Organized for Murder

by Ritter Ames

  Kate withdrew her hand, the object firmly in her grasp. A highly polished, ebony box inlaid with ivory. She gasped. The sleep of moments before faded to distant memory. This was the second time she had seen the little treasure. The first was yesterday in Amelia Nethercutt's late husband's upstairs study.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Recipe for Organization – Crock Pot Oatmeal

  Nothing's better than waking up in the morning to an already prepared breakfast and more time. Measure rolled oats (not quick oats) into a crock-pot using a ratio of one cup oats to two cups water. Cinnamon, dehydrated apples, brown sugar, maple syrup (from Vermont, of course), or chunky walnuts can be added for additional flavoring. Turn the crock-pot on low overnight (about eight hours) and wake knowing breakfast is ready and waiting and oh, so yummy.

  *

  Kate dropped the box as if it were on fire and watched the ebony object sink into the sudsy tub, disappearing amid her whites and woes. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She bolted for the stairs. Halfway up, she tripped.

  She couldn't wake Keith. Not after the horrendous evening they'd already gone through. And why? So they could worry together?

  The company would be nice, but it's not fair. Someone should get a little sleep.

  A wave of unaccountable shivers gripped her body, and she grabbed the knitted mauve afghan in the living room. She knew her chills stemmed from terror, rather than temperature, and not a little bit of paranoia.

  Coming to her senses, she retraced her steps and dipped a hand in the washing machine tub, blindly searching through the waves until two fingertips brushed a sharp corner. The soapsuds had eliminated any of the perpetrator's prints. She dried the box with a kitchen towel and sat at the table to contemplate her fate, turning it several times to study this new curse.

  Something hard was imprisoned inside, and made a solid clinking sound when Kate shook it. The top lipped over each side and held fast. There were no visible hinges, but something kept the pieces together and tight. A nearly invisible line ran within the lid's shadows and proved the presence of an opening. But no matter how much Kate pressed on spots and tugged the lid, the box refused to give up its secret. She pulled the afghan tighter around her shoulders and bit her lip.

  Who was setting her up, and what might he or she try next? Of course, Danny had thrown her to the wolves, and she understood his motive. But did he also slip into her house and leave the incriminating little tchotchke?

  This was completely unfair. No, it was more than unfair. It was freaking insane and downright scary as hell!

  Kate's backbone stiffened as something even more frightening occurred to her. Did Tiffany let him in the house? Had the little drama queen opened the front door and congratulated herself on a visit from the richest male at Hazelton High? Kate imagined Tiffany fluttering around the living room, fawning over Danny, carrying out his every whim. But wouldn't Meg have investigated if a strange MG sat in front of the house? For that matter, if Danny did plant the evidence, was he saving his hide or someone else's?

  It took all her willpower to not snatch up the phone and punch the James' number, and demand to speak to Tiffany. Instead, something made her drag her huge security blanket across the tile floor to check the rear entrance of the house. Yes, the back door was closed tight, and the cherry-cluster print curtain remained drawn against the evening's earlier western light. But the deadbolt latch stood tall in the unlocked position.

  Damn! Kate chewed on her lip. She needed a plan.

  Her office, once a back bedroom, was neatly stacked to the rafters with shelves and supplies for the business. She carried the ebony box to the worktable next to the window, and found brown wrapping paper and packing tape. The afghan fell to the floor as she grabbed a tissue and busily wiped her fingerprints from the outside. Then, employing the tissue as protection from further prints, she set the dreaded thing in the dead middle of one dark page and began wrapping. Minutes later, Kate realized she'd not only left prints on the paper but also the packing tape she'd planned to use.

  Double damn! Too bad she hadn't watched those police television shows the lieutenant mentioned earlier. She needed to figure out how to get rid of this thing without creating a path of bread crumbs pointing right back to her.

  Though she would have to redo it later, she went ahead and wrapped the box, hid it in one cardboard carton, then another, and finally stashed the whole enchilada atop a high shelf.

  Talk about OCD. Like adding container layers will make the thing invisible.

  She perched on a stool at the worktable and took a few deep breaths, then pulled a notepad and pen from one of the rolling Rubbermaid drawer sets. Someone had a reason for killing Amelia Nethercutt. Kate's only gift over law enforcement officials resided in her organizational skills.

  And my powers to obsess 24/7.

  If she organized the facts, maybe the murderer would be revealed.

  Okay, that sounds simplistic, but a girl's got to start somewhere.

  She divided the page into columns: Suspects, Motive, Opportunity Danny was at the mansion on the day of the murder, and so was Sophia. Kate wrote quickly. Moreover, Danny's father and uncle were supposedly checking out the car. Yes, she was rolling now. Four suspects. Motive was easy; all were family and expected to inherit. Ditto for opportunity; everyone again. The lawyer was coming with a new will. What if Amelia planned to disinherit someone? The lieutenant said the changes were minimal, but his comment could have been an attempt to curb gossip. Until Kate knew more about the will, opportunity seemed the best avenue of investigation. After she'd left the mansion that afternoon, any of the men could have entered unobserved through the back door to poison the tea. And Sophia could have slipped into the kitchen before her departure.

  Kate sighed. Nothing pointed at one person that didn't point equally toward everyone else. Hers were the only fingerprints found. No matter what Lieutenant Johnson said before he let her leave the station, his parting comment meant the police hadn't yet struck her absolutely from the suspect roster.

  Of course, the box would change everything if they found it. Her gaze strayed to the nesting boxes holding the knickknack. Getting rid of it had to be top priority, or at least she had to find out what lay inside. A diamond ring? A safe deposit key to a cache of cash?

  Sudden exhaustion overwhelmed her, and Kate shoved the notepad aside to head back to bed. The knitted blanket still lay puddled in the middle of the room, and she almost left it, then changed her mind. One disadvantage of being a professional organization expert was everyone expected her home to always be in perfect condition, everything in its place.

  "So all's right with the world." Kate shook her head.

  A quick trip to the living room, and the afghan landed back on the couch where it belonged. Seconds later she again slipped between the covers and inched closer to Keith. The sheets on her side might be cold, but her husband—a born and bred Vermonter who'd chosen to attend the frigid University of Wisconsin as his alma mater—radiated a kind of extra internal heat that Kate, a native Oregonian, envied. He'd never understood how she was always cold in the northern U.S. and Canadian cities they had moved to during his hockey career. San Jose had stayed at the top of her wish list, but none of the warmer-weathered clubs had ever traded for him. Vancouver had been the closest in climate to what she was used to, but he'd been traded again after one season.

  Lying motionless, she absorbed his heat, willing the stress to ebb out as warmth enveloped her within the bed's cocooned environment. Safe, that's how he always made her feel. Keith rolled over and pulled her close. She lay her head on his shoulder and promptly fell asleep.

  *

  She woke alone in the huge bed, lists of tasks and worries already running through her head as she leapt out and was shocked to see the time. Nine-fifteen! And no noise in the house. It was sweet of Keith to let her sleep, but how had he accomplished it? Their daughters never had less than three arguments before getting belted u
p in the van.

  A tour of the girls' bedroom and bath showed the normal detritus flung aside in the morning routine—right down to the four complete outfit changes Suze left by the closet door and cap off the toothpaste to prove Sam had brushed her teeth. As Kate returned the toothpaste cap, she wondered, not for the first time, if Samantha took on her tomboy attitude due to her nickname and whether Suzanne compensated by over-employing the feminine prerogative to change her mind. She hung, folded, and replaced everything back to some semblance of order, vowing once more to retrain her daughters to pick up after themselves.

  Yeah, right.

  The note Keith left on the kitchen counter said he'd gone in early to cover for last night's replacement. The last line explained how he'd managed the impossible. Promised the girls ice cream after school if you didn't wake up. Love, Keith.

  A quick swipe with a rag and the crock was ready for the dishwasher. One cup of coffee still sat in the pot. The brew had the burnt smell and bitter taste of being hours old, but it was warm, and she wrapped her chilled fingers around the mug while considering what to do next.

  First thought was to phone Keith. But if she called he would probably run right home, which would lead to more speculation by his colleagues. Speculation about her. He hadn't been at the radio station long, and, though he had a contract, the McKenzies hadn't bought their house to just live in it one year. No, calling her husband was not an option. Last night guaranteed enough turmoil for WHZE to know about for some time, thank you very much. The crew didn't need a whiff of any more.

  She grabbed a blank grocery pad and outlined a plan.

  1) Talk to Tiffany after school.

  2) Try to figure out what is in the you-know-what.

  It seemed silly to not just say the box, but she didn't want to write anything to possibly later incriminate her. A sip of coffee gave her a new idea.

  3) Visit Mrs. Baxter

  The Nethercutt cook may hesitate reliving the incident of finding her employer poisoned, but Kate had no choice other than to try. She remembered Amelia saying something about Mrs. Baxter and her parents being in service to the family for generations. She assumed Amelia meant her own family, since she was from Hazelton originally, and Mr. Daniel was not, but the information needed to be confirmed. Yes, the cook definitely required an interview.

  Kate wanted to get more of an idea, too, about how Amelia was poisoned. Hard to believe simply pouring water from a vase of lily of the valley would kill someone. How long did it take? What happened after Amelia drank the tea? Had death come slowly and tortuously, or fast and easy?

  The last question was a bit too gruesome on an empty stomach. She put a piece of bread in the toaster.

  How could she get information on poisons without setting off alarms? There was the Internet, but, while search engines functioned as the Web's natural organizers, they always seemed to want to show off for Kate, pointing up all the hundreds of thousands of sites available on any subject. She'd heard of ways to winnow down the data, but she hadn't yet mastered the technique.

  "Plus, who wants to start getting spam emails from assassins or Homeland Security?"

  She snapped her fingers and wrote:

  4) Visit library

  The perfect place to research poisons; just hide in the shelves and read. She'd begin with books today, then gear up for a big Internet safari in the evening if she came home empty-handed. Though all bravado aside, at the moment she felt very alone. Before the urge for pity overcame her good intentions, the toast popped up, and the doorbell rang. She slipped the notepad into her sweatshirt's big front pocket and went to see who was calling.

  Meg fidgeted on the front porch, looking great in emerald sweats, and waving a newspaper. "Gil went in early and grabbed a morning edition of the paper. Not much in it yet, but I thought you might like to read what the police have released. Meanwhile, I'm dying to learn the inside scoop. I've worked my flowerbeds outside and made the human beds inside. I even washed the breakfast dishes and stacked newspapers for recycling. Basically, I'm out of ways to waste time, and I have to know all about last night."

  "You cannot imagine how happy I am to see you."

  "Good."

  Yet as she ushered her friend into the house, Kate panicked for a moment. Yes, they'd become increasingly closer friends in the last six months, sharing recipes and mothering tips, but the women had only recently reached the sharing-your-load plateau. Was this too big a load? Should she explain the predicament she found herself in? Could she? Looking into her friend's bright green eyes and questioning smile, Kate let her heart override her brain. More than anything, she needed a friend's help, and when one showed up at exactly the right time, she recognized she should just accept fate's gift. "Come into the kitchen, and I'll tell you everything."

  Meg made a new pot of coffee while Kate spread jam on her toast and spilled her troubles. Fifteen minutes later the aromatic brew was forgotten, and breakfast sat stone cold, but all of the new skeletons had been trotted out of the McKenzie closet. Or in this case, the washing supplies cupboard.

  "That's incredible." Meg shook her head, her gaze straying toward the mud room doorway. "You say the box is now in your office?"

  "Yes."

  "And you can't get it open?"

  "I tried everything last night."

  A glint appeared in Meg's green eyes. "Even a hammer?"

  "Oh, I couldn't. It's not my property."

  "You're being set up to take the fall for murder. The box's owner is dead. You're in no position to quibble about the care and handling of something whose presence may railroad you into a life sentence in prison."

  Kate couldn't argue with her friend's logic. They needed to find out the contents and get rid of the thing, no matter what. "But it belongs to one of Amelia's heirs."

  "One who, in all likelihood, probably killed her and is trying to frame you for the crime." Meg placed her hands resolutely on her hips. "Come on. Show it to me."

  The ebony box remained inside its cardboard nest. At first, Kate felt relieved to find everything as she'd left it, but after withdrawing the object disappointment shot through her. "I keep thinking I must have dreamed everything. Hoping, I guess."

  Meg turned it end-over-end, attempting the same techniques Kate had already tried to open the lid. "You're not dreaming, and something is definitely inside."

  "But do we have to break it?"

  "I would, but with two boys I'm used to more wreckage than you are. Broken items are a way of life in our house." Meg sighed, holding the box at arms length. "If what you say is true, though, we don't have the right. The person this thing goes to may not be the person we're looking for. No matter how much I want to smash the scary thing into a billion pieces. How about if I lock it up in my safe deposit box?"

  "Too dangerous. I couldn't ask you to do that."

  "Nonsense." Meg slipped the item into her jacket pocket. "I'll go by the bank on my way to lunch with Mother, leaving nary a clue to anyone I have it. Or that you don't."

  Kate chewed her lip. "I don't know—"

  "Well, I do." Meg smiled and gave her arm a squeeze. "You need a plan. Consider this a start."

  "Actually, I already started one." She pulled out the list. "Task number five was going to be deciding what to do with it, but I guess that's covered."

  Meg scanned the items on the page and nodded in agreement, adding, "Sounds like exactly the right plan, but I can almost guarantee no one came to your front door last night. I sat at my living room window all evening waiting for you to come home and doing cross-stitch until my eyes gave out during the late news."

  Kate grinned, and the redhead added, "No, I'm not a nosy neighbor. Just a concerned one."

  "Absolutely." Kate wrapped her newest best friend in a hug.

  The moment passed, and Meg cleared her throat. "I'll find out what I can from Mother about Amelia. News of the murder has definitely hit every gossip circuit by now, so it won't be an unusual topic to bring up at a
Hazelton ladies' luncheon. Two of her garden club members are joining us. We may have a real hen party by the time the salad plates get whisked away."

  Meg's mother had owned a local dress shop for years, retiring the previous fall to grow hybrid roses and get reacquainted with an ex-salesman husband who'd traveled too much during their four decades of marriage. Lunch out had become a weekly event, chiefly to give Meg's mother a break from her father.

  Talk of the midday mother-daughter event made Kate miss her own mom even more. Hers, though, had been more likely to plan an environmental protest than a ladies' day out.

  "Great." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "We'll meet and trade information after school."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wealthy Socialite Murdered

  Hazelton, VT., (AP)—Authorities called a press conference to report the murder of millionaire heiress, Amelia Nethercutt, née Lane. Death is reported due to poisoning, and Vermont State Police Lieutenant Walter Johnson says authorities are pursuing a number of leads. Law enforcement spokespersons acknowledge the autopsy was put on expedited status by the governor and showed death was a result of poisoning. Johnson would not elaborate on suspects, however sources reveal a number of local residents already questioned as material witnesses.

  Preceded in death by the recent demise of husband Daniel, the couple was known for strong ties to the arts and philanthropic work. A well-known local garden club supporter…

  *

  Meg left to prepare for her lunch mission, and Kate pulled the phone book from the desk drawer. Three Baxters made up the total listings for the area, but after dialing all three, she found herself exactly where she'd started. Nowhere. Men answered at two of the numbers, but neither had any idea who her quarry was. The third hung up before she'd had a chance to ask.