Dead and Breakfast

by Lisa Rene' Smith

  Jessie beamed at Martha, and continued. “Yep. She figured they could use my murder mystery format to see how well Myrna would react to pressure. The guests always cross-examine each other day in and day out in my plays. Once Eva explained it, he agreed.”

  “Poor kid. She was out cold the last time I checked on her,” Dr. Marsberg said. “A bomb could have fallen without waking her up, but she was breathing okay when I went to bed.”

  “She was awake enough this morning to grab whatever drugs they had left.” Arredondo seemed to find this regrettable.

  “It would have made more sense for Myrna to end up dead, you know.” Jessie saw Martha ponder this and agree. “If I had been writing this story, I mean.”

  Teischer overcame his shyness. “Okay, I got to ask. You got any ideas? I mean, I guess you do this all the time, huh.”

  “I do study my craft,” Jessie replied.

  “You make up all these people who run around with motives to kill each other. And everybody has to have a reason to kill the same guy, right? And you got it all figured out, right down to why they fail, or they can’t go through with it. Right?”

  Jessie nodded. “All but one. But see, here it’s the opposite. None of the guests had a reason to kill the guy. Not even Myrna—she was counting on him to keep her out of jail. But I can see how it might have happened. Poor kid, I can even understand why she ran.”

  “She should have known better,” Teischer said. “She should have told someone.”

  “And he should have never been screwing around with a client,” Jessie replied.

  “Professional courtesy,” the doctor threw in. “It’s a service industry.”

  Arpeccio cleared his throat. “Or maybe Shylock had gotten his pound of flesh, so she got hers.”

  They all looked at Deputy Teischer. Everyone knew it was up to him.

  “Well, there’s no way to prove it was anything else but self-defense. We got too much and too little, both. Sheriff broke his leg going down a ditch to pull out a calf, so a murder case wouldn’t make his day.” Teischer stood up, almost wrinkle-free.

  “Might as well get your New Year off to a good start, huh?” said the accountant.

  “Here, here.” Martha clicked coffee cups with the deputy. “A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, all around.”

  Arpeccio watched this celebration without a word, but Jessie observed that Martha’s resilience gave him pause. She extended her gloved hand to the innkeeper, then kept moving until she had delivered a kiss on his cheek.

  “It was lovely, but I’m afraid this is all I can do for you folks this time around.”

  Tom shook her hand with the tips of his fingers and gave it a weak shake.

  “You did fine,” Martha said.

  “You’ll want to make an insurance claim for the damage upstairs,” Jessie advised. “And if you want to know how the play was supposed to end, give me a call. Next time we’ll do Act Four as planned.”

  With waves and smiles all around, Jessie rolled her overnight bag down the front hall and out the door.

  On the front porch, Jessie paused, uprighted her bag, and looked around. No one in sight. She took two steps over to the Christmas tree and reached inside its boughs.

  A bell ornament jingled. Jessie froze. She leaned back and peered through the door’s glass inset. Was anyone coming to see what had jostled the tree? Nothing moved down the hall. A moment later, she heard the sound of Martha’s laughter.

  With a gentle tug, she pulled out a chrome-plated Walther .38 semiautomatic, ignoring another round of bell jingling. She dropped the pistol into her purse and walked with a brisk step away from the inn. At the corner, she pulled out her cell phone and pushed a number to make a call.

  She had to wait only seconds before a dirty white Acura pulled up.

  Jessie got in and said to the driver, “S’up?”

  Myrna Sawyer, now a striking redhead in a fleece-lined coat and jeans, raised a gloved hand. It held a legal-size envelope, stuffed full of something soft.

  “Life is good. Little Eva decided to pay cash.” Myrna laughed and accelerated, making for the freeway and a bigger town. “Did you leave Martha’s referral fee?”

  “In her underwear drawer. How’s your liver holding up, by the way?”

  “It’s okay. But if you’re worried, you can be Myrna next time.”

  Myrna made her mouth into a prissy smile, and when she spoke, she had Jessie down to a T. “‘Carr’s the name. Plenty of miles to go, as you can see.’”

  “Not bad,” Jessie replied. “But I’m the writer. Even if it’s only a part-time gig.”

  TRACES OF DEATH by John Foxjohn

  The ringing phone meant another dead body—one detective sergeant David Mason didn’t want to see. He couldn’t rid himself of the nauseating odors of voided bowels, blood, and death.

  With reluctance, he reached over the naked woman lying next to him to answer it. “Mason.”

  “Good morning, sunshine. It’s time to rise and go to work.”

  David groaned. Damn Lieutenant Spinks loved to wake him. “What time is it?”

  “Its 6:15 and we’ve a homicide. We need you to get to 2223 Larimore.”

  David blinked several times. He didn’t know this area. “Where is that?”

  “2223 is the Lassiter’s Bed and Breakfast off Wilshire in North Houston.”

  David rubbed sleep out with his free hand. He’d investigated homicides in almost every conceivable place known to man, but never at a bed and breakfast. Did they forget to serve the eggs or something? “OK. Can’t anyone in this town kill anyone at a decent hour?”

  “Nope. They do it just to ruin your beauty sleep, but they don’t know that you need all you can get.”

  After a quick shower and dressing, he scribbled a note to his bed partner who hadn’t stirred and headed for his vehicle.

  Traffic, even at this time of morning, moved like a turtle race. When David’s Fiat passed an accident blocking two lanes, he sped north and found the area without any problems.

  When he exited his vehicle, several squad cars crowded in front of the old place, their lights flashing like signal beacons. A uniformed officer strung yellow crime scene tape. He ran up as David ducked under the barrier.

  “I don’t know if you can read, airhead, but the tape says ‘crime scene, stay out.’”

  David raised an eyebrow. “Airhead?”

  “That’s right, airhead. Anyone with any sense can see this

  is a crime scene.” He flashed his badge. “That’s homicide detective sergeant air

  head to you, asshole.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know you were a cop.”

  “Perhaps you should find out first before you start calling someone an airhead.”

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t…”

  David gave him a disgusted wave and marched off. He didn’t have the time or inclination to fool with a dumb rookie. The old house, which served as a business, had blue paint chipping, a sagging front porch, and an open screen door minus the screen. He didn’t figure they got too much business here—too run down.

  His partner, Henry Carrington, waited at the front with patrol sergeant Gilbert Williams. Henry, tall and lanky in contrast to David’s short, blocky, frame, slouched with his hands stuffed in his pockets. David adjusted his suit coat. “What we got?”

  Williams pulled a spiral notebook from his pocket. “Dead, older white female, shot in the chest. Her name’s Carolyn Weston and she owns the place.”

  David frowned as Henry removed a hand from his pocket and gnawed on a fingernail that had seen its better days.

  David dropped his head. “Who called it in?”

  Williams flipped his notebook closed. “Called in a couple of times. Several of the boarders.” He paused for a moment. “I guess you could call them boarders. What else do you call people who stay at these places?”

  David shrugged. He had no idea, and from the look of the place didn’t expect any people would
stay here. He didn’t want to look at this dead old woman. He washed his face with his hands and then turned to Henry. “Let’s go look.”

  Williams led the way inside and the cleanliness and neatness of the interior surprised David. Inexpensive, but well cared for furniture and carpet indicated that someone took care of the place. Odors assaulted them before they reached the kitchen and David removed a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his mouth. He had saturated it with garlic to help fight off dead odors.

  She lay on the tiled kitchen floor, on her back. David groaned and his skin crawled. Hairs stood on his neck and ghosts floated around the room. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, chest matted with blood. David sometimes dreamed about victims’ eyes. He always gazed into them, looking for a sparkle, but he never found one.

  David jammed his hands in his suit coat pockets as his mind followed his gaze around the kitchen. Coffee brewing and he wished he could smell the aroma of it, but voided bowels and blood overrode the flavor. Oven on, eggs and bread on the counter, and no dishes out. Preparing to cook breakfast.

  His stomach grumbled at the thought of food and the dead body.

  Henry zipped up his windbreaker and leaned down to elbow David. “What you think?”

  David didn’t respond for several long moments as his gaze took the crime scene in. He’d investigated over two hundred homicides and he’d developed what veteran cops called “the feel.” He could tell when something didn’t match what he saw. This crime scene didn’t, but why?

  He turned to Williams. “How many people are staying here and where are they parked? I only saw cop cars out front.”

  “Four couples. They parked in the back. I’ve ran all the plates. Five vehicles. They all match the guests and the body.”

  David nodded. Couples don’t come to a bed and breakfast and kill people and stay around to talk to cops.

  Noise and talking at the front interrupted David’s inspection of the scene. He recognized the voice of Joe Hughes, head of the crime scene unit. Joe knew his job and didn’t need direction. He’d get the place processed.

  Henry removed his spiral and pen and scratched his head. “Where are the people who stayed here last night?”

  “In their rooms. We told them to stay there until you’re ready for them. Anything else you need patrol to do?”

  David ran his hand over his chin and wished he’d shaved. “Can’t think of anything, Gil.”

  David and Henry eased out of the kitchen, making sure not to touch anything. When they got to the front room, Henry filled Joe in and told him where the body lay and what they needed.

  While Henry talked to Joe, David wandered through the first floor of the house, business, or whatever people called this kind of place. Four rooms occupied the first floor, besides the kitchen—a bedroom, living room, bathroom, and den or office, and all of them had a neat, clean appearance. Someone had made the bed, and nothing looked out of place.

  In the office, an old fashioned, scarred, roll-top desk took up most of one wall. The desk had wet ink spilled on it. The top drawer on the right side remained open a crack. Using his handkerchief, David pulled it all the way open. Papers occupied it, but on top of them sat a small paper bank envelope. It also had ink on it, covering the name of the bank.

  When David joined the others, he had Joe process the office first, especially the desk and drawer. He told Henry to follow him upstairs to talk to the guests.

  The first room, occupied by Dale and Charlotte Henke, a middle aged, scared out of their mind couple from Arizona, said they were asleep, heard the gunshot, and the husband peeked out the door, but didn’t go into the hallway. They called the police.

  When David and Henry rose to go to the next room, the husband cleared his throat. “We planned to head home this morning. How long are you going to make us stay in town?”

  David scratched his head and exchanged a glance with Henry, who made a face. It took all David’s willpower not to laugh. “Why would we make you stay in town?”

  “Don’t ya’ll cops—uh—police tell people not to leave town?”

  David rolled his eyes. Damn TV and books. He let out an exasperated breath. “As far as I can tell, you aren’t a suspect at this moment, you didn’t see or hear anything. We have your address and if we need you we will get you.”

  Mrs. Henke didn’t appear to like that last part, but the two detectives left.

  The other three interviews went the same as the first, with the exception of the third one. The husband, Lenny Crass, had gone downstairs, saw the body, ran back upstairs, and called the police. Like the others, they saw nothing and heard nothing prior to the shot.

  In the upstairs hallway, David and Henry dodged as the Henkes shot out of their room, dragging their suitcase. The others soon followed.

  Henry imitated John Wayne. “Listen to me, Pilgrim. They got the hell out of Dodge quick.”

  David nodded and trudged downstairs. “Yeah, they did. I think eight tourists are cured of vacationing in Houston.”

  Joe met them at the bottom. “David, your hunch paid off. The bank envelope had a five stuck inside with a transaction slip. Slip says one hundred and seventy-five withdrawn yesterday. The envelope has an ink print on it. Not official, but I did a quick check and it isn’t the victim’s print.”

  David tapped his lips. “Let’s get that processed first. All the people upstairs have driver’s licenses. Send the print to their home states for comparisons. Don’t think they’ll match, but we need to cross our I’s and dot the t’s.”

  Joe nodded, “What—”

  Loud voices from outside interrupted them. David jerked his head for Henry to find out what the problem was. He returned a minute later followed by a walking collage of tattoos. The male billboard had short brown hair, about five nine and a hundred and fifty. David’s gaze lingered on the earring in the left ear.

  “I demand to know who the son-of-a-bitch in charge here is.”

  David tugged on his left ear for a long moment while the noisy place went quiet as a church. He stepped closer to the male, flipping his badge case open. “My name is Detective Sergeant David Mason of Houston’s homicide division. It just so happens that I am the person in charge here, and since I’ve never in my life laid eyes on you, you can’t know my mother that well. Now, who are you?”

  “What are homicide detectives doing here?”

  David wagged his finger at tattoo man. “Nope. Not how it works. You see, I ask the questions here. I asked one and I didn’t get an answer. I am now officially requiring you to identify yourself.”

  “Or what?”

  David turned away and waved to a patrolman. “Take his ass to jail.”

  Two patrolmen marched forward and grabbed him. “Wait. Wait. Detective, I’ll tell you.”

  David turned back to face him. “Yes.”

  “Michael Weston. My mother owns this place.”

  David motioned for them to let him go, and wiggled his finger at the man to follow him. He ambled into the office with the son and Henry following. Inside the office, he stopped and stepped aside so the others could enter. Tattoo man walked in, and with hands on hips stared at David.

  David ran a hand across his stubble and never took his eyes off the son. “Where were you this morning?”

  “I was helping a friend start his car. Why?”

  David took a deep breath. He hated giving this kind of news—never comfortable doing it, and no matter what he thought of the son, the tattoos, and the way he looked, a shithead, but still a person with feelings. Someone had murdered his mother. He’d learned from experience, delivering it straight to the point worked best. “Have some news for you. We’re here because someone murdered your mother.”

  The son let out a loud shriek and closed his eyes, beating his fists on his thighs. Henry raised an eyebrow and David puckered his lips. A tingling sensation formed deep in David’s stomach.

  Minutes passed before the son, with tears in his eyes, dem
anded to know what they were doing to find the man who killed his mother.

  Before David could answer, Joe traipsed in with a form for David to sign to release the body to the ME. He glanced over it, took his pen out, signed it, and handed it back. When Joe left, David took a deep breath. “At the moment, we’re processing the scene and getting statements.”

  Catching a cold, David sniffled and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand as the son stared at him, hands on hips. David removed his spiral notebook. “Mr. Weston, what is the friend’s name you helped this morning and where does he live?”

  “You are going to check on me?”

  David nodded. “We have to check on everyone.” Especially drug-headed sons.

  When he gave the friend’s name and address, David wrote it down and put the spiral back into his pocket. “Mr. Weston,” David indicated Henry. “This is Detective Henry Carrington. He’s going to arrange transportation for you to the station for an official statement. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you, but it’s necessary.”

  Heat crept up Weston’s neck and he remained staring, hands on his hips. “I can’t drive there myself? You suspect me of killing my own mother.”

  David frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “Sir. I have a dead woman here and I do not know who did it. At this moment, I suspect the entire city of Houston because that is how big our suspect list is. We have nothing else to go on. We do need the statement and right away. This is our department policy.”

  His speech appeared to appease Weston and David asked Henry to make sure one of the patrolmen transported their witness to the office. David used the word witness on purpose with the hopes that it would calm Weston down some.

  When Henry escorted the son out, David trudged into the living room and glanced around as technicians scraped furniture on the hardwood floor. Some dusted for fingerprints, and others took pictures. One group measured distances from the front door to the other rooms, the hallway’s length, and room sizes. Another group listed the house contents. With all the surfaces covered in fingerprint powder, David sneezed. This would be a mess to clean up and from appearances, the victim didn’t like a messy place. The way she’d taken care of the old house reminded him of his mother. That could be his mother that died in the kitchen.