A STRING OF MURDERS
A Dressed for Death Mystery, Book 2
Darlene Franklin
Dedication: I could not have written the Dressed for Death series without the enthusiastic support of my Oklahoma connections—my beloved son and daughter-in-law, Jaran and Shelley Franklin. Thanks for your loving support and a spare bed whenever I visit.
Copyright © 2009 by Darlene Franklin. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the author or Forget Me Not Romances.
Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Printed in the U.S.A.
1
From: Elsie Holland ([email protected])
Date: Friday, April 18, 9:35 PM
To: Jessie Gaynor ([email protected])
Subject: Inheritance?
A recent edition of the Grace Gulch Herald reported that “Jessie Gaynor has returned to Grace Gulch to take over operation of local institution, Gaynor Goodies.”
I have information that suggests there was more behind your return to Grace Gulch than family feeling.
Expect further communication from me on the subject.
Saturday, April 19
One advantage of dresses from the ’30s is the low back, especially when you zip them by yourself. Not that I would need to worry about zipping tricky zippers by myself for long, thank you very much. I still want to pinch myself every time I look at the European-cut diamond my fiancé, Audie Howe, gave me last Christmas.
Let me introduce myself. I’m Cecilia Wilde, middle child of the three Wilde sisters and proprietress of Cici’s Vintage Clothing in Grace Gulch, Oklahoma. I dress in outfits from my store, like the ’30s number I have on today, for a variety of reasons. Advertising comes to mind first, but it’s also fun. I spent years pretending to be someone else. Thanks to Audie, I had finally accepted my dandelion-seed hair, as well as my eccentricities—like dressing in costume.
I twirled in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the slim line fit that flattered my figure and frou-frou sleeves that fluttered around my shoulders. A perfect spring dress for a beautiful spring day. I might even turn some heads when I walked into Gaynor Goodies this morning.
Stop kidding yourself. Only strangers unused to my habit of wearing vintage clothing would stare at me. A stop for some baked pastries had been a part of my daily ritual ever since I opened my store back in 2003. I picked up a clutch purse—barely big enough for my keys and wallet—and headed out the door to the turquoise Civic waiting in my driveway.
As expected, most of the cars in Grace Gulch’s five-block business district clustered around the entrance to Gaynor Goodies. Jessie had taken over the business from her elderly aunt early in the year. She added to its already robust success by opening half an hour earlier, setting up free Internet access for paying customers, and oh, yes—increasing the bakery’s status as gossip central.
No one could keep a secret for long in Grace Gulch.
The clock read twenty minutes to nine when I walked through the door. Instead of the usual bustle at the counter, most of the customers clustered around Jessie at one of the monitors.
Jessie Gaynor was a living example of the quality of her products. Her broad face beamed with laughter under gray-streaked brown hair kept under a sensible net. She looked like a sugar confection herself, dressed today in a candy-striped pink-and-white apron, her lip color a frosted pink leftover from an earlier era. Audie and I had secured her services to bake our wedding cake.
“Can you believe that?” Jessie’s girlish laugh, more appropriate for someone my sister Dina’s age than a middle-aged matron, pealed across the room.
“Yes, Jessie, tell us about it.” Lauren Packer, one of the town’s three lawyers, spoke up. “What really happened to Aunt Edna? Did she retire to sunny Arizona or did you do her in?” He waggled his dark eyebrows over the pointed nose and chin that had earned him the nickname “vulture.” His abrasive personality and occasional ambulance-chaser tactics didn’t help either. Only his position as the attorney of one of Grace Gulch’s leading citizens, Magda Grace Mallory, saved Lauren from general disdain.
I looked out the window at the brilliant spring sun. On a day like today, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to move away.
Jessie laughed again. Then she looked up and noticed me for the first time.
“Sorry, folks! I’ve got customers to take care of.” She hefted her body off the chair and walked behind the display cases. “Good morning, Cici. If it’s Saturday, you must want some of my frosted sugar cookies.”
Jessie knew my weakness. I used the excuse of the many children who visited my store on weekends to buy the overly sweet cookies. But I always saved one or two for myself.
“I’ll take two dozen, please. A variety.”
She picked up cookies between sheets of waxed paper and packed them in a bakery box. I was curious about the fuss, but I wouldn’t ask. I didn’t need to. Jessie couldn’t avoid sharing a good bit of gossip.
I wasn’t disappointed.
“I received a most interesting e-mail when I checked my account this morning.”
Lauren rejoined us. “Someone practically accused Jessie of ulterior motives in returning home and taking over the business.” He stood beside me, pressing the coffee urn for a refill. “I don’t believe a word of it, but keep me in mind if this Elsie person writes again. That’s close to slander, if you want to pursue it.”
Vulture, I thought.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Jessie gave me change. “I don’t even know who Elsie is.”
Lauren took his cup of fresh coffee and headed for the exit. The bell on the door jingled as he left, and I was ready with my question.
“Who sent it?” I confess I enjoy a bit of gossip as much as the next person. That is, as long as it isn’t about me.
“Someone named Elsie Holland. None of us have heard of her.”
“Me neither.”
“Elsie Holland?” A familiar voice repeated the name.
Audie. My fiancé walked up to the counter and kissed me on the cheek. “Good morning. Don’t you look nice today.”
I could have stood there all day, drinking in the admiration shining in his dark blue eyes. I was glad to see him in good spirits today. Lately moodiness often darkened his countenance.
“Do you know an Elsie Holland?” Jessie’s brows shot upward.
No wonder Jessie sounded surprised. How could Audie, a recent addition to our community, know someone she didn’t?
“It’s the name of a character in one of those Miss Marple stories. An innocent young housemaid or something like that.” He made his purchase—a plain bagel with black coffee—then snapped his fingers. “The Moving Finger. That was the story. All about blackmail and murder.”
“Blackmail?” Jessie and I repeated the word at the same time.
She insisted on showing us the strange email she had received, which read: I have information that suggests there was more behind your return to Grace Gulch than family feeling.
Seeing the words in black and white made me shiver. Not at all nice. I had never come across anyt
hing like it in my quiet little town.
Usually quiet, that is, if I discounted the murder that happened last fall, when the editor of the Grace Gulch Herald was killed during Land Run Days.
“Ggcc.com. That sounds like your e-mail address, Cici.” Audie’s thoughts had taken a different direction.
I shook my head. “No, mine is the same as Jessie’s address. Ggcoc.net, for Grace Gulch Chamber of Commerce.” I studied the email again. “You’re right, though, it does seem familiar. Grace Gulch. . .but what do the last two letters stand for?”
“And Elsie Holland?” This time Jessie voiced the question.
“My guess is that she doesn’t exist.” Audie nibbled on his bagel. “At least not under that name. It could even be a man. Young, middle aged, old. ‘The old believe everything, the middle-aged suspect everything, the young know everything.’” He loved to quote Oscar Wilde.
The hand on the clock crept closer to nine.
“I’d better run. I might just make it to my store on time.” I smiled at Audie. “See you later?”
“Count on it.”
Audie did pop by the store in the middle of the afternoon to explain he wouldn’t come over to my house that night.
“Something’s come up. I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s fine,” I assured him. It was probably something to do with the next production at the Magda Grace Mallory theater—the MGM for short. A little more than a year ago, Magda Mallory had hired Audie from Chicago to direct the new facility. We met during their first production; my sister, Dina, managed their props and she recommended that I provide costumes. The rest, as they say, was history. This spring he was directing the classic comedy, Arsenic and Old Lace.
After work I dropped off the day’s deposit and returned to my empty house to study my Sunday school lesson. I started to change into comfortable clothes for the evening, but before I removed my dress, I pirouetted in front of my full-length mirror, imagining a ’30s-style wedding dress. It might work. I hadn’t decided on a bridal gown yet.
A few minutes after seven, Audie phoned with a quick hello, but didn’t explain why he couldn’t visit with me. While I baked a pie for tomorrow night’s family dinner, I flipped through the channels but didn’t find anything interesting. I decided to call it a night and slipped into a comfy nightshirt adorned with smiling cows. My finger was sliding into the center of my Bible when the telephone rang. Bother. I hated the shrill sound. Maybe someday I could change the ring of my landline like I did for my cell phone. I reached over the pillows to my night table and looked at the caller ID—Audie.
“Hi, honey.” I knew I sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush. I couldn’t help it. I acted that way every time I heard his voice or was around my fiancé.
“Cici.” Audie’s suave actor’s baritone sounded as fierce as the Emperor’s in Star Wars. “Come down to the store.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Audie had a key to my business, of course, but what took him there after hours?
A heartbeat passed before Audie answered. “I saw a light on at your store so I went in to check it out.”
“And?”
“There’s—there’s a dead man on the floor.”
2
From: Jerry Burton ([email protected])
Date: Friday, April 18, 9:37 PM
To: Victor Spencer ([email protected])
Subject: FYI
Attachments: Lincoln County Burglaries.GGHerald.com
I know what you’re doing. Meet me at Cici’s Vintage Clothing at 8:30 p.m. Saturday night.
Saturday, April 19
Audie ended the phone call. I’m sure he did because the next thing I knew, I was sitting in my Civic, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. It was only five blocks, but I preferred to drive when I went out at night. Even in Grace Gulch, Oklahoma, occasional vagrants and juvenile delinquents made wandering alone after dark a chancy decision. Especially with a murderer on the loose.
It can’t be happening again. Last fall Audie’s theater troupe put on a reenactment of the gunfight between the two founders of Grace Gulch, Bob Grace and Dick Gaynor. Everything went famously until the man portraying Dick Gaynor—Penn Hardy—was actually shot dead during the fateful scene. We went through a tense few days when the police homed in on two suspects: my sister, Dina, because she handled the fatal prop gun and my old boyfriend, Cord Grace, because he fired the weapon. I nosed around and uncovered the real killer.
At least some good came out of that experience. By the time the police caught the killer, I had made up my mind between Audie and Cord. When Audie proposed at Christmas time, I accepted, and we planned to marry in June.
Thoughts of the wedding kept worries about Audie’s discovery at bay until I arrived. Blue and red lights flashed on top of Grace Gulch’s one and only police cruiser, stationed in front of my store. The presence of cops at my store would start the town’s rumor mill for sure. Did you hear what happened at Cici’s store last night? Well she’s in trouble again. No telling what those Wilde girls will get up to next.
Speaking of the police, why hadn’t they called me? I turned off the engine and sat immobile behind the wheel, struggling with the implications of a dead man in my store. Audie dashed out to the car and opened the door for me. “Good, you’re here. Chief Reiner wants to speak with you.”
I groaned at the mention of my least favorite policeman.
“Cici Wilde.” Ted Reiner’s loud voice matched his size, his chest straining against the polished uniform buttons. Like a beefy Teddy Roosevelt, he bellowed orders in a bullhorn voice. Behind him, Frances Waller, one of the town’s four-person police force, wiggled her fingers in greeting. They wore matching solemn expressions.
I swung my legs out the door and stood up, taking in the damage to the store window for the first time. The glass had shattered, shards standing up like ill-formed stalagmites in a dark cave. The elegant Antiqua lettering I had ordered in honor of Oklahoma’s recent centennial lay in slivers on the ground. The capital V from the word Vintage dangled like a precarious icicle. Papers and dresses scattered across the sidewalk.
“Oh no!” I darted forward. “The articles about Bonnie and Clyde. . .” Perhaps that sounded like a silly thing to worry about, but original newspaper clippings from the ’30s were hard to come by. And what about the guaranteed-worn-by-Bonnie Parker dress? I stopped to survey the damage.
“Cici.” Frances spoke this time.
I waited for her to say more. I’d rather hear bad news from the younger officer. When she didn’t continue, my heart raced. “I know there’s a dead body here,” I blurted.
Frances looked at Reiner, the two of them silently debating their next course of action. She shrugged, giving in to her senior officer. “You’re right. Come this way. We want you to take a look at the body.”
“Who is it?”
“We’re hoping you can tell us that,” Frances said.
“It’s—” Audie spoke.
“Hold your comments, please, until Cici has seen the body,” Reiner interrupted.
I nodded my agreement. Audie slipped his hand over mine, entwining my fingers with his strong ones. We followed Frances into the darkened store. A pale light emanated from somewhere near the cash register, enough to keep me from stumbling, but it didn’t provide enough illumination to reveal the state of the showroom. I reached out my hand to flip on the light switch.
“Stop!” Reiner must have seen me. “We haven’t dusted for fingerprints.”
I wanted to growl. Reiner loved to throw his weight around. They would find my fingerprints, in any case. After all, it was my store.
Audie squeezed my hand, reassuring me. I relaxed, grateful for his presence. I didn’t have to face something like this alone, whatever it was.
“We’ll need you to check for any missing inventory,” Frances said. “Later.”
Trailing the officer, I weaved through dresses, brushing against rustling satin and soft cotton. St
ylish evening wear, all from the ’30s, framed the entrance. Beyond them, other racks and shelves loomed. Shadowy shapes reassured me that the store hadn’t been stripped.
Sketchy light made my store, as familiar to me as my own bedroom, into a house of horrors. Something else was at work here. The farther we walked into the store, the more an out-of-place odor assaulted my nostrils.
Frances stopped when we reached my cash register. One of those big, box-shaped flashlights splashed a small circle of light in front.
That’s when I saw him—a man, neither young nor old, dressed all in black. An ominous stillness surrounded him, the same stillness I had felt when I first saw Penn’s body last September. In his right hand, the dead man held a strand of pearls. I sucked in my breath.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” Audie’s hand on my elbow steadied me.
“Well, well, Cici, look what we have here.” Reiner plodded along behind us, his heavy footfalls thudding on the carpet. “A dead body shows up in your showroom.”
Audie’s fingernails dug into my elbow so hard that I yelped. Better than the angry retort I wanted to utter, I guess.
“You in there, Reiner?” Dr. Barber, Grace Gulch’s on-call pathologist, had arrived. “It’s dark in here.” Before either officer could protest, he flicked on the overhead light.
Beside me Frances muttered a protest.
The dead man looked much worse in full light. Something, someone, had caved in this guy’s head. I gagged. Audie grabbed the chair that I keep by the dressing room and made me sit down. I leaned forward and rested my head on my hands, fighting waves of nausea.
“I’ll get you some tea.” Audie disappeared behind the door to my office where I keep a microwave and small fridge. Reiner followed him, probably to make sure he didn’t destroy any evidence.
“Do you recognize him?” Frances’s soft voice penetrated my stupor.
Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 02 - A String of Murders Page 1
