Color Me Murder

by Krista Davis

  I pawed through the top drawer of the desk for a piece of paper. The only tablet for notes was embossed with an elegant crest and the name MAXWELL. I tore off a sheet and jotted down the number, in case I needed to phone Ms. Strickland from home.

  She came on the line. “How’s Mr. DuBois?”

  I filled her in on his condition and thanked her for arranging the nursing staff and security. “Is there anything I can do for the professor? Call him, perhaps?”

  “He has limited access to the phone. But he takes great comfort in knowing that you’re taking care of business matters for him.”

  Fudging a little bit, I said, “I hear there’s a fellow around asking questions. A big guy with a tattoo of a butterfly on his arm?”

  Chapter 17

  “Interesting. Do you know his name?” asked Ms. Strickland.

  “You didn’t hire him?” My comfort in thinking he was working for her fizzled.

  “No. We use Simon Baker.”

  I didn’t want to be pushy but the professor was in jail. Time was of the essence here! “He hasn’t been around to talk with me yet.”

  “He’s probably working his police contacts first,” she said. “Keep me posted if anything else happens.”

  I assured her that I would, and hung up. I couldn’t help grinning a little bit. Just as Mr. DuBois watched too many true crime shows, I read too many mysteries. It made perfect sense that a private investigator would first tap his police contacts for information. They knew far more than I did. After all, they had collected fingerprints and DNA. They would get the autopsy results, too. The police were a far bigger font of information than DuBois or me. If only Zielony hadn’t made up his mind that Maxwell was guilty, the police would be out searching for the killer, too.

  I returned to the hot pavement between the two houses. No sign of the private investigator hired by Jacquie’s family. I wondered if her family would speak to me. But what would I ask? I couldn’t exactly inquire whether she was having midnight rendezvous with Maxwell or if she had killed Delbert. Then again, that private investigator did drop by. That had to mean something.

  At that very moment, I wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. But the sight of Felipe standing in the middle of a pile of parcels reminded me that I had to take care of the store.

  “Need a hand with these?” he asked, looking up at the sky. “They’re calling for a thunderstorm tonight. We need it. It’s been so dry that my wife’s vegetable garden is withering.”

  I unlocked the door. He petted a very enthusiastic Frodo, then helped me carry packages inside.

  “Felipe, is it possible to unlock a door without the key?”

  “You don’t have to worry, Florrie. I’m watching out for you. Someone will be here around the clock.”

  “Thanks. But I was thinking about the bookstore. There wasn’t any sign of a break-in. Not many people have the key, so I was wondering if it’s possible to get in without”—I exaggerated to make my point—“blowing the lock off the door with a gun.”

  He smiled at me. “It’s way too easy. Look up how to bump a lock on your computer.”

  I froze. “I hope you’re joking?”

  “Sorry. I wish I were. Of course, there are ways to pick a lock, too, but bumping is easy.”

  I thanked him for his help. If what he said were true, the field of suspects wasn’t as narrow as I originally thought.

  As soon as he left, I reached for my iPad and typed in How to bump a lock. Uh-oh. Turned out it was actually fairly easy to bump a lock. Who knew? It was probably common knowledge among the unsavory. With the help of a key that had been filed down, a quick bump on it followed by a swift turn could open almost any lock.

  There was still the matter of the alarm password, though. Assuming Maxwell hadn’t forgotten to turn the alarm on when he left that night.

  Taking a deep breath, I phoned Bob and Helen to let them know that the store would be reopening. Bob was delighted. Helen took it more calmly. I wondered if she were sorry her brief vacation would come to an end. She didn’t even ask about Maxwell.

  That done, I unpacked the books that had arrived and phoned the people for whom we had special-ordered them.

  It was past the dinner hour when I finished. And I still needed to come up with a clever reopening idea. I glanced at my sketch pad, longing for the days when I had had time to doodle.

  Eureka! A coloring extravaganza. Why not? We could give away adult and children’s coloring books, colored pencils, and crayons as prizes. I phoned Helen again and asked if she would like to do a special Saturday morning book reading for children. When she agreed, I sent out colorful emails to the people who had signed up for our mailing list about children’s events.

  Now for the adults. We could do the same sort of thing, but we needed something to pull in the more intellectually inclined. I checked my email. Emily Branscom’s agent had sent me her phone number, saying Emily would be delighted to sign at Color Me Read and that I should contact her to make arrangements.

  I phoned Emily, who was thrilled to come to the store on Saturday afternoon, in spite of the short notice.

  A crack of thunder sent Frodo running to my side. The garden had grown dark and a little spooky. Rain pelted the leaves.

  Unlike Frodo, Peaches didn’t care. She looked out at the storm, her eyes darting to the drops that hit the glass.

  I rubbed Frodo’s ears and murmured comforting words, but I was thinking that the grand reopening was coming together nicely. If only Delbert’s murder could be solved so easily.

  The thunderstorm continued. I hoped it would abate soon for Frodo’s sake. He became a Velcro dog when I went to the kitchen to make dinner. The fridge was beginning to look sparse. I noted that I really needed to stop by the farmers’ market for some goodies.

  But for tonight, I had some chicken tenders to sauté. Frodo remained with me through the entire cooking process, occasionally sticking his nose between my knees in desperation.

  I made a salad for myself, and added some chopped chicken tenders to Frodo and Peaches’s dinners. Not surprisingly, the storm didn’t dampen Frodo’s appetite.

  At nine o’clock, the storm still raged. I longed to go to bed, but felt obligated to check on Mr. DuBois first. I didn’t dare leave Frodo alone in his hysteria. I latched a leash on his collar and dashed across the driveway through driving rain.

  I had my key at the ready. We were inside the mansion in a matter of minutes, albeit damp on arrival.

  The light was on in the kitchen but no one was there. I found the nurse in Mr. DuBois’s room, changing a bandage on his leg.

  “He must have scraped his leg when he fell,” she said. “It’s a fairly nasty wound.”

  The bandage she removed was hideous. The injury had to ache unbearably.

  She placed a fresh bandage over the wound. Mr. DuBois didn’t flinch. In fact, his eyes were closed.

  “Has he wakened at all?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. He had a lovely bowl of soup for dinner.” She walked past me and whispered, “Don’t let him tell you he didn’t like it. He ate every bite.”

  She left the shadowy room. It was lighted by a single lamp in a corner, which made it possible to see, but the room remained dim. I presumed that was to encourage sleep and calm. The drapes on the French doors had been opened. Rain pitter-pattered outside. It was a soothing sound that made me want to curl up in a chair and read.

  I walked closer to Mr. DuBois. “Are you awake?” I whispered. Frodo neared the bed, wagging his tail and sniffing curiously.

  At the precise moment that a bolt of lightning filled the air with light, Mr. DuBois seized my hand and sat bolt upright. “The ghost!” he wheezed.

  Chapter 18

  I screamed.

  Frodo stuck his nose between my legs and whined.

  Mr. DuBois’s fingers grasped my hand like talons. “The ghost,” he repeated.

  Collecting myself, I spoke as soothingly as I could. “There’s no ghos
t. It’s just a thunderstorm. Look, Frodo came to visit you.”

  Frodo was in no mood to be friendly. He was intent on crawling under the bed.

  I patted Mr. DuBois’s hand, which felt like a vise. “How are you feeling?”

  “There’s someone in the house.”

  “That’s your nurse. She’s taking care of you.” I smiled at him in what I hoped was a reassuring manner.

  “You don’t understand. I saw it. I saw the ghost.”

  He spoke with such conviction that I wondered if there was a story about a ghost in the mansion. The building was a couple hundred years old. Someone had probably died there along the way.

  “What ghost?”

  He sagged back against the pillows, as if he had spent all the energy he had. “Here. In . . . house . . .”

  DuBois’s grip on my hand relaxed, and his eyes closed. His breathing became regular. He was asleep again.

  I felt certain he was confusing the nurse with a ghost. Sort of certain. Maybe he was hallucinating?

  I tugged on Frodo, who had managed to wedge his head and shoulders under the bed. We were in the hall outside the door, when I heard, “Help! Help me!”

  I turned around. Mr. DuBois twisted in his bed, flailing the arm that was bound in a cast.

  I rushed back to his side. “I’m here. It’s Florrie. You’re going to be fine.”

  He relaxed a little but gazed at me with wild eyes. “Beware of the ghost.”

  His eyes closed, and he fell asleep again.

  Wow. I had never seen anyone act like that. I was glad I wasn’t the nurse who would be dealing with his hysteria all night long.

  Frodo and I slipped out of the room. The nurse was making tea in the kitchen.

  “Are you sure Mr. DuBois is all right?” I asked. “He seems a little confused.”

  “He still has morphine in his system, and he’s on some powerful drugs to stave off the pain.”

  I lowered my voice in case he could hear. “That scrape on his leg looked awful!”

  She nodded. “Elderly people often have very thin skin that tears easily. Imagine how that would hurt.”

  “So it’s okay for him to be delusional?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s all right, but it’s to be expected. Have you ever had morphine?”

  “No.”

  “They gave it to me once in the hospital. It was the strangest feeling. I would mean to say one thing and something else entirely would come out. My husband nearly divorced me when I said I was waiting for the pilot to come. I had dated a pilot before him, and he thought that I was waiting for my old boyfriend to come to visit me! What I was trying to say was I’m waiting for the doctor to come.” She laughed aloud, her double chin wiggling. “That was the angriest my husband has ever been with me. It took a lot of smoothing over to convince him that it was the morphine that was talking.”

  She eyed me. “Did Mr. DuBois mention a ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  She gazed around the kitchen. “These old houses often have them. But don’t worry, sweetheart, I haven’t seen it. I think it’s just the drugs in his system. Give him a day or two to come around. A break is a very big deal for the elderly. It takes a toll on them initially. But he’ll get better in time.”

  That was a relief. I wished her a good night and rushed across the driveway with Frodo before another clap of thunder or lightning strike could freak him out.

  It was a little bit early for bedtime, but I was bushed. I made sure all the doors were locked, and now that I knew about bumping a lock, I wedged a chair under the handle of the front door in addition to throwing the bolt. That left all the French doors, but I didn’t have enough chairs to do that to all of them. And we had security looking out for us anyway.

  I trudged up the stairs thinking about the trapdoor in the bookstore stairs. There wasn’t room for one here. The stairs were broad and not quite circular, though they curved as they went up. In a way, it was surprising that the stairwell was so large. But there were no landings for trapdoors.

  I fell into bed with Peaches and Frodo and didn’t wake until the sun shone again.

  * * *

  In the morning, I baked a quick bread with fresh raspberries. When it came out of the oven, I let it cool while I made a reopening sign for Color Me Read.

  My hot coffee in hand, I sent out press releases to the local newspapers about the reopening, and updated the store website. I placed a few orders for the giveaway items we would need on Saturday and for extra copies of Emily’s book. Everything should arrive by Friday.

  That done, I drizzled a white vanilla glaze over the quick bread. I cut a slice for my breakfast and fed Frodo and Peaches.

  Dressed in denim shorts and a salmon-colored sleeveless top, I set off with Frodo to run errands. I carried the sign carefully in my hand, and took along a couple of expandable shopping bags, as well as some of the quick bread for Jim.

  We headed for the print shop first to have the sign laminated. Once it was sturdier, I picked up coffee for Jim on the way to the bookstore.

  Once again, Frodo acted like Jim was an old pal. Jim looked so scruffy to me, but Frodo was convinced there was a great guy underneath that rough exterior.

  I handed Jim his coffee and quick bread. He ignored them and concentrated on Frodo.

  While they exchanged affection, I swapped the new sign for the old one. I peered into the store. No sign of any activity.

  I returned to Jim. “Where did you weather the storm last night?”

  “Under the overpass. Need to find a new place. It gets too crowded these days. All sorts of doubtful characters show up to take refuge. Thanks for the coffee and breakfast. And for bringing Frodo by.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but maybe he knew about these things. “Jim, have you ever heard of bumping a lock?”

  He gave me a surprised look. “You think that’s how somebody got inside the bookstore?”

  “Is it a possibility?” I asked. “Is it common knowledge?”

  He resumed stroking Frodo’s neck. “Most street people respect doors and boundaries. But, yeah, folks know about it. You want me to try it on the bookstore?”

  “You have a filed down key?”

  “Not right now.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “I’ve used ’em before. They’re easy to make.”

  “Thanks for offering to test the locks, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I had never heard of bumping and wondered if everyone knew about it.”

  “It’s known among certain people. Probably not your friends, though.”

  “The bookstore is opening again tomorrow.”

  “’Bout time. The cops haven’t been in there for two days. It will feel better when things get back to normal around here.”

  It would feel better for all of us. I waved and strolled leisurely toward the farmers’ market. It was a feast for the eyes. Would a farmers’ market sketch be appropriate in a garden book?

  Frodo and I paused as we entered. The colors and scents awed me. Red, yellow, and green peppers. The rich purples of eggplant. All the shades of green in string beans and various types of lettuce. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries. I gathered them up as though I was ravenous for color.

  “Florrie! Florrie!” Zsazsa waved at me and beckoned me to her.

  She petted Frodo immediately. “Hello, sweet darlink. What a good boy you are! Florrie, did you see these tomatoes? The golden ones with red running through them are always the best. I’ll make you a tomato tart.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It would be my pleasure. I’m so happy that the bookstore will be open again. I’ve been off my stride since it closed. I was very pleased to see that Emily Branscom will be the featured speaker on Saturday. I love hearing her talk about the little secrets of Washington.” Zsazsa winked at me. “She’s pretty good at keeping secrets.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Emily’s husband has been quite public
about her affair. Didn’t you know? They’re separated. But no one knows the identity of her lover.” Zsazsa picked up a cucumber. “These are so refreshing on hot summer days. Have you tried the farm-fresh eggs? You must!” She slid a dozen into my bag, and I paid for them.

  “Then how do you know she’s having an affair?”

  “Her husband has blabbed about it to everyone. Maybe he hopes someone will reveal the identity of the other man?” She picked up a bundle of fresh parsley. “Anything new on Delbert’s murder?”

  I told her what had happened to Mr. DuBois.

  She forgot all about the herbs. “No! The poor man. I shall bring him some of my homemade chicken soup.” Zsazsa reached for an onion and a bunch of carrots with the greens still on them. “So unfortunate. I am meeting with Bankhouse and Goldblum later today. We must consider the implications of this new development. Would you like to come?”

  I told her I would try, but made no promises. We both bought some cheeses. By that time, my bags bulged with as much as I could carry, and I was eager to head home.

  Felipe sat outside in the driveway on a lawn chair with a cooler beside him talking with Sergeant Jonquille, who said, “Hi, Florrie. I hear you had an uneventful night.”

  “Pretty much. Could I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” His brow creased and his concern was endearing.

  I wanted to like him. Why couldn’t he understand that Maxwell hadn’t murdered Delbert? “Maxwell’s second wife is missing. Her name is Jacquie Liebhaber. Do you know anything about that? She lives somewhere in Washington.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I heard about it. Never came home on Saturday. No one has any idea where she went.”

  I gasped as I made a connection. “Like Agatha Christie!”

  Jonquille tilted his head.

  “She disappeared. I think she turned up in a hotel in London. I’m not sure. But she was fine. She just took off without telling anyone. Do you think that’s what Jacquie did?”

  “I didn’t know that about Agatha Christie. You think Jacquie could be doing the same thing as a publicity stunt?”

  “I hope not. But I don’t know her personally. I don’t know if that’s the kind of crazy thing she might do. There are no leads? No signs of abduction?”