Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3

by Karin Kaufman

  But the yellow letter? That was different. Lawrence may not have been looking for it, but he knew he’d found something he wanted—and wanted to keep from her—as soon as he saw it. How did he know? What was his real purpose in collecting the Birch family papers? For the next two nights, she decided, any important papers or books were going upstairs with her when she retired.

  “In the meantime,” Anna said, “let’s try to find something for Paxton.” She took a folder from atop the stack by her laptop, laid it open on the table, and settled into her chair. “This is labeled ‘Letters, 1975–1980,’” she said, tapping the folder. She turned the pages, skimming them for anything Paxton might find useful in his talks with the developers. Several pages in, she found a letter from Father William Stafford of St. Joseph’s, the priest mentioned at the bottom of the letter written by Father Kole, this one dated more than a year after the first.

  Tuesday, 8 March 1978

  Dear Mr. Birch:

  Fr. Andrew Kole wrote you on 25 February of last year, after you contacted the Archdiocese regarding the rite of exorcism. I received a copy of his letter, which suggested that other remedies should be explored.

  Two weeks ago your wife and I spoke at some length about the matter, and I have since that time attempted to contact you. Failing in that, I am writing this letter.

  I have known Charlene since 1973, before your marriage, and I can readily attest to her level-headedness. When she expresses deep concern about your and her son, I listen. When she tells me that happenings at the Birch house have at times caused her intense fear, I must respond.

  First, from all appearances Charlene is not in good health and she is getting worse.

  Second, there is the matter of encouraging young people on your grounds to “call the ghost,” specifically at Halloween, but also at other times.

  Third, there is the matter of spiritualist and “new age” reading and practices, which have grown more intensive.

  Fourth, there is the matter of your son, Paxton Birch. He is a minor. Therefore, he is entitled to protection by the appropriate authorities.

  I would like to arrange a date convenient to you for a visit. Contact me at the above telephone number. If I don’t hear from you within a week, I will assume you did not receive this letter and I will try other avenues. Please understand that I have your and Charlene’s best interests in mind.

  Yours,

  Fr. William Stafford

  “The ‘appropriate authorities,’” Liz said. “That’s a threat.”

  “I thought Matthew hated this ghost-calling thing. Isn’t that what Paxton said?”

  “He did, at dinner Monday night.”

  “According to this letter, he encouraged it.”

  “Why would Paxton lie?”

  “I don’t think he would. He was a child at the time. He’d believe whatever his parents told him about it. Matthew either lied to Paxton or he changed his mind at some point and started calling the police on people he found on the grounds.”

  “Do we save that?” Liz pointed at the letter.

  “Yes.” She retrieved the purple folder from her purse and slipped the letter into it. “I don’t know if any of this will be of use to Paxton, but if we can just”—she wiggled her fingers, casting about for the word—“amass enough information, we’ve done our job.”

  “Nothing we’ve found is definitive, though.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “And we’ve hit a dead end on the codes.”

  “When you hit a dead end in genealogy, you back up and go another way.”

  “You’ve done what the letter told you to do—work like a genealogist.”

  “Except . . .” Anna’s fingers drummed the table as she reconsidered the yellow letter. “Paxton wanted only the Birch family tree researched, so we didn’t look at Charlene’s family.” She pushed out of her chair and contemplated the bookcase directly behind her. She and Liz had covered only half the material in that one bookcase alone, and there were three separate bookcases on her side of the room.

  She began to clear the shelves of books and documents, scooping them into her arms then twisting back to the table and letting them drop, repeating the process until the table was awash in Birch family history. “Let’s go through these as fast as we can and look for Charlene’s birth certificate.”

  Anna heard Paxton’s voice calling from somewhere in the house, growing in volume as he drew nearer. “Lawrence? Has everyone left?”

  “In here,” Liz called out.

  “Ah.” Paxton strode through the sitting room and hovered at the library door, his eyes shifting from Liz to Anna. “Have either of you seen Lawrence?”

  “Surprisingly, no,” Anna said with a grin.

  “Yeah, well, the professor can be persistent when it comes to the library,” Paxton said. “There was a note in his bedroom about him going into town for breakfast, but that was hours ago. And now I can’t find Nilla or Bee.”

  “Bee is in the kitchen, and I was upstairs when Bee called me to the phone,” Nilla said, striding in from the sitting room. She threw her hands up, a look of exasperation flashing across her face. “Honestly, we can’t sit in one place, we have things to do.”

  “So where’s Mitch?”

  “Dear, I don’t know. Somewhere outside.”

  “Where’s Lawrence? He’s not in the basement.”

  Nilla extended a well-manicured finger. “If he’s snooping in the attic rooms again, that is the—”

  “He was in the attic?”

  “Yesterday morning. Bee caught him.”

  Paxton’s jaw dropped and he tilted back his head, looking more like an irate schoolboy than heir to one of Colorado’s most distinguished families. “I’ll have a talk with him. Who called? You said you were on the phone.”

  Nilla lifted a hand to her hip. “That detective. Schaeffer. He said Devin was murdered and he wants to talk to us again. Bee, Mitch, and Lawrence, too. For some reason, he doesn’t need to talk to you two.” She shot Anna and Liz a mildly accusatory glance.

  “I wasn’t even here when they found him,” Liz said.

  “Wasn’t once enough?” Paxton said. “I don’t see how talking to us again is going to help.”

  “Neither do I, but that’s that.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Paxton and Nilla, having just found out that an employee of theirs had been murdered on the grounds of their home, were focused on the inconvenience that bit of information brought to their lives. Paxton hadn’t asked how Devin had been murdered, Anna noticed, and Nilla hadn’t offered the information, if she’d even asked Lonnie Schaeffer for it.

  “How did Devin die?” Liz asked. She shot a look at Anna. She knew the answer, of course, but she wanted to hear it from Nilla.

  Nilla’s hand traveled from her hip to her collar bone. “Schaeffer said it was an unknown toxin.”

  “How is that different from a drug overdose?” Paxton asked.

  “Because it was injected into his back, and it wasn’t a known drug, like speed or heroin or whatever people take these days.”

  Paxton rubbed the palm of one hand across his chin. “Reminds me. I saw a movie on TV once. A man faked an attack on himself by sticking the handle of a knife between a door and the door’s frame and backing into it, stabbing himself. It wasn’t a bad wound, so he was able to take the knife out and clean things up. Then he claimed someone else did it.”

  “Stop.” Nilla looked mortified. She turned her face from Paxton and toward the sitting room, her husband’s description of an imaginary knifing troubling her more, it seemed, than the death of her employee. “Oh, look, it’s Bee with sandwiches.”

  “Yes, it’s Bee with sandwiches,” Bee repeated in monotone as she slipped between Nilla and Paxton, a plate of half sandwiches in her hands. “An early lunch for the ladies,” she said. She briefly searched the table for an empty spot before giving up and r
esting the plate on one of the shorter stacks of papers.

  “Bee, I’ve never tasted anything like your chicken salad,” Anna said.

  “Thank you,” Bee replied. “I make it all the time. Every month of the year, every week, at least twice a week.”

  The message was clear. I make it all the time and no one says a word of thanks. Bee was a frustrated woman. She needed to go where she was appreciated, but she couldn’t—or wouldn’t. Bee. The perfect name. She hovered around the house, wings buzzing, but she was trapped within its walls, her insect legs caught on a yellow sticky strip. Anna grimaced at the image.

  “Is something wrong?” Bee asked.

  “No, no.” With some effort, Anna erased the image from her mind. “I was just thinking about something. Thanks for the sandwiches.”

  “I love your egg salad, Bee,” said Liz as she reached for a sandwich. “You could sell these.”

  Bee let out a shriek of a laugh. “I could open a shop. Master’s Sandwiches. It’s not a bad idea.” She spun on her heels and left, chin in the air, her back a steel rod. Liz stared after her.

  “I’ll let you two get back to work,” Paxton said. He threw a glance at the windowsill then exited the library, seemingly oblivious to Bee’s agitation.

  He hadn’t taken notice of Bee’s mood at all—nor had Nilla. Neither had he asked what she’d meant by her imaginary shop’s name. Unless he’d heard it before. Bee, with a master’s in library science, opening a sandwich shop. Anna knew Liz had meant it as a compliment, but Bee, as always, was braced for insults, and so she perceived even a compliment as a slap in the face.

  “Would you both join us for dinner tonight?” Nilla asked, her palms together in a gesture of supplication. When Anna and Liz hesitated, she said, “Oh, please. Just one last night. Bee’s making her chicken pot pie and it’s to die for.” She looked at them both, eyebrows raised, her eyes moving face to face.

  “Sure,” Anna said. From the corner of her eye she saw Liz shaking her head yes. Neither of them relished the prospect of another dinner with the Birch family, but a hot meal tonight would hit the spot.

  “Sounds great,” Liz added without enthusiasm.

  “Good, I’ll tell Bee.” Taking one step into the sitting room, Nilla stopped and focused her eyes on Anna, a stern look crossing her face. “And if you see Lawrence, would you tell him I need to see him immediately?”

  Nilla was clearly angry that the professor had ignored her instructions about exploring the attic rooms. Anna understood why Nilla and Paxton didn’t want near-strangers wandering about their house. There was the matter of privacy—maybe even of liability in such an old house—but they were exceedingly touchy about that partial third floor. She wondered if their concern was real or manufactured. Was it all for effect? For a house sale and the developer’s money?

  She took a chicken salad sandwich from the plate and ate it quickly, licking her fingers as she finished, though it wasn’t yet noon and she’d had a large breakfast. That sealed it. She’d risk a stinging reply, even a pot tossed at her from across the kitchen, but she had to ask Bee for the recipe.

  “I found it,” Liz said. She put her partly eaten sandwich to the side, held up a piece of paper, then flipped it and inspected the back. “Lots of numbers this time. Get the code key and I’ll read them to you.”

  Finding a bare margin on the purple folder, Anna wrote down the numbers Liz gave her then translated them using the key. She dropped her pen and gaped at the folder. Who had written these numbers? And who, by means of the second yellow letter, was making sure she found them?

  “Anna, what is it?”

  Anna put her fingers on the folder and angled it for Liz to see. “Kurt trip wire across top stairs,” she said under her breath.

  Liz’s hand went to her mouth.

  “Kurt is Kurt Ellison. Liz, all this time I thought these numbers had to do with Matthew and Charlene, but they’re about Matthew and Kurt.”

  16

  “Someone’s telling us Matthew Birch murdered Kurt Ellison.” As soon as Anna spoke, she looked warily toward the sitting room. She’d grown accustomed to stealthy approaches by the Birches and their employees and felt one of them might surface behind her at any time.

  “And telling us he did it by putting a trip wire across those stairs.” Liz whispered the last words, pointing as she spoke to the library ceiling in the direction of the attic stairs.

  “But Paxton told me Matthew didn’t know Ellison or even know who’d asked him to the conclave, so why would he murder him?”

  “Paxton also said his father hated this ghost-calling ritual, and it turns out he encouraged it. Either someone’s lying or someone doesn’t know the facts. Or both.”

  Frustrated, Anna exhaled loudly and tapped her pen against the table. “How does any of this help us find what Paxton needs? I want to get paid the full amount when we’re done here.”

  “Would he cheat us?”

  “We’ve done six generations of his family tree, and I told him I couldn’t guarantee anything else, but I wouldn’t put it past him to pay us less if this,” she said, pointing her pen at the folder, “is all we can give him.”

  “Isn’t a murder helpful? If you add it to the questionable exorcism, the moving paintings, and all that, wouldn’t the developer like to know a murder took place here? Maybe, when you put it all together, we found just what Paxton needs.”

  “That could be.” Just what Paxton needs. All of it—everything that had happened since she’d arrived and every clue she and Liz had come across—was just what Paxton needed, and there they were, she and Liz, two willing and unimpeachable witnesses, a house seller’s dream.

  The only loose piece was Lawrence. He didn’t fit the puzzle she had in mind. His interest in the yellow letter and his theft of the box and ledger were real, but they did nothing to help Paxton in his quest to persuade the developers. Then there was the old earring . . .

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Liz said.

  “I’m thinking we may be helping a con man make money. But if we’re not, if this isn’t a setup—”

  “Then we need to get out of this house as soon as we can,” Liz finished.

  The two exchanged anxious looks.

  “Let’s finish this,” Anna said, trying to fill her voice with an optimism and resolve she didn’t feel. “Let’s find out everything we can. About the yellow letters, the earring, Kurt Ellison, Alice Ryder, everything. Then we give it to Paxton and get the heck out of here.”

  “Agreed.”

  Anna grabbed another chicken sandwich and took a large bite. She felt the tingle of the horseradish on the roof of her mouth and in her nose when she inhaled. She desperately wanted more coffee to wash down the sandwich, but the last thing she wanted to do was bother Bee with kitchen work. Then again, she needed more than coffee. She needed an answer to a question that had been on her mind since dinner two nights ago.

  “We need coffee. And napkins.” Anna laid her sandwich next to her laptop, far enough from the table edge that Jackson couldn’t get to it, and headed for the kitchen. Remembering Bee’s reaction the last time she entered the kitchen unannounced, she walked heavily across the marble floor and began calling for Bee the moment she left the entryway and made for the kitchen.

  Bee clearly loved to talk about the history and lore of Sparrow House. If Anna could get her to focus on that, maybe the coffee and napkins wouldn’t matter so much.

  “What is it?” Bee flew out of the swinging kitchen door at the end of the short hall, wiping her flour-covered hands on a dish towel as she marched toward Anna, trying but failing to conceal her agitation.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if we could have coffee and napkins.”

  Bee took a deep breath. She didn’t appear to exhale.

  “And I have a question for you about the Sparrow House ghost.”

  Bee stopped wiping her hands. Raising two fingers, she signaled for Anna to follow then walked back to t
he kitchen.

  Silently, Bee threw the dish towel over a mound of dough on the kitchen island then pulled a tray from a cabinet and rested two white mugs on it. She opened another cabinet door, took out a bag of coffee, and began spooning grounds into the machine on the counter. “What was your question?” she asked, her back to Anna.

  “What do you know about calling the ghost? Nilla talked about it at dinner the other night, but she didn’t offer any details.”

  Bee flipped on the coffeemaker and leaned back against the counter, a smile playing across her face. “Sit down.” She nodded to a barstool by the kitchen island. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

  “You know more about this house than either Nilla or Paxton, don’t you?” Anna smiled back and took her seat. She should have known from the start to ask Bee. Nilla and Paxton were merely residents of the house, trying desperately to leave and get on with their lives. The history of the mansion meant nothing to them except as it affected their cash flow.

  “Calling the ghost started on Halloween of 1970, which was shortly after Kurt Ellison’s death,” Bee began.

  “About the same time people started calling the Birch mansion Sparrow House,” Anna said.

  “Exactly.” Bee’s smile broadened. She plunged ahead. “People have always called to ghosts in old houses, or in places where there’s been a violent or unjust death. Using séances, for instance. But a short ritual sprang up around the Sparrow House ghost—quickly, just two weeks after Ellison died.”

  The tour guide was in her element and enjoying every moment.

  “Who started the ritual?”

  “That I don’t know. But when Ellison died, rumors flew, especially since he died on the same stairs as Charlene Birch.” She peeked over her shoulder to check on the progress of the coffeemaker.

  Immediately Anna thought of the coded phrase on Charlene’s birth certificate. Someone believed Kurt had been killed by a trip wire across the stairs. She opened her mouth to speak but clamped it shut. She’d tell only Paxton about the codes, and only then as she was on her way out the front door.