Inn Keeping With Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  “That’s exactly what happened to Rosa,” I said.

  “Then, lo and behold, a rescuing angel would find them and take them to a nice homeless shelter,” Angela continued. “There they would give birth, at which time their baby would be taken away and sold on the adoption black market.”

  “Why such an elaborate scheme?” Doe asked.

  “Because they didn’t want the women to be able to identify anyone who had actually handled them during the process,” Angela replied. “So they kept them disoriented and cut off from anyone who was familiar to them. This way, they had no place to turn for help.”

  “So the mayor was right,” Doe said, quietly. “They were sold as sex slaves.”

  “Yes,” Angela replied somberly. “It’s a lucrative business, and once sold, one working girl can earn the brothel owner upwards of $200,000 a year.”

  The room had grown quiet and several of us had tears in our eyes.

  “You okay, Mom?” Angela asked me, reaching out a hand.

  “Yes. No.” I sighed. “It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. How could Sybil do something so awful?”

  “This is a woman without a conscience,” Detective Franks finally spoke up. “She’s a predator– someone who enjoys taking advantage of the weak and vulnerable.”

  “How did Sybil’s husband play into this?” I asked, picturing the small, mousy man I’d come to think of as Sybil’s indoor carpet.

  “He was the banker,” Detective Abrams explained. ““He laundered the money into off-shore accounts.”

  “By the way,” Detective Franks said, “Monica Garrett is Sybil’s cousin and owns the travel agency they used to move the girls from one city to another.”

  I could see eyebrows lift around the room as the logic of this sunk in.

  “And Father Bentley is her step-brother,” Angela said, with a shake of her head. “It was a family affair.”

  “The only outsiders,” said Detective Abrams, “were Faye Kramer, the albino guy, and the two thugs that went off the bridge in the Hummer. The FBI says the set-up is pretty common. The only difference is that instead of someone owning a string of seedy motels in the ring, this group used a string of homeless shelters. But it served the same purpose and actually provided a better cover.”

  “I’m just so glad we were able to get Rosa out of there,” I said, wiping my eyes again. “The thought of that fate, well…” A sob caught in my throat and Angela patted my shoulder.

  “She’ll be fine now, Mom.”

  “What about Senator Pesante?” Rudy asked.

  The sugar canister in front of Detective Abrams started to move all of a sudden, and I reached out and placed my hand on it. He gave me a curious look before answering.

  “He’s out of the coma and they say he’ll make a full recovery.”

  “But how in the world did Martha get involved in all of this?” Blair asked.

  “Her niece tipped her off,” Detective Franks said. “She finally called us. She’s been out of the country. Her husband happens to be Ukrainian.”

  “So…she speaks Ukrainian.” Rudy gave voice to the light bulbs going off in our heads. Detective Franks nodded.

  “Her niece accompanied Mrs. Denton to the shelter one day just before Thanksgiving. She overheard Faye Kramer on her cell phone talking to the recruiter in Ukraine,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Wow.” I said in surprise. “You would have thought they’d be more careful.”

  “Well, they’ve been getting away with this for a long time,” Detective Abrams said. “She just got sloppy.”

  “By the way, Mom, we’ve talked to the staff at the other shelter and we think Martha volunteered to help do some cleaning the Saturday after her niece was here. There was only the weekend staff on duty. That’s probably when she got the keys and slipped inside Faye’s office.”

  “We found a false bottom in one of Faye’s desk drawers,” Detective Franks said.

  “And that must be where Martha found the book,” I said.

  “Right,” Detective Franks confirmed. “And the pictures you found on the flash drive. She knew she had something dangerous. She went to Father Bentley first, but wasn’t convinced he would do anything. That’s why she called the senator—to get his help. And that’s why she couldn’t sleep and why you all noticed a change in her behavior. She was under tremendous stress.”

  “Unfortunately, the moment she spoke to Father Bentley, she sealed her fate,” Detective Abrams said.

  “She was such a trusting soul,” Doe said, shaking her head. “It would never have dawned on her that a priest would do something so awful.”

  “I’m still having trouble believing it,” I said.

  “I give her a lot of credit, though,” Detective Abrams went on to say. “When she went to see Father Bentley, he tried to get her to give him the book. But she wouldn’t, so he had to convince her not to go to the police. He made her believe that by going public the scandal would close down all of the shelters, leaving all of those women destitute. He played on her compassion and promised that he would begin an internal investigation in order to send Faye to jail. We have a lot to thank her for. If she’d given the book to Father Bentley, they still would have killed her anyway, but we would have never known why.”

  “But then why did she go to the senator?” I asked.

  “As Detective Franks said, she wasn’t convinced the priest would do anything, or least not quickly enough. We talked briefly to the senator when he got out of the ICU, and he said she only told him enough to warrant an investigation.”

  “But how did they find out she’d even talked to him?” Blair asked.

  “They bugged her house,” the good-looking detective said. “Sybil was going over there during the day when Martha was gone, looking for the ledger and planted the bugs. When they realized she’d spilled the beans to the senator, they knew they had to get rid of both of them.”

  “Mom,” Angela began. “Do you remember that case Detective Abrams and I worked last summer? The girl that was found in the water with her stomach cut open?”

  “Oh no,” I exhaled. “She was one of Sybil’s girls?”

  Angela nodded. “Her name was Rita Juarez. That doctor we arrested was a quack. We think he botched a cesarean section on Rita and she died. We think that’s why they recruited Libby.”

  A new round of tears formed in my eyes. “Whatever else she did, she tried to save my life. She wasn’t going to let Sybil kill me.”

  Angela put her hand over mine. “I doubt she ever thought anyone was going to get hurt.”

  “By the way, we’ll also be opening Ellen Fairchild’s death again,” Detective Franks said.

  We all stopped and stared at him, as the air in the room seemed to grow heavy.

  “We’ve spoken to her daughter, and she mentioned seeing an MP3 player in her mother’s bedroom when they cleaned out the home to sell it. She gave it to her son. She’ll mail it back for forensics to take a look at it.”

  “So they were both murdered,” I said.

  He nodded. “We think they may have used the subliminal tape on Martha, because it worked so well on Ellen,” Detective Abrams said.

  It was almost 11:30 when we’d finished. I walked Angela and the two detectives to the door. Angela kissed me goodbye, and I watched her walk with Detective Abrams to his car, while Detective Franks hung back. It suddenly occurred to me how handsome he looked all dressed up.

  “Thank you, Detective Franks,” I said. “I know you thought I had something to do with this in the beginning.”

  His brown eyes glinted. “Not really. You seem like far too nice a woman to go around poisoning people. By the way,” he said, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I was hoping you might consider having dinner with me, you know, now that you’re no longer trying to avoid a bunch of killers.”

  It was the first surprise in days that didn’t leave me sick to my stomach.

  “I’d love to,” I replied with a smil
e.

  “Good,” he said with a smile. “I’ll give you a call in a few days, once you’re fully healed.”

  He gave me a warm smile and left.

  ÷

  April excused herself since she had to be back first thing in the morning for breakfast, but the girls remained to share a final glass of wine before ending the evening.

  “I have a present for each of you,” I announced.

  I pulled out three small boxes from a cupboard.

  “It’s not fudge, I hope,” Rudy quipped.

  “Nooooo,” I said. “Just open them.”

  They removed the bows and pulled out wide-mouthed coffee mugs.

  “Oh my,” Doe said, reading the text on hers with a smile. “This is wonderful, Julia.”

  “Old Maids Club of Mercer Island,” Blair read out loud. “For the adventuresome and young at heart.”

  “Turn them around,” I said.

  When they did, there was a collective chuckle.

  “The Wiz,” Doe said, smiling. “Is that what I am? I like it.”

  Blair read hers and looked up at me with a big grin. “Catnip. I love it.”

  Rudy shot me an irritated look. “The Boss? Really? I don’t get it.”

  The three of us cracked up until she finally joined in.

  “Okay,” Rudy acquiesced, laughing. “I suppose it fits.”

  “Well, I have something for you,” Blair said as she reached into her big purse and pulled out a wrapped box of her own. “This one’s for you,” she said, handing it to me.

  I opened the box to find a door plaque that read “Mayor Julia Applegate.”

  Rudy and Doe cheered.

  “Oh no,” I said with a whine.

  “Oh yes,” Doe insisted. “We need to get started right after New Year’s.”

  I did a face palm. “Damn!”

  I let the moment of mirth play itself out and then said, “There’s one more thing we have to do. Emily left her mother’s ashes with me. She asked me to spread them over the lake on Christmas.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost midnight. I think we should do it together.”

  “That’s a grand idea,” Doe said. “She loved it here.”

  “Isn’t it illegal?” Blair said.

  “Probably,” Rudy laughed. “But who cares? We’ve just been named the Mercer Island Heroes, and Julia’s going to be our next mayor.”

  “Okay, where’s her urn?” Doe wanted to know.

  “Over here,” I said. I went into the library and pulled a beautiful Cloisonné urn off the bookshelf.

  “So, she was here all the time, enjoying the festivities right along with us!” Rudy said, before looking at me curiously. “Any others you’d like to sprinkle on the lake?”

  “Yeah, Julia,” Doe jumped in. “Maybe it’s time to clean out your garage.”

  I blushed, knowing that I would be considered a hoarder in some circles when it came to cremated remains.

  “Mother wanted me to take her remains back to Illinois. I’ll make the trip this summer—no excuses.”

  “Okay then, let’s do this,” Rudy said.

  We got our coats on and went to the end of the dock, which sits some 100 feet out over the water. Christmas lights twinkled around the lake, and it was beginning to snow. Although there was a light breeze, the lake was quiet and peaceful. Blair stood to my right, leaning on her crutches. Rudy was to her right, in case she needed help, and Doe was to my left as we faced west.

  Doe placed a hand on my arm. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

  “No,” I admitted, taking a deep breath. “Does anyone have any thoughts?”

  “Just one,” Doe said, leaning on the railing. “Martha never got to do her adventure. She always wanted to take up art. I think the next thing we ought to do is to take an art class in her honor.”

  “What a nice thought,” Rudy agreed.

  “But what do we want to say about Martha?” I asked.

  “That we’ll miss her,” Blair spoke up. “If I’m the most outlandish one of us, Martha had to be the most conservative. I liked her for that. She was predictable, which was kind of comforting to me. I pretty much knew what she’d wear, how she would react, and what she’d say.”

  “That’s true,” Rudy said. “But in her case, it wasn’t a bad thing. I think deep down, she knew who she was and had accepted it a long time ago.”

  “She was our rock, in a manner of speaking,” Doe said. “Our anchor, so we didn’t get too far off course.”

  I had to reach up and wipe a tear away. “I wonder if she knew that.”

  “She does now,” Doe said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Okay, let’s do it, Julia,” Rudy commanded. “It’s time.”

  We all turned to the lake as I lifted off the top of the urn.

  “Here’s to you, Martha,” I said. “We’ll think of you whenever we look out at the lake.”

  As I held the urn out over the water and turned it upside down, I felt the girls move away from me on either side. The ashes slid out of the urn just as a sudden gust of wind rose up from the lake. In an instant, the entire clump of ashes blew right back in my face.

  Count to three.

  “Damn!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was already Christmas morning by the time I had thoroughly cleaned off my face and climbed into bed. I was tired, but I felt better than I had in weeks. As I reached over to turn out the light, my cell phone rang. I answered it, curious as to who would be calling me so late.

  “You did good, Julia,” my mother said. “I’m proud of you.”

  I slumped back against my headboard, a warm rush of affection flooding my body.

  “Thanks, Mom. And thanks for your help. It was pretty scary there for a while.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t going to let that bitch of a woman do anything to you. You’re my little girl.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Mom, I’m sixty-three. I think I stopped being your little girl a long time ago.”

  “What about Angela?”

  She had me there.

  “Okay, I get it,” I said with a smile. “I can always count on you.”

  “That’s right, no matter what idiotic thing you’re involved in,” she said, chuckling. “I have your back.”

  I laughed light-heartedly. “Thanks. And by the way, this is the best Christmas present ever, being able to talk to you again.”

  There was a pause, and then she said, “Take me home, Julia.”

  A tear suddenly welled in my eye. “I will. I promise.”

  “I love you, Button,” she said quickly.

  I choked back a sob. She had given me that nickname when I was born because I was so tiny. Hearing it again made me realize how much I missed my own nickname.

  “I love you, too, Mom. Merry Christmas.”

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  If you enjoyed the character of Detective Abrams in this book, I encourage you to check out “A Palette For Murder,” a short story in, Your Worst Nightmare. This is another paranormal mystery in which he stars as the lead character. He will also play a role in the upcoming Giorgio Salvatori mystery, “Murder in the Past Tense.”

  Also, human trafficking occurs around the globe and is almost impossible to stop. It strips people of their freedom, their families, their self-esteem, and often their lives. I encourage you to read up on the danger and effects of human trafficking, and to see how you might get involved to help stop it.

  Lastly, I took some literary license in staging this story on Mercer Island. While the island certainly does exist and most of the elements I mentioned are true, to my knowledge there is no Marchand Drive, Widow’s Peak, or cliff that drops off into Lake Washington. Instead, the ground slops gradually up from the water line to the top of the island.

  Thank you so very much for reading Inn Keeping With Murder. If you enjoyed this book, I would be honored if you would go back to Amazon.com and leave an honest review. I do r
ead them. We “indie” authors thrive on reviews and word-of-mouth advertising. This will help position the book so that more people might also enjoy it. Thank you so much!

  Who Was Your Favorite Character?

  I thoroughly enjoyed writing Inn Keeping With Murder and creating its cast of characters. I would love to know who your favorite character was. I have mine. Who was yours? Let me know by mentioning your favorite character in your review, or by joining me on Facebook @ L.Bohart/author.

  About the Author

  Ms. Bohart holds a master’s degree in theater, has published in Woman’s World, and has a story in Dead on Demand, an anthology of ghost stories that remained on the Library Journal’s best seller list for six months. As a thirty-year nonprofit professional, she has spent a lifetime writing brochures, newsletters, business letters, website copy, and more. She did a short stint writing for Patch.com, teaches writing through the Continuing Education Program at Green River Community College, and writes a monthly column for the Renton Reporter. Inn Keeping With Murder is her third full-length novel. She has also self-published Mass Murder and Grave Doubts, as well as two short story books. She is hard at work on the second ‘Old Maids of Mercer Island’ book, as well as the second Giorgio Salvatori mystery.

  Ms. Bohart also writes a blog on the various aspects of writing and the paranormal on her website at: www.bohartink.com. She lives in the Northwest with her daughter, two miniature Dachshunds, and a cat.

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