Mrs. Fix It Mysteries: The Complete 15-Books Cozy Mystery Series

by Belle Knudson

  “Well, I’d like to make an offer.”

  “And I’m sure she’d love to hear it...at six.” This was all too familiar. What was it about this house that attracted pushy, rich women? The fact of the matter was that Kate was as eager for this house to sell as anyone. She was sick of spending her days fixing it up. And it was this very sentiment that prompted her to ask, “What’s the offer?”

  “Excuse me, do you or do you not work for Carnegie Real Estate?”

  “If you give me a figure, I might be able to get Justina over here to talk to you,” she stated firmly.

  “My figure?” she challenged. “I’ll tell you what my figure is. I’ll buy it for half the market value.”

  “Half?”

  Donna held her gaze with such conviction that Kate felt personally insulted. She might not know much about real estate, but any offer that was shamelessly presented at half of the going rate wouldn’t be a reason to get Justina on the phone.

  “I may not be from Rock Ridge,” she went on, “but I’ve kept my ear to the ground. Once the press runs with the numerous stories cropping up around here, half the market value will be the norm, and a good deal at that.”

  Kate used a curt tone, as she said, “All right, Donna. I’ll let Justina know you dropped by.”

  But the woman wouldn’t be ushered to the door. Rather, she stood her ground.

  “A drug dealer was living here,” she pointed out in response. “A murder weapon was found in the back yard—”

  “Patio.”

  “Whatever,” she cut in, waving the difference off as if it were a pesky fly. “I have cash.”

  “And I have no patience,” she countered, leading Donna to the front door. “Come back at six or don’t come at all.”

  Donna stepped outside, but turned, staring down at Kate. “You’re everything that’s wrong with this town. And I’m everything that’s right. Out with the old, Kate Flaherty, and in with the new.”

  Chapter Five

  Juggling multiple cases was taking its toll on Scott. When he finally got home, Kate had dinner ready. She had spent the better part of the evening cooking a casserole—his favorite—along with putting together a mixed-greens salad, all the while reaching out to Jason, an effort that totaled one call and three texts. Her son had only responded once, sending a text message that simply said, I’m back to work tomorrow. Don’t worry.

  “How was your day?” she asked, as Scott joined her at the kitchen table.

  He lumbered towards the chair adjacent hers, pulled it out, and plopped heavily down, grumbling to sum up a response.

  “That bad, huh?” she asked, getting to her feet. She had bought a bottle of Shiraz she thought would pair nicely with the meal she had planned. As she listened to Scott’s take on his day, she opened the wine and poured two glasses, then returned to the table.

  “Tommy Barkow wasn’t the kind of guy anyone would want dead,” he went on. “He has no relatives to speak of—living, that is. We found out his parents died a good eight years back and his distant cousins claimed they never met him. We haven’t been able to pinpoint a reason for him having been in that room at the inn. None of the employees checked him in or even saw him come.”

  As she tallied the finer details of Scott’s uphill battle, Kate was itching to ask if Amelia had mentioned anything about Becky’s old employee ID number. Easing towards the topic, she asked, “Did Amelia say anything? Give you any helpful pointers?”

  “No,” he said frankly before drinking his wine. “Only that he worked for her concerning Over the Moon’s IT needs, the website, all that. Most bizarrely, when we went through Barkow’s home, it was virtually empty.”

  “Meaning he was about to leave town?”

  “It didn’t look that way, no. More like he suffered from some form of OCD where he avoided furniture and belongings. The place was sterile, yet there were signs he lived there. I’m telling you, it was bizarre. The bathroom, for example, had one tube of toothpaste, one toothbrush and one bar of soap. Nothing else. No used towels. No waste bin or shower mat. And the bedroom looked the same. One bed, and it was made, but the closet was empty, no additional linen. He had two outfits hanging, two pairs of shoes, the bare minimum.”

  “That is bizarre,” she said. Rising from the table again, she sipped her wine and set it on the counter. The casserole smelled ready, and as she opened the oven door, the timer on the counter chimed.

  “I’ll tell you what was bizarre,” he went on, as she began serving two plates replete with a hefty portion of casserole and a side of salad. “We dusted the place for fingerprints. If the killer knew Barkow, and often the culprit has a personal relationship with the victim, then it’s possible that person could’ve been inside his home. My team dusted all day. And you know what?”

  “What?” she asked, setting his plate in front of him and lowering into her chair.

  “No fingerprints.”

  “So the killer didn’t go inside his house.”

  “No,” he said, locking eyes with her for emphasis. “I mean there were no fingerprints. It’s like Barkow never touched a single item in his house.”

  “What?”

  “No prints on the toothpaste tube, for example. None on the doorknobs. Tell me, how is that possible?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was the guy wearing gloves in his own house? And if he was, why?” Scott let out a carefully measured breath and picked up his fork. “Not that we needed to find Barkow’s prints. We weren’t even looking for them. But the fact that there weren’t any completely derailed our investigation today. We were so puzzled by it, we got obsessed.”

  “What about Barkow’s body? I know everyone has fingerprints, but did the coroner look at his hands? Maybe he had an accident that burned them off.”

  Scott smirked at her. “Always thinking,” he commented. “Yes, we called the coroner right away and Tommy’s fingers, hands, everything were perfectly fine.”

  “And you dusted for prints at the inn,” she stated, just to cover the bases.

  “We did and there were none, except on the wrought-iron bookend that killed Barkow. We got a partial print. It’s going to take time running it through the database, but I’m expecting news tonight. Unless the killer isn’t in the system...”

  Scott looked suddenly tired. The conversation lulled as they ate. Kate sipped her wine in-between bites and soon realized she had drained the glass. She poured a touch of wine into Scott’s glass, though it was debatable whether or not he needed it. Then she refilled her own and drank a good portion.

  “Any word on the explosion?” she asked after taking a long sip. “We know that it was a homemade device and the primary explosive was gun powder. So whoever did it is savvy and has the education. The larger question is why would they thwart the ransom exchange? Why blow up the cash?”

  Kate had been wondering the exact same thing. “And the kidnapper hasn’t reached out to the Langleys?”

  “Nope. If you ask me, Lance and Amelia were involved in something and Becky became a pawn.”

  She was dying to say, “I told you so,” except that she had only considered this possibility in her head and hadn’t brought it to Scott’s attention.

  “So,” she began, “Jason’s off the hook?”

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’re upset with me for even suspecting him. I was only doing my job.”

  “I’m not upset. I’m just glad you’ve gotten past looking at him.”

  “I have and I haven’t. This entire case is too unusual to rule anything out. Typically, when a person is abducted and it’s for ransom, then the ransom demand comes in relatively quick. For Becky, it didn’t. On top of it, once the ransom terms are set, the kidnapper usually fulfills them, or, at the very least, makes every effort to get the cash. That didn’t happen. So either the kidnapper caught wind that the cops were there or a third party intervened. But in this case, neither makes much sense. If the kidnapper really was tipped off, why sh
ow up to throw a bomb? And why throw a bomb and destroy the cash?”

  Scott rubbed his eyes. “I can’t think about this anymore. I’ve got two cases with two dead ends on the horizon.”

  Kate placed her hand over his on the table.

  “Meanwhile,” he went on, “reporters are making a mess of things and the Rock Ridge PD is warding off the FBI. Ordinarily, it would be the police chief who calls in the Feds, but with all the media coverage, the Feds are reaching out to take over, which is the last thing I want.”

  Kate had been avoiding the paper, making a point not to read it beyond the headlines. “You’re not saying someone in your department is leaking information, are you?”

  “No, not the department. But people are talking. When that reporter from the national news—”

  “The blonde I saw outside of Over the Moon?”

  “Yeah. As soon as she got inside the friggin' receptionist told her Barkow hadn’t checked into the room. I’m sure the girl meant well, but before she opened her mouth, no one knew the victim’s name or any details. Details like that, no matter how small, can spiral out of control. And the press has been printing every detail they get, even when it’s seemingly insignificant.” Scott let out a shuttering breath then grumbled. “I just said I couldn’t talk about this anymore, and here I am talking about it. Let’s turn on the TV. I need to shut my brain off for a while.”

  “You got it.”

  As Scott made his way into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, Kate collected the dishes, scraped the dregs of their meal into the trash, and rinsed the plates. When she joined him, a football game was blaring on the TV. She nuzzled into his shoulder, as he hugged his arm around her, and they spent the rest of their evening trying to relax. Though neither talked about the cases that had plagued Rock Ridge, both thought about the quizzical details and how nothing seemed to make sense.

  The next day, Kate was craving some Carly time. After a quick call, she arranged to meet her best friend at Sunshine Florist for coffee and some much-needed venting.

  As soon as Kate stepped through the glass door, the bell chiming overhead, she caught the rich scent of dark roast in the air.

  From behind the counter, Carly smiled, throwing up her hands as soon as she saw Kate. “I’m not putting you to work, I swear.”

  “What broke?” she asked knowingly.

  “No rush, but the drawer under the counter has been sticking.”

  Kate quirked her mouth into a smirk. “Not putting me to work, huh? Give me a second.”

  She kept a bottle of WD-40 in the glove box of her truck and had mainly used it on the drawers in Hazel Millhouse’s kitchen. She grabbed it, shaking the can. It was down to the dregs, but she figured there would be enough to smooth out Carly’s drawer.

  When she returned, Carly handed her a mug of coffee and gave her a little bow. They switched spots, Kate rounding behind the counter and Carly lingering only to point out which drawer was causing all the trouble.

  As Kate yanked the drawer out, cleared the contents onto the counter, and began spraying the metal track, working the WD-40 into the rungs, she took sips of her coffee with her free hand and explained, “I had a hell of a time at the bank yesterday.”

  “I thought you and Scott were doing well?”

  “We are. It’s Jason. He’s been working inconsistently so I stopped in at the bank to pay his mortgage. Did you know you can’t pay someone else’s mortgage?”

  “I’ve never tried.”

  “There’s so much red tape. I had to guilt trip the bank manager just to expedite it.”

  “Randall?”

  Kate rolled her eyes as if the man’s very name irked her. The drawer was running smoothly and no longer sticking, so she returned the scattered contents inside and shut it.

  “On top of it, Jared’s trusting Jason less and less, and Scott’s been run ragged at the precinct.”

  “Ut-huh,” said Carly, wagging her finger. “My turn.”

  “Ha,” said Kate. Their venting sessions included taking even turns and alternating between their qualms. “I’m all ears.”

  “So apparently,” she began, leaning over the counter as though what she was about to divulge was alarming, “Tommy had some kind of invoicing fail-safe in place. Basically, all of his customers like Sunshine Florist, Grayson’s Hardware, even Over the Moon were paying a tiny, monthly admin charge, nothing really, just a few bucks to Tommy as a sort of retainer to keep our websites going. I was on an auto debit so I’d never have to think about it. Well, this morning I got an e-mail that my payment didn’t go through. I have plenty in the bank, so when I looked deeper, it seems that Tommy hadn’t initiated the charge. I don’t really know about these things, but I guess he did it manually from his end each month. Whatever. The point is, he died, didn’t initiate the charge, and somehow this prompted an automatic lockdown on my site.”

  “Automatic lockdown?”

  “My site is down. As soon as I realized this, I had Larry check the Grayson’s site. It’s down. I called Harriet’s Hairdos, their site is down.” Carly laughed as though this was unfathomable. “Is this town not having enough trouble keeping its doors open? These murders aren’t helping. The disaster at the amusement park isn’t helping. And now no one can find us online!”

  Kate was glad she never invested in a website.

  “Well, I did some digging,” Carly went on. “I think you might be proud of me.” She smiled for a beat then elaborated. “I asked around, and apparently Tommy sometimes went to Over the Moon to get some work done in one of the rooms. Amelia didn’t know, neither did the employees.”

  “So how did you find this out?”

  “The groundskeeper. He let Tommy in. The two were close, I guess. But when I asked the man about it—his name is Chucky, by the way—he clammed up. It gave me the impression that Tommy was doing more than a little work at that inn.”

  It certainly was curious.

  Kate shared another cup of coffee with Carly. They chatted about lighter topics, though none seemed as pressing as the killings in Rock Ridge. Soon Kate needed to get a jump on her day, so she gave Carly a hug and started for her truck.

  Knowing how eager Jared was to have his office finished once and for all, Kate drove to the municipal building to apply for a building permit, as her son had mentioned.

  Bobbi Hamden was fanning herself with a stack of papers, as Kate stepped up to the counter, offering her a friendly greeting.

  “How’s it going?” Bobbi asked. “I’m roasting down here.”

  “Is the AC out again?”

  “It was never fixed on this floor,” said Bobbi. “It’s downright miserable.”

  After explaining to Bobbi the ins and outs of the job, Bobbi got her started on the necessary paperwork. When she returned it, she was told, “I’ll send this up to Dean for his signature and let you know. Shouldn’t take longer than a few days for the permit to come through.”

  Kate thanked her (though she had expected a much shorter waiting time) and left the building.

  Carly’s comment about the groundskeeper at Over the Moon had been nagging her. How would Chucky have the means to sneak Tommy into the inn without anyone taking notice? And why would he, for that matter? Wouldn’t doing so violate the rules and risk his position?

  To quench her curiosity, Kate drove over to the inn. As she pulled into the parking lot, she spied only a few vehicles, none of which were the Langleys’ Cadillac. As far as she knew, Lance was at the hospital, but would be released that evening. Most likely, Amelia was with him, if not making arrangements at home.

  Kate pulled the key from the ignition and tucked it in her pocket, stepping into the hot late-morning air. It was muggy again today, and this afternoon was expected to reach the upper nineties.

  As she neared the entrance, she caught sight of movement in her periphery. Where the corner of the inn was flanked with rosebushes, a man hunched, pulling his trowel through the soil.

  “E
xcuse me,” she called out, as she approached. “Are you Chucky?”

  The man froze, but peeked at her through the rosebush branches and sneezed, which prompted a terrible bout of sniffles.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, getting to his feet and tapping clumps of dirt from the teeth of his trowel.

  “No, no problem,” she said, feigning a smile. “I understand you knew Tommy Barkow.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged as though passing this entire exchange off as casual. “Something I heard.”

  “If you have a problem with your room, you can take it up with the staff,” he said curtly.

  Again, Chucky sneezed then sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and Kate saw that his eyes were red.

  “Having some allergies?”

  He furrowed his brow at her. “They’re not allergies.”

  “Why were you letting Tommy up into rooms here whenever he wanted?”

  Chucky turned pale, except for his red eyes, and tried to escape the conversation by saying, “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “You know he was killed, right?”

  He frowned at her, indicating he knew.

  “Did you let him in that day?”

  “The room was vacant. There was no harm in it.”

  “But why would you do him the favor?”

  “I’m not talking to you,” he said, annoyed, then turned on his heel and started off for the back yard where a wheelbarrow full of mulch was set near a bubbling fountain.

  Kate watched him go, wondering how a man like Chucky, a simple groundskeeper who seemed to avoid friendly chats, and a tech savvy web designer and IT specialist like Tommy Barkow could forage a secret relationship.

  She rounded through the entrance, preparing to come up with a fib for the receptionist that would enable her to get into the room Tommy had been found in, but discovered the front desk was vacant.

  Voices billowed out from the lounge down the hallway. Thinking fast, she walked briskly to the stairs and padded up to the landing where the floor was just as quiet as it had been the day she met Amelia here.