Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3

by Karin Kaufman

  Anna stole a glance at Paxton. His face was granite.

  Bee poured herself more wine and clutched her glass to her chest. With his horror story, Mitch had taken the focus from her and placed it on himself, and she was glad of it.

  “How do they feed off the ghosts?” Liz asked.

  “They eat them.”

  “How exactly do they do that?”

  “They bite down and chew,” Mitch said. He lifted his glass in a toast.

  Anna saw a flash of lightning through the dining-room window, not distant and spidery, but bold and solid. She braced herself for the boom that followed a second later.

  “Good God!” Nilla cried.

  Mitch laughed.

  “That was close, wasn’t it?” Bee said, one hand still gripping the table’s edge.

  “The driveway’s getting worse by the hour,” Mitch said.

  “Lightning for a horror story,” Nilla said.

  “This is too morbid for me,” Paxton said. “Isn’t it for you?” He looked down the table at Nilla.

  “Yes, it is, but it’s more interesting than television,” she answered. She gestured with her glass to the window. “And we may lose our television if this keeps up. Have you got enough candles, Bee?”

  “Always.”

  Mitch chomped on his pot pie, his eyes never leaving Anna. It unnerved her. His lips curved into a small smile and he said, “So Anna, what do you think of Sparrow House?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that,” Anna said. “Architecture? Grounds?” She paused briefly. “Peony gardens?” Two can play at this game, she thought. For all she knew, it was Mitch who had told the newspaper about Lawrence.

  Mitch’s smile broadened. “Architecture.”

  “I think it’s very nice, though the two rooms on the third floor are unusual.”

  “In what way?” Nilla asked.

  “Adding rooms to only part of the attic, and having only two dormer windows on that floor, both near the corner of the house, is different.”

  “Those two rooms were added by my grandfather in 1961,” Paxton said. A drop of sauce oozed from the corner of his mouth and hit his chin before he caught it with a napkin. “It wasn’t in the original 1911 plan.”

  Nilla pressed her left hand on the table, pushed back in her chair, and crossed her legs, all the while maintaining her hold on her wineglass. “The 1911 house was large enough. Why Charles built a third floor I’ll never know.”

  “For guests,” Paxton said.

  Lightning flashed again, and Anna silently counted to three seconds until thunder sounded.

  “Well, it’s been nothing but trouble,” Nilla said. Oblivious to the thunder, she took another gulp of wine.

  In a prelude to a change of subject, Liz asked Bee for the bottle of wine near her plate. Then she asked, “Does anyone know how the Elk Park Herald found out about Lawrence leaving the house?”

  As Anna took the bottle from Paxton and passed it to Liz, she caught sight of Mitch. His smile had disappeared.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Nilla said.

  Liz, drizzling what was left of a plain-labeled white wine into her glass, recited the facts about the Herald, Lawrence, and what the paper suggested was her part in a possible deception. She pushed her plate to the side, laced her fingers on the table, and looked squarely at Nilla. “Whoever spoke to them meant to ruin my website’s reputation. No one, except the people in this house and Lawrence himself, knows he didn’t come back after breakfast in town.”

  “Why would Lawrence call the newspaper to report himself missing?” Paxton asked.

  “I agree it doesn’t make sense,” said Liz, swirling the tablespoon of wine in her glass. “Which leaves everyone at the table but me and Anna.”

  “Wait a minute—” Bee began.

  “No one knew Lawrence didn’t return from breakfast, right?” Liz said. “And no one left this house after that. The only explanation is that someone, someone here, made a phone call to the Herald.”

  Bee shot out her hand and leaned forward. “Just one minute. I called the university two hours ago to ask if anyone knew where he was.”

  “You did?” Paxton said. He seemed surprised that Bee would take any unauthorized action, no matter how sensible.

  “I did. And no one had seen or heard from him all day.”

  “There you go,” Mitch said, spreading his hands. “Think how many people at the university know he didn’t work here today.”

  Her momentary agitation calmed by Mitch’s defense, Bee leaned back in her seat.

  “Except the time stamp on the article was 3:00 p.m.,” Anna said. She gave Bee an apologetic smile. “The Herald usually includes a posting time. That means the article was written more than three hours ago.”

  Bored with the direction the conversation had taken and yawning openly, Nilla interjected new information. “That detective is going to be here first thing in the morning. If Lawrence hasn’t shown up by then, we should mention it.”

  “Eight o’clock,” Mitch said, rolling his eyes, “and that really means seven-thirty.”

  “I don’t remember telling you he was coming,” Nilla said.

  “I told him,” Bee said defiantly. “I thought Mitch should know since he lives on the grounds. The police may want to talk to him, like they did last time.”

  It was the second time Bee had risen to Mitch’s defense—or vice versa. Third if you counted Mitch’s entrance into the dining room, which had drawn attention away from Bee’s remarks about the conclave. Bee had told Mitch about Schaeffer coming tomorrow, and on Monday she’d called him before anyone else when she found out Devin was dead. Anna was sure something was going on between the two, but was it affection or something very different?

  “Schaeffer may ask me to give them a tour of the grounds again,” Mitch said. “Damn annoying.”

  “I didn’t know he’d taken one the first time.” Nilla uncrossed her legs and set her glass down with enough force that Anna thought the stem might break in two. “I don’t know what’s going on in my own house anymore, I really don’t. Why did he want to see our grounds and why didn’t he ask me to show him?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure it’s business as usual.” Mitch spoke in a soothing tone, like a father to a daughter, unruffling Nilla’s feathers. “They had to see the general area where I found Devin, and I pointed out a few gardens, the greenhouse, and the carriage house. If I’d done less, they would’ve been knocking on your front door.”

  “They knocked anyway,” Nilla said.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Mitch said. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Nilla’s shoulders, which had tensed about her neck, relaxed as Mitch deferred to her superior station. “It can’t be helped.”

  Although Mitch was solicitous toward Nilla, Anna observed, he didn’t mind jabbing Paxton. Like Bee, he probably figured he’d be out of a job soon. Now was the time to get his licks in.

  “I’d like to know more about these ghosts,” Liz said brightly. “What about the ghost of Kurt Ellison?”

  Mitch crowed. “Back to the ghosts. Three days in that library and you don’t know the answer to that?”

  Anna glared at Mitch. The man was intolerable. “You tell us then.”

  He leaned toward her. “What have you learned?”

  “You’re answering my question with a question.”

  “I like questions.”

  “Then let me ask you two questions. First, what’s dangerous about the woods behind the peony garden?”

  “Is this a riddle?” Paxton asked.

  “Red cap mushrooms,” Mitch said with a smile. “The rain sprouts them in May, but they disappear by June.”

  Anna was dumbfounded. Mitch had very literally meant what he’d said. The woods were dangerous. Jackson had a tendency to nibble at interesting plants while he explored new places, and Mitch had probably saved him from a nasty stomach ailment, or worse. “Thanks for telli
ng me. Jackson might have eaten them.”

  “Second question?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable with grilling Mitch, Anna steeled herself. “How do paintings move by themselves?”

  Mitch sat back.

  “Paintings move? Where?” Nilla asked. Her eyes were wide.

  “On the wall between my bedroom and Liz’s,” Anna said. “Twice now we’ve noticed a new painting in the same spot.” She looked at Mitch, who was fighting to maintain a neutral expression. Did he sense Nilla’s fear and not want to add to it?

  “That’s not possible,” Nilla said. “Paxton?”

  “Paintings don’t grow legs and move,” Paxton said to his wife. “Bee, did you move the paintings?”

  “As busy as I am? I’ve got better things to do.”

  “This can’t happen,” Nilla said. She wrapped her arms around her chest and looked to her husband for reassurance. It didn’t come.

  “In the 1970s a priest saw a painting move,” Bee said, looking at Anna. “I’ve seen his letter.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Nilla said. With her left hand she smoothed her cap of hair then folded her arms again. Repeatedly holding and patting, trying to comfort herself.

  “Unless I misread the priest’s letter,” Anna said, “he didn’t witness the movement, he witnessed that a painting had moved. There’s a difference.”

  “See?” Nilla crowed.

  “Charlene Birch said paintings moved in the house,” Liz said. “But we haven’t come across a letter or anything from, oh, what’s their names”—she turned to Anna—“Matthew’s parents.”

  “Charles and Jean Birch,” Anna said.

  Paxton, who had been pushing a bit of chicken around his plate with his spoon, perked up at the sound of his grandparents’ names.

  “We haven’t come across anything from them about weird goings-on in the house.”

  “Jean Birch,” Mitch said. Everyone turned, waiting for him to continue, but instead of speaking, he took a sip of wine.

  Bee broke the silence. “They say she died of a drug and alcohol overdose.”

  Paxton groaned. “Yes, we’ve heard this before.”

  “And they said Devin died of a drug overdose,” Bee added. “Just like Jean.”

  “Not like Jean,” Paxton said. He pointed a finger at Bee. “She was my grandmother and you know nothing about her. She was on prescription meds for anxiety. She had a glass of orange juice and vodka, fell asleep, and nobody found out until it was too late.”

  “Dear, calm down,” Nilla said in a syrupy voice. “We’re just talking.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Bee said. “She loathed vodka.”

  Mitch quickly squeezed Bee’s upper arm then dropped his hand.

  “And you know this how?” Paxton said. “My grandmother died before you were born. I don’t care how much you’ve studied the history of this house, you don’t know about her.”

  Bee said nothing. She bit her lower lip and kept her eyes on her lap. Like a scolded puppy, Anna thought. When Bee opened her mouth, the anger churning inside her rose, flashing bright as the lightning outside the window. Then, because she was dependent on the Birches—and hated them for that as much as for anything else—she silenced herself. She had to bite her own lip to keep from speaking.

  “Would someone please pass me the rolls,” Paxton said. “They’ve gone again.”

  “Bee’s helped us a lot in the library,” Anna said. “She knows the history of this house and the Birch family backward and forward.”

  Bee looked up, her eyes moist with tears. She blinked to dry them as she fought to keep her composure.

  “Have you thought about getting a job with the developers if the house sells?” Anna asked.

  Glowing with pleasure at the suggestion, Bee said, “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Who better to run the house?” Liz said. “I’m sure Paxton and Nilla could vouch for that.”

  Anna looked from Paxton to Nilla. Paxton muttered something unintelligible then used his tongue to dislodge food from his teeth, and Nilla, a pleasant smile planted on her face, simply bobbed her head.

  “Which brings us back to Kurt Ellison,” Anna said.

  “Does it?” Mitch said. He made a face, exaggerating his bewilderment.

  Anna didn’t have the time or desire to play games. “What do you know about him or how he died? Anything at all, or are you just yanking chains?”

  “Why is it that no one knew who he was?”

  “Questions again.”

  “Someone had to know who he was,” Paxton said, “or he couldn’t have gotten into the house.”

  Mitch shook his head. “If you read the newspaper reports, no one knew him. Or at least that’s what they all said.”

  “What was he, a ghost?” Liz asked.

  Mitch flopped back in his seat, his mouth slanting into a smile. “Right you are, give the lady a cigar.”

  “Stop this. I’ve had enough.” Nilla reached for the napkin on her plate, ran it across her lips, then tossed it down again.

  Bee cleared her throat. Her voice was tentative, quiet. “Would anyone like more wine?”

  “Liz and I should get back to work,” Anna said.

  “You didn’t tell me what you’ve learned in all your time here,” Mitch said.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Please.”

  Anna pulled the broken earring from her jeans pocket and put it on the table, inches from Mitch’s plate, watching his eyes for confirmation. It came quickly.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  He reached for the pieces but Paxton, thrusting out a hand, stopped him. “What are they?” he said, leaning forward and squinting.

  “An old clip earring,” Liz said. She looked around the table. “I don’t suppose anyone here wears retro jewelry.”

  “How old is it?” Nilla asked as she ran her eyes along the table in hopes another bottle had appeared at Bee’s mere mention of wine.

  “Old enough for Jean Birch to have worn it,” Liz replied.

  Muttering something inaudible, Paxton jammed his fingers into his bangs and raked them through his dark hair. “This is why I want to sell this house. It’s not just the money.”

  “What? Why?” Nilla asked.

  “This! This damn talk.” Paxton spread his hands and shook them into fists. “It never ends.” He stood quickly, sending his chair toppling backward, and stormed from the room.

  18

  “I understand how Paxton feels,” Anna said. She gave Jackson a scratch under his chin and stepped to the window. The storm had moved on, leaving only a light drizzle in its wake, but lightning was still putting on a high-country show, flashing nearly continually above the mountains to the northwest. “I’ve been here three days and I feel trapped. What must it be like to live here?”

  “Suffocating,” Liz said.

  Anna twisted back to look at Liz. “Being stuck in the library hasn’t helped.” With a sense of reluctance she returned to the table and opened her laptop. “Let’s go over what we have for Paxton so far and determine what we need so he feels he’s gotten his money’s worth.”

  “Are we going to include the coded words we found on the records?”

  “I think we should give him everything we have. The developers may latch onto something we don’t think is significant.”

  Liz handed Anna the birth, marriage, and death certificates on which the coded words had been written.

  Anna flipped open the purple folder and slipped the certificates under the few pages inside it. “So we have a letter from Matthew Birch requesting an exorcism, two letters from priests, the article about Charlene Birch’s death . . .” She thumbed back the article. “And the certificates you just gave me. That’s it.”

  “What about the yellow letters?”

  Anna rapped her fingers on the edge of her laptop and thought for a moment. “No, not those. They were sent to me.”

  “Tha
t reminds me,” Liz said, her fingers dancing on the keypad.

  Thunder rumbled, louder this time, closing in. “Are we getting another storm?” Anna asked.

  “Hey, we got an answer!”

  “The letters?”

  Liz nodded yes and held up a finger as she silently read the screen. She grinned then chortled. “She left an email address for me. Wouldn’t you know, it’s MellowYellow@LyonsCo.com.”

  Anna slid forward to the edge of her seat. “She? Is there a name?”

  Liz looked up. “Alice Ryder Nolan.”

  “So Alice did write those letters. Does she say why?”

  “All she says is she wants to meet you tomorrow, alone and someplace private.”

  “No, it has to be a public place. I don’t know her and I don’t know what she’s up to. Tell her I’ll meet her in the Buffalo Café at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Say I can’t take the time to drive to Lyons because we’re still working.”

  Liz typed a response and hit the Enter key.

  Hearing another burst of thunder, Anna rose and went to the window. She shielded her eyes from glare with her hands and pressed her face to the glass. “It’s raining harder now. I hope I can make it out the driveway tomorrow.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine in the Buffalo.” Anna looked back to Liz. “You stay here and see what else you can find out—and keep Jackson with you at all times.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m serious, Liz.”

  “I can tell because you’re giving me your serious face.”

  “And don’t trust anyone,” she said, retaking her seat. “Not a single person in this house.”

  “Bee seems OK.”

  Anna looked into her friend’s eyes. “Don’t trust anyone,” she repeated. “Schaeffer will be here at eight in the morning. That should keep them in line for a while. I’ll find out what light Alice can shed on the Sparrow House ghost and be back as soon as I can.”

  “She might give us what we need to please Paxton.”

  “Or make him angry. I’m not sure what he really wants. He hired me to prove his house is haunted, but when people bring up the subject of ghosts, he throws a fit.” Anna contemplated the bookcases. There was more to do in the library, but she was tired of its confines. They needed a break, a fresh perspective. “Let’s go check out the basement.”