A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  A HISTORY OF MURDER

  An Old Maids of Mercer Island Mystery

  By

  Lynn Bohart

  Dedicated to the many people who suffer from various forms of mental illness. May they find the support and peace they deserve.

  Cover Art: Mia Yoshihara-Bradshaw

  Copyright © 2016 by Lynn Bohart

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations for the use of reviews or promotional articles approved by the author.

  Published by Little Dog Press

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, I rely on a number of people to help me bring these books to you. They are friends and colleagues I trust to give me honest feedback. The writing group I belong to reads the books two chapters at a time over a period of 8 – 10 months, helping me to clarify the story and the characters, while also eliminating things that just don’t work. My thanks once more to Tim McDaniel, Michael Manzer, Gary Larson, Irma Fritz, Jenae Cartwright and Brian Beckley. I also rely on a group of “beta” readers who then read the book from cover-to-cover. These include Karen Gilb, Bill Dolan, Valerie O’Halloran and my daughter, Jaynee Bohart. They not only catch mistakes, but help with flow, clarification and inconsistencies. I would be lost without my friend and colleague, Liz Stewart, who not only serves as my editor, but this time helped me with some of the research. She is the director of the Renton History Museum and has a Ph.D. in American History. My deepest thanks go to Renton Fire Chief Mark Peterson, who gave me advice on the barn fire (and allowed me some leverage), Bob McBeth for some information on the judicial system, and my daughter for help with some clarification on forms of mental illness.

  I am deeply indebted to my friend, Mia Bradshaw, who designs my covers. Mia is a wonderful artist and craftsperson in the Seattle area and shows/sells her work locally. Please check out her website at www.miayoshihara.com.

  Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction and while many of the businesses, locations, and organizations referenced in the book are real, they are used in a way that is purely fictional. I also took some liberty with locations on both Mercer and Camano Islands to fit the storyline.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’ve begun to think that murder follows me around. No, really.

  When I announced to my friends in December that I wanted our book club to help solve the murder of our close friend, Martha Denton, I had no idea I was opening a portal of some kind. But after closing Martha’s case and shutting down a human trafficking ring, we were immediately drawn into the murder investigation of Trudy Bascom. She had been the assistant campaign manager to my nemesis and a woman I hated, Dana Finkle. By the time that case wrapped up, we’d not only helped to solve Trudy’s murder, but saved Dana from being buried alive in a damp grave.

  Now spring had rolled around, and I was ready for some warm weather and a rest.

  All I got was the warm weather.

  Spring in the Northwest is typically cursed with days, if not weeks, of rainy and dreary weather. The constant overcast skies can make people cranky, even depressed. When the sun finally does emerge, people do too, like butterflies from their cocoons.

  By the first week in June, Seattle had enjoyed an unusual string of 70 degree days with cloudless skies. The weather was so inspiring, I found myself humming the opening song from The Sound of Music wherever I went, annoying my friends and co-workers because I really can’t carry a tune.

  I own the St. Claire Inn on Mercer Island in Seattle’s Lake Washington area and had decided to go to Blake’s Garden Center one day to replace several rose bushes left on life support after a harsh winter. Our gardens are a point of pride, so I was about to put my two miniature long-haired dachshunds, Minnie and Mickey, back in my apartment when I was interrupted.

  “Mrs. Applegate,” a male voice said. “I think you need to see something.”

  It was Mr. Piper, the owner of a construction company we’d hired to do some repairs in the attic above the bakery. The below freezing temperatures and massive amounts of rain between December and February had done some damage. April, my business partner, had noticed a couple of leaks above her commercial ovens.

  “What is it, Mr. Piper? I was on my way out.”

  “Like I said, you need to see something. In the attic.”

  He was a handsome man in his fifties, with a shock of white hair and a broad smile. Right now his weathered face was pinched with concern, making my spirits drop. Imaginary dollar signs began to swirl around his head.

  “Alright, let’s go. I’ll follow you.”

  We left through the back door to the kitchen and crossed the drive to the old barn, left over from the early nineteenth century when a grand hotel had stood on the property. The 5,000 square foot building sat on a slip of land that extended into Lake Washington, giving it a tranquil and nostalgic feeling. The back half of the building was surrounded by trees, stumps, and a few large boulders on slopes that dropped off into the water.

  The bakery took up the front third of the building, while the back end was used to store and refinish antiques we sold inside the inn. We’d created a welcoming front entrance to the bakery.

  Leading up to the door was a gravel path flanked by two flower gardens. On either side of a bank of windows were sets of refinished barn doors that were original to the building, but no longer functional. Distressed brick had been added to the bottom third of the front façade, and two window boxes hung just below the display windows filled with red geraniums. Block letters spelled out, “St. Claire Sweet Spot.”

  Mr. Piper led me into the furniture warehouse through the side door and turned left to climb the old wooden staircase. The dogs ran up ahead of me, their little feet clicking on the stairs, their tails flying, as I inhaled the sweet smell of wood and turpentine in their wake. I followed them to the landing that extended the width of the building and met up with the hayloft on the far side.

  We stepped through the door into a large room that spanned the front third of the building, directly over the bakery. Two dormer windows looked out onto the back of the inn, the large deck and the surrounding grounds. The attic floor was covered in a threadbare carpet, and the walls were finished in faded redwood paneling.

  We actually had two attics on the property: the one in the barn and a second one in the main building. While the barn attic had some old furniture and boxes of junk in
it, it was used mostly to store holiday decorations and party supplies. The attic over at the inn was filled with furniture and boxes from past residents that we’d just never gone through.

  But there was an important difference between the two attics; we believed the attic above the bakery was haunted. That’s because most people who had ever gone up there got a headache, a bad feeling, or just the sudden urge to leave.

  That’s not to say we were averse to ghosts; we were actually pretty proud of our resident spirits. The inn itself was haunted by Elizabeth St. Claire, wife of the original owner, and at least one of her children, along with their dog, Max. While the ghosts in the main house were friendly and even playful, something more sinister seemed to live in the barn.

  As I entered the room above the bakery, I noticed that Mr. Piper was moving toward the far end, where the dogs were bouncing around the feet of his assistant, Barry, asking for attention. Mr. Piper moved up next to the wall that had needed repair.

  “Over here,” he said, gesturing to me.

  They had cleared a path through the stacks of boxes, so I made my way to where he was standing. Again, I noticed his grim expression.

  “What is it? Is there more damage than you first anticipated?”

  “No, Ma’am. It’s this.”

  He stepped aside, revealing the exposed wall studs and a door that had been hidden behind a section of drywall. It was secured with a weathered, heavy padlock.

  “For heaven’s sakes,” I said in surprise. “I wonder what’s inside.”

  “I didn’t want to open it until I got instructions from you,” Mr. Piper said. “We’ll have to remove these boards in order to gain access.” He gestured to the two-by-fours that had been installed in front of the door to hold the drywall in place. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to do that.”

  I paused for a moment, wondering if there was any reason I shouldn’t give permission to remove the framework. But I couldn’t think of one, and my curiosity was piqued.

  “Go ahead. Remove it. I’d like to know where that door leads. And then, I’d like to know why someone would hide a door up here.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  With my trip to the garden center postponed, I took the dogs back to my apartment before returning to the bakery. There, I waited with April until Mr. Piper gained access to the door.

  Besides being my business partner, April had been my best friend since we both attended the University of Washington. When my ex-husband, Graham, asked for a divorce and gave me the inn as a consolation prize, April was the first one I called. Not to whimper about my failed marriage, but to ask her to go into business with me.

  Since I’d graduated with a degree in business, I always thought that one day I’d own a bookstore or gift shop. But April had graduated with a degree in culinary arts, so we combined our talents and launched the bed and breakfast. I still owned the property outright, but she became our chief cook and baker, while I handled the antique sales and administration, and together we ran the inn.

  She was busy making her signature orange scones for the next morning’s breakfast when I popped in. The tantalizing aroma of citrus and sugar immediately made my mouth water. I perched on a stool at the end of her work counter and told her what Mr. Piper had found upstairs.

  Her dark eyes grew round at the news. “A hidden door? That’s kind of exciting.”

  April had skin the color of walnuts and apple cheek bones that would make Judi Dench jealous. For years, she’d worn her hair in braided corn rows, but since her husband had died in December, she’d changed to a more relaxed and soft style, which I thought suited her.

  I considered April’s comment. “It could just be an old empty closet.” I feigned enough ennui to raise her eyebrows.

  April was no fool. She knew how enthusiastic I could get whenever I found something unusual on one of my antique hunts. I often came home with an item so alien that I was forced to go to the internet to look it up. At other times, I came home with some odd thing that I just couldn’t refuse.

  On one such occasion I came home with Ahab, our talking parrot. He’d been part of an estate sale where I’d suddenly found myself bidding against a young punk-rocker who thought it would be funny to teach him a lot of blood-sucking lyrics from the artist, Marilyn Manson. I may be in my sixties, but I knew who Marilyn Manson was and couldn’t doom the poor bird to such a dismal future.

  But April wasn’t buying my indifference about the hidden room.

  “Oh give it a rest, Julia. You’re dying to know what’s behind that door. Maybe we’ll find some old treasures,” she said with optimism, cutting the scone dough into quarters. “And we can each retire in style.”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t want to retire,” I responded. “Do you? What the heck would we do?”

  She laughed lightly, and her black eyes danced. “Probably just open another business.”

  “You could promote your new cookbook,” I said with encouragement, thinking about the project she’d started during the investigation into Martha’s murder.

  José, our maintenance man, was a graphic arts student and had designed the cover. April was just about done adding recipes, and our friend Rudy, a book club member and former journalist, had offered to edit it. We hoped to publish it in time for the holidays.

  She smiled humbly. “Selling it here at the inn will be just fine.”

  “Well, the door upstairs had a padlock on it, as if someone had hidden something. With my luck, we’ll find a dead body inside.”

  April chuckled again. “Don’t be so pessimistic. Besides, you seem to thrive on solving mysteries. That is, when you’re not almost getting yourself killed.”

  “Hey, I’m enjoying our book club getting back to reading,” I said with a shrug. “Although Blair picked some historical romance. I’m about half way through. It’s kind of boring. I mean, where’s the intrigue? The danger? The twists and turns?”

  “I take it you haven’t seen David much the last few days.”

  My heart skipped a beat at the sudden change in subject. David was my new boyfriend and a detective with the Mercer Island Police. We’d met when Martha was killed the year before. He’d been one of the investigators.

  I reached out and scooped a blob of dough from the bowl. “He and Sean are all tied up in that serial killer case. You know the one where they’ve found the remains of three different girls throughout the area? Now a fourth one has washed up here on the island.”

  She shook her head in dismay. “I heard about that. I hope they find the bastard.”

  “I guess Sean is now part of this big regional investigation task force, leaving David in charge here on the island. So he doesn’t have time for much else.”

  Detective Sean Abrams was the lead detective in the Mercer Island Police Department and David’s boss. Sean was also currently dating my daughter, Angela. It was weird by anyone’s standards to be so closely tied to the man your daughter was dating.

  “Is David still planning on retiring soon?” April asked.

  “End of the year. He’ll turn sixty-five in August. Although I kind of like him having a day job.”

  April glanced over her glasses at me. “You don’t think you’ll want him around all the time?”

  “No, it’s not that. But he’s a detective. I like that. I like the idea of him out protecting the public.”

  April began placing the triangular shaped lumps of dough onto a cookie sheet. “He could always become a private investigator. Maybe you could join him. The Franks and Applegate Detective Agency,” she said, using a flour-dusted hand to make a flourishing gesture in the air.

  “Very funny,” I replied, licking dough off my finger.

  Mr. Piper appeared at the back doorway to the bakery. “We’re ready for you, Mrs. Applegate.”

  I turned to April. “Care to join me?”

  “Sure. Let’s go find what we find,” she said, placing a clean towel over the dough.

  We followed Mr. Piper into the
warehouse. As he angled for the stairs, I called out, “Hold on.” I ran over to a small office at the back of the warehouse and grabbed a flashlight out of a drawer. I returned and asked April, “Any predictions?”

  She smiled and shook her head, moving out in front of me. “No. You rely too much on my ability to foretell the future.”

  April had a sixth sense, but it wasn’t something she liked to talk about. We followed Mr. Piper up the stairs in silence.

  As we approached the landing, I said, “Are you going to be able to handle being up here?”

  “I won’t like it,” she replied. “There’s a bad feeling up here that I choose to avoid. But for this, I’ll brave it. Even my curiosity sometimes gets the better of me.”

  A minute later, we stood in front of the hidden door. I glanced at April. Her dark features were pinched, as if a headache encroached.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, let’s just get this over with.”

  I turned and nodded to Mr. Piper, who reached out and used bolt cutters to remove the padlock. It fell to the floor with a thud, swirling up a cloud of dust. Mr. Piper turned the old glass door knob. The door stuck in place for a moment, making him lean into it. It finally gave way, ready to release its secrets.

  Stale air wafted over us as we peered into a darkened interior. The light in the attic barely shone beyond the doorframe. Since there was no light switch, I flicked on the flashlight.

  At first, all I saw was a dusty floor, covered by a tattered, braided throw rug. As I moved the light around, it flashed across an old rocking chair, a small, wooden chest pushed up against the wall, some books strewn across the floor, a dirty cot in one corner, and finally, a crib.

  “Oh, dear,” I whispered upon seeing the crib.

  I stepped across the threshold, feeling short of breath from the overpowering stench of rat droppings and urine. The space wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet, and the air was dank and oppressive. One wall was blackened with candle smoke, and cobwebs hung from the angled ceiling.