“We bumped into each other once. In the park. And let’s just say, if you thought this encounter was awkward, then you’d agree that encounter was downright painful.”
“Why didn’t you ask him anything else about Felicia’s murder?”
“You heard our convo in there! What was I supposed to do? Tell him I’d been sent by a mystic snow globe to investigate her murder? He’d think I was a complete loon! If he doesn’t already think that!”
“Well, you could have started with the conversation about her. Then it wouldn’t have gotten so personal. He didn’t even seem to know who you were.”
Johanna’s eyes swung towards the pavement. Right. Not a clue indeed. “I knew.”
“Obviously. So now what do we do?”
“We’ll have to see her parents and find out what we need to know from them.”
“It won’t be any easier,” Whitley warned.
“I know. But I’m sure Rocky won’t have knocked them into a pile of mud. It can’t be any worse than that.”
G ene and Dawn Marshall lived in a quintessential New York City brownstone on the northern tip of Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood. The sun shone brightly later that day, warming Johanna’s face and reminding her that Christmas was only a week away, and it still had yet to snow a single flake yet. Standing on their front stoop, Johanna stared at her reflection in the glass and found herself hyperventilating once again.
“I really can’t do this, Whit,” she complained, shaking out her hands by her sides.
Whitley rubbed her back. “You can. I have faith in you. And it’s the only way you’re going to get rid of Essy and me.”
Johanna’s head bobbed. “Right.” She blew out a breath. “Okay. Here I go.” With her heart throbbing in her chest, she knocked on the front door, and she and Whitley watched through the glass as a woman in her fifties or sixties wearing a red cardigan, navy slacks, and narrow-framed glasses came to the door.
“Hello,” she said, opening the front door a crack.
Johanna smiled hard. It was time to do this right. She sucked up every bit of gumption she had in her body. “Hi. Mrs. Marshall?”
The woman’s forehead crinkled slightly and the door opened a bit wider. “Yes?”
Johanna held out her hand even though she was quite sure it was clammy. “Hi. I’m Johanna Hughes. I’m a mystery novelist. I write under the pseudonym Hanna Hughes.”
The woman’s eyes bulged as the door opened even wider. “Yes, of course! I recognize you. I’ve been to one of your book signings!”
Johanna grimaced. What Mrs. Marshall probably didn’t realize was that that book signing had been Johanna’s very first and most definitely her last promotional event. Her agent had practically twisted her arm off to go, and in the end, she’d had such a bad anxiety attack that she’d nearly passed out before the event had even begun. It had taken a large dose of Xanax and an assurance that she’d never have to do it again to get Johanna to follow through on her obligation.
“The one at Barnes and Noble?” asked Johanna, trying to sound calm.
“Yes! It was for DOA: The Deliveryman’s Corpse.” Mrs. Marshall was excited now.
Johanna nodded, that had been one of her favorite books to write because she’d modeled the main character after her very own beloved UPS carrier, her father. “I remember that day vividly,” she said with a tight smile.
Mrs. Marshall opened the door wider. “I feel like I have a celebrity at my door now! Do come in!”
“Thank you,” said Johanna politely, holding the door open a second longer so that Whitley could trail in behind her.
“Shall we have a seat in the sitting room?”
“Yes, that would be lovely.”
Mrs. Marshall’s shoes made no sound as she led them across the tile floor and through a wide, arched doorway into a room with a soaring ceiling and the thickest door casings Johanna had ever seen. She gestured towards a formal pair of sofas that Johanna was sure pets were never allowed upon and just as sure that no one ever actually used. “Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink? A cup of coffee or tea?”
The memory of the earlier event that day when she’d nearly choked herself to death during her anxiety attack replayed vividly in her mind. “I’d take some water if you have it?”
“Certainly! I’ll just be a moment.” Mrs. Marshall rushed out of the room, leaving Johanna and Whitley to look around the room.
“I can’t believe she just let us in!” squealed Whitley. “You did great!”
“Thanks,” muttered Johanna. She couldn’t believe it had been so easy, either.
She surveyed the room, taking in the elegant decor. It was a family home, with beautifully taken portraits of people on the walls and a gorgeous Christmas tree in the corner with heirloom bulbs, sparkling tinsel, and red velvet bows. Johanna wondered if she’d ever have her own family home. Mook, of course, had outgrown the single-bedroom apartment in the city phase and grown into the married with kids, family home in New Jersey stage. Would that ever be something she would have for herself?
“Look,” whispered Whitley. “It’s Felicia!” She pointed to an oil portrait of the young woman.
“It looks like her senior picture,” suggested Johanna.
“Here we are,” sang Mrs. Marshall, carrying in a glass of water for Johanna.
“Thank you,” said Johanna, taking a seat straight away.
“Now, tell me, to what do I owe this honor?” asked Mrs. Marshall as she took the seat across from Johanna and crossed her legs primly.
“I’m doing some research for an upcoming book, and I was hoping that perhaps you could help me,” began Johanna tentatively. She’d have to do it right not to come off as a creeper.
Mrs. Marshall looked surprised. “I’d be happy to help, if I can.”
Johanna set her water down on the coffee table. “I’m writing a mystery about a young woman who is killed during a mugging in Hudson River Park.” Just the words caused a chill to ripple down Johanna’s arms and legs and deflated the face of the woman sitting across from her.
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Marshall.
“I did some research and I discovered that you lost your daughter to a mugging in the Hudson River Park,” said Johanna sadly. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Marshall’s lips tightened as she nodded her head.
“I know it might be hard, but I was wondering if perhaps you and your husband might be willing to share your family’s experience with me. It might help me to get a better understanding of the situation and the feelings of everyone involved so that I can relay that onto the page more authentically.”
Mrs. Marshall swallowed hard and blinked her watery eyes. She was quiet for several long seconds, and Johanna wondered if the poor woman’s wounds were too raw to discuss the event. “My husband’s at work,” she whispered.
Johanna’s own tone softened. “I understand. Maybe I could just talk to you? But if it’s too painful, I understand.”
Mrs. Marshall’s eyes took on a faraway look as her brows lifted. “We never understood it, you know.”
Johanna remained quiet, allowing her to talk.
“She wasn’t supposed to be in that part of town. It’s boggled our minds for all these years.”
“She was a realtor, right?” asked Johanna. “Perhaps she was showing a house in that neighborhood?”
Mrs. Marshall shook her head. “It was the day of my daughter’s wedding rehearsal. I’m sure she wasn’t showing houses that day. She and I spoke that morning and she was so stressed about all the little errands she still had left to do. She had an early appointment to get her nails done. She wanted to pick out new luggage for the honeymoon. She had to pick up her dress and the little gifts for her wedding party. I offered to do a few of her tasks for her, but she insisted she wanted to do them all.”
Johanna gave Mrs. Marshall a tight smile. “So what happened?”
Mrs. Marshall threw h
er hands up on either side of herself lightly. “I don’t know, to be honest. The rehearsal was at five thirty. I’d spoken to Felicia at eight thirty that morning, and then Gene and I were at the church by four forty-five. I had assumed Felicia would be early; she had a tendency to be places early. She was quite the go-getter, my Felicia,” explained Mrs. Marshall.
“So, five thirty just came and went and no Felicia?” asked Johanna. The idea was heartbreaking.
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Marshall. “Oh, and poor Mitchell. He called and called her, but she never answered.”
“Mitchell was her fiancé?”
“Yes. What a sweetheart he was. Those two were so suited for one another.”
Johanna’s heart burned in her chest. “How so?”
Mrs. Marshall leaned back. “Like I mentioned, my Felicia was a go-getter. Just work, work, work. All day. Everyday. When she was in high school and other girls her age were out partying and going to dances and football games, my Felicia was home studying. She was very serious about her career and put that as her main priority for so long. She was almost thirty by the time she met Mitchell. Of course, I was shocked when she brought him home one Sunday night for supper, and even more shocked when they announced that they were engaged!”
Johanna tipped her head to the side. “You hadn’t even met her fiancé before they announced their engagement?”
“No, neither Gene nor I had met him! But that was just like my Felicia. She treated her personal life just like her professional life. Everything that was done was done for a purpose and had an end goal in mind. She’d dated around here and there, but she always knew by the end of each date that it wouldn’t work out. But when a friend introduced her to Mitchell, she said she knew almost immediately that things were different with him. He was just as career-oriented and focused as she was. It didn’t bother him that she was so consumed with work, because he was just as consumed. Of course, I always thought that was no way to start a relationship, but it seemed to work for them.”
“So how long had they dated before they announced their engagement?” Johanna hoped that Mrs. Marshall wouldn’t notice her face flushing red for asking such a personal question.
“Oh, their relationship was very short. He was several years older than she was and a very serious man. They’d only been dating for three months when he’d proposed.”
Whitley’s jaw dropped. “Only three months! She hardly knew him!”
“That’s not very much time to get to know someone,” said Johanna quietly.
Mrs. Marshall nodded. “Felicia’s father and I thought the same thing, and of course we were worried.”
Whitley’s green eyes were wide as she turned to Johanna. “You have to ask her if she thinks Mitch could have had anything to do with Felicia’s death. You have to!”
Johanna looked down at her hands and rubbed her thumb against the smoothness of her nails. She cleared her throat and then looked up at the woman. “Mrs. Marshall, I hate to ask this, but I’m curious. Did anyone ever consider that perhaps Felicia wasn’t mugged?”
“Oh, of course that thought crossed our minds! I suppose you’re wondering if Mitchell was involved since they hadn’t known each other for very long. I mean, how well could she have known him?”
Johanna nodded. She was thankful that she didn’t have to spell that out.
“Well, the police checked all of that out. Mitchell was at work, and several of his colleagues were happy to verify that. He got there at seven that morning and didn’t leave until five. He had had an important conference that day and was literally in a meeting with a half dozen other business associates from two until five. When he showed up at the church for the rehearsal it was almost a quarter to six. He was just sure that Felicia was going to be upset with him for being late. He had no idea that she wasn’t even there yet as they hadn’t spoken to one another all day.”
Johanna blew out a breath of relief, thankful that he wasn’t the killer. “So, the police figured out it wasn’t her fiancé. Did they look at anyone else in her life?”
Mrs. Marshall lifted a shoulder. “They probably didn’t do a good enough job. And I’ll be honest; I didn’t push it very hard. I was so devastated that I just wanted to put my daughter to rest. It was too painful to think about someone intentionally hurting my baby.”
“I can understand that,” whispered Johanna.
“But now, as the years have passed, and I’ve had more time to think about the circumstances surrounding her death, I admit that I have wondered if it was truly a mugging. Just because it made no sense to me that she was clear over in the Meatpacking District. I mean what in the world would she have been doing over there? She and Mitch worked in Midtown, and their apartment was in Lenox Hill. She always got her nails done at the same place and that was just a few blocks away from her office.”
“What about the dress rehearsal? Where was that supposed to be—maybe she got sidetracked with car problems on the way to the church or something.”
Mrs. Marshall shook her head resolutely. “No. She wanted to get married at our church, Saint Augustine’s. So the rehearsal was just a few blocks from here.”
“Did anyone ever ask the realty company if she had a property showing that day?” asked Johanna.
“The police did. They insisted they hadn’t see hide nor hair of her all day, and if she’d had an appointment with a client, she hadn’t let anyone there know about it.”
Johanna wondered if maybe she should tell Mrs. Marshall about the wedding dress and the seamstress and her story about Felicia. But then you’ll have to explain how you wound up with her daughter’s wedding dress and your whole cover about researching this for a story will be blown. “Did Felicia have anyone that might want to hurt her?”
Mrs. Marshall’s head shook so hard it made her carefully styled auburn hair shake. “If I thought someone had wanted to hurt her, I would have most certainly told the police, but there wasn’t anyone. Felicia was very professional with everyone she came into contact with. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. I mean, what reason would they have? She didn’t have much of a social circle because she worked so much. What she did have was a lot of money on her because she’d gone to the ATM that morning to get cash for the honeymoon. She was also dressed very nicely. Her nails were freshly done and she wore expensive jewelry, including a huge diamond ring. She was an easy target for someone wanting a couple bucks. I just don’t understand why they had to kill her for it. She had to have tried fighting back.” Mrs. Marshall was crying now.
Johanna moved herself to the other sofa and put a hand on Mrs. Marshall’s hand as she felt her own heart squeezing. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Marshall. How horrible of a feeling not to be able to have saved her from that.”
Mrs. Marshall nodded and took the tissue that Johanna pulled from her purse. “It is. I’ll never get to see my little girl again. She was our only child. Gene and I had been thrilled just to have her. So to have her taken from us…”
“I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Marshall sniffed and patted Johanna’s hand. “But you’re going to write a book about it? About my Felicia’s case?”
The thought had occurred to Johanna. That she could actually write Felicia’s story. She wondered if being so close to it now would make it more difficult to write or if perhaps it would make it easier and have more heart. “Maybe.”
“If you do, tell the world what a wonderful girl my Felicia was. Alright?”
Johanna nodded. “I’ll make her shine, Mrs. Marshall. Don’t worry. I’ll make Felicia shine.”
16
T hat evening on her power walk through Central Park, with Rocky panting by her side, Johanna reveled in the silence surrounding her. The last few days had been nothing short of chaotic, stressful, and exhausting, and now the brisk air that filled her lungs felt cathartic and reinvigorating, and for the first time since Thursday, she felt her shoulders relaxing.
“Oh, Rock, I needed this,” breathed Joh
anna. Her fists punched the winter air in the same precise rhythmic motion as her shoes beat the pavement.
“Woof!” agreed Rocky as he trotted by her side.
“Oh, don’t I know it? You’ve had a rough week too, what with that darn cat staying with us and you two getting in trouble for knocking over Grandpa’s Christmas tree. I bet you can’t wait until things get back to normal too.”
“Woof woof!”
“What would I do without you, buddy?” Johanna broke her stride for a single second to reach down and pat Rocky’s head. “But don’t you worry. I’m doing my best to get this cold case solved so we can send the Snow twins back to wherever they came from.”
“Woof!”
“I mean, yeah, I agree, Whit’s not so bad. She’s actually kind of growing on me. But her sister, hoo!” squeaked Johanna. “She’s nothing but vinegar, that one. It’ll be so nice getting the apartment back to just us.”
Rocky’s head swiveled as a squirrel darted across the path in front of them. He ground his paws into the rough surface and came to an immediate halt. A low growl emanated from his throat.
“Oh no. Not today, buddy. I don’t know what got into you that day, but that is definitely not happening today.” She grasped his leash tighter with one hand and kept striding forward.
“Woof!” he barked, catching up to her.
As if she were watching the highlight reel, days after a big game, Johanna could clearly see the events of last Thursday playing through her mind. The squirrel eating a nut on the bench. Rocky tugging her forward, her shins being driven into the edge of the bench. She winced in memory. The mad dash down the trail after Rocky. The man coming up the path, staring at his cell phone. The collision. Her subsequent knee drop. Their banged heads. The offer to give him her coat. She closed her eyes for a split second, thoroughly embarrassed.
Now she knew exactly who that man was. Mitch Connelly, structural engineer and workaholic. His late fiancée was Felicia Marshall, and they’d only dated for three months before getting engaged. It had taken James precisely twenty-six years to propose to her. Of course, several of those years were spent in diapers and training pants and thus weren’t to be included in the official count.
Snow Cold Case: A Mystic Snow Globe Romantic Mystery (The Mystic Snow Globe Mystery Series Book 1) Page 12
