Motto for Murder (Merry Wrath Mysteries Book 6)

by Leslie Langtry

  "It's to signify the bride's culinary skills. But it can be replaced by you stepping on a haggis."

  I shuddered. I did not like haggis. Sheep intestines stuffed with sausage into a sheep's stomach. There was no way I wanted to do that. But if Randi knew that my culinary skills involved a can opener and microwaveable food, I might not have a choice.

  "I'll never remember that. Can you make me a list?"

  Randi nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely! So, you love the brooch? Because if not, I am working on a handbag made from a sloth for something new. Or, I could loan you our grandmother's lizard tail ring for something borrowed."

  I really wanted to see the lizard tail ring, but the sloth bag was out of the question. "Let me think about it. Maybe I should bounce this off Rex."

  That seemed like a safe bet. Although, the lizard tail ring was probably a lot smaller than the blue jay brooch. I looked down, and could swear it was staring right at me.

  "Hey!" Ronni shouted, appearing as if out of thin air. "That woman still hasn't picked up or paid for her order!"

  Randi stepped back, a look of alarm on her face. "She hasn't? Have you tried calling her?"

  Ronni stomped her foot like a toddler in a tantrum. "She's not answering."

  Suddenly, I wanted to help. I didn't know how, but maybe as a gesture of good will toward my new family, I could do something. "What did she have done?"

  Randi reached behind a counter and pulled out a cat on top of a Roomba. The cat was smiling and had a dead mouse in its mouth.

  "Is it attached to the robot vacuum?" I asked.

  Ronni barked, "Well of course it is! I had the worst time doing that without damaging the machine. She wants it to still work."

  Randi grinned at the device. "Mr. Pickles will be cleaning her floors forever. Isn't that nice?"

  "Not if Kate Becks doesn't pick it up!" Ronni snatched the thing from her twin.

  I felt a little prickle in my throat. "Did you say her first name is Kate?" I asked.

  Ronni scowled. "Yeah. So?"

  My mind worked furiously. "I think I know her. Do you have an address for her? I could stop by and remind her."

  I did not know Kate Becks, but she had to be the woman the vet said was missing and who didn't show up for a session with Susan!

  "Why would you do that?" Ronni barked.

  "Now, Ronni," Randi said softly, "I think that's nice." She left the room and returned with an address on a Post-it note. "Thanks for doing this, Merry!"

  "No problem." I looked at the dead blue jay pinned to my chest. "Thanks for the brooch. It's, um, awesome!"

  I got out of there as fast as I could without being rude. Once in the car, I studied the address. Huh. Kate lived only a couple of streets over from me. Not that that was unusual. Not in a small town.

  The pieces flew together in my mind. Kate, the vet tech who was seeing a therapist, was missing. An idea popped into my head. The Fontanas were seen (by me) carrying a body. Was that Kate Becks? If I hadn't been driving, I'd have clapped my hands together.

  The address led me to a small craftsman-style house with a huge porch. I pulled up on the street, several houses down, instead of in the driveway. If this was a different Kate, I didn't want to scare her. If it was the missing woman, I didn't want Rex to drive by and see my van in the driveway.

  And if he did, I was legitimately here on an errand for his sisters. I kept this in mind as I walked up to the front door. The porch was littered with half a dozen newspapers, and her mailbox was overflowing. That was not a good sign. Yay!

  Why didn't the paperboy or mailman call this in? Maybe they thought she'd gone on a vacation and forgot to tell the newspaper or post office? In any event, it didn't stop them from delivering more mail and newspapers. That's just plain lazy.

  My body blocked the view of the door and mailbox. With my left hand I knocked, while I ran my right hand through the envelopes in the mailbox, glancing through them. It was the usual. Bills for electricity and cable…a couple of sales ads from the local grocery store…things like that. Nothing stood out as odd.

  I knocked again, a little louder this time. "Miss Becks?" I called out. "I'm from Ferguson Taxidermy. Your order is ready for pickup."

  If anyone was watching me, they'd just think I was here on a routine business call, wearing a giant dead bird on my shirt. For a moment I thought about taking it off, but it seemed like an advertisement for the twins' business (and I had no idea what else to do with it since I was away from the van).

  Still, no answer. I didn't hear or see anyone else out and about. I took a tissue from my pocket and, covering the doorknob, gently turned.

  The door opened. It was unlocked.

  "Thanks for letting me in," I shouted for anyone who was watching. "I'd love a glass of lemonade!" I added as I walked inside and closed the door behind me.

  The living room had been totally ransacked. The couch and a wingback chair had been ripped apart. A stand with drawers had been knocked over, and each drawer lay on the floor, empty. A large painting sat on the couch, its glass shattered.

  Several holes had been punched in the wall. Someone must've been looking for a safe. Did they find it? I walked through the house. Each room was the same. Complete chaos and broken furniture. Whoever had been here had gone through every inch of this house and, by the amount of damage, had had a tough time finding what they wanted.

  On a dresser in the bedroom, I found a picture of Mr. Pickles, the living version of the cat I'd just seen at Randi's. The cat looked like he hated everything—much worse than he did dead. This was a cat only the owner could love. Using my cell phone, I snapped a picture of the photo and moved back through the house to see if I'd missed a study or den.

  I had. It threw me because I'd originally thought it a guest room, since it had a bed in it. A guest room that seemed to double for an office. Against the far wall was a huge, very expensive computer monitor with a broken screen, lying on its side. The keyboard was in once piece, but the computer looked like it had been ripped off of the desk.

  The room was littered with file folders and paper, like a tree had lost its leaves. I sifted through a few pages with a tissue so as not to leave fingerprints.

  All I found were phone bills. A lot of phone bills. I took a few pictures of the ones on top, when I noticed a squad car pulling into the driveway.

  Oh no.

  The doors opened, and I watched as Rex and Kevin Dooley walked up to the front door. It was unlocked because I'd left it that way. And my car was on the street! The thing that probably saved me was it was a generic-looking silver minivan with regular plate. Rex didn't appear to notice, because now he was stepping onto the porch.

  This was not going to make my fiancé very happy. Yes, technically I was there to help his sisters. Rex wouldn't see it that way.

  Looking around the room, I noticed a closet. No good. If he was searching the place, he'd look there first. I heard footsteps as the two men walked into the house. Going out the window would be noticed by neighbors who were probably glued to their windows since a police cruiser was in the driveway.

  There was only one way out, through the door and down the hallway that emptied into the living room. The living room where the detective and Officer Dooley now stood. That wasn't going to work.

  If I didn't hide in the closet, that left two spots—under the bed and behind the desk. The bed was another place they'd look. Even the desk would get their attention. But it had a high-backed topper and was a few feet away from the wall. While the odds were good they'd check out the desk, they were very slightly slimmer they'd look behind it.

  I heard the men talking about the mess in the living room. Rex suggested they investigate the rest of the rooms. I dove behind the desk and drew myself up into a ball.

  It was remarkably clean for a place like this. At my house, there'd be a million cat toys and enough cat hair to make another whole cat. I once moved the sofa and found fifty-four catnip mice I didn't even know
I had.

  Rex and Kevin were in the main bedroom now, searching it. They talked about the closet, under the bed, all those things. I was doomed. Perhaps I should prepare a statement now.

  I came here for your sisters and thought I heard someone call me in and fell behind this desk…

  Next, the men checked the bathroom, which was between the two rooms. I heard the shower curtain slide, but that was pretty much all they'd be able to search. The bathroom was small. In a matter of seconds, they'd be here.

  Why was there such a huge gap between the desk and the wall? It didn't make sense really. This room wasn't huge, and shoving it up against the wall would give up a few feet of floor space.

  That's when I noticed a cord that didn't look like the others. This particular computer and monitor had black cords. But sitting there, tangled in all the others, was a white cord. I grabbed one end and tugged to determine what it went to.

  A small door opened up in the paneling. A way out! I scrambled through the doorway and closed it from the inside. Saved! I doubted Rex would notice the cords. It was very dark in the passageway. I took one step, and my foot gave way to empty air. I fell about six feet and landed on a pillow.

  Fortunately, I didn't cry out. It's a totally natural reaction, but as a spy I'd learned to control that response. I lay there in the darkness, being thankful for the pillow, and listened. There was no sound indicating that above me, two men were searching a room.

  Soundproof? And obviously light proof. I turned on the flashlight app on my cell and held it up around me. The room I was in was tiny. It must be part of the basement, but there was no door. The only way out was through the passage above me.

  A light switch was on the wall directly in front. Since there were no windows, and no light leaking from the room above, I switched it on.

  The secret room was completely empty except for the pillow and a tiny table with someone sitting at it, their back to me. I froze. It looked like a man, but I couldn't be sure. If he'd heard me land or was startled by the light coming on, he didn't show it. Was he dead?

  Having nothing for a weapon, I grabbed the pillow. Maybe I could startle him with it somehow.

  "Excuse me?" I whispered.

  The man didn't move. Definitely dead. I swallowed hard and skirted the perimeter of the room to stay out of his reach in case he was alive.

  It was a dummy. A life-sized, naked dummy. More like a mannequin really. The body was stiff like plaster, and the face was mostly lifelike. A blond patch of hair stood up in a spiked hairdo.

  The naked dummy stared ahead, smiling vacantly at the wall. Who puts a naked mannequin in a secret room? Why not put clothes on him? A quick glance I wasn't proud of told me that unlike department store mannequin, this one was anatomically correct. Enthusiastically so. Ewww.

  Stuffing the pillow over the dummy's groin, I stepped closer to check out the setup. The table had a laptop, a shortwave radio, a small ream of white paper, and a mason jar filled with yellow liquid. I unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Lemon juice!

  There was only one reason to have a hidden lair, a shortwave radio, and lemon juice (unlike the naked dummy—which there was no reason for). It could only mean one thing.

  Kate Becks was a spy.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As badly as I wanted to, I couldn't turn on the shortwave radio or the computer without making a sound. And while I couldn't hear the men upstairs, they still might be able to hear me. Which presented another dilemma—how would I know when to leave?

  I couldn't very well pop up through the secret door. My presence was unnoticed so far. I examined the six-foot drop over the pillow. On the wall there was a bookshelf built into the drywall. Only, this bookshelf didn't have any books.

  A built-in ladder! Okay, so when the time came, I had a way out. But when would the time come?

  My guess was that forensics was upstairs or would be there momentarily, going over everything with a fine-tooth comb. From my experience with Rex, I also knew that would take a long time. And when finished, they would post a guard at the front and back doors.

  I hadn't made it to the other exit, but I was guessing that it was, like many houses of this type, in the kitchen.

  I listed my problems. Number one—how would I know when they were finished? Number two—how would I get out unnoticed? And number three—I was hungry. A quick search of my purse found something called a protein bar. Rex had started working out at the local Y, saying he wanted to look good for the wedding.

  I'd told him he already was perfect, but he'd insisted on going and had asked me to go too. After I'd stopped laughing, I'd discovered he was serious. Then he'd handed me this protein bar, and I'd chucked it into my purse.

  It tasted like a piece of cardboard, layered with sandpaper with glued on pencil erasers. But it was all I had, and you learned quickly as a spy to eat what's on hand, because you had no idea when you'd eat next. I've eaten moldy tomatoes in Bulgaria, a decade old can of baked beans in Sri Lanka, stir-fried bugs in China, and worst of the worst, fifteen pair of wax lips at a novelty warehouse in Portugal. To this day, I can't even look at a candle.

  Finishing the protein bar, I carefully picked up the crumbs that had fallen and stuffed them and the wrapper into my purse. That problem was now solved.

  According to my phone, I'd been hiding out for an hour. Was that enough time? A thought came to me, and I texted Kelly.

  Five minutes later, she responded, telling me she had taken Finn for a walk in her stroller, and yes there were still police cars there. She also mentioned she was worried about me, which was nice.

  I told her where the spare car keys were in my house and asked her to take my car back home. Fortunately, Kelly didn't live far from me, so this wouldn't take too long.

  She texted back ten minutes later that the deal was done and she didn't think Rex had noticed.

  At least there was that.

  I had time to kill, so I attempted to google Kate Becks on my phone. All I found was a Facebook page where, through dozens of pictures of a hostile Mr. Pickles, she posted about her cat, and her work at the vet, and a story about her in the vet's newsletter. She'd made Cat Lady of the Month fifteen times.

  At least now I suspected that the Fontanas had killed Kate Becks, for whatever reason, but something to do with them both being spies. And illegals at that. While I did a victory dance in my head, I knew that wouldn't be enough to convince the police.

  Kevin hadn't found a dead person, and neither had I. All the evidence I had about the Fontanas was circumstantial. Granted, it was based on my years of experience with the CIA. But that wouldn't hold up on an arrest warrant. I'd need more to prove I was right.

  The biggest question was, why were there three illegals in Who's There, Iowa? This town of five thousand wasn't exactly a seething terrorist hotbed. The closest thing to a sleeper cell would be my Girl Scout troop. And they weren't quite there…yet.

  What was worth spying on here? Des Moines was a large city and only thirty minutes away, but there wasn't much espionage worthy there unless you thought insurance companies and Better Homes & Gardens magazine were scary.

  I could take the laptop. Rex might not realize it wasn't mine. Unless he examined it, he wouldn't know it was Kate's. The Fontanas hadn't gotten it because they didn't know it was even here. I'd be saving the day, really.

  Something heavy fell onto the floor above me. Okay, not totally soundproof. The sound came from near the computer desk. It was possible the forensics team would find the secret door. I snatched the pillow from the naked dummy's crotch and made my way to the other side of the little table, where I switched off the light. Curling up in a ball, my head on the pillow, I waited. In total darkness.

  I woke up with a start. How long had I been out? I checked my cell. Four hours? It had to be the insomnia. My sleep-deprived brain, when plunged into a sensory-deprived setting, had shut down.

  According to my cell, it was two in the afternoon. My stomach complained
audibly. The police had to be gone by now, right? I moved toward the ladder/bookcase, climbed, and very quietly opened the door just a crack.

  A pair of feet wearing sport sandals, facing the other way, caused me to close the door. Someone was still here.

  But why was a policeman wearing sandals? That didn't make sense. They wore black dress shoes. But then, maybe the forensics team wears them. And since I didn't know for sure, I couldn't rule out that they were still here.

  Why were they still here? Then I remembered the reams of pages scattered about the room above. Okay, so it would take a while to clean that mess up. They'd have to go through each and every page.

  After lowering myself back down to the floor, I unplugged the laptop and stuffed it and the cord into my purse. Fortunately, I carry a large tote bag as a purse. Granted, it's a canvas bag from the grocery store, but to me it's a purse.

  I used to carry the smallest handbag I could find. All I needed was room for my wallet and cell. But then I realized if I carried a large purse, I could keep everything I might ever need in there. If you looked inside my bag right now, you'd find Band-Aids, tissues, a lighter (for starting fires, of course), my spy camera—which I don't use now that I have a smartphone, fifteen packs of gum (trust me on this—you can't give some to one girl without providing enough for the whole troop), five knives of various sizes, and a book about Australian water fowl that I found in the library.

  Something dripped down onto my hand. It came from the ceiling, and I realized I was just under the door. I switched off the lights to reveal a tiny sliver of light overhead. I hadn't shut the door all the way.

  Drip.

  Another tiny droplet landed on my hand. How did it get wet upstairs? I sniffed the liquid and immediately started to panic. Kerosene. And then I smelled the tiniest whiff of smoke.

  That wasn't the police upstairs. They don't usually pour kerosene on a crime scene and light it. Except in Colombia. That's kind of a thing there.