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
“Staging Wars offers up a page-turner of a plot featuring an engaging protagonist and her quirky, likeable friends. Throw in a host of useful home staging tips and you’ve got the perfect cozy read.”
– Ellen Byron,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Mardi Gras Murder
“A confection of a mystery that you’ll have great fun devouring; clever and witty, complete with pure gold staging tips in every chapter.”
– Kaye George,
Author of Revenge is Sweet
“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…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)
STAGING WARS (#2)
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Copyright
STAGING WARS
A Laura Bishop Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | April 2020
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 © 2020 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: 978-1-63511-591-8
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-592-5
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-593-2
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-594-9
Printed in the United States of America
To Terryl Paiste, Martha Huston, Antoinette Pavone,
Susan McNally, and Sandra Pierce.
Friends, mentors, and book club members.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a second book can be more daunting than writing the first one. I appreciate more than I can say the encouragement, advice, and help I received from Connie Berry, Ellen Byron, Kait Carson, Annette Dashofy, Ellen Dubin, Lin Fischer, Kaye George, Lynn Heverly, Rhea Killinger, Libby Klein, Joan Long, Shari Randall, Kathy Reardon, and Barbara Sicola.
Thank you to the members of the Sisters in Crime Chesapeake and Guppies Chapters; my agent, Dawn Dowdle of the Blue Ridge Literary Agency; my editor, Maria Edwards; 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
A certified home stager will help you sell your home quickly and for more money.
“There’s a body in Hendricks Funeral Home!”
I looked up to see my friend, Nita Martino, racing toward me. Her face was flushed and her voice raspy and breathless. Minutes before she had been handing out pamphlets about our business, Staging for You, and laughing as she talked to people gathering in the town square for the Louiston Small Business Fair. Now her smile was gone and her eyes looked wild and confused.
Grasping the table for support, she gulped for air and sputtered, “In the home—a body.”
“Well, it is a funeral home.” I tried not to laugh, knowing how Nita avoided them ever since two of her brothers had locked her in a viewing room during a family funeral.
Our position in front of the old Victorian building wouldn’t have been my first choice to place our table at the fair, but it had the advantage of shade from large trees fronting the funeral home and a restroom inside, where Nita had slipped away to visit.
“This one has a knife in its back.”
I stared at Nita, wondering if my friend, who possessed a wicked sense of humor, was trying to pull me into another one of her zany escapades. Seeing the look of shock and disbelief on her face convinced me otherwise.
Shaking myself, I turned to Mrs. Webster, who helped occasionally with my home staging business. “Can you stay with Nita while I check on this?”
“Not on your life, girl. I’m coming too.” The spry older woman jumped from her chair with more vim and vigor than would be expected of an elderly grandmother. Nita followed right behind her.
We dashed up the steps to the large Victorian home that had been a funeral home for more years than anyone could remember. Once inside, I paused in the foyer long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dim light and then scanned the large rooms on either side of the hall, looking for a body. The fragrance of carnations permeated the building, even with no flowers present. Every time I smelled carnations I thought of funerals.
Seeing nothing, I continued down the center hallway, stopped, and stood rigid—Mrs. Webster plowing into me at my sudden stop.
At the end of the hall lay a man prostrate on the floor with a long-handled knife encased in the middle of his back. Nita hadn’t been playing a joke on us.
When we reached him, Mrs. Webster, a retired nurse, leaned over and placed her fingertips along the man’s neck, while I dug in my pocket for my cell phone. After a few seconds, she shook her head—a sure sign the man was dead. I didn’t know how anyone with what looked like a large kitchen knife in his back could survive, but people have survived worse. Unfortunately, in this case he hadn’t.
I felt numb. Nita came up behind me. “Is he dead?” Her voice wavered. It wasn’t every day you stumbled on a body, much less one with a knife in its back.
I nodded and punched 911 on my cell phone and waited for someone to answer. Remembering how I had fallen apart when faced with a recent death, I forced myself to speak calmly.
“This is Laura Bishop. I’m at Hendricks Funeral Home. We’ve found a man on the floor. He’s been stabbed in the back.”
“Are you okay, Laura? Is there anyone with you?” I easily recognized the voice of Patty Charles, Louiston’s senior dispatcher, and put her on speakerphone so the others could hear her.
“Nita Martino and Mariah Webster are here with me.”
“Good. Is the man breathing?”
“No. Mrs. Webster checked his pulse, examined him, and said he’s dead.”
“Can she start chest compressions until the EMTs get there?” Patty asked.
Mrs. Webster leaned closer to my phone. “Patty Charles, I said he’s dead. No EMT is going to revive him. He’s got a large knife dead center of his back.” We all grimaced at her unintend
ed pun.
Mrs. Webster had cared for dying patients in their homes over a number of years and could recognize when a person was dead. Though probably not many of them had been murdered. I gave Patty the address of the funeral home and my callback number, thankful I’d recharged my cell phone that morning.
“Police and an ambulance are on their way. Stay on the line with me until the team gets there.” Her use of old phone terminology made me smile, in a situation that didn’t warrant any smiles.
“Thanks, Patty.
“You said the man was stabbed. Do you feel safe?” Patty asked.
We had been focused on the victim and hadn’t given any thought to his attacker. Could that person still be in the funeral home? Unlikely, but I didn’t plan to look around to be sure. How long would it take for the police to arrive?
“We haven’t seen anyone else,” I said.
I heard footsteps behind me, and my heart leapt into my throat. “Hold on, Patty, someone’s coming.”
“Well, hello, everyone. Come in from the heat to cool down?”
We all turned in unison to see Warren Hendricks, director of the funeral home, ambling down the long hall from a side entrance, looking as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
When none of us answered, he raised his eyebrows. “Anything wrong?”
Mrs. Webster, the calmest one of us, pointed behind her. “You have an unexpected guest.”
Warren peered behind us, gawked at the man on the floor, and dropped the white paper bag he’d been carrying. “Have you called for an ambulance?”
“Hold on, Patty, we’re okay.” I waved my cell phone at Warren. “I’m on the phone with Patty at the dispatch center. She’s sending police and an ambulance.” Seconds later, the front doors to the home flew open and two EMTs rushed in, quickly followed by a uniformed policeman.
“They’re here, Patty. Thanks for your help.”
Experience gained from reading mystery novels made me realize we should move away from the area. We’d probably already messed up the crime scene just by being there. I motioned to Nita and Mrs. Webster for us to go into one of the empty viewing rooms to stay out of the way. We took seats in the ornately carved wooden chairs lining the walls.
Thinking of the body made me wonder. “Did either of you recognize the man?” From the little I could see of his longish blond hair and the side of his deeply suntanned face that wasn’t pressed into an Aubusson carpet, he didn’t look like anyone I knew.
Nita took a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her sweaty face. “It was hard to get a good look at him, but he didn’t look familiar.” Her eyes were still wide from shock.
“How old would you say he was?” I asked.
Nita shrugged. “Somewhere in his late thirties or older. It was hard to tell with that deep suntan.”
Mrs. Webster shook her head. “Dang, it’s a sad thing when someone can’t even go into a funeral home without getting murdered.”
Warren came into the room, perspiration running down his forehead and into his graying beard. He removed a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. A ceiling fan high above us did little to cool the room, which was becoming warmer by the minute. It was surprising since funeral homes were usually cold.
Over the years, I’d seen Warren under a number of trying situations, but this one seemed to unnerve him.
“Did you recognize the man, Warren?” I fanned my face with a pamphlet outlining the history of the funeral home.
“Unfortunately, I did. At least I think so. I haven’t seen him in nearly twenty years.”
“Can you tell us who he was?” The voice of Detective Alex Spangler made me look up in surprise. I had dealt with him before, and seeing his tall figure looming in the tall archway didn’t give me warm fuzzy feelings.
Before Warren could answer, Detective Spangler scanned the room and stopped when he got to me. “You again.” Obviously, he didn’t have warm fuzzy feelings about me either.
That morning all I’d wanted to do was promote my home staging business—so I could make a living and save enough money to someday travel to places I yearned to visit. Instead, I was going to be questioned by police about a murder victim I didn’t know. And by a detective I didn’t want to be interrogated by again.
Chapter 2
To successfully stage your home, detach yourself emotionally from it and think more like a home seller and less like a homeowner.
“You’re next, Laura.”
I looked up from the ornate carpet I had been studying to see Neil Stanelli, a Louiston uniformed policeman and one of Nita’s numerous cousins. Nita, Mrs. Webster, Warren Hendricks, and I had been waiting in separate areas of the home before being interviewed one at a time by Detective Spangler. Most likely we were separated so we couldn’t confer on our stories before he could question us.
I’d been glad for the time alone in a separate room—time to collect myself. It was one thing reading about a murder victim in a novel and another thing actually seeing a victim. Thinking of the man’s sudden death at the hands of someone vile enough to stab him left me chilled to my very core.
Now it was my turn to be questioned. I rose from the ornate Victorian chair that had been designed for torture and not comfort, and stretched, trying to work the kinks from my body. I’d been sitting there for what seemed like hours, although I knew it hadn’t been that long. But it had been long enough for me to study the mishmash of old-fashioned wallpaper patterns on the walls in garish hues of peach and green; the heavy, ornate draperies; and the variety of chairs and sofas from different eras, none of them comfortable. I knew because I had tried them all. I regretted not having ear buds with me so I could have listened to an audiobook on my iPhone to fill the time. A Nero Wolfe mystery by Rex Stout, where I didn’t see the body firsthand, might have helped take my mind off this sad business.
Neil led me into a viewing room across the hall from where I’d waited, slid open tall oak pocket doors, and ushered me in. It was fortunate Warren hadn’t had any viewings scheduled that day. We were running out of rooms, and the police activity would have been disturbing to the family and friends of any deceased there.
“Laura Bishop’s here.” With that, Neil slid the doors closed behind us.
Detective Spangler studied a notebook in his hands, ignoring us. When he finally looked up and saw me, he grimaced. His dark eyes and handsome features didn’t appeal to me—much. I have this thing about handsome men. They always seemed to be at the root of any unhappiness I’d experienced in my life, and I tended to steer clear of them.
Detective Spangler pointed to the chair in front of him. “Take a seat.” Said the spider to the fly. This was worse than being called to the principal’s office.
“Please tell us what happened.” His eyes held my gaze, which unnerved me somewhat. His intense gaze looked powerful enough to make suspects confess.
I told him succinctly everything that had occurred from the time Nita left the square to use the restroom until the police showed up. No emotion, no embellishments, no theories. I was sad for the man, whoever he was, and felt emotionally drained. My throat was parched, but I was determined not to ask for anything to drink. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and return to our table at the fair and a world without bodies.
“Did you recognize the man?” Detective Spangler tapped his pen on his notebook.
“No. I don’t believe I ever saw him before. If I did, I don’t remember him. Didn’t he have any identification on him?”
“We didn’t find a wallet.” He looked at his notebook as though to confirm that. “Do you know if any of the others knew him?”
I’d seen each of the others going in to be interviewed, so I knew he was interviewing me last. Was he thinking I knew something they weren’t willing to say? Perhaps rat on them in some way?
“Nita an
d Mrs. Webster said they didn’t recognize him. Warren said he thought it was someone he knew but hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. You arrived just as he was about to name him.” So there, Detective. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I might be able to give you a name.
I sat up straighter and reminded myself not to be so grumpy. But something about Detective Spangler always put my teeth on edge. Besides, I had nothing more I could contribute.
“Warren Hendricks said the victim’s name was Ian Becker. Does that name mean anything to you?” Detective Spangler again tapped his pen on his notebook.
I shook my head.
“What was Nita doing in the funeral home to begin with?”
Uh, oh. Was he keying in on Nita as a possible suspect in the murder? “She went inside to use the restroom. Warren had told us that it would be okay. She’d been gone only a short time before she returned to tell us what she found.”
I stopped and thought about the sequence of events. “The man was lying in front of the door leading to the restrooms, so she hadn’t made it that far. When I ran into the building, Nita and Mrs. Webster followed me.”
Then it struck me. Nita might have missed the killer by only minutes. I shuddered to think what would have happened if she had witnessed the attack. Detective Spangler could now be investigating her murder as well.
Detective Spangler scribbled something in his notebook and stood. I took it as a signal I could leave.
“That’s all for now. I don’t need to tell you not to discuss this with anyone else.”
“I need to explain to my assistant outside what happened. He was scheduled to arrive to help us about the time the ambulance and police cars pulled up. With all the people in the square, what happened won’t be a secret for long.”
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