Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3

by Karin Kaufman

  “Give me this,” Liz said, taking the carton of eggs from Anna. “Go take your shower, breakfast will be ready when you are.”

  “Bless you,” Anna said, relenting immediately. Liz would get no argument from her. “Fruit’s in the refrigerator.”

  Before she could head for the bathroom down the hallway, the phone in her purse rang. She checked to see who was dialing and saw Gene’s sheepish grin—the photo she’d made him pose for in Buckhorn’s so she could add it to her phone’s caller list. Motioning to Liz, she started down the hall for her bedroom. By the time she reached the door, Gene had told her there was an offer on his house.

  Anna shut the door, listening as he explained. A fair price, a nice buyer with a wife and a baby, thirty days until closing. The relief and excitement in his voice made her laugh. Now he had to find a house in Elk Park, he said, a task almost as difficult as selling his Loveland house. But he was halfway home.

  She wanted to ask him what he would do if he couldn’t find a house in Elk Park, but she thought better of it. No need to spoil his happiness with worrisome what-ifs, obstacles of which, in any case, he was no doubt aware. Somehow, he told her before he hung up, he was going to fit house hunting into his schedule so he would burden his sister and her family as little as possible.

  On her way out of the bedroom she stopped at her grandmother’s chest—an ebony-colored four-drawer piece made of fine-grained ash—opened the top drawer, and looked down on the shattered wood that once was Sean’s mandolin. Crushed in the center by a deliberate, vicious act, its neck torn off and never found, it no longer looked like a musical instrument.

  Would it always be this way when she spoke to Gene about something important in their lives? Immediately the longing to appear—to feel—faithful to Sean tugged at her heart. You know what’s happening to my heart, don’t you, Sean? Please believe me, I haven’t forgotten you.

  What was she to do with these slivers of wood? If the monster who had done this had merely damaged the instrument, she would have it repaired. Then she could play it and there would be a reason for its presence in the house. But it was beyond repair, and it lay in her drawer like a soulless sack of bones in a coffin.

  She knew it couldn’t stay in the house forever. And she knew that the longer it did, the harder it would be to throw it out. But it was cruel to the dead—forgetting them, moving on, throwing away what they’d once treasured, no matter how broken and useless. She’d taken off her wedding ring, wasn’t that enough?

  She’d fallen in love with Gene—wasn’t that enough?

  She shut the drawer and opened her bedroom door. The aroma of toast and coffee drew her down the hall and into the kitchen, and she willingly let thoughts of breakfast elbow all other thoughts from her mind.

  A refreshing shower in her very own non-haunted bathroom was out of the question now. She had time for breakfast and Alice Ryder, no more, and at the moment breakfast, which included her own hazelnut coffee, was paramount.

  After a third call from Anna, Jackson, who was circling chattering squirrels in a ponderosa out back, ran inside and hopped to his usual spot on the couch.

  “Who called?” Liz asked. She was doing her best to keep her expression neutral as she scooped scrambled eggs from a pan onto two plates.

  “You know very well who.” Anna grabbed her coffee cup and took a sip before sitting down. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until just now.”

  Liz placed the pan in the sink and returned to the table, her eyes locked on Anna’s.

  “I was going to tell you,” Anna said. “I just wanted to dig in first. Thanks for making breakfast.” She took a large bite of toast and chewed slowly. That’s a lie. I don’t want to talk about it. She didn’t like Liz’s questions about Gene, which had grown more frequent in the past month. She didn’t like her knowing smiles and suggestions, which however well intentioned were pushing her where she wasn’t ready to go.

  She feared being cruel to Sean by leaving him behind. Not forgetting him, but saying to him, I found someone and I must leave you now. Because when you truly leave, Anna thought, you don’t go back. Liz didn’t understand that. Her past was also her present and, as far as she knew, her future. Her past with Dan was alive, and she was allowed, because Dan was alive, to tow her past behind her like a parade of big red wagons. Remember when Dan started that barbecue fire? Year before last Dan forgot our anniversary. When Dan and I went to Colorado Springs . . .

  When had Liz ever had to sever the past and leave it, still a living, breathing thing, behind her?

  “You’re welcome. Stop stalling and spill the beans.”

  Anna wiped buttery toast crumbs from her lips. “He has an offer on his house in Loveland.”

  “Yeah? Fantastic.”

  “In the meantime he has to find a house in Elk Park.”

  “That may take a while.”

  Anna grunted her assent and slathered more butter on her toast. She let her eyes stray to the sliding glass door and the yard beyond. The morning mist had ripened to a drizzle, and the ponderosas were getting a soaking that would last them through the dry months of summer.

  “Well, anyway, I called Dan while you were in the bedroom. He’s fine.” Liz lifted her coffee cup, drained it, and rose to clear the table.

  “Just put everything in the sink, and I’ll run some water over it,” Anna said. She devoured her eggs, popped a few strawberries into her mouth, then propped her coffee cup and fork on her plate and took them to the kitchen. She knew her silence on Gene puzzled Liz, who probably thought her secretive or unfeeling, and she hated that. Silence often led even good friends to believe the worst.

  She lifted the egg pan from the sink and held it under the running faucet, scraping bits of dried egg from it with her index finger. “It’s hard to talk about Gene,” she said, keeping her eyes on the pan. “I care about him very much, but sometimes I think things are moving too fast. It feels too fast, and I can’t explain why. Give me time, OK?”

  Liz wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave Anna a quick hug. “You got it.”

  Anna quickly ran the dishes under the faucet and dried her hands. “I’m going to look up Alice Ryder while we’re away from prying eyes.”

  Liz carried her laptop from the island to the table. “I was thinking about that. I’m going to call my contact at the town office. If Alice bought property here, got divorced here—anything—she’ll be able to find it. She might find some county records, too, and I mean going back to the 1970s and earlier.” She rubbed her palms together. “I’ll ask her to look up the other conclave members while she’s at it.”

  Anna smiled. There it was. That investigative gleam in her friend’s eye, the how-I-love-this tone in her voice. Liz should have been a police detective. She’d have given Lonnie Schaeffer a run for his money. If the Herald continued to smear Liz and her website, it would have a fight on its hands, and not just from Anna. Liz’s husband Dan, fiercely protective of her, would be at the head of the queue, torch and pitchfork in hand.

  “There’s a notepad in the drawer by the phone,” Anna said as she headed to her office. Jackson padded after her and took his place on the floor by her desk. She knew he thought they were home to stay, and she felt a twinge of guilt knowing she’d have to disturb him again in less than twenty minutes.

  She turned on her computer, popped open her Birch file, and clicked her way to Rust Belt History, a popular midwestern genealogy site. It was doubtful Alice was listed anywhere on the site, but a message on the help forum might stir some interest. Alice, after all, had once perched on the lower rung of the sixties’ celebrity ladder.

  The same forum had been invaluable last February when Anna researched the Barcome family of Two Rivers, Wisconsin. Genealogists, she’d learned, could be as hot-blooded as football fans in September. They loved helping fellow genealogists and, most of all, loved the pursuit of clues.

  After leaving a message on the site, Anna keyed in the address of an Ohio database
.

  “Anna, I found something.”

  Anna turned her head to the hall. “Already?” She looked at Jackson and pushed herself out of her chair.

  Liz was at the kitchen counter scribbling wildly on a scrap of paper, the wall phone to her ear. She thanked someone on the other end then put the phone back on the hook. “My contact,” she said, spinning back to Anna. “She searched the county records and got a hit on a driver’s license that matched Alice’s birth date.” She read her notes. “Alice Nolan, née Ryder. She married in Pennsylvania, but she currently lives in Lyons.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “That’s her phone number.” She handed Anna the piece of paper. “Want to call her?”

  “You know, it’s possible Alice wasn’t the person who wrote the yellow letters.”

  “You’re chickening out.”

  Anna held up a hand. “It’s not that. I just don’t want to waste our time. The only clue we have that Alice wrote those letters is their color. Let’s try something else first,” she said as she took a seat at the table. “Can you leave a message on your website for the person who sent you the second letter?”

  “Sure, I can do it now. Saying what?” She joined Anna at the table, her fingers hovering over her laptop keyboard.

  “Ask him or her to contact you as soon as possible. Say it’s very important, but don’t say why.”

  Liz started typing.

  “Let this person know you’ll keep everything confidential.”

  “Confidential,” Liz echoed. “Right.”

  “Have you checked the Elk Park Herald website this morning?”

  Liz looked up. “I can’t face it right now.”

  Work at Sparrow House was taking Liz away from her battle with the Herald, and the benefits for Liz of writing her posts from the house were quickly being overtaken by the disadvantages. It was important that she react quickly to the newspaper’s insinuations, before they took root. “Liz, you don’t have to go back to Sparrow House. Stay in Elk Park and fight this.”

  Liz’s expression was stern, her voice resolute. “I’m going back to Sparrow House. We have a job to finish, and I’m going to write another post about the noises from upstairs. Tonight. Leaving is just what the Herald wants me to do.” She paused, a broad grin settling on her face. “Besides, I got eighty-one comments on my last blog post.”

  Anna exhaled sharply. “Have you ever had that many?”

  “Not even close. The Herald may have done me a favor.”

  Liz returned her attention to her laptop, typing a few more words then hitting Enter. “Done. Contact us, please, oh user of hippie banana paper.”

  “All right.” Anna slapped the tabletop and pushed out of her seat. “We have to go.” Intending to grab Jackson’s bed, she started for her bedroom, but before she reached the door, she decided against it. Jackson enjoyed sleeping on her bed in the Forsythia Room—at home he wasn’t allowed—and she enjoyed the comfort of him sleeping at her feet. She hooked her purse onto her shoulder and, passing through the kitchen, slipped a bag of dog treats into it.

  “Here we go,” Liz said, tucking her laptop under her arm and following Anna into the garage, “back to Horror House.”

  As Jackson hopped into the back seat, Anna heard a muffled ring from somewhere in the Jimmy.

  “I left my phone in here,” Liz said, opening the passenger door and reaching for her purse on the floor.

  She pulled out her phone, punched a button, and climbed into the SUV.

  A minute later, as Anna drove north out of Elk Park, Liz hung up and dropped her phone back into her purse. “That was my contact at the police. They found a small reddish mark on Devin Sherwood’s back near his right shoulder, an almost impossible place for him to have reached himself, and there were no other needle marks on his body. He wasn’t a needle user.”

  “What kind of mark?”

  “They don’t know what kind, or how long he’s had it. Or if they do know, they’re not saying. All they’re saying for sure is that Devin was murdered.”

  15

  Jackson hopped out of the Jimmy and sat by the car’s open door.

  “He doesn’t want to go in,” Liz said as she gathered her things. She moved reluctantly for the door. “Smart dog.”

  “Come on, boy.” Anna clicked her tongue and Jackson rose. “I’ve got treats for later. It’s wet out here.” She slapped the side of her leg, pushed the door shut, and followed Liz to the front door. “Don’t ring the bell,” she said. At the door she dug into her jeans pocket and produced the key Bee had given her.

  “Good,” Liz said.

  “Our first chance to make a stealth entry.”

  The key was old, and until it moved in the lock—after some jiggling—she wasn’t sure it would work. But she heard the latch give and felt the door move in the jamb. She turned the knob and pushed opened the door. For a moment she stood just inside, listening for voices or the sounds of Bee or Nilla engaged in their morning routines.

  Jackson trotted inside and sat down in front of her, inches from her legs, staring straight ahead like one of the guardian lions outside the greenhouse.

  “Why do I get the feeling he knows more than we know?” Anna said as she headed for the library.

  “Because he does. Dogs always know more.”

  As Anna passed the sitting-room fireplace her eyes were again drawn to the half-bear and wooden mallets on the mantel. The mallets alone were disturbing, but along with the bear they formed a repulsive tableau. Every time her eyes strayed to that mantel, she felt a pitching in her stomach.

  “I’m going to write a one-paragraph article about Devin first,” Liz said as she tossed her purse on the chair beside her and opened her laptop. “I’m glad the police are focusing on his roommate and friends for now. Maybe we’re not staying overnight with a murderer—at least not a murderer interested in us.”

  “Devin was unconscious before I’d even agreed to take the job. Maybe before I even got here on Monday morning.” Anna came to a halt and threw her head back. “Jackson’s blanket is upstairs.”

  “Forget it.”

  Anna looked over to the armchair then down at Jackson. It was about time he had a place to sleep up off the floor. She patted the cushion and he hopped onto it, curling into a contented ball of fur. “We deserve this, right, boy? It’s our bonus for what we had to go through last night.”

  “You bet.” Liz’s laptop sprang to life and she started to type.

  “Anyway,” Anna said as she lifted folders and loose, dog-eared papers from the shelf and placed them on the table, “I’m trying not to think about what may or may not have happened to Devin. We have until Friday afternoon to finish this job. Forty-eight hours.”

  “Where is everybody?” Liz stopped typing and listened, leaning toward the open library door, peering into the sitting room.

  “I thought we’d find Lawrence in here taking advantage of our breakfast in town.”

  “He’s afraid of running into Jackson again.”

  “As well he should be.” Anna looked over to Jackson—who was already fast asleep, his paws twitching as he chased squirrels in his dreams—and it suddenly occurred to her that Lawrence might have been interested in more than the yellow letter she’d left in the library, or the purple folder. Lately his attention to the oldest documents had waned, replaced by a growing interest in those of a more recent vintage.

  “Liz, have you noticed anything missing?”

  “You think Lawrence took something?” Liz stood and examined the documents on the library table. “I wouldn’t put it past him to take some records down to the basement so he could have them to himself.”

  “Where’s the red box with the rosaries?”

  Liz raised and shoved aside books and ledgers, looking for the box. “I don’t see it, and it should be easy to spot.” She twisted back to look on the shelves behind her, and Anna did the same with the shelves on her side of the room.

  “It�
�s gone,” Anna announced. “He took it.”

  “Anna, we don’t know it was him.”

  “I saw it right here last night.” She pointed, arm extended, finger unwavering, at the table. “Who else would take it? Thank goodness I still have the newspaper clipping in the folder.”

  “Shoot. Now I can’t find the ledger book. The one I spilled egg salad on yesterday.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Matthew Birch’s finances. I think he wrote it himself, not an accountant.”

  “Do you think it was important?”

  Liz shrugged. “He kept score of every little thing he spent money on. It was like a diary, only the subject was money. Books he bought, trips he took, hotels he stayed in—from the late seventies to the early eighties. He mentions the Broadmoor a number of times. He even recorded the meals he and his family had there.”

  “An obsessive man in many ways.” Anna scanned the table again, trying to picture what the library had looked like last night before she and Liz went upstairs. Matthew’s birth, marriage, and death certificates were still on the table, as were the other family records she’d set aside when she was working on the family tree. The conclave photo and yellow letters were in her purse.

  “Anything else missing?”

  “I don’t think so. But there’s no way to tell. I may have to talk to Paxton or Nilla about this. Lawrence can’t be allowed in here until we finish our job.”

  “Do you think we should search the basement? If Lawrence took those things, they’re down there with him and he’s obstructing our work.”

  “Maybe.” Anna was torn. The job was growing more complicated and unnerving by the hour. She didn’t want to search the basement, confront Lawrence, or even tell Paxton and Nilla of her suspicions about him. What harm would there be in not mentioning the box or ledger book? They didn’t seem to have any bearing on what she and Liz were doing.