Small Town Spooky (Cozy Mystery Anthology)

by Anisa Claire West

  “Are you Penelope?” The woman inquired.

  “No, I am,” Penelope stepped in.

  “Oh hi, I’m Grace. I saw your ad about the apartment. We e-mailed about it, remember?” Her voice was soft and musical.

  “Right! And I thought I said we’d meet at the apartment tonight at 6, didn’t I?” Penelope asked with mild confusion.

  “Yes, you did. But I wanted to see you first. When you said you owned Espresso Magic, I thought it would be a good idea to meet you here. Just to make sure you’re normal,” Grace grinned prettily.

  In that moment, one of my favorite people in the world sauntered through the door. Her radiant presence could spark a wildfire in even the darkest, coldest forest. Rushing to the door to greet the octogenarian, I threw my arms open for a friendly hug.

  “Happy New Year, Mrs. Dollner! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.” I affectionately squeezed the old lady’s hand. A sly sleuth in her own right, she had been my secret weapon in cracking both homicide cases.

  “Just been busy with friends. And my grandchildren. And great-grandchildren!” Mrs. Dollner replied happily. “Hi Penelope!” She waved to my sister who was already immersed in a conversation with Grace.

  “Hi Mrs. Dollner,” Penelope said distractedly. “So you’d be able to cover half the expenses? What kind of job do you have?”

  “I’m self-employed,” Grace answered vaguely.

  “Are you looking for a roommate? How about me?” Mrs. Dollner asserted in her typical intrepid fashion.

  “I can pay half the expenses, trust me,” Grace said quickly, tossing a sour expression in Mrs. Dollner’s direction.

  “Why don’t we talk about this at 6 like we planned?” Penelope suggested. “As you can see, I don’t have two heads, so you should feel safe coming by the apartment later.”

  “Are you interviewing a lot of different roommates?” Grace asked as though she hadn’t understood a word of Penelope’s speech.

  “I wouldn’t call it interviewing,” Penelope replied uncomfortably. “I’m just meeting with different women who respond to my ad. To find the best fit.”

  “Well you won’t find anyone better than me. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink or party. And I’m very quiet at night,” Grace tried to sell herself.

  “Then you sound a lot like me,” Penelope said softly. “I have to get back to work now, but I look forward to seeing you later.”

  “Oh, okay,” Grace said sullenly as though Penelope had just slapped her in the face. “I’ll be there at 6. Maybe even a few minutes earlier.”

  With her honey French braid swinging, Grace walked out the door, buttoning her goose down jacket up to her chin. Never one to mince words, Mrs. Dollner commented, “That girl seemed desperate! I wonder why she needs an apartment so badly.”

  “Yeah, she was a little weird,” I agreed. “Beautiful girl, though.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about her,” Penelope said tightly. “Maybe I should just cancel our meeting tonight.”

  “Don’t make a snap judgment. You don’t know anything about her,” I advised with diplomacy.

  “Right! Because she wouldn’t tell me anything! Self-employed? What does that even mean?”

  “We’re self-employed,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but it’s no secret what we do. It’s right here in the center of town for everyone to see!” Penelope argued.

  “I’ll be your roommate,” Mrs. Dollner offered again with impish ardor.

  “But you love your cottage. It’s the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen! Why would you want to move?” Penelope asked searchingly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t move! I meant that you could come live in my cottage, dear. Wouldn’t that be fun? It would be like a slumber party every night! We could pop popcorn and roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories and…”

  “That’s a sweet thought, Mrs. Dollner,” Penelope said gently. “But I don’t want to move either. So it looks like I’m stuck trying not to let my life turn into the movie Single White Female.” Penelope rolled her eyes.

  “Stop. That movie took place in New York City. People are more normal in Minnesota,” I said with a doubtful giggle.

  “They are? I’m not normal,” Mrs. Dollner said proudly.

  “No, you’re not. You’re too special to be normal.” I smiled at the adorable tart as she giggled along with me.

  “Why don’t you tell Mrs. Dollner about your date?” Penelope suggested wickedly.

  “I thought you didn’t want to hear about my date with Ramiro…”

  “Ramiro? Ooh, what a name! I’d bet everything in my cottage that he’s handsome!” Mrs. Dollner percolated.

  “Unbelievably handsome,” I groaned reluctantly. “But it doesn’t matter. It was just one date, and I don’t think he’s going to call me again.”

  “Then why don’t you call him?” Mrs. Dollner asked outrageously.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t do that!”

  “Okay, then go visit him. Do you know where he lives?” She pushed.

  “Yes, but there’s no way I could just show up at his door!”

  “Bring a basket of fresh muffins. Piping hot from the oven. Wear your hair in those gorgeous loose waves. He’ll fall for you like someone just poured him a love potion, believe me dear!” Mrs. Dollner tittered.

  “I can’t believe a woman from your generation would come up with an idea like that!” I exclaimed in real shock.

  “They broke the mold when they made me, you know that dear,” Mrs. Dollner replied crisply as my sister and I laughed in unison.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Penelope clipped. “And it’s not such a bad idea. It’s something he wouldn’t expect, so it could be really exciting to him. And what’s the worst that could happen anyway?”

  “He slams the door in my face! He rejects me and I feel like an idiot! That’s the worst that could happen,” I replied, my face already hot with humiliation at the very thought of it.

  “Where do you keep your wicker baskets?” Mrs. Dollner demanded, stamping over to the counter.

  “Looks like you’re doing this,” Penelope laughed as our senior friend found an empty basket and dusted it off.

  “You know what? Why not?” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. “I wanted to take some risks this year and make some changes. First, getting my own place…and now…yes, I’m going to do it. I’m going to Ramiro’s apartment!”

  Chapter 2

  I am not going to Ramiro’s apartment. I am NOT going to Ramiro’s apartment! I’m going to turn around right now…no, I’m going. I have to do this. Be bold, Marisa.

  My innate timidity tried to send me speeding away from Ramiro’s apartment with tires screeching, but I refused to surrender to such silliness. Ramiro liked me and I liked him. Simple, age-old story of boy meets girl. Bringing the basket of cranberry oat, banana walnut crumb, and double chocolate chunk muffins to Ramiro was an appealing gesture. It would show my interest in a classy sweet way.

  Licking my lips nervously, I ascended the snow covered outdoor staircase to Ramiro’s third floor apartment. Checking my cell phone directory that I was on my way to the correct apartment, I clenched a death grip around the wicker handle of the basket. My nerves just wouldn’t give me a moment of peace. Glancing down at the ground, I was puzzled to see a set of footsteps imprinted in the snow. They weren’t the footprints from a man’s work boot or wide leather shoe but rather the pointy evidence of a stiletto. Had a woman been at his apartment?

  As I was contemplating turning back and burning rubber all the way to Espresso Magic, I came face to face with the answer to my question: yes, a woman had been at his apartment and she was still there. As I peered at the obsidian-eyed, dark tressed temptress whose perfect lips were drenched in crimson paint, I felt like an idiotic version of Little Red Riding Hood standing with her basket waiting for Grandmother.

  “Hi, are you looking for Ramiro?” The femme fatale asked in a breat
hy voice that made her sound like Marilyn Monroe warming up to sing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

  “Um, no,” I lied. “I think I have the wrong apartment.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” The woman saw right through the transparency of my lie.

  “Why do you want to know? Who are you?” I asked quizzically.

  “I’m Dahlia,” she supplied.

  “Hi Dahlia,” I said awkwardly. The bronze skinned beauty had to be Ramiro’s girlfriend. What a rat! Asking me out when he was already in a relationship. My bottom lip quivered with indignation as I got a harsh reminder of why I had avoided dating for so many years.

  Dahlia pointed to a neatly wrapped box on Ramiro’s snowy welcome mat. “I’m just leaving that package for Ramiro,” she said cheerfully as I wondered why she wasn’t more curious who I was.

  “Why don’t you bring the package inside?” I asked.

  “Because Ramiro is at work,” she replied casually as I felt like smacking my forehead. Of course! In my haste to shower Ramiro with goodies, I had completely forgotten that he wouldn’t be home.

  “That’s right, he’s at work,” I said softly. “But are you his…”

  “Listen, I’d like to chat with you, but I have to run. Plane to catch! Business trip!” Dahlia announced hurriedly, frowning at her watch. “Bye!”

  As she click-clacked in her absurdly high heels down the stairs, I wondered why she had left so abruptly. If Ramiro wasn’t home, then why did she leave me standing at his doorstep? And why didn’t she ask me what I was doing there? Odd.

  Gently, I pushed Dahlia’s package aside to make room for my basket. Then I bit my lip, hesitating as I imagined my muffins frozen as snowballs by the time Ramiro arrived home from work in the evening. Should I come back later? Or just forget the whole crazy idea? I mean, clearly Ramiro wasn’t the romantic prospect I had hoped he would be. He had a gorgeous girlfriend named Dahlia. Unless she was just a friend? Ha! Fat chance!

  As I was debating what to do, I noticed a slight crack in Ramiro’s front door. A sudden howling wind yanked the door all the way open as I gasped. Apparently, Ramiro had been in a rush too because he had forgotten to lock his front door.

  Maybe I could sneak inside and leave the basket on his kitchen table. I could easily explain to him how I got into his apartment; he wouldn’t think that I was a crazed stalker…hopefully. Before I let myself get too analytical, I walked through the door, shutting it behind me and carrying the basket down the hall into the kitchen.

  The kitchen was messy, typical of a bachelor! Unwashed dishes littered the sink and grimy sponges were strewn everywhere. Yes, definitely a helpless bachelor. I grinned to myself then frowned pensively as a more unusual sight greeted me on the kitchen table: a plate of half eaten bacon and eggs was congealing as though it had been sitting there for hours. Why would Ramiro leave half his breakfast to rot on the table all day? Chalking it up to a combination of stag syndrome and tardiness to work, I shrugged and placed the basket of muffins on the table.

  My eyes roamed to the living room as I noted an assortment of throw pillows scattered on the area rug. Creeping closer, I noticed a figure curled up on the sofa. Ramiro! Clearly in a deep sleep, the man hadn’t noticed when the wind pulled his front door wide open or when I was lurking in his kitchen. But why hadn’t he gone to work? Maybe he was sick and that’s why he didn’t finish his breakfast?

  Tapping him on the shoulder gingerly, I hoped he wouldn’t be too frightened to wake up and see me hovering over him. He didn’t budge, so I tapped him again, noting that his body felt unnaturally cool to the touch. Dread seeped through my veins as I placed the palm of my hand over his shoulder, feeling stiffness sickeningly like rigor mortis. No! Ramiro couldn’t be dead!

  I looked at his face; his velvet black eyelashes were fluttered closed and his features were locked in a tranquil but stony sleep. Scanning the length of his body, I didn’t notice any blood or other sign of injury. But he wasn’t moving. And he wasn’t breathing. He really was dead!

  Screaming like a banshee, I ran out of the living room, fighting back powerful tidal waves of nausea. Fumbling through my purse, I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the police. Before the dispatcher could finish his greeting, I blurted out, “He’s dead! I found him! He’s dead on the sofa! Please come!”

  “Hold it a second, ma’am. I need you to speak slower. Breathe and tell me exactly where you are,” the gruff-voiced dispatcher ordered.

  But I simply couldn’t calm down. I needed a paper bag to breathe into so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. My throat felt scratchy and dry as I cleared it, struggling to speak. “Apt 3G. Firewood Apartments in Candlewick Falls,” I wheezed the words.

  “Okay, we’ve got your location. Now just do me a favor. Stay on the line with me and tell me what happened…”

  I didn’t hear anything else the dispatcher said as the phone slipped out of my trembling hands and crashed to the floor. Scooping it up and shoving it in my purse, I ran outside, desperate for fresh air. The biting wind and wintry brush of snowflakes felt heavenly in that moment. For a split second, I allowed myself to let the freshness bathe my senses until I remembered how stiff Ramiro’s body had felt. Unyielding and frigid. Colder than the January wind. Teardrops pooled in my eyes as I recalled how magical it had been to feel Ramiro’s heated kiss barely twelve hours ago. And now he was dead? Cut down in his prime. But who and why…and how? Without any visible damage to Ramiro’s body it was a sheer enigma how he had died. However he had died, I was certain it was not a natural death. No, the demise of that healthy 30 year old man was most unnatural indeed.

  A fleeting image of Dahlia played with my imagination as I became instantly suspicious of the dark beauty. Where was she flying off to and why did she seem so eager to get away? Was it simply that she was running late for her business flight or was there a more sinister reason for her haste?

  “Why am I not surprised to see you?” A scratchy voice mused wryly as I whipped around and hastily swept away my tears.

  “Captain Davis,” I whispered. The man was halfway between a nemesis and a friend. During the two homicide investigations I had solved with Penelope, the captain had been more than a little skeptical of our clairvoyant methods. But after the second slam dunk solve, I had felt like the eyebrow-raising cop was finally on my side.

  “Does death follow you? I mean, really Marisa, should I be in fear of my life?” He chuckled from the depths of his throat as I scowled ferociously.

  “This is not the time for sarcasm! A young man is dead in that apartment!” I shouted as my strangled voice echoed on the wind.

  “And you found him there?” Captain Davis surmised, raising that ubiquitous eyebrow.

  “Yes,” I gritted.

  First Aid workers barreled up the stairs and piled into Ramiro’s apartment as I stood with numb hands stuffed in my coat pockets. I’d sooner freeze to death or get clobbered by an avalanche than go back in that graveyard of an apartment.

  “I have so many questions to ask you, Miss Locke, that I don’t even know where to begin this time,” Captain Davis said frankly.

  “I’ll answer any question you have. Go ahead. We can stand here all day if you want,” I challenged, ready to fire back with the best weapon anyone could ever use: the truth. In theory, I was a likely suspect since I was the one to find Ramiro’s body. But I thought Captain Davis knew better than to suspect me of murder after our collaborative crime solving efforts. Clearly, I had overestimated the man.

  “What is the identity of the man inside that apartment?” Captain Davis began in his fiery grilling fashion.

  “Ramiro…um…” I faltered, realizing with horror that I had no idea what my date’s last name was.

  Chapter 3

  “Yes, Ramiro who?” Captain Davis demanded impatiently.

  “I don’t know.” I stared down at the powdery earth.

  “You don’t know the man’s last name? Then what were you doing in his apartment?” Th
e cop demanded, appraising me like I was some kind of cheap floozy.

  “I didn’t stay the night at his apartment,” I said quickly even though it was none of anyone’s business. “I came to bring him a basket of muffins and I was going to leave them on his doorstep. But then I noticed that his door was open, so I just went inside…and found him on the couch. At first, I thought he was sleeping…” I broke off with hoarse emotion, still in disbelief over the horrific scene.

  “Slow down,” Captain Davis urged like the dispatcher had. “How did you know this man?”

  “He was a customer at Espresso Magic. We met a few days ago and last night we had our first date,” I explained levelly.

  “Okay, so you had your very first date with the guy last night and this morning you’re already showing up on his doorstep? I smell desperation, Miss Locke,” the cop condescended.

  “I understand it’s your job to ask me questions, but you don’t need to insult me,” I said haughtily, lengthening my posture and daring to stare him in the eyes. “Plus, I think there’s someone else you’re going to want to question. Her name is Dahlia. I ran into her as she was leaving…”

  “So you’re saying another woman was in his apartment? And did this enrage you, Miss Locke?”

  “Enrage me? What? Just let me finish! Dahlia wasn’t in his apartment, or at least she said she wasn’t. I saw her at the top of the stairs. She left that package there.” I pointed to the gift wrapped box.

  “Sounds like Ramiro was a popular man,” Captain Davis snorted.

  “I guess he was,” I retorted bitterly. “Anyway, she ran out in a hurry, saying she had a plane to catch for a business trip. It seemed a little weird how she was in such a hurry to leave, but now it seems downright suspicious.”

  “Did the coffee beans tell you to be suspicious of her?” Davis asked in a snarky manner.

  “Look, I thought you had more respect for me after the murders I solved. Why are you treating me this way?” I demanded.