Guidebook to Murder

by Lynn Cahoon

  I considered the sturdy wooden rolltop desk in front of me. Might as well clean it out. It would be the first thing I’d place in the office once the paint dried. Then I’d figure out where the bookshelves would go. I imagined an overstuffed chair and ottoman, also in the room. I could just see myself curled up under a cotton throw deep into a book. Unless the stalker decided to force his hand to get me to sell. The thought made me shiver.

  I grabbed a handful of files and took them over to the couch to sort. Before I started, I headed to the kitchen.

  As I waited for the water to boil for tea, I grabbed two boxes out of the pile in my mudroom. Jimmy Marcum had told me that he would handle all the taxes for Miss Emily as part of the estate filing. He’d e-mailed me a list of what papers to keep, so I labeled one box with Jimmy’s name. The other box I planned to use for personal letters or photos or anything else that Annie and Crystal might like to have.

  George and Sabrina had left the family Bible and photo album when they stalked out of the will reading. Jimmy Marcum had retrieved the items and told me if they didn’t come back for them, he’d turn them over to me, as well. If Annie was Miss Emily’s true heir, I’d be handing the box along with the money and the house to the sweet baby in the picture. And my office/reading room would be turned into a playroom, complete with duck and mother goose wallpaper.

  The whistle of the teakettle brought me back to the kitchen. No need to worry about what was coming; there was enough to worry about right here. Miss Emily’s words echoed in my ears. “You gave me enough to keep me busy for a few ‘todays’.” I aimed the words at the landscape hanging in the kitchen. As I poured the water over my tea bag, I swore I heard gentle laughter.

  I headed back into the living room with my list of tax papers, the boxes, and a steaming cup of tea. Maybe a few hours of going through files would dull my mind enough for sleep to become a possibility.

  I had gone through two drawers of grocery receipts, utility bills, and letters from the city by midnight. One more, I thought, and then I’d head to bed. The next file was stuffed with letters. Handwritten in a man’s large script and yellowed with age, there must have been a hundred of them. I flipped through the first one and found the signature, Love, Robert. These must have been from Miss Emily’s husband. I took a sip of the now ice-cold tea and scooted back in the couch, my feet curled up beside me, settling in to read.

  My Darling Emily, I pray that this letter finds you exactly as I left you, your hair disheveled—your mind wandering as you stand in front of your latest creation. Oh, how I miss waking up to the sight of you in your white gown, lost in your work …

  I stopped, wondering what I was doing, reaching into a couple’s private moments, but I soothed my guilt away with the thought that maybe if I learned a little more about my friend’s past, I could help solve her murder or determine Annie’s parentage. Besides, this Robert knew how to write a letter. I could no more put the letters down and head to bed than an alcoholic could turn down that second sip. Pandora’s box had been opened; it was time to delve for the secrets.

  The morning light streamed through the living room window right in my face. My contacts clung to my eyes, a side effect of not removing the thin plastic before falling asleep. I hadn’t meant to stay on the couch, I’d just wanted to rest my eyes for a second. I glanced at my watch: eight-thirty. If Amy had been on a long weekend surfing jaunt, she’d be at work by now. I put the unread letters in a separate pile on the coffee table.

  I’d learned almost nothing that would help, except how a man showed a woman he loved her. I had never even gotten a phone call from any of the men in my life that had conveyed so much emotion. So much love. Miss Emily had been a lucky woman to be loved the way Robert had loved her. And she’d known it. Amy had to read these letters.

  I walked into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Brushing my teeth, I studied my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes and a rat’s nest for hair, not my best look. Maybe a shower first? That way if Amy was running late, I wouldn’t call too early. Even the mirror reflection knew I was stalling. I cleaned up the sink, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and headed back to the kitchen and my cell phone. I poured coffee from the half-brewed pot and sat down. Steeling myself with a couple of sips, I stared at the phone.

  Please Amy—answer the phone. Be there.

  I reached for the phone and it rang. My hand jumped back like the phone was a snake curling to strike. I barked a short laugh. My nerves were shot. Picking up the phone, I answered, “Hello?”

  “Miss Gardner, so nice to talk to you this morning.” Eric Ammond’s voice came over the line like butter on hot bread.

  “Mr. Ammond, what can I do for you?” Man, this guy didn’t take no for an answer. I thought back to our last conversation. I was pretty sure I had told him no. But when someone offers you more than a million dollars, it’s hard to keep the facts straight.

  “I am outside your lovely coffee shop. You are not open on Mondays? What a shame. I looked forward to seeing your lovely aunt this morning.” I heard cars passing in the background. “Maybe you would consider coming down and opening the shop for us? My treat, of course.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m very busy this morning.”

  “I shouldn’t have presumed. Of course you’re busy. You probably need to find your lovely friend of yours with that cop person.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck flared. “What do you know about Amy?”

  “Such a waste for such a pretty girl to go missing. But it happens every day, now, doesn’t it? Women going missing and never being seen again?”

  “Do you know where she is?” My voice cracked with fear. “Tell me where she is!”

  “Miss Gardner, I’m afraid you misunderstood. I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of the beautiful Miss Newman. I am just a concerned citizen wondering about the safety of the innocents in this town.” He paused, taking a breath. “Like your lovely aunt. It would be such a shame for her to come to harm, especially when it seems so random and senseless.”

  “If you hurt her …” My voice cracked, but I didn’t know what else to add.

  “Again, you’re misunderstanding me. Maybe we should continue this conversation in person. I don’t seem to be able to make you understand me over the phone.”

  “I don’t want to see you. Stay away from me … and my aunt … and Amy,” I added as an afterthought. I hung up the cell phone. Had that just happened? Had Eric Ammond actually threatened Aunt Jackie? I hesitated on whom to call first. If I called Amy and she wasn’t there, I’d be devastated. But if I called Greg and Amy wasn’t there, he’d feel bad about being the one to break the news. I decided to let him feel bad.

  Chapter 13

  “Are you sure he threatened your aunt? Tell me again what he said.” Greg asked me about the phone call for the third time. We sat at the kitchen table. He’d been on his way over to give me the bad news. Amy hadn’t shown up for work today. And except for a garbled message on the mayor’s voice mail left sometime over the weekend, no one had heard from her since her brief call to me on Sunday.

  “It was a threat, believe me.” I repeated Eric’s words again, a chill hitting my back. “Can’t you tell him to stay away or something?”

  “I can stop and have a chat with him.” Greg leaned back in his chair. “But you don’t even know if he was outside the coffee shop, he just said he was.”

  “You tell him to leave me alone,” I babbled. I jabbed my finger at the table. “You tell him—”

  Greg interrupted me. “Jill, I said I’d talk to him. I don’t have any power or authority to be telling him anything.”

  “But—” I didn’t even get the second word out before Greg put out his hand.

  “No more. I’ll see if I can get more out of him about his intentions for the house—that is, if you come to your senses and actually sell him the option to buy the house. Money’s money, and that much doesn’t come along often in our lives.”

/>   I was just about to argue that money didn’t buy happiness, when Greg’s cell phone went off. He went into the living room to take the call. I went to rinse out the cups in the sink and tried not to eavesdrop on Greg’s conversation. For all I knew, the call was from Sherry, needing him home, this time not just wanting his handyman skills to fix a leaky sink—if you know what I mean.

  I sat back down at the table and reviewed my to-do list for the day. Visiting Amy’s apartment had to be first on the list. That is, if I could get the hunky local police detective who seemed way too comfortable in my kitchen to leave me alone for a few minutes.

  Greg ambled back into the kitchen and refilled his coffee cup. “The district attorney. We have the warrant to search Amy’s apartment.” He sat down at the table.

  “So, why are you still here?” Maybe I had waited too long to search Amy’s apartment. But I swore this man was made of molasses.

  “The crime scene techs won’t be here from Bakerstown for an hour. I’m meeting them at the apartment.”

  “Why are the crime scene techs going to Amy’s apartment? You have to find clues to where she’s gone. There’s no crime scene.” Amy would not be happy with strangers traipsing through her apartment.

  “The judge thinks there’s enough evidence to show a threat, especially with your statement that she was hiding under her desk. And the district attorney feels the mayor has been less than forthcoming.”

  “You told them about that?” I’d misjudged his concern. Maybe this was all business.

  “Jill, I’ve had a so-called natural death that turned into a murder, a possible kidnapping, and a threat on your life in the last two weeks. I’ve never handled anything like this. I’m pulling in all the big guns, no matter who doesn’t like it.” Greg’s face was hard with determination.

  “You mean the mayor.” I read between the lines. First Greg had been told that he shouldn’t see me as a suspect—without any proof—and now the mayor appeared to have an interest in the plot to gain access to Miss Emily’s, correction, my house.

  “I don’t know what or who I mean.” Greg ran his hand through his sandy blond hair. “I just know that things are out of control, and it feels like we’re running out of time.”

  “You think something is going to happen to Amy?” My blood ran cold. What would I do if Amy died?

  Greg stared at me. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

  The words rocked me. What did he mean? The threat was just part of the mayor and Eric’s ploy to get me to sell the house, wasn’t it? Before I could ask, Greg’s phone rang again.

  “The crime scene guys must be here already, looking for the apartment.” He answered the phone without looking at the number. “Hello.” He paused. “Sherry, I’m busy.” Another long pause as he listened.

  I could hear a woman’s voice on the other end, and she didn’t sound happy. “I thought Jim took care of that yesterday?”

  Another pause. “I’ll be there in five.” He hung up the phone.

  “Sorry, I have to take care of something before the lab rats get in town.” He took his cup to the sink. “What are your plans today? Working on the house?”

  “I have to pick up some paint, so I’m heading into Bakerstown.” I left off my plan to get to Amy’s apartment before they started searching. I didn’t know what to look for, but maybe I could piece together something.

  “I’ll stop by later with some fried chicken from Lille’s.” Greg headed out to the front door.

  I pulled out my key ring to check for Amy’s apartment key—yep, still there. When I didn’t hear the front door shut, I walked into the living room. Greg stood in the living room, reading one of Robert’s letters to Miss Emily. Guilt flashed across his face when he realized I’d caught him.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He set the letter back down. “My grandma had all the letters Gramps sent her during the war. I read them last summer after she passed. The letters felt like they came from a different world.”

  I walked over and picked up the one he had been reading. “I spent last night reading. I couldn’t put them down.” I hesitated. “Reading them felt like looking into their lives. Almost like I was there.”

  “Yeah. I get that. My mom saved all my dad’s letters from his tour in Vietnam, as well. But she won’t let us boys read them, at least not yet.” He shrugged. “I think she saved every letter that Jim and I sent her when we did our four years. And we never left the country. Maybe it’s just an army thing.”

  “Or a mother thing,” I responded, my mind whirling. Maybe there were other letters somewhere—letters from a son to his mother. Or to his pregnant girlfriend? My visit to Bakerstown now had another stop. I needed to find out more about Crystal’s boyfriend. Maybe the proof existed in letters from long ago. Letters that Miss Emily might have kept.

  Amy lived over the bike rental shop. The apartment took the entire second floor, with only four rooms carved out in the tiny square footage—but Amy didn’t care. She was rarely there, usually spending her free time on some beach or another. This wasn’t the first time she had taken off to chase a wave, if that was where she was. I parked my Jeep behind the building for a quick getaway in case Greg or the crime lab boys showed up early.

  I climbed up the back stairs and slipped the key into the lock. The door creaked open. I walked into Amy’s kitchen—spotlessly clean. Amy’s cleaning lady, Maria, came every two weeks. I opened her refrigerator: nothing but bottled water and a leftover box from Tuscany Garden, probably from our trip after the reading of the will.

  I wandered into the living room. Magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table, books were lying opened on the table, stacked on the floor, and filling her bookcase. Amy was one of my better customers. In fact, we’d met at my store. She’d been coming in at least three days a week, looking for a book or two she had heard about from Internet buddies. I still usually had at least three to four books on order for her each week to place with my order with the book distributor. After the first couple of weeks, we started doing lunch, and over food and discussions about books, our friendship blossomed.

  Nothing seemed out of place, that I could tell at least. Maria cleaned the dirt but she didn’t handle the clutter. Amy said she always cleaned up before Maria got there so that she wouldn’t feel like a complete slob. I walked into the bedroom, wondering if this trip had been just a waste of time. I wasn’t an investigator. I didn’t know the first thing about what to look for. I just hoped Amy wasn’t in the same place I’d found Miss Emily, dead in bed.

  I peeked around the corner. Light streamed into the bedroom. Amy’s sleigh bed had been neatly made, another clue Maria had been there. I don’t think Amy knew how to make a bed, even if she had wanted to. I examined her closet. The racks were filled. The girl had more pairs of jeans stacked in her closet organizer than I’d ever seen. The left of the closet flowed over with casual business clothes—khakis, dress shirts, cotton blazers, what she wore to work. The other side of the closet had what Amy called her “bar clothes.” Sequined shirts, dresses, and skirts—short, sassy, and fun clothes. Both sides of the closet were packed—if she had gone on a vacation, wouldn’t she have taken some of her party clothes? I turned to leave when I saw it.

  Amy’s wet suit hung over the back of the closet door.

  Now I knew she wasn’t surfing. She might have left her board behind, but there was no way she’d leave without her wet suit. She’d paid a month’s salary on that custom-made suit.

  Tears filled my eyes and I stumbled over to sit on the ottoman at the edge of Amy’s bed. Something had happened to my friend. So, was her call yesterday a call for help? I tried to think about what I had heard, playing the tape over and over in my mind. I almost didn’t hear the downstairs door bang open and Greg’s voice coming up the stairs. The lab boys had arrived. I wiped away my tears just in time to see the front door open. Busted.

  Frantic, I sought another escape route since the real investigators blocked m
y path to the kitchen door. My eyes fell on the bedroom window. I ran to the window, thinking hiding in the closet would only get me caught later than sooner. An old fire escape sat outside the window. Amy had called it her private balcony and had planted a mini garden out there. I opened the window and, climbing over the sash, stepped out onto the metal grate. I slid the window shut and caught a glimpse of Greg coming into the bedroom. He leaned down by the bed and picked something up.

  I tucked behind the brick wall, out of eyesight, I hoped. I tested out the first step for sounds. No creaking or banging. Stepping lightly but quickly down the stairs, I headed for my Jeep and the long drive to Bakerstown. I needed to think, and the drive to get paint for my new office would do the trick. Besides, I had a feeling Greg’s casual question that morning had been less than casual, so I wanted to be knee-deep in painting that room by the time he showed up with dinner.

  I pulled away from the street and noticed a paper flying around the cab of the Jeep. I grabbed it, cussing the winery and its viral paper advertising campaign. At the stop sign, I noticed the crime lab van and Greg’s truck, parked in front of the bike shop. Parking in the back had saved my tail.

  I glanced down at the paper. It wasn’t a winery advertisement at all. In fact, the words were handwritten. On the page was a message that chilled my blood.

  Get out of that house before we carry you out.

  Where had this come from? I racked my brain to remember. The paper had been part of the trash in my Jeep for a while.

  It had been on my windshield the morning I picked up the Jeep at Lille’s after Aunt Jackie had driven me home. The same night that we almost got hit by that car. So the call on Saturday hadn’t been the first threat.

  The call had been threat number two.

  My superstitious side reminded me that bad things came in threes.