Staging is Murder

by Grace Topping

  Feeling desperate to get away, I turned down Tenth Street, my hands shaking so badly I could barely steer, and aimed my car toward the police station. When I reached the station, I planned to jump out and run inside to escape the maniac following me. Abruptly, the other car turned right onto a side street and disappeared.

  Thoroughly shaken, I pulled into an empty space in the Burger King parking lot under a streetlight and sat there, trying to control myself. What had happened? Had a college kid gotten bored and decided to annoy one of the local residents? Or had I accidentally cut off an enraged drunk driver who had decided to take revenge on me? If so, whoever it was had succeeded in terrorizing me.

  I considered reporting the incident to the police but knew it wouldn’t do any good. The heavy rain and bright lights from behind had prevented me from seeing the driver or the make of the car. Without the information, the police couldn’t do anything. I would decide in the morning whether to make a report or not. Tonight, I couldn’t handle it.

  My hands still shook and my heart was pounding as though I’d stepped off a roller coaster. After resting there for a few more minutes, I became calm enough to drive home. Driving sheets of rain continued to pound against my windshield like waves hitting the shore, and I drove slowly, the route taking twice as long as usual. When I reached home and parked in the driveway, I rested my head on the steering wheel, still trying to calm myself. Getting out of the car, I checked the back of it for damage, but the bumper of the old Corolla I had inherited from my mother already had so many dents it was hard to tell if any of them were new. I thought longingly of the Volvo I had sold to help finance my start-up staging business.

  Letting myself into the house, I leaned against the locked door, wishing I’d installed an alarm system, or at least a half dozen deadbolts. After dropping my purse and tote bag, I dashed from window to window to ensure they were locked and pulled down the shades. Could someone have followed me home? I peeked between the curtains of the front window and saw no strange cars on the street. Only then did I start to relax.

  I let out a deep breath, kicked off my shoes, and shrugged out of my jacket. The radiator was hot to the touch, but I still shivered with cold. I wrapped a wool afghan around myself and collapsed into a deep lounge chair. Even with Inky cuddled up next to me purring, I failed to get warm.

  When I continued to shake, I got up and walked over to the cabinet where I stored bottles of spirits. There was only one—a bottle of cream sherry I kept on hand to use in a special chicken dish and to serve an elderly aunt at Christmas time. Oh well, it would have to do. It would at least help warm me. I poured myself a small serving and slowly sipped the sweet drink, letting it warm my body and relieve my shakes. I didn’t usually turn to alcohol, but tonight’s experience had left me needing something to calm my frazzled nerves. Hot chocolate or tea wouldn’t do it.

  Inky’s meowing reminded me I still needed to take care of him. As much as I didn’t want to move, I dragged myself to the kitchen and put out food and fresh water for him. The sound of scraping outside startled me and caused my heart to pound. When the sound continued, I realized it was only tree limbs hitting the house since the wind and rain were still in a fury.

  Exhaustion overcame me. Without thinking, I crawled into bed, fully clothed. It had been that kind of night.

  Chapter 18

  Consider slipcovers to camouflage old or worn upholstered furniture. Attractive throws or afghans can also help.

  Inky’s paws stroking my face woke me the next morning. It took me a while to get my eyes open and focused since I was feeling disoriented. When I swung my feet over the side of the bed, my neck ached and I rubbed it, trying to relieve the discomfort. Not finding my bathrobe at the end of the bed, I looked down and saw, in surprise, I was still fully dressed. The memory of the previous night’s experience came flooding back.

  In the light of day, I wondered whether the experience had been as bad as I thought at the time. After all, it had been a dark and rainy night. Could I have overreacted? But, with memories of being flung backward and then forward when the car rammed into my bumper, I knew I hadn’t overreacted. It was no wonder my neck and back ached. Weighed down by my worries about Tyrone and all the things I needed to do that day, I pushed aside memories of the incident.

  The clock on my bedside table showed it was after ten. I couldn’t believe I’d slept through my alarm, if I even remembered to set it. Thankfully, Inky had woken me. Otherwise, I might have slept until much later.

  Maybe it was the cream sherry. It sounded innocuous enough, but the sweet, potent drink, much favored by little old ladies in Regency romance novels, could sneak up on an unwary drinker. The little I sipped had been on an empty stomach, as my growling stomach reminded me.

  After feeding Inky, I showered quickly and rummaged through my closet for something appropriate to wear for my lunch with Connie Stockdale. Connie had worked at Hamilton Real Estate Agency for years. Nita and I had arranged to meet her at the Orangery so we could ask her about the Hamiltons.

  The spicy scent of cedar met me when I opened my closet door. I pulled my favorite jeans from the crammed closet and then immediately put them back with disappointment. The Orangery wasn’t the type of place to wear jeans.

  Settling on an apple green cowl neck sweater and a black pencil skirt, I quickly dressed and began gathering the things I would need later at the Denton house, including work clothes to change into when I got there.

  As I walked into the living room for my purse, I noticed the light blinking on the answering machine and pressed Play.

  “Hello, sweetheart, this is Will Parker from up on Lookout Hill. I thought about what you asked me. I need to talk to you about something that keeps nagging at me. Come see me along Battlement Drive tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Remembering his flirtatious sweetheart endearment and wicked smile when I met him, I wondered if he was just using this as an excuse for a chat. What a character.

  Because of my plans to meet Connie, I knew I might not make it to Lookout Hill while he was still there. Since Connie traveled frequently, I didn’t want to reschedule our meeting. My watch told me I had just enough time to drop off Inky for his scheduled vet appointment, pick up Nita from the dental clinic, and get to the restaurant on time. My conversation with Will would have to wait.

  I raced into the dental clinic, trying to catch my breath. I definitely needed to get more exercise. The waiting room, with its numerous mismatched upholstered chairs, was empty.

  “Hi, there,” Nita called from behind the reception desk. She studied me critically when I came closer. “What have you been doing? You look like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck that backed up to finish you off. Are you okay?”

  “Thanks. You certainly know how to make a girl feel great.” I studied myself in a mirror behind the reception desk and frowned at my reflection. “I’ll tell you about it on the way. Are you ready?”

  “I have to wait for Dr. M’s last patient for today to come out. Tell me now.”

  I recounted the previous evening’s events, trying not to make them sound melodramatic.

  “I can’t believe anyone in this town would do that. That’s awful. Did you report it to the police?”

  “I couldn’t see a thing and wouldn’t be able to give them any information to act on.” The memory of the previous evening’s events still sent shivers down my spine.

  I looked in the mirror again and patted down my flyaway hair. “By the way, I may have to rush through our lunch with Connie. I need to get up to Battlement Drive this afternoon to meet Will Parker.”

  “Will Parker? Who’s he again?” Nita asked.

  “The man who picks up trash along Battlement Drive. I talked to Will after Victoria was murdered and asked him if he had seen anything that evening. He left a message on my answering machine saying he recalled something and wan
ts to tell me about it. He could be using it as an excuse for a little chat, but you never know.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Nita,” said a voice from behind us.

  Nita and I turned to find Dr. M and Doug Hamilton standing there waiting for Nita to take Doug’s chart and handle his bill. I jumped in surprise at seeing Doug and inadvertently stepped on his foot. When I stumbled trying to move away, Doug grabbed my arm to steady me. Our gazes met momentarily, and heat spread up my neck and face.

  “Hello, ladies.” He smiled, releasing my arm.

  His white teeth were gleaming even more brightly than before, if it were possible. Why did he have to look like a movie star?

  “Are you next to see Dr. Malcolm, Laura?” Doug asked.

  “No. I’m here to pick up Nita. We’re meeting a friend for lunch. I’ll get the car. Sorry, Doug. We’re running late.” Abruptly, I turned and raced from the building toward my car, thankful he had to settle his bill and wouldn’t be following right behind me. Why did he make me so nervous? It was that handsome man syndrome.

  I backed out of my parking place and pulled over to the curb near the dental clinic entrance, hoping Doug wouldn’t walk in our direction.

  Nita got in and fastened her seatbelt. “What’s with you and Doug Hamilton? You ran off like a scared rabbit.”

  “I don’t know. It’s stupid, but you know how good-looking men make me uncomfortable. It started in high school when I fell in front of the three best-looking guys in the freshman class and they laughed at me. Then there was Derrick and his unfaithfulness. Plus, my mother always believed if my dad hadn’t been so attractive, she wouldn’t have had so many problems. It seems any time I’ve had a difficult time in life, a good-looking man was always involved.”

  “Maybe you’ve been surrounded by too many men with good looks. If you were an ugly duckling, I could understand it. You make half the men you come across feel awkward with your looks—nice figure, green eyes, blonde highlighted hair—”

  “To conceal some gray that’s creeping in.”

  “Nevertheless, I see men watching you, and it definitely isn’t because they feel sorry for you. Stop judging men by their appearance. Women usually accuse men of doing that.”

  “I’m not.” I frowned again. It was becoming a habit.

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing. Not all men with good looks are like your dead husband, your dad, or the kids in high school. Some are real creeps, but there are also good ones out there. Look at my Guido. He’s a good-looker.”

  “You’re right. It’s a hang-up I have.” I clutched the steering wheel harder.

  “Promise me you’ll work on it.”

  “I promise.” I crossed my fingers. “But Doug Hamilton is still a suspect, and not because he’s handsome.”

  Nita threw up her hands. “I give up.”

  Chapter 19

  Evaluate the artwork hanging in each room to ensure it enhances the look of the room. Artwork too big or too small for a space, or hung too high or too low, can detract from a room’s charm or appeal.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Orangery. At one time the building had housed a German restaurant but was now a quaint English-style teashop that had opened on the outskirts of town a few months earlier. Its whitewashed walls, exposed beams, and open fireplace provided the perfect atmosphere for a teashop. I loved the place, but I itched to rearrange the English cottage prints on the wall hung too high.

  The teashop had been slow to attract patrons since most area residents were used to fast-food restaurants or local ethnic eateries and didn’t understand the allure of having tea with little sandwiches, scones, and cookies. I frequented it as often as I could to help them stay in business until word got out what a charming place it was. But now with my tight budget, I couldn’t go as often as I would like. The atmosphere was gentle and relaxing and a reminder of a bygone era when presentation was every bit as important as what was being served.

  Nita and I spotted Connie Stockdale waiting for us at a round table in the corner, one bordered by rows of racks holding ornate Victorian-style hats patrons were welcome to wear to get into the spirit of the place. The Orangery was a favorite gathering place for members of the Red Hat Society, providing them with an ideal setting for their luncheons.

  I judged Connie to be well over seventy, but she had the energy of a woman far younger. She’d worked for Phillip Hamilton for a number of years and had recently retired so she and her sister could travel more. They had just returned from visiting Machu Picchu in Peru, and I could only marvel at how they had been able to tour the rugged mountain terrain at their age. Their example again piqued my interest in traveling.

  I’d always wanted to travel but had been married first to Derrick, who didn’t like to travel, and then to my career in IT, which had kept me extremely busy. I once planned a long trip through Europe and had even gotten a passport. About the same time, I met Derrick, who swept me off my feet, promising that if I cancelled my trip and married him, he would take me to Europe in style one day—when we became more established. Foolishly, because I couldn’t bear to be separated from him, I’d gone along with his plan. Of course, we had never become established enough to satisfy Derrick. Later, as he had become more occupied with golf, work, and other women—in that order—my passport had expired without a stamp in it.

  After we caught up on Connie’s recent trip and studied the menu, we placed our order for a full English cream tea. Soon afterward, a waitress clad in a black Victorian bombazine dress and voile apron returned, balancing a tray laden with pots of fragrant tea and a three-tiered tray heaped with sandwiches, scones with thick cream, and pastries almost too pretty to eat. Pieces of chopped egg, delicately coated with mayonnaise and bits of watercress, spilled from between tiny, diamond-shaped slices of bread. We stared at the selection, not knowing where to start—everything looked delicious.

  The waitress hovered close by in case we ran out of food or tea soon, which wasn’t likely to happen.

  Nita selected one of the sandwiches trimmed of its crust. “Okay, Connie, we want the dirt on Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Nita.” I looked up startled, shaking my head at my friend’s lack of finesse.

  “What? Okay. You handle it.” Nita appeared oblivious to my discomfort and continued to munch on her sandwich of sharp Cheddar cheese.

  “Connie, we don’t mean to be nosy, but we need to know something about what happened to Mr. Hamilton’s business after he had his stroke,” I explained. “I’m trying to determine if Victoria Denton was involved in any way.”

  “Why would you think Mr. Hamilton was involved with Victoria Denton?” Connie asked with some surprise.

  “She may not have been.” I paused. “How can I put this delicately—”

  “She wants to see if Mr. Hamilton or Doug had a motive for murdering Victoria,” Nita interrupted again.

  Connie choked on her tea and coughed several times. She caught her breath and wiped her eyes. “You think they murdered Victoria Denton?” She looked at us, making me squirm in my seat. “Okay, Lucy and Ethel, have you two been sniffing laughing gas at the dental clinic?”

  “I know it sounds crazy.” I was embarrassed at how bizarre it sounded. “But I’m trying to do whatever I can to prove Tyrone Webster didn’t murder Victoria. To do so, I’ve got to find out who did. Or raise enough questions that might steer the police toward another suspect.”

  “But why suspect the Hamiltons?” The expression on Connie’s face could have been total disbelief or amusement. It was hard to tell.

  “Yes, why the Hamiltons?” echoed Nita, reaching for a scone, which she liberally spread with thick cream and jam.

  “I don’t suspect them per se.” How could I explain without sounding like a total idiot? “I’m looking at everyone who had any connection to Victoria recently. When I heard Doug was helping at the agency beca
use of bad decisions his father made, I wondered whether Victoria could have been involved with any of them. If so, whether she could have promised to list her house with them on the condition Doug remained quiet about what he may have discovered about her.”

  Nita stared at the flower arrangement on the table, as though imagining herself elsewhere, while I continued fidgeting in my chair uncomfortably. I decided to make it easy on Connie, even if I still strongly suspected Doug. “I would like to be able to eliminate them as suspects.”

  Connie had a gentle nature and was too polite to tell us we were idiots. She reached over and patted my hand. “What you’re trying to do is admirable, but you’re misguided suspecting the Hamiltons. I worked for Mr. Hamilton for a good number of years and you couldn’t find a more honorable man.”

  “But honorable men often do foolish things and then compound it by doing something equally foolish to cover it up. Could that have happened to him after his stroke? Could he have had any business dealings with Victoria besides listing her house? Please, Connie, I know you’re being loyal and don’t want to reveal his business affairs, but I need to see if they could have any relevance to the murder. I’m trying to help Tyrone.” This was going worse than I had expected.

  Connie poured herself another cup of Earl Grey tea and paused for a long moment studying us. “Okay, I’ll give you a bit of information, which may have absolutely nothing to do with anything, but you can’t tell a soul where you heard it.” The older woman slowly sipped her tea, in no rush to divulge the information. Nita and I leaned forward, anxious to hear what she had to say.