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

by Belle Knudson

  Scott greeted her at his door on the fifth floor. His snow-white hair looked damp and he was already in his sweats. She was envious that he’d had a chance to shower.

  “Katydid,” he said, urging her inside. “You look like you could use a cup.”

  “You said it,” she said, pleased to smell fresh coffee in the air.

  He led her through to the kitchen and served her a hot mug.

  Though his apartment wasn’t large, it was handsome, and he’d certainly taken the time to straighten up. For all his excuses that his place was overwrought with case files, she didn’t see a single one in sight. The living room was neatly organized. The leather couch was clear, as well as the glass coffee table in front of it. His desk in the corner of the room was neatly organized, and she saw he had the sliding glass door to the terrace wide open. A crisp breeze blew in that wasn’t cold.

  He invited her to have a seat on the couch then went back into the kitchen and set out the Thai food on plates. She took a moment to herself, drinking coffee, as he placed dinner on the coffee table. She liked the casual nature of eating at his place.

  As they ate dinner, the fresh air breezing through his apartment, Kate had to hold herself back from bombarding him about the case. Instead, she struck up a far more pleasant conversation.

  “Arthur gave me a call right before I got here. He’s filing the divorce tomorrow with the court, and I should have a court date soon.”

  “That’s great,” he said, drinking his beer.

  “And I heard Larry is out on bail.”

  Too soon?

  Scott’s brow fell into a straight line and he sighed.

  “You really think he did it?”

  “You know I can’t talk about this,” he said and took another sip of his beer.

  “Larry told me he made that soup for Ken. He doesn’t deny it, but the ingredients were already in the kitchen. There’s no way he would’ve done it on purpose.”

  “But you see why my hands are tied, right?”

  “So you don’t think he did it?”

  “Of course I don’t think he did it. But what can I do?”

  “Drop the charges.”

  “Letting him out on bail was the best I could do,” he said. “And it went against precedent since it looks like he killed Ken premeditatedly. Do you have any idea how much flack I’m getting from the entire department, letting a cop killer even have the option of bail?”

  “Did you speak with Celia?”

  “Several times.”

  “About those ingredients, I mean.”

  “Kate, are we going to enjoy our dinner?”

  “That depends,” she said indignantly. “Did you talk to Lily van der Tramp, whose SUV was parked outside Ken’s house when I got there?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “She said she was lost.”

  “She wasn’t in her vehicle, Scott. What if she was in the house?”

  “What if she was walking up the block to get a better look at the house numbers? She’s in town buying a house, you know.” Again, Scott sighed. “You have to trust me that I’m not going to put the wrong man in jail for this.”

  She nearly objected that he already had, but held her tongue.

  “But you have to let me go about this my way.”

  Kate pushed her chicken curry around on her plate, watching the white rice soak it up.

  “I’ve also been digging deeper into what happened to Greg,” he said, changing the subject. “I found out Walter Miller was keeping a file on him, though it took long enough going through Walter’s office to find it.”

  Walter Miller was Kate’s first divorce attorney who was murdered last month. The prior mayor, Harvy Stuart, had killed him when Walter backed out of his investment for the anarchist development out east—the investment that Lily had stepped in to fulfill.

  “What did the file contain?” Kate asked. Her heart was in her throat.

  “By the looks of it, Greg was spying on the anarchists, posing as an ally and reporting back to the US government since the Anarchist Freedom Network was suspected of domestic terrorism.”

  “So Greg was one of the good guys?” She wanted to feel relieved, but when it came to Greg, nothing was a relief.

  “You could say that. Apparently, Walter was keeping tabs on it. Perhaps Mike Waters didn’t trust Greg, and since Walter was working with the anarchists, Mike probably engaged him to spy on Greg.”

  “What was Greg’s role or title, rather, in the government?”

  “It looks like FBI. I’ve put a few calls in to the nearest bureau. I can only hope they’ll get back to me. The good news is that if Greg had nothing to do with the FBI, I have a feeling the FBI would’ve told me that outright. The fact that they’re stalling leads me to believe Greg is somewhere out there, perhaps working undercover. Maybe on a different mission. Maybe on this one. I’ve hit a wall. All I can do is wait for someone in the department I contacted to get back to me with something concrete.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following day, Kate woke bright and early at her house having decided not to spend the night with Scott. They both felt they had too much to do at work and their overnights tended to get late. After stopping off at Bean There for a large to-go cup of coffee and a yogurt muffin, which she was getting fast addicted to, Kate drove out of Rock Ridge towards Ikea. Based on thumbing through the interior design books she’d gotten from Hazel at the library, she was feeling confident about the pieces she could buy on Justina’s budget.

  Once there, she bypassed the exceptionally long and windy showroom floor, heading straight for the warehouse at the side entrance. Using a large cart, she worked her way through the warehouse and pulled the boxes she needed from the industrial shelves. By the time she was loading up her truck, she had a dining room table, a desk, a bed frame and mattress, as well as a couch, each in their own box. Each would need to be assembled.

  Meredith Joste’s house looked like five off-kilter cubes stacked at a precarious tilt on its right side, with rotund pillars on its left. Its many windows were large, and in a lot of ways the house looked as if it were made of glass.

  She spent the greater part of the morning assembling the various pieces and placing them just so. She’d planned to pick up a number of bouquets from Sunshine Florist, but now that she had the rooms staged, she felt the overall appearance was much too futuristic for flowers. She’d give Justina a call and get a second opinion, she thought, as she collected the empty boxes and foam core and carried them out to her truck where she set them in the bed. She could swing by the dump on her way in to see Carly. She’d called her cell a few times as she worked, and finally Carly had picked up and agreed to lunch at Celia’s.

  Depositing the trash at the dump was a quick stop, and soon Kate was pulling up to the curb in front of Celia’s house. As far as Kate had heard, the autopsy on Ken had taken longer than usual, which pushed the family’s funeral arrangements off. For Carly, it had become a big problem. Keeping busy was the only thing helping her to function, and the idle days had sent her plummeting into depression, or at least that was Kate’s take on the situation.

  “Hi Kate,” Carly said gloomily when she opened the door. Her eyes were still pink and puffy and it looked like she was wearing the same sweatpants as the last time Kate had seen her. “Come on in.”

  After giving Carly a hug, she followed her friend into the kitchen where Carly had a fresh pot of coffee waiting.

  “This seems to be all I eat these days,” she said, as she poured Kate a steaming mug then another for herself.

  Celia didn’t appear to be home, but then Kate heard someone walking around on the second floor.

  “How’s your mom doing?” She asked.

  Carly shrugged. “She’s been out a lot,” she said finally.

  “Doing what?”

  “Who knows,” said Carly a bit snappishly. “I’m glad to have the house to myself, if I’m being honest. I don’t
know what I was thinking all but moving in here. But I guess my own house reminds me too much of Larry, and I couldn’t bear it.”

  “He’s having a really hard time,” she said, but tried to be delicate about it. The last thing she wanted was for Carly to feel guilty on top of her mourning.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “The more I think about it, the crazier it seems that he would’ve done anything to hurt Dad. But,” she added, “the evidence is the evidence.”

  Just then, Celia made her way into the kitchen. Interestingly, she was still wearing the black shawl she’d worn the night Ken died. It seemed a bit out of place for broad daylight, but it was chilly. In that sense, a shawl made sense.

  “How are you doing, Celia?”

  “Getting on. Going for a lot of walks. Trying to get back into my usual routine,” she said, though she directed the last statement to her daughter.

  “I can’t just go back to my regular routine as though nothing’s happened, Mom,” said Carly, annoyed. “It’s not like you went back to work.”

  “But I had a reason not to. You love working at the florist. There’s no sense in avoiding the things you love to do.”

  Carly seemed to consider her point, as she sipped her coffee.

  “I’m just glad the police are gone,” said Celia. “They mean well, but they made an utter mess of the kitchen.”

  “You know that designer moved to town,” said Kate offhandedly, nodding towards Celia’s shawl. “She bought Jessica’s old house.”

  “The designer of this shawl? How do you know that?”

  “I came across her website. Do you happen to know Lily van der Tramp?”

  “No,” she said, thinking about it. “Ken gave me this shawl.”

  “He did?” asked Carly, surprised. Kate gathered from Carly’s reaction that Ken wasn’t one to give those sorts of gifts.

  “I assume he did. I found it gift-wrapped on the table with ingredients and a recipe for Gazpacho soup. He was trying to spice things up, I figured.”

  “When was this?” Kate asked, alarmed that a recipe with ingredients for soup had been left on Celia’s table and she hadn’t questioned it.

  “The late morning of Ken’s final day,” she said easily.

  “But Celia,” Kate said, trying to remain polite, “Ken had been sick for days. You think he went out and bought you gifts?”

  Not to mention it didn’t seem likely that Ken would provide Celia with poisonous ingredients.

  “Oh, I have no idea,” she said, laughing it off. “I didn’t even think about it.”

  “Did you tell Scott?” she asked.

  “It didn’t seem relevant. I mean, it’s a gift.”

  “But Ken’s soup was poisoned,” said Kate.

  Carly added, “Larry must have found it on the counter and thought to make him soup.”

  Celia looked shocked, but Kate was even more so, mainly because it was hard to believe Celia could be so clueless.

  “Celia, the real killer had to have gotten into the house and left those there.”

  She was dumbfounded. “But—”

  “And the back door was wide open. Anyone could’ve gotten in,” said Carly in an accusatory tone.

  “Not necessarily,” said Kate. “They’d have to have known the back door was wide open. Who knew that? Did you tell anyone?”

  Not answering the question, Celia rushed off, speaking over her shoulder as she went, “I’ll call Scott right away.”

  “She’s getting up there in age,” said Carly, but it was a halfhearted excuse.

  After a moment, Carly asked her what she felt like eating for lunch.

  “Maybe we could drive over to Bean There,” said Kate, the thought of eating anything from the kitchen that had held poisonous ingredients making her squeamish.

  “I’ll follow you.”

  It wasn’t the healthiest lunch, but once they got to Bean There, Kate got another large coffee and muffin, as well as a bagel with cream cheese now that Clara had stepped up her game and stocked her café with more substantial options. Carly got the same and they found a table near the windows.

  “I heard you got into a little fender bender,” said Carly, breaking off a piece of her muffin.

  “Unfortunately,” said Kate.

  “It was one of those anarchists, wasn’t it?” she asked, shaking her head. “My dad worked so hard to keep an eye on that development. He was afraid the anarchists would spill over into town, wreak havoc, and I’m afraid they are.”

  “How do you know it was one of the anarchists?”

  Carly leveled her gaze on her and asked, “Did you know the kid?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t recognize him.”

  She lifted her brows as if that were her point. “Rock Ridge is a small town. At this point, if you encounter someone you don’t recognize, it’s an anarchist. Did you know that by the time the development is finished they'll outnumber the residents two to one?”

  “Is that right?” Kate swallowed hard. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Trust me, the kid who hit you is one of them. I heard he refused to go to the hospital. He made the ambulance pull over, shouted all kinds of threats that they couldn’t take him against his will. Then he called for a cab, got his car, and drove off like nothing happened.”

  Kate wondered how he could’ve driven his car with the front end crushed in, but maybe the damage was more superficial than it had looked.

  “Well, well, well, Mrs. Flaherty,” said Eric, as he stalked towards their table.

  Carly glanced over her shoulder to see who was interrupting them then scowled.

  “My condolences,” he said to Carly.

  “I’m not talking to you,” she snapped.

  Eric seemed to smile right through her cold shoulder then addressed Kate, “Given any thought to a chat?”

  Carly looked appalled. “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?”

  “No,” said Kate right away. “Not about your dad, anyway.”

  Carly seemed annoyed. She narrowed her eyes.

  “Not at all,” Kate clarified.

  “That’s too bad,” said Eric. “I got in touch with Neil Motley,” he boasted. “You know, the old police chief. He had quite a bit to say.”

  Kate hated to seem highly interested. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Carly, but she couldn’t help it. Her expression gave it away.

  In a huff, Carly wrapped up her muffin, making to go. “I owe Larry a visit.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to go,” said Kate.

  “No, no. I’ve been thinking about getting in touch with him, anyway. And if you feel the need to hear this vulture out, I won’t stop you. Just know whatever you say, he’ll twist it around then print it.”

  “I’ll call you later,” said Kate, which Carly barely acknowledged before she started for the door.

  “May I?” asked Eric, pulling out a chair.

  “You talked to Neil Motley?” she asked skeptically. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone from Rock Ridge. He all but disappeared.”

  “It’s amazing what a little money can do.”

  Kate frowned.

  “And a little lie. I told him I was with the New York Times.”

  “And he believed you?”

  “I had a few credits last year. Small articles. Low-rung copy editor, but still, he was able to check it out. I seemed credible.”

  “And what did you tell him you were calling about?”

  “In that regard, I told the truth,” said Eric, brushing off the muffin crumbs that Carly had left on the table. “I told him I was writing an article on the Anarchist Freedom Network, which is true, though I didn’t mention I had no idea when I’d have enough of the facts to actually get the green light from my editor to print anything.”

  “So what did he tell you?”

  Eric leaned over the table. “The only reason I’d tell you is if you tell me what you know.”

  “That means you know less than I do,”
she pointed out.

  “I promise you I know things you don’t,” he countered. “Not to mention I need your help. I can’t go to the development and poke around. They know I’m a reporter. I’d get nowhere. But you’re a handywoman. You could go there for any reason.”

  Kate was about to mention that his assumption was hardly true. The last time she’d gone, Clem Tully all but dragged her off the premises, but in order to get Eric talking, she agreed.

  “Your husband, Greg, enlisted Neil’s help,” he said to stir intrigue. It worked. Kate didn’t even blink. “They left together.”

  “When Neil abruptly quit and moved to North Carolina?”

  Eric nodded.

  “Neil said that?”

  “He did. And he e-mailed me photos of them, e-mail correspondence, all kinds of proof that Greg was down south for a few years.”

  “So where is he now? In North Carolina?”

  Eric shook his head. “He hasn’t been down there in the past year. Neil said he disappeared. I believe him.”

  “Disappeared where?”

  Eric was momentarily distracted when his cell phone started ringing. He answered, and Kate faintly heard a woman through the line. It sounded like Celia. He said he'd call her back and then quickly hung up.

  Kate glared at him. "Are you having an affair with Celia Johnson?"

  Smugly, Eric said, "If I am, it doesn't mean I killed Ken."

  "I can't believe you," she said, disgusted with him.

  Eric gave her a moment to get over it and then said, “All Neil could say about Greg running off from North Carolina was that it had to do with Bradley Stuart.”

  “Jessica’s son who went missing when he was four years old?” she asked with astonishment.

  “If you find Bradley, you’ll find Greg.”

  Chapter Eight

  As Kate drove her truck towards the gate to the campsite, she wondered how in the heck Eric had roped her into doing this. Realistically, she didn’t have a prayer in hell of finding Bradley, but Eric had lit a fire in her. She believed him about Greg. And when he’d told her to poke around the campsite, it seemed like a good idea.