As I sipped my cappuccino and waited for Nita, I spotted Warren Hendricks coming in and waved at him to join me. I hadn’t talked to him since the tragedy at his place, and I was curious about what he knew of the man we’d found there.
As Warren approached, I noticed how unlike himself he looked. His usually neat hair was standing up from his head in spikes. And instead of the immaculate somber suit he wore during the day, he had thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt with a logo that had long since faded beyond recognition. At one time it might have said Penn State.
“Hey, Warren, take a seat. I’m sorry about what happened at the funeral home.”
Warren pulled out a chair, turned it, and straddled it, facing me. “I’m surprised you want to be seen talking to me.”
“Why ever not?”
“Since I’m being considered for the role of villain in Ian Becker’s murder.”
In addition to operating the funeral home, Warren directed the Louiston Players, our local community theater group. He could be every bit as dramatic as any of the characters he directed.
“I don’t think Detective Spangler is going to consider you involved in the murder just because it occurred at your place. Besides, what motive could you’ve had? Did you even know Ian Becker? Was that his name?
“Yeah, Ian. He used to spend summers here in Louiston with his aunt, and we hung around together. I was two years older, but we got along okay. The last summer he came was about twenty years ago. I remember it because it was the summer before my last year of college.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. After that summer, his folks moved the family to New Zealand, and that was the last I heard of him—until he called me on Friday. Quite frankly, I was really surprised to hear from him, especially after so many years. He said his aunt had died, and he was in town to help settle her affairs.”
“Who was his aunt?”
“Doris Becker. We handled her burial. I thought he might be calling about that and told him his aunt had made all the arrangements and set money aside for it years ago, so her estate didn’t owe us anything. But he said he wanted to come by and say hello for old times’ sake. With his parents traveling so much when he was a kid, he’d spent a lot of summers here. Louiston probably felt more like home to him than any place.”
“That’s so sad.” I thought about him lying on the floor at the home and shuddered.
“And weird. He comes back here after twenty years, and as soon as he walks into my place, he gets murdered. And with his wallet gone and no other ID on him, if I hadn’t recognized him, the police might have been unable to identify who he was.”
“Did anyone else know he was meeting you at your place?” I was starting to sound like Detective Spangler.
“That I couldn’t tell you. We made arrangements to meet at the home at noon. I told him to come for lunch—that I’d get us hoagies. He used to love them, and we ate a lot of them that summer. I figured he probably hadn’t had a good one since moving to New Zealand and thought it would be a treat for him. I went to get them just before noon.”
So that’s what Warren had in the bag he dropped when he saw the body—hoagies? “Where did you get them?”
“Johnny and Kathleen’s. Their salad on the hoagies is the best.”
“It is.” Just the thought of the foot-long bread roll filled with Italian meats and cheeses and heaped with lettuce coated in the best salad dressing in the state made me hungry. “Could someone there say they saw you and when?”
“I doubt it. The place gets busy, and I don’t go there very often these days. Someone might remember I’d been there but not what day or time.”
“Detective Spangler and his team will check it out. How long were you gone?”
“About twenty minutes. I hadn’t planned to be away long, so I didn’t lock up, especially since I’d told your group they could use the restrooms. I didn’t want you to find the doors locked and think I had forgotten. Also, I’d told Ian that if I wasn’t back by the time he got there to go to my apartment upstairs. He knew the way. We planned to eat lunch there.”
I took a sip of my now-cold coffee. “Do you have any security cameras near the entrances to the home?”
Warren shook his head and laughed. “People aren’t usually dying to get into the funeral home. Sorry. That wasn’t the best way of expressing that. People breaking in hasn’t been a problem.”
“Too bad. A camera would have shown who entered and left,” I said. “Since Ian’s wallet was gone, robbery was probably the motive. But why stab him in the back?”
“Maybe to keep Ian from identifying him. It’s all so strange. I’m not convinced the police are thinking it was simply a robbery. That’s why I’m worried they’re looking at me as a suspect.”
“But what motive could they think you had for killing him? Especially since you haven’t seen him for so long. Could he have been involved with someone’s wife or girlfriend that last summer he was here and that person wanted revenge?”
Warren shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like Ian. And who would want revenge after so many years?”
“Don’t they say revenge is a dish best served cold? Or could he have been here long enough this time to cross someone? It doesn’t take some people long to get into trouble.”
“He said he’d only just arrived in town.” The corners of Warren’s mouth tightened. “Why are you so interested? You aren’t planning to get involved are you?”
“Definitely not. You know me, Warren. I’m intrigued by a mystery. That’s why I read mysteries over other novels. I love trying to solve a puzzle. Someone in this town murdered Ian. Doesn’t it drive you crazy thinking it could be someone we know?”
Since Warren seemed to relish being in the police spotlight, I didn’t say what I was really worried about. With Nita being the one to find Ian’s body, Detective Spangler might also consider her a suspect. Worse, Nita walked in just minutes after the stabbing. Could that person have seen and recognized Nita and wondered if she saw him commit murder?
Chapter 6
The cost of staging a home is always less than your first price reduction.
Warren left Vocaro’s, taking his paper coffee cup with him. He was probably a nervous wreck since he hadn’t taken a sip the whole time he sat there. I hoped Detective Spangler wasn’t considering Warren a suspect, or Nita, for that matter. As I’d learned in the past, once he strongly suspected someone of a crime, it was difficult to have him look elsewhere.
A few minutes later, Nita took the seat Warren had vacated and put her coffee and croissant on the table. “Sorry I’m late.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “I needed that. After tossing and turning all night, I overslept and nearly missed church. Now I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“I was just about to call to see if you were okay. Warren was here, so I filled the time talking to him.”
“I saw him as I came in. Poor Warren. He looks about as bad as I feel.” Nita’s normal healthy color was gone, and she had dark circles around her eyes. She definitely hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Finding a dead body is more traumatic than mystery books portray.
“He’s afraid the police suspect him of killing Ian Becker. That’s the name of the man killed at the funeral home.” I eyed my now-empty cup and contemplated getting another one.
“Not a name I know. One of my brothers may have known him. I’ll have to ask the guys. Why does Warren think the police suspect him?”
“Warren’s always been a bit dramatic and a worrier. And with things slow at the funeral home, he has time on his hands to worry. Frankly, I think he secretly enjoys the thrill of being a suspect.” I finished the last of my muffin and crumpled the wrapper.
“Not if they put him in jail. Thankfully, tryouts for the Louiston Players will be starting soon. That’ll help keep his mind of
f murder.”
I was a fan of the local community theater group Warren directed and rarely missed a production. “What show are they doing this season?” I hoped it wasn’t a production featuring murder. Last season Warren had directed a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, which had numerous murders.
“Music Man,” Nita said.
Oh, good. No murders in it. “That’ll be a fun production.”
I studied Nita’s solemn face. She needed some fun. Both of her college-aged kids had taken summer jobs at the shore, and Nita missed them. Now with the shock of the murder at Warren’s place, she’d need more things to keep her occupied. Working with me and taking the online home staging classes weren’t enough of a distraction for someone as energetic as Nita. Her husband Guido would probably appreciate having her involved with more things that could channel her excess energy.
“Why don’t you try out for a part? I don’t have any acting or singing talent, but you’d be a natural. I could see you playing Marian, madam librarian.”
Nita took a bite of croissant, chocolate oozing from the ends, and shrugged. “I don’t know. They’d probably want someone tall and thin, and that’s not me.”
“There’s always the role of the mayor’s wife.”
Nita laughed. “Much more my speed.”
When we finished eating, we left Vocaro’s, retrieved the promotional items from my car, and headed to the town square for the second day of the fair. Tyrone and Mrs. Webster were already there, Mrs. Webster looking like a thundercloud. Her eyes were narrowed and she had a frown plastered on her face.
When we greeted them, the response we received was less than enthusiastic. I looked at Tyrone and arched an eyebrow as if to say, “What’s up?”
Tyrone nodded and took the box from me and began spreading the pamphlets and other items on the table. “Don’t mind Gran. She got another one of those telephone calls this morning.”
“What calls?” Who could be calling that would make her look like she could spit fire?
Mrs. Webster looked up from the needlework in her lap. “Those dang calls from people identifying themselves as representatives from the IRS, social security, or from collection companies. Calls preying on the elderly, saying that if I don’t respond they could come after me.”
“You know those calls are fake, right?” I worried that she might be taken advantage of like so many other people had been. “Don’t even answer them.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I know the sweet voices of the callers disguise corrupt souls. I get riled thinking about the people they’ve fooled. When I can control my anger, I play along and ask them questions—like whom are they calling. Most times they don’t even have a name—so how can they be calling me?”
“I told Gran to record the number and report them to the organization they are supposed to be from. One time she told a caller that she’d sold her soul to the devil doing what she was doing.”
“Dang right she had. I’m not letting some crook scare me into doing something stupid.”
I should have known better than to be worried about Mrs. Webster. I could see her wringing a confession from the caller and making him promise to go into a more legitimate line of work. People foolish enough to try something illegal with her deserved what happened to them.
I looked around the town square at the colorful umbrellas and tables that were beginning to draw a crowd. A good number of small businesses in town had taken advantage of the opportunity to promote their businesses, and people were starting to spread out and head to our end of the square. Soon we were handing out pamphlets and answering questions about Staging for You. Staging a home for sale was a new concept for many people, and we found ourselves explaining how our services could help people prepare their homes for sale. We were able to describe how staging had resulted in quicker sales and better offers for those homes. Not everyone who stopped to talk to us was ready to sell their homes, but I hoped they would tuck a pamphlet away for the future or give it to someone who might be.
The people milling about our table—the candy we were giving away attracting many—prevented us from discussing the murder yesterday, which was just as well.
Nita was deep in conversation with a woman nearby. Her usually bubbly personality made her perfect for sales and promotion. Even with her more subdued demeanor today, she would be excellent at promoting our business. However, as she walked back toward the table, I wondered what had caused the sudden frown on her face.
“How’s it going?” I added another stack of pamphlets to the table.
“Great until the conversation I just had. I talked to that woman last week about possibly doing a staging consultation with her. At the time she wasn’t certain when she and her husband were going to put their home up for sale. They’ve finally picked a time frame, but she said she was having someone else work with them on the staging.”
“Someone else?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “I don’t know of another staging group in town—unless her real estate agent is giving her advice. That’s always a possibility.”
“No, she definitely said a home stager.” Nita sat down heavily in her chair.
“I haven’t seen anyone advertising about home staging. Did you ask her who it was?”
“No. I could tell she was uncomfortable, since the last time I talked to her she’d seemed interested in working with us. I didn’t think it would do any good pushing her on it.”
“Disappointing, but it doesn’t matter. This is a big enough community for more than one staging business.” I laughed. “Now whether they can do as good a job as we can is another matter.”
Tyrone who had been standing nearby leaned closer. “Glad you brought that up. I meant to tell you what I heard at Vocaro’s.” Tyrone, working as a barista, picked up a lot of gossip at the coffee shop. “Monica Heller is jumping into the staging business with both feet.”
My stomach clenched. Anyone but her. Monica, a local interior decorator, had made my life in school miserable with all her taunting. She’d been the thorn in my side that had festered and oozed all through our school years. If that wasn’t enough, I strongly suspected she’d been involved with my late husband, Derrick. But then, he had been such a womanizer there probably weren’t many women in town he hadn’t been involved with—except Nita, of course.
Why would Monica be moving into home staging? She had a successful interior design business, helping homeowners put personality into their homes. Home stagers take a lot of the personality out so prospective homebuyers can see themselves living there. Maybe the rumor was wrong.
Could anything more go wrong this weekend? A dead body, having to deal with Detective Spangler again, Aunt Kit arriving, a canceled truck, a bad review, and now possible competition from Monica.
“Hey, Laura.”
I turned to see two tall and very lean men behind me. I immediately recognized Geoff Clarke and Ron Zigler, the men who’d bought the Denton’s nineteenth-century mansion Tyrone and I had staged in the spring. They had turned it into a fabulous bed and breakfast. It was early days for the venture, but the B&B was fast developing a reputation as the place in town to stay.
“Well, hello.” I was pleased to see them again, especially since they had liked the work Tyrone and I had done on the mansion and hadn’t changed too much—yet. I quickly introduced Geoff and Ron to everyone.
Geoff, who frequently served as the spokesman for the duo, pulled off his baseball cap and shook hands with everyone. I saw Mrs. Webster nod in approval. Geoff’s good manners had just earned him high points with her.
“Meeting the small businessmen and women in town?” Mrs. Webster asked.
“We have some work we’d like to do at the B&B, including eventually finishing the basement. We thought meeting some of the business owners would give us a head start with that.”
Nita went into promotion mode and p
ointed to the square. “You’ve come to the right place. If you don’t find the people you need to talk to here, let me know. My family is in construction, and they know all the tradesmen in town.”
“Thanks, we’ll keep that in mind. Next, we’ll be looking for some furnishings. Any places you can recommend, Laura?”
“Start with Josh Sheridan at Antiques and Other Things. He has more other things than antiques, but you never know what you might stumble on there. I’m going there this week to talk to Josh about renting some storage space. If you’d like to meet me there, I’d be happy to show you around.”
Geoff and Ron liked that idea and we agreed on a time to meet. “Thanks. Sounds like a plan,” Ron said.
Seeing Geoff and Ron reminded me of Will Parker. “Have you met Will Parker yet? He’s the man you’ll see along Battlement Drive near your place. He voluntarily maintains that road, picking up trash that accumulates along the roadside. Be sure to make friends with him. He’ll keep an eye on things for you.”
“First person we met,” Ron said. “He told us about some of the adventures you all had there this spring.”
“Will is a real character, but a good guy.” I quickly gave them the names of some other antique stores in the area, not wanting to discuss our experiences at the Denton house, where the homeowner had been murdered. “How’s the B&B business?”
“Great so far—although something strange just happened. We had a guest check in and spend the night. The next day he went out, and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Did you get a deadbeat who skipped out without paying?” Mrs. Webster asked.
Ron took a seat next to Mrs. Webster. “He’d paid for several nights, so we didn’t suspect he skipped out. He said he was in town to settle his aunt’s estate and planned to stay with us only until he could find out if her house was in reasonable condition for him to stay there. We thought perhaps he’d decided to stay at his aunt’s place and would be back later for his luggage. Now we’re not so sure.”
STAGING WARS Page 3
