Starke Naked Dead (Starke Dead Mysteries Book 1)

by Conda V. Douglas

  “My father never killed anybody,” I said.

  “People kill for a beauty as great as the Noira,” Nance breathed the word Noira like a mantra. Desire flushed her cheeks, and I suspected her face resembled mine when I’d held the Noira. Nance’s look intensified. “What would it be like to see the Noira, to hold such glory?”

  “Magnificent, it was—” I stopped.

  Nance turned her stare to me, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “What did you say?”

  “Magnificent. Breakfast.”

  “That wasn’t it.” Nance placed her hands on her hips. She resembled a bird of prey about to pounce, a hawk with a bizarre bullseye plumage. “You’ve held—”

  “You never answered my question, Nance.” I mimicked her with my own hands on my hips.

  “What am I doing here?” Nance stepped out into the middle of the room and opened her arms wide. She whirled in a circle arms gesturing around the room “This is my new gallery.”

  I choked on the swallow of coffee I’d just taken. “Huh?” I managed.

  Nance stopped mid-spin and clasped her hands to her bosom. “That’s why I’m here, to fix it.” With her hands in an attitude of prayer centered in mid-chest, the red bullseyes bulged even more. They seemed to be pointing right at me.

  Nance fixing something meant disaster.

  “This is my aunt’s store,” I said.

  “Not for long.” Nance spun again. “As soon as I buy—do the furnishings come with? Do I want these furnishings?” She paused and fingered the carved wood tree.

  Life size, it dominated a back corner. Meant to display necklaces and earrings, Charles had carved it days before he left. He had been a far better sculptor than painter.

  “Oh, I want this. How much?”

  “You can’t throw us out. You can’t do that to my aunt. I won’t let you.”

  Nance stopped again at my tone. “I’m saving her, and you. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “The store is all Aunt Maddie has,” I said. It’d destroy her to lose what my aunt believed was her last chance to get Charles back, to have love return. I understood that, but had no idea how to explain it to Nance.

  Nance tilted her head. “I figured when you were selling your designs that she was selling the store.”

  Even in her bizarre body-position, every word she spoke sounded pure business. Born of a wealthy and famed family of jewelers in New York, she’d come out to Boise and established her own flourishing gallery. I respected her success.

  I remembered how Aunt Maddie almost swallowed her pride to ask for a loan. “We need the money for rent. If you could see us a loan for a bit.” I stopped at the look on Nance’s face.

  “What would you secure that loan with?” Nance gestured around the store. She dropped her arms and gave me a hard stare. “Or what do you have to sell?”

  Sell it to Nance. She’ll pay what you ask.

  “The Noira’s stolen.” I said it to see Nance’s reaction. Also to remind myself.

  Nance jerked back. She recovered and flipped her hand back and forth in a dismissive gesture. “If recovered, it’d only go to a museum. Locked away, imprisoned.”

  “An old man died.”

  Nance stood frozen for a moment. She never stood so still. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not this last killing.” Murders followed.

  Nance stroked her chest where the Noira might rest. “Awful. Tragic. But the Noira, the Noira…” She gave herself a little shake. “Dora, I’ll need you to start this afternoon cleaning some of this stuff out. Where is your aunt? Mads, that’s her name, right?”

  “Mads?” I squeaked.

  “Well, whatever. She’ll need to clean, too. I’m sure she’ll be as good an employee as you are, Dora.”

  I worked my jaws, unable to make a sound.

  “Maybe I should make a list.” Nance dived into her also custom-designed-by-Nance handbag. Made of heavy-duty bright-red carpet material, the suitcase-sized bag closed with a set of interlocking lion’s jaws. Those jaws looked powerful enough to clamp down on any thief.

  Nance held up a small wax pot, stared at it, then tossed it back into the bag.

  “I’m not your employee.”

  Nance looked up from her rummage. In one hand she held a thick sheaf of bills. Twenties.

  “My Aunt Maddie, and that’s Miss Maddie to you, is not your employee.”

  “Not until she—”

  “Not ever.”

  “Now, Dorky Dora—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Nance straightened up. “All right, Dora Starke, you need to adjust your attitude while you’re my employee.”

  Heat roiled through my body. “I don’t care how wealthy you are. You can’t come in and take over people’s lives.”

  Pain filled Nance’s face. “You asked me to help.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, Nance,” I said, in a much softer tone, “I asked for your help in saving the store for my aunt.”

  Nance smiled. “You don’t know what you need. I do. Now, I’ll need to move this display cabinet.”

  “You’re not getting this store.” I pointed at the front door. “Out. Now.”

  She looked at me, open-mouthed. “Dora, you’ve changed over the months you’ve been gone.”

  “I’ve got work to do,” I said.

  “I must say the change hasn’t been for the better, Dorky.”

  “Out,” I said.

  “As soon as I talk to your Aunt Mads—”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Nance harrumphed.

  “Avoid Aunt Maddie.”

  Nance swept my half-eaten breakfast back into the brown bag. “You’ll see. Once you’re on the True Path, you’ll see.” She strode toward the front door. “Don’t worry,” she flung the words over her shoulder, “I’ll be back.”

  She stomped off, her bright red nipples leading the way, listing a little to the left because of her huge handbag. Wondered what she carried in there, maybe the same assortment of jewelry equipment as I did in my apron. I wanted to go after her, to apologize for my harsh words.

  My breakfast had walked out the door. As had any chance of selling my patterns to Nance. Or getting a loan from her.

  One catastrophe at a time.

  I might have an opportunity to retrieve one problem. I checked up and down the street. No Lester, no Mallard.

  Time to run.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The yellow crime tape screamed Keep out, Dora. How could it be so specific to me? I blinked and the words changed to “Crime Scene Do Not Cross.” I needed sleep.

  I covered my eyes with my hands and pressed tight. I sniffed, fearing to smell that taint of death, but there was only the pungent stench of the forest fire. A lone car swooshed on the nearby highway, a whisper of sound that said hurry.

  Whoever had strung the brilliant yellow bands that glittered festive in the sun, across Rupert’s door, had been enthusiastic. I suspected Mallard. How could I get inside?

  I rummaged in my apron pockets for a tool and came up with two pairs of needle-nose pliers, my next-to-favorite loupe in a plastic bag. So that’s where that had gone—a tiny ball peen hammer, a small steel dappling block. No wonder my apron hung heavy; myriad silver jump rings in various sizes co-mingled with cotton lint, three screwdrivers, and two lumps of wax that were once attempts at Dog Face pins. No help there.

  In the corner of the last pocket rested the remains of Rupert’s newest pin, crushed by the weight of my dappling block. The tin copy of the Noira’s face mocked me. When I retrieved the real necklace, I wanted to toss it into Looney Jump Creek to be lost forever. Get rid of the damned thing. I didn’t want to leave it in my father’s cabin to be found by someone else, someone who might be a killer.

  I pried a strip of crime tape from the door. Several strands pulled free and flapped in the breeze. A brittle wind that promised a bitter winter picked up one strip and stuck it to my apron, making me jump.

  Anoth
er piece of tape fluttered over and adhered to my apron. Batting at it made it stick to my hand.

  I stood there. Stuck.

  Prying the piece of tape from my hand made it tear. Back it went onto the doorframe. I pulled at the tape on my apron front, which held fast to the fabric and my Ohm pin. The tape obscured its face, as if my beliefs were now masked.

  I shivered. The cold cut to my bones. The brittle temperature meant no snow, not yet. My soul ached as well. Much of me yearned for simpler times—say, two days ago.

  Unpinning the Ohm pin, I pulled the tape away. That piece too went on the doorframe. Both strips were torn and mangled. I re-stuck the flapping tapes to the door as well as possible. And paused.

  Did it matter that I took down the crime tape? After all, wasn’t the tape to keep out criminals and to preserve evidence? Hadn’t Lester and Mallard already searched the place? Should I go to the sheriff’s office and confess what I knew? Turn Rupert in? Hope he didn’t get killed during capture?

  I couldn’t betray my father.

  The Noira burned with an icy fire all the lives it touched and turned them to ash. We were all trapped within its curse.

  Trapped. Ash. Now I knew how I could retrieve the Noira without going inside. I turned away from the now disaster-taped door and trotted toward the back of the cabin.

  Yes, there was the chimney’s ash trap. I dropped to my knees and raised the little metal door and reached inside.

  I sneezed. With the back of my hand I scrubbed at my nose. And sneezed again. Ash flew everywhere.

  My nose itched and twitched. Ash covered my apron, my jeans, and my hands and probably my face. Tiny motes of long ago fires danced in the air, they tasted dark and rancid. Ugh.

  I sighed and plunged my hand back into the ash trap. I yanked it back out again as something crawled across the back of my hand. A Daddy Long Leg. Ick, daddy-long-legs, black widows, and spiders galore, oh, my.

  Although my father never had a fire, neither had he ever bothered to clean out the fireplace, the chimney, or the trap. Maybe he didn’t realize the ash trap could be accessed from outside the cabin, and that a little door led into the chimney for easy disposal of the ashes. Maybe he didn’t care. If he did know, maybe somehow he wished the Noira would disappear from the ash trap and his life.

  My hand closed around an object too small to be the necklace. An enormous black freshwater pearl lay on my palm, the same pearl that once hung from the Noira and finished it with an echo of the woman’s pendant form.

  I bowed my head. In the newspaper article, the necklace had been complete. Rupert had to have stolen the necklace. There was no denial left in me.

  Wrapping the pearl in my handkerchief, I put it in my pocket and rummaged in the ashes for the necklace. My hand brushed up against a square, flat metallic object, wedged in the trap.

  How much of his life had my father secreted away here? I pulled out a couple of fistfuls of ashes. More motes of old fires long cold fluttered in the smoky, sunny air. I coughed. The Noira might add me to its list of victims if I died of ashy lungs. Or a spiders bite. I shuddered.

  My fingers groped at the square, which didn’t budge. What could it be?

  Underneath the metal square, I touched the smooth cold of the Noira, the naked woman pendant sensuous beneath my fingers. The necklace must have tumbled from its bag. I snagged it out. But the cloth, caught on the woman’s foot, followed. The necklace must have fallen out before. The pearl had snagged on something and been torn off.

  I replaced the necklace and put it in a pocket. I fumbled around the mysterious square, determined to get it out. From inside, came the sounds of paper rustling in the fireplace.

  At the sound, I froze and listened with one-pointed attention. A log thumped. Somebody was setting a fire in Rupert’s cabin. Whatever was in the ash trap was about to be destroyed. Perhaps with my fingers.

  I hooked said fingers under an edge of the square. Something wriggled on my hand. I whimpered and yanked hard. It scraped loose against the bricks, along with some of my skin.

  The cat spider on my hand scurried off. I held a metal and glass framed photograph covered with ash. Through the ash, I saw two naked figures, both of whom I recognized, one of whom was family.

  I sat back on my heels, holding an answer. Maybe not the answer I wanted. That somehow all that had happened over the past couple of days was a mistake easily explained. But an answer all the same.

  A fire crackled in my father’s fireplace. I could already feel the heat coming from the open ash trap and scrambled to my feet.

  My car stood parked at the front of the cabin. I didn’t know why someone would park next to me and just go inside my father’s cabin. But that gave me an opportunity to escape with my booty, no questions asked. At the front of the cabin there was the only window and the front door. I crept around the side.

  Each step crunched on the pine needles. I hoped whoever set the fire was too engrossed to notice me sneaking to my car. I couldn’t imagine who had set the first fire in decades—certainly not my father. I wished for Great Grandpa’s gun. Maybe I could use my dappling block as a weapon.

  I peered around the corner to the front and saw Mallard crouched outside the front door, gun in one hand, the other pushing away the fallen crime tape. Aunt Maddie’s car was only a hundred feet away. Parked next to it was Godiva’s pink monstrosity. Next to the Cadillac was the patrol car. I must have been so focused on the contents of the trap I didn’t hear either car arrive.

  Mallard seemed intent on the inside of the cabin. I had to make it to my car and get away before he caught me and asked any silly little questions, such as, “What are you doing here, Dora?” and “What’s that in your pocket, Dora?” Once I had the necklace secreted away I’d be happy. Well, maybe not happy, but more able to talk to Starke’s deputy.

  I watched him, my neck craned as I crept by the side. He pushed the door open and took a little hop into the cabin and yelled, “Freeze!”

  A startled squawk from inside answered him. I took my cue and scuttled low, a stealthy crab—whose apron clattered against her knees as she went.

  Mallard spun around, banging his gun on the doorframe.

  I jumped back with a yelp. Reflex, in case the gun went off. Too many guns had gone off in the last few days.

  “There you are,” Mallard said, or accused rather, for suspicion colored his every word. “Where have you been?”

  Ohm. Even more suspicion.

  “Who do you have on ‘Freeze’ in the cabin?” I asked. Best way to avoid answering a question is to ask another question. I trotted to Mallard, trying to pretend I spent most of my time lurking—um—sneaking—um—hanging around outside my father’s cabin.

  I peered over his shoulder.

  Godiva stood next to the fireplace, in which a large fire crackled. She wore yet another velour exercise outfit, this one in brilliant burnt orange. How many of those suits did the woman own? I supposed that being a nudist might cut down on wardrobe requirements, but still, show a little imagination.

  “Dora?” Mallard asked again in a policeman’s tone.

  “Godiva, put out that fire.” I strode to the fireplace and placed the photograph facedown on top of the mantelpiece. With both hands, I used the fireplace shovel to scoop ashes on the flames.

  “Hey, stop,” Godiva protested. “I’m cold.”

  How could she expect to survive Starke’s winter if the snow ever came?

  “You want a chimney fire?” I pulled the logs apart. “Another forest fire?”

  “Dora, Mrs. McGarrity saw you breaking into Rupert’s cabin as she drove by,” Mallard accused.

  “Mrs. McGarrity and her Meals on Wheels,” I said and sighed. Of course, she only delivered one meal up to Gummy Annie’s place, but still I should’ve remembered she’d go past right about the time she did indeed drive past.

  “Dora—”

  “I didn’t break in.” I pointed at Godiva. “She broke in.”

  “I
did not. The tape was already trashed.” She pointed back at me. “When I saw a car parked out front, I figured there was somebody already inside.”

  “Mrs. McGarrity saw you, Dora,” Mallard said. He looked from Godiva to me. I guess he decided neither of us appeared all that dangerous so he put away his gun.

  “Why did it take you so long to get here?” I asked Mallard.

  Mrs. McGarrity insisted on swift justice, preferably while she was still on the scene. I wondered why she hadn’t made a citizen’s arrest of me while she had the chance.

  Mallard shrugged. “Mrs. McGarrity’s cell phone didn’t work up here.”

  Oh no, the Widows Brigade had gone high-tech. We were all doomed.

  “She had to drive to where it did,” he continued.

  I nodded and turned back to Godiva. “What’re you doing here?”

  “What are you looking for?” Mallard asked.

  A better question, and I suspected I knew the answer. Godiva searched for the money, or the necklace, or both.

  “Get inside and shut the door, you’re letting in the cold,” Godiva said, an answer that was not an answer.

  Mallard put his hands on his hips in an echo of the sheriff. “Godiva, I half-figured you were the killer, returned to the scene of the crime.”

  “I think she is,” I whispered under my breath.

  “What did you say, Dora?” Mallard asked.

  Maybe Godiva heard my words, for she turned to the fireplace and held her hands close to the dying embers. “I wanted to see where my dear brother died.”

  Mallard frowned. I suspected he didn’t quite believe Godiva’s glib reply.

  Perhaps she caught the frown. She pointed at my apron. “That’s ash.” She shot me a look as suspicious as Mallard’s. “From the ash trap.”

  I looked down. Oh, great Hotei, ash covered the front of my apron with two dark circles on my knees.

  “What have you been up to this time, Dora?” Mallard sounded as if I were some hardened criminal.

  I stood still and hoped the necklace didn’t clink in my apron pocket. I didn’t want to say “retrieving the Noira necklace from where I put it when Lester interrupted me standing over a dead body.” Mallard wouldn’t approve.