”
“That’s what Sister Madeleine said.”
Nita’s mouth fell open and she gave me a pained look. “You talked to Sister Madeleine, and this is the first time you’ve mentioned it to me.”
“I know. I went in to see her for a chat, and maybe a little guidance. I honestly didn’t think I would be able to discover much, so it wasn’t worth mentioning to you. I thought if I asked enough questions, I could shake up Victoria’s killer enough to make him reveal himself, hopefully to the police and not to me.
“Or herself. This is an equal opportunity crime. Besides, what kind of questions are you going to ask? ‘On Wednesday night, did you by any chance bonk Victoria Denton on the head and shove her into a laundry chute?’”
“I didn’t think about it being a woman.” I closed up my salad container and eyed the brownies. “See what an amateur I am at this. If it were a woman, she would’ve needed to be awfully strong to pick up Victoria and push her into the laundry chute.”
“That’s your first clue: must be strong enough to lift body and shove into chute.”
“At least we now have one clue. I’m going to need a bunch more to help Tyrone.” I bit into a brownie and savored its rich flavor and chewy texture, particularly enjoying the large chunks of walnuts. The brownie tasted so luscious I wasn’t surprised the early church fathers, thinking anything so good had to be sinful, had banned chocolate. It would be impossible for women today to survive without chocolate. I certainly couldn’t.
Staging is Murder Page 6
