Mrs. Fix It Mysteries (5 Cozy Mystery Books Collection)

by Belle Knudson

The receptionist, whose name was Andy, glanced at his desk just as Kate had done and said, “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “I know it doesn’t look like it, but could you find out where he is, please?”

  Before Andy got the chance, Scott barreled through the open doorway with Gunther and Garrison. All three of them were hauling in Larry Stadt, and Kate almost couldn’t believe her eyes. Larry had been dating Carly for a while, and things had been going great. What on earth could he possibly have been arrested for?

  When Larry saw Kate he locked eyes with her and began pleading, “I didn’t do it, Kate! I would never! I love Carly!”

  “Do what?” she said, stunned.

  “They think I killed Ken!” Larry tried to jerk free of the officers, but they held him too tightly.

  Scott shot Kate a sorry glance.

  “You can’t possibly think he killed Ken! He was at the town meeting with everyone else!”

  “You don’t know what’s really going on, Kate,” he said sternly. “Please step aside.”

  She did, but she wouldn’t leave.

  Chapter Five

  “Scott, this doesn’t make any sense,” she said once the officers had secured Larry in one of the jail cells downstairs.

  “Not to you, no,” he said. “But we have evidence.”

  “What evidence?” she demanded. Scott had taken her into one of the interrogation rooms so they could talk in private. Kate knew it was a measure he’d taken so she wouldn’t cause a scene.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Kate,” he said regretfully.

  “But if Larry was at the town meeting when Ken died, I don’t see how—”

  “It doesn’t matter that Larry was there. The coroner discovered the poison used to kill Ken. It was slow acting. He would’ve had to have ingested it in five hours before he died.” Scott sighed. “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “What was his motive?” she challenged, and when he didn’t respond except to hang his head, she said, “He doesn’t have one. He wouldn’t. He’s been involved with Carly. He’d never do anything to hurt her.”

  “Kate, really, you need to leave.”

  “Ken was sick at home for days. Celia would’ve known if someone came to the house.”

  “Would she have?”

  She didn’t like how Scott was looking at her, but his point was clear. Celia had been dressed up that night. She hadn’t seemed particularly torn up about Ken’s death. Maybe she’d been out a lot in the recent days. Kate suddenly wondered if perhaps Celia was having an affair, then she forced the thought out of her head. It was absurd.

  “Look,” she began. “I should’ve told you the other night, but I was too riled up over Ken’s death.”

  “What?” he asked but with no sense of interest.

  “When I got to the house there was a black SUV in the driveway. Here,” she said, pulling up the photo she’d taken of Lily’s license plate with her cell phone. “The same SUV came to Jessica’s house to see it since it’s on the market. It belongs to a woman named Lily van der Tramp. She’s from out of town.”

  “Okay,” he said, not as intrigued as Kate thought he’d be.

  “Don’t you see? She was there at the house when Ken died. By the time I left the SUV was gone. I didn’t hear her in the house, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

  “Kate, we know Ken ingested the poison hours before his death. It wouldn’t matter that this Lily person stopped by.”

  “Who knows how long she was there?” she pointed out. “Please, you have to look into her.”

  “Kate, you have to leave,” he countered.

  “Why won’t you look into this?” she demanded.

  “Okay, fine. E-mail me the photo. I’ll look into it, but I don’t see why you won’t trust me on this. I’m not one to arrest people willy-nilly. We have proof.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve arrested people in the past and you’ve been wrong,” she said firmly. “And I’ve helped you in the past and I’ve been right.”

  Scott held her gaze but didn’t argue with her. He knew she was right. He had to, but there was nothing more she could say. She pulled up the e-mail app on her cell and sent the picture to him right away, then left the interrogation room.

  It pained her to think what Carly might be going through right now. It was bad enough she’d lost her father, but now that her boyfriend had been arrested she must be at the absolute end of her rope.

  Rather than heading out to her truck, she made her way down one flight of stairs to the jail cells, making sure that Scott and the other officers didn’t take notice.

  Larry was pacing his jail cell when she stepped up to the bars.

  “Kate!” he said desperately. “What’s going on? How can they arrest me?”

  “I don’t know. Scott won’t tell me anything. They didn’t talk to you?”

  “They brought me in for an interview earlier today. I didn’t know why they’d need to talk to me, but I answered all their questions, and though I didn’t think I was very helpful, they seemed pleased and I left. Then out of nowhere Scott showed up at Grayson’s and arrested me! I don’t know what I said or how this happened!”

  “Do you have a good lawyer?”

  “Yes, I called him,” said Larry. “Why am I in here?”

  “First things first. What did you tell them?”

  “Mainly they asked where I was between two and five yesterday afternoon. I told them I was at the hardware store until one, and Carly had been worried about her dad, so I offered to go over there. I think I got to the house around two. Ken was feverish, so I made him some soup.”

  “Oh no. You did?”

  “Yeah, made it from scratch with ingredients I found in the kitchen. Why?”

  Kate sighed. What an utterly terrible coincidence. “Scott told me Ken had been poisoned. He said the poison was ingested hours before Ken died.”

  “What? I didn’t poison him.”

  “But you used ingredients you weren’t familiar with.”

  “Are you saying I did this accidentally?”

  “No, I’m saying maybe someone else had planned to poison Ken, and you happened to pluck up the very ingredients they were planning on using.”

  “But who would want to kill Ken? And…” He fell silent, putting the pieces together. “Celia is the only other person who lives there. You think...?”

  “I really don’t know,” said Kate. Then she fished a scrap of paper out of her purse with a pen. “Do you remember exactly what ingredients you used? Can you write them down? Maybe I can get into the house and collect them.”

  As Larry jotted down all he could remember, he asked, “Why doesn’t Scott search the house? Find the poison?”

  “He probably will if he hasn't already, but I'll do my best. Did you mention you made the soup at the house?”

  “I...I think...it’s all a blur. I don’t remember.”

  “Well, definitely tell your lawyer when he gets here and don’t talk to anyone, not Scott or any of the officers until your lawyer gets here.”

  “I won’t.” He handed her the slip of papers through the bars.

  She skimmed it to make sure she could read his handwriting.

  “You’ll get me out of this, won’t you? You’ll find the real killer? I’m begging you.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said. He looked so sad, completely hopeless. “Try not to worry. Your bail will be set soon. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

  “Kate,” he blurted out urgently. “My dad was a killer. What if people don’t believe I’m innocent? What if, even if I do make it out of here, I lose my business?”

  She took a deep breath. His fears were real and justified, but if she thought about them, it’d cripple her. “Try to stay positive,” she told him then gave him a weary smirk. “And don’t say anything.”

  When Kate got out to her truck she realized that for the first time in a while she was legitimately stressed. It wasn’t just tha
t her friend had been arrested and her best friend was grieving terribly and probably at a wild loss for why her boyfriend was in jail, but also because Kate had let Ken’s death consume her and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since she’d found him. She was so busy with work for Justine that to let her tasks slide by even one day caused her a great burden.

  She really needed to get back on track, get to Brent Townsend’s house and stage it for sale, and continue on down her list, but she did not have a clue how she’d be able to concentrate.

  She reasoned she could spend a half hour and not a minute more dropping by the Rock Ridge Tribune to investigate the reporter Eric Demblowki, see if he had ties to Lily van der Tramp and try to assemble, if at all possible, a picture as to why anyone would want to frame Larry.

  For all the years Kate had lived in Rock Ridge, she’d never had a reason to stop by the Tribune. Often their articles revolved around the quaint goings-on about town, if not updates of the town meetings and other light political strides, which she generally was in the know about since she regularly attended those meetings.

  The Tribune was at the intersection of Main Street and Rock Ridge Road, and as soon as she turned the corner and had to slow down to make an immediate right into the Tribune parking lot, she experienced firsthand why there ought to be a traffic light there.

  Nancy Rodell’s son, a proud teenager who’d gotten his license not two weeks ago, had gunned it, swinging out in front of Kate’s truck. He must have thought it was either his right-of-way, or that he could beat her to the punch. She had pressed the gas so that he wouldn’t clip her rear bumper, and then slammed on the brakes to make her turn into the Tribune, which the vehicle behind her must not have expected. It rear-ended her from seem out of nowhere.

  Kate’s truck jolted forward then bucked to a stop at a hazardous angle on the sidewalk. As soon as her gaze snapped up to the rearview, she saw the airbag in the car behind her had deployed. Checking quickly around her truck to be sure she wasn’t obstructing traffic, she jumped out and rushed to the driver, giving a brief glance at her rear bumper when she passed it. There was virtually no damage except for a little bent, but the front end of the VW behind her was crushed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked urgently, as the driver did what he could to crush down the inflated airbag. She popped his door open and got a good look at him. His face was covered in white dust from the bag and he looked disoriented. She was quick with her cell phone and dialed 911 immediately, while in the back of her mind she tried to recall who the driver was. He looked like he a teenager with sandy brown hair and big brown eyes.

  “I’m fine,” he managed to say. “My shoulder hurts.”

  “Well, stay put, don’t move in case something’s broken,” she said.

  “I-I have to go. I’m late.” He was in a daze and clearly not thinking straight if he thought he could drive away from the scene of an accident or drive at all with his front end crushed. “Really, I can’t be here.”

  “You can’t go anywhere, not until the police write up the accident report, and even then the only place you’re going is a hospital. What’s your name?”

  Whether because of teenaged stubbornness or because he was out of sorts, the kid didn’t answer, but slammed his door shut and rested his head back on the seat.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” she called through the door. “You may have a concussion, and if you doze off you could be in real danger.”

  Kate milled a few steps in the street and waved the line of cars around, the drivers of which had stopped to rubberneck the accident. At least the VW wasn’t blocking traffic. She requested an ambulance as well as a police officer, reporting the accident to 911 once she sent the call through.

  The ambulance arrived first and the medics immediately tended to the kid after helping him out of the car and settling him into the back of the ambulance. Officer Garrison pulled around the corner after that, parked directly in front of Kate’s truck, and hurried to survey the damage.

  “If I didn’t voice my support of a traffic light,” Kate began, “then let me do that now. This is a dangerous intersection.”

  “I agree,” said Garrison. “What happened?”

  “I made my left-hand turn just as an oncoming car was speeding along. I gassed it just so that car wouldn’t clip me, but then had to hit the brakes to turn into the Tribune.”

  “And the VW rear-ended you,” he supplied.

  “You should take that kid’s statement. I can wait. He needs to get to the hospital, I’d imagine. Can I get the report from you in a bit? I’m in a rush and need to talk to someone at the newspaper.”

  Officer Garrison agreed and started for the back of the ambulance.

  The Tribune offices appeared as Kate had imagined. A small-town paper with few reporters, the offices looked more like a large room with interns bustling about. There was no receptionist to speak of, and other than a door in the back that had “Editor in Chief” written across its top, she couldn’t immediately identify who was in charge. Not only that, but no one seemed to take notice of her.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a young woman who was hurrying down the aisle of desks towards a copy machine. “I’m looking for one of your reporters, Eric Demblowski.”

  As if she didn’t have time for the interruption, the woman pointed with her elbow in the general direction of a desk where a man in his thirties was hunched over printed copy with three interns hovering around him.

  Hesitant as she was due to the frenetic energy of the office, Kate approached and soon caught the man’s attention. He gave her a quick double-take then asked, “Can I help you with something?” She was about to answer when his eyes widened with recognition. “Kate Flaherty?”

  “Yes, you’re Eric Demblowski?”

  “I am.” He rose to his feet.

  “You knew an awful lot about Ken Johnson’s death,” she said and he quickly ushered her into a room she hadn’t noticed. It had no windows and was cluttered with boxes, most of which said “Archive” with a year written on its side.

  “This will give us some privacy,” he said, closing the door.

  Eric was young for being a reporter, or so she thought. He looked in his early thirties and his style of dress—tight jeans, fashionable boots, and a casual sweater—made him look even younger.

  “I assume you’re still reporting on Ken’s murder?”

  “It’s the hot story right now,” he said easily.

  “Who leaked the facts of the case to you?”

  “Ha,” he laughed. “You know I can’t give you my source.”

  She’d like to think it was someone in the police department, but he knew so many details. It was as if he’d committed the crime himself.

  “I hear you’re from New York.”

  “I am, though I’m not from there, not raised there. I worked there a few years.”

  “Another New Yorker came to town recently. Lily van der Tramp.”

  His expression told her he was drawing a blank, or rather trying to appear as though he was drawing a blank.

  “Do you know her?” she pressed.

  “I’ve certainly heard of her,” he admitted but folded his arms, brow furrowing as though he wasn’t sure where this was going or was uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “You knew Ken was poisoned and that I was there, even though I didn’t see or talk to you. And yet you didn’t print that Lily van der Tramp had been there.”

  He had no discernible reaction, which was odd. If this were new information, Kate thought he would’ve had a reaction.

  “How would I know she was there?” he challenged then quickly added, “It wasn’t in the police report, which, by the way, is public information.”

  “The police report wasn’t released until after your article had been printed.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m curious how you got your information and why you printed select facts and not the whole picture.”

&
nbsp; “I’m a good reporter.” Before she could ask anything else, he took over the role off interrogator. “You have quite the reputation. I think it’s interesting that people turn up dead around you.”

  That was phrasing it cleverly.

  “And yet no one’s looked at you as a serious suspect.”

  “They wouldn’t. I had nothing to do with any of the murders.”

  “And yet you just happen to stumble upon them?” It was a rhetorical question. “I think you have everything to do with them.”

  “I’m all over town because of my line of work, more than anyone else, probably.”

  “I know about your husband,” he said. “That’s the story I’m interested in. I don’t necessarily care about these small-town murders, except that they filter into a much bigger picture.”

  Curious what he might know, though she doubted it was more than she knew, she cocked her head.

  “The development,” he stated plainly. “I think there’s a much bigger story here.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The murders are all stemming from it. I can’t print anything yet. Obviously I can’t throw around gossip and speculation, but I’ll have something soon. I’ll print it. And you and your husband will be at the very center of it.”

  “I have nothing to do with my husband anymore. If you were a worthwhile reporter, you’d know that. I haven’t seen a trace of him in almost six years. Plus, I’m in the midst of divorcing him.”

  “Yes, I know. I work at the paper that's been running your ad,” he said dryly.

  “Do you think Ken was killed because of the development?”

  “In fact, I do. And I think you do, as well,” he said, no longer her adversary but sounding more like a confidant. “Maybe we should compare notes sometime.”

  “I’m not going to feed you information,” she said. “I’m not going to be one of your unethical sources.”

  “At this point I’m confident I know much more than you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ll have to make a deal. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, “but it won’t be in that order. You’ll have to tell me what you know first.”