Bed and Breakfast and Murder (Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Patti Larsen

  I never expected that response. “The man I followed here. Simon Jacob.” I glanced toward the door where the game was on despite my intrusion. I guess Malcolm would have dealt with me if he needed to. Gulp.

  Malcolm nodded once and snapped his fingers. Moments later one of the lumbering bullies returned from the game room with Simon in tow. The flower shop owner looked terrified and began stammering, ignoring me completely, before he even reached the table.

  “I have the money, I swear.” And that answered the second part of what Simon was into. Drugs and gambling, though that much had been obvious to me when I spotted him at the poker table. Still, confirmation he owed Malcolm didn’t hurt. “Pete promised he’d pay.”

  “Mr. Wilkins has met an untimely demise,” Malcolm said, soft and lilting. I really did like his accent, even if he intimidated the hell out of me.

  Wait, the way he said it. Did the Irishman have anything to do with…?

  Simon began to shake, tears in his eyes. “I’ll find the money, Mr. Murray. I swear.” So his story flipped with Pete’s death. Funny how easily his lie came out. Personally, if Malcolm asked me anything the last thing I’d try to do is deceive him. He seemed the kind of person who could dig out the truth with the right motivation, and money was a powerful motivator.

  Simon’s deep brown gaze flickered to me as if he only then realized I was there and his dark skin paled to ashen. “Don’t tell Terri,” he whispered.

  None of my business. “Tell me about the arrangement you had with Pete Wilkins.” I was feeling a bit more confident, Malcolm watching the exchange like this was the most fun he’d had all week.

  Simon shrugged. “I knew it wasn’t Dad’s signature on those papers,” he said. “But Pete heard about my problem.” He swallowed, looked to Malcolm who grinned at him like he’d be good to eat with some ketchup and a solid deep frying. “So Pete agreed to pay my debt if I’d keep my mouth shut about the fraud. And I’d pay him back from the funds from the store.”

  “So you ran the store for him.” I wondered if that was Pete’s plan for me, too. Find something to hold over my head and profit from Petunia’s while I owed him my soul. But what could he blackmail me with? I had nothing he could use against me.

  “Terri has no idea.” Tears spilled down his dark cheeks.

  “About your drug problem either?” I couldn’t help but throw that in there. “Did you kill Pete because of it, Simon?”

  He flinched then, shook his head. “I swear, I had nothing to do with that. I was here the night Pete died.” He sagged in the bully’s grasp. “I lost ten grand by 2AM.”

  Malcolm nodded to me. “Confirmed,” he said.

  Damn it. Well, at least I knew more about Pete’s scam.

  “So, you’re telling me that piece of garbage Wilkins was taking advantage of good folks. Like the lovely Mistress Iris?” Malcolm’s expression darkened, the mood in the bar shifting all over again. His boys certainly took his emotional state personally.

  Simon nodded again. “I had no reason to kill him. But now, when Jared finds the paperwork and uncovers what happened, if he decides to take me to court I’ll lose the shop for sure.” He shuddered. “Owing you and a lawyer would bankrupt me.” I had a feeling bankruptcy was the least of Simon’s problems, but whatever. His eyes darted left and right and, like a lightbulb coming on, he tried a wavering smile, suddenly eager to please. “That’s not all Pete was into. Ask Pitch.”

  Malcolm’s dark expression deepened. “That little shank,” he snarled. “Is he hanging out in my alley again?” Another finger snap and tall, dark and bulky #3 or #4—I was losing track of their giant suited bodies—stomped off to the back door. “He’s part of Wilkins’s little scam?”

  “He can tell you everything,” Simon said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Murray. I’ll find a way to pay you—”

  “I know you will. Now shut it.” Bully boy had returned, this time with Pitch in his grip. I was surprised the kid had come back, and yet it was his alley, so once I’d gone I guess he didn’t think he needed to make himself scarce any longer. Seemed dumb to me though to hang out at a place like The Orange. Unless Malcolm was taking a cut. Not from the furious contempt he aimed at the young man who fought his captor, twisting and snarling in his grasp. Something neither Simon or I had the courage to do. “You, trash,” Malcolm snarled. “You selling scripts outside my door again? After the boys told you ever so nicely not to?”

  I doubted nice had anything to do with it. And that gambling was okay but drugs weren’t.

  Pitch shrugged, grinned like this was funny. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.” His gaze flickered over me, over Simon.

  Malcolm stood in a fluid motion, eased toward the young man while my heart caught in my throat. He didn’t threaten him with a weapon, just his presence, shorter and much leaner than his men but, from the way he carried himself, far more deadly. My anxiety rose for Pitch as Malcolm stopped before him and patted the plain t-shirt that hugged the young man’s narrow chest.

  “You smart off with me,” the Irishman said in a low tone, “and it’ll be the last time. What’s your deal with Pete Wilkins then?”

  Pitch must have sensed he was in very hot water because his arrogant late teen attitude shifted to nervousness. “He hooked me up with a sweet supplier, selling prescriptions from the nursing home.”

  I sighed over that. “Alicia?” The young nurse he’d talked to yesterday, she had to be his source.

  But Pitch surprised me with a quick headshake. “Not her,” he said. “Ruth.”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Well now, that certainly added layers to the whole thing, didn’t it? Made sense in a lot of ways. I pondered the brother/sister connection while Malcolm spoke again.

  “I don’t like drugs, boyo,” he said. “Don’t like them in my establishment or near me in any way.” He nodded to me. “Promised your dad years ago, Fee. A bit of sideline distilling, some gambling. No leg breaking or anything like that. Just some friendly business. But drugs.” He turned back to Pitch. “You find a new line of employ, you hear? Or a fresh place to do your dirty work.”

  Pitch sagged and exhaled like he’d been expecting worse. “You’re not going to kill me?” The last two words squeaked while my heart thudded at the implications.

  Malcolm laughed. Threw his head back, fists on hips and guffawed. Before silencing his humor with an abruptness that made my skin tingle with goosebumps in the sudden silence, broken by the distant cheer of the soccer match TV crowd.

  “Not in front of the lady,” he said. “Now scoot.”

  Pitch was half-carried, half-led to the door. I let him go, wanting to talk further with him but not ready to stand up yet. Because I wasn’t sure my knees were stable enough to hold me and I didn’t want to show weakness.

  Malcolm returned to his seat, chuckling. “I have to thank you for a highly entertaining afternoon, lass.” He sipped his beer, green eyes sparkling. “You come around any time you want to stir the pot and I’ll be your willing audience.”

  I grinned shakily back. “My pleasure.”

  “Can my boys escort you home?” That was as clear a command to leave as ever I’d heard one, no matter the kindly way it was delivered. I stood, shaking my head, amazed my legs didn’t wobble me right to the floor.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” I paused and smiled for real. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Happy to be of service.” He tipped his beer bottle to me. “You remember who your friends are in this town, Fee. And don’t forget to say hullo to your da for me.”

  Surreal, standing on the street outside The Orange with my chest heaving for fresh air and that whole encounter behind me. I set off at a trembling walk that evolved into a jog and then a full out sprint all the way to the center of town. I managed to pull myself under control two blocks from home and had even mostly caught my breath by the time I climbed the stairs to Petunia’s, hysterical laughter lingering in the back of my throat.

/>   One thing was certain. Dad was on the right track with an investigation into Pete, and maybe I could crack open a new way into the man’s fraud with a path my father hadn’t considered. I could turn around right now, stop at the sheriff’s office, speak to Crew about what just happened. Or go to my parent’s house and talk to Dad. Try to. Or, I could find a way to uncover real evidence outside hearsay and the word of a drug dealer and a gambling addict. Like the paperwork I knew now hid in the construction trailer at the new equestrian center site.

  But was I really up for breaking and entering? Knowing doing so could ruin any case against Pete Wilkins, dead or not? I hesitated with my hand on the front door knob. Blackmail. What if the information Pete had wasn’t about me, but about my father? That would be reason to kill him.

  And that meant B&E was in my cards after all. Because whatever it was Pete Wilkins was using to silence my father, I was going to find it before the state troopers did.

  I was happy to send Daisy home, to see the backsides of the grumpy Jones duo, to tuck in my guests and go downstairs to my apartment. To dress all in black while Petunia watched with huge eyes as if sensing what I was about to do. I couldn’t ask anyone to come watch over the B&B, not without cancelling out my alibi. I’d just have to trust that the quiet house over my head would remain that way and that, after midnight, I was safe enough to sneak out and go looking for the evidence I was now afraid pinned Pete’s death on my father.

  Was it a good thing I managed to escape Petunia’s without anyone seeing me? Should I have been alarmed at how clean my getaway, how obviously talented I was at sneaking about? Regardless, with my phone on silent but forwarded from the B&B just in case there was an emergency—the best I could do under the circumstances—I backed my car out of the driveway by taking it out of gear and let it drift down the hill a few seconds before staring the engine and chugging for the edge of town.

  I had no idea if construction was at a standstill while Pete’s death was sorted out, but at least the site was dark when I arrived, my headlights out but the parking ones giving me enough illumination to coast to a stop on the far side of the long, narrow trailer that served as the office. A work truck stood silent and dark on the far end of the lot, but the lack of movement or any kind of activity told me it had to be one left overnight. Only the sound of crickets and a breeze ruffling nearby pine trees disturbed the night, an owl hooting its disapproval at me when I climbed the metal steps and tried the door, just in case.

  And found it open. Shocked by this turn of events, I slipped inside, delighted at my luck, and looked around. Dark, so dark, but my eyes adjusted enough I made out a desk at one end and a line of filing cabinets at the other. My target.

  The small flashlight on my keychain gave me the clarity I needed to sort through the drawers, most of it relating to Pete’s business dealings. I think it was more luck than skill that I stumbled on a file marked, “Reading and Weep” that paused my fingers and made me whistle. Sounded like the kind of sick sense of humor that Pete Wilkins might use to celebrate his fraud against land owners. And, when I flipped it open to look inside, there was the paperwork for Petunia’s right on top, staring me in the face. Grandmother Iris’s faked signature front and center. I quickly compared the one from the letter I’d taken from the house, confirming to myself even after a stroke there was no way this one Pete tried to pass off could be anything but forged. I’d seen my grandmother’s post stroke writing, all wobbly and disjointed. And it looked nothing like the signature on the deed papers.

  Pete tried to bamboozle me. And as long as Crew was willing to let me use the letter she left behind in the nursing home as evidence, I now had proof Petunia’s was completely and utterly mine.

  I didn’t have time to celebrate. Not when the door to the office opened and light flooded it as someone flicked the switch. I looked up, shocked and utterly caught in the act, to find Jared Wilkins staring back at me.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Neither of us spoke for a long moment, Jared standing in the open doorway, me holding the file containing the evidence I needed against his father. The truck on the lot. Not a regular overnight, then. Probably Jared’s, parked there while he took a look around? Whatever the case, he was obviously the reason the door to the office was unlocked when I got here. Stupid, Fee. Just stupid.

  When he finally did break our stillness, it was to come further into the trailer, letting the door swing shut with an eerie creaking behind him.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t call the sheriff right now.” He sounded tired more than angry, and looked it, face pale and drawn. He had his mother’s eyes, not the beady, watchful ones I remembered from his dad on our single encounter. Less intimidating and more human even now in this most wretched of situations. So I took a chance Daisy was right about him and offered up the file.

  Jared crossed to me, took the paperwork, looked down. Rifled through the pages. Looked up again as I spoke.

  “Your father and aunt have a lot to answer for,” I said. “I’m hoping you weren’t part of it.”

  Jared left me there, turning to cross to the desk, taking a seat as he sorted through the papers. Making no effort to call Crew. He offered me the ones at the top holding them up with an eyebrow cocked and I joined him, tentatively trusting I made the right choice, perching on a thin metal stool while my shaking hands grasped the pages and made them rattle.

  “Looks like Dad had something against you,” Jared said in that same dull tone.

  I frowned instantly, rejecting such an idea, looked down. And found a printout of a bank account with a lot of money in it, like hundreds of thousands. With my name on it. At the branch of the bank where Ryan and I used to do business in New York. Presumably where he still did.

  What the hell?

  “This isn’t mine.” I shook my head, struggling with the contents.

  “Wouldn’t have mattered to my father,” Jared said. “As long as he had something he could blackmail you with.”

  “So you knew about the scheme?” I didn’t want to believe it, not when Jared’s phone remained in his pocket and he made no move yet to have me arrested. Surely Daisy pegged him as the good guy he really was? How could I possibly reconcile that with a man who would stand by while his father ruined people?

  “No,” Jared said. “But I suspected. And I think I might have given him the means to do it.” He leaned back in the chair, the faint squeaking making me nervous. “My specialty is IT.” He gestured at the pile of papers. “Dad had me investigating people, but I didn’t find out until later they weren’t investors he wanted backgrounds on but folks he was planning to steal from.”

  I sagged on the stool, feeling terrible for him, wishing I had comfort to share. While my mind uncoiled and realized who had opened this bank account in my name. “Ryan,” I snarled. “My ex. He set me up. He doesn’t have this kind of money. He has to be embezzling. And is making it look like I’m part of it.” Cheating was one thing, but now? Now the man was dead. Murder wasn’t beyond me, it turned out.

  Jared sat forward. “Looks that way,” he said. “But I’m happy to chase down the cash trail for you, if that helps. If we can find where it came from—and had nothing to do with you—we can turn the cops on to him and you’ll be in the clear.”

  I gaped at him before managing to speak. “Why would you help me?” Especially after I broke into his property and found evidence against his father.

  “Because I’m not Pete Wilkins.” Jared sounded angry suddenly, face set, jaw jumping, eyes locked on the file before him. “And I never will be.” Jared’s hands tightened into fists on the desk before him. “I’ve been such a fool all these years. Trusting him. Believing him. But when I found out what he was up to…”

  The fight Daisy witnessed. “You confronted him.”

  Jared nodded, slow and sad. “I didn’t kill him, Fiona. I swear it. But, as horrible as it sounds, I’m not upset he’s dead.” He flinched, met my eyes like I’d ju
dge him for that.

  I reached forward, squeezed his wrist until his hands unclenched. “Thank you for being a good person, Jared. We’ll figure this out.” I hesitated. “You do have an alibi?” He jerked a bit as if to protest but I shook my head. “The sheriff told me last night the state troopers are getting involved. I thought you should know.”

  Jared exhaled. “I do,” he said.

  “Your mother?” But he hesitated before shaking his head. “Does she have one, too?”

  Jared looked away. “That’s her story to tell,” he said.

  I sat back, staring sightlessly at Ryan’s betrayal. “And the drug thefts from the nursing home?” That really got Jared’s attention. He hissed and stared in shock. “So you didn’t know?”

  One last head shake, Jared’s voice muted by visible surprise.

  “I think it’s the little nurse, the blonde. You know the one I mean. I saw her leaving your house the other day.” His face shifted even as I spoke, from surprise to denial.

  “Not Alicia,” he said. Then went silent, guilty.

  “Your alibi, I take it,” I said. How interesting. Did Pete know his son was dating the young woman he forced into skimpy suits and obviously had a thing for?

  Jared sighed, shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. Here.” He fished papers out of a drawer and handed them to me, more bank information. But these had his name on them. “You want embezzled funds, a page from your old boyfriend’s book. An account in my name. Dad was so unoriginal. But he was setting me up, just like your ex was doing to you. Except I think Dad was actually trying to make me look guilty while your boyfriend was just covering his ass in case the authorities came calling.”

  Not much better, in my estimation, but a fraction less evil, I guess. “How many people has he stolen property from?”

  “I don’t know the full numbers,” Jared said, “not yet. But it’s in the dozens if not more. Mostly out of towners with aging family here in Reading and no one to take over power of attorney. Or care enough to visit.” He sounded saddened by that and, frankly, so was I when I thought about it. I’d left home, run off first to college then the big city, hadn’t visited outside a day or two here and there in ten years. Would I have been that person who let my father or mother languish in the Reading Nursing Care facility without love or support until they died and Pete took their property? The thought of someone like him claiming Mom and Dad’s house made me want to scream.