Staged to Death (A Caprice De Luca Mystery)

by Smith, Karen Rose

  “It’s okay to cry,” she said. “You can’t keep holding everything in.”

  “I can’t cry,” Roz said as if she were confessing the worst sin. “I just feel numb.”

  Curling her legs under her, Caprice asked, “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  For some reason, the face of Valerie Swanson flashed in her head. She couldn’t tell Roz about Ted and Valerie kissing. Definitely not tonight.

  “Ted could be abrasive,” Roz admitted. “Sometimes even mean. But usually he was charming and considerate.”

  “You mean with you?”

  “Yes,” Roz answered quickly.

  “Roz, he wasn’t charming and considerate when I was there before his business trip. Remember?” Imagining wives could have a selective memory, she was pointing out the truth.

  Roz looked as if she was going to protest, but then she murmured, “We were going through a rough patch. All couples have rough patches. And in New York, everything was almost perfect again.”

  Almost perfect, Caprice thought. Could that even be possible?

  Before she could delve deeper, her cell phone played “She Loves You.” Pulling it from her pocket, Caprice intended to let the call go to voice mail. But then she saw her assistant’s number on the screen. Juan Hidalgo handled her moving crews and painting contracts.

  “Excuse me a minute,” she said to Roz. This late on Sunday night there must be a problem.

  “Hi, Juan. What’s up?”

  “I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is that Denise did a walk-through of the Koontz’s house this morning and priced it twenty thousand higher than we expected.”

  The Koontz’s house, which was located in York, was vacant. That had made staging it relatively easy. The fact that Caprice’s staging expertise had added that much value pleased her immensely.

  “But . . .” Juan continued. “I was in an ATV accident this afternoon and broke my ankle.”

  “Oh, Juan. Your ankle? How bad is it?”

  “The doc mentioned putting in a pin or two. Surgery is Friday.”

  “Do you have help so you don’t have to be on it?” She knew Juan. He’d still try to do everything himself.

  “My sister is here. You of all people know how sisters like to help.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice and wondered how much pain he was in. “Are you on painkillers?”

  “Yep.” He paused. “Caprice, I’m sorry about this. I won’t be able to move furniture around for a while.”

  “Of course, you won’t. You tell your sister if you don’t behave or if she needs help, she should call me.”

  “She’s going to stay with me after surgery too, to make sure I can get around. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. The bigger question is—who’s going to take my place?”

  Without her right-hand man, what was she going to do? “I’ll figure out something. You just take care of yourself. And ask your sister to call me to let me know the surgery went okay. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  As Caprice ended the call, she hoped Juan would take care of himself. If she had to call a temp agency to hire help, that’s what she’d do.

  Chapter Five

  “What’s wrong?” Roz asked.

  “I lost my assistant who helps move furniture, lay rugs, hang paintings. He broke his ankle.”

  “My gardener can probably help you. He’s sort of an all-around handyman. He’s done those things for me.” She fished her phone out of her pocket and stared down at it. “I should call Monty anyway and tell him what happened.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to that?”

  “Everybody is going to know soon. Ted’s parents are gone, and he was an only child. I should call our neighbors. Sheila and I run together sometimes. And I should probably call Chad Thompson at PA Pharm. I just can’t believe—” Roz’s voice caught.

  “Come with me to the kitchen. We’ll see if the soup’s ready for the pasta. The calls can wait a little longer.”

  “No,” Roz responded. “I have to make them. Monty probably won’t be too upset. He and Ted didn’t get along very well. In fact, they had an argument right before the open house.”

  Caprice’s curious antennae seemed to zoom up. “Do you know what about?”

  “Ted was going to cut Monty’s hours.”

  Thinking about Ted’s supposed problems at work, his affair—or whatever it was—with Valerie, his decision to sell the house, Caprice asked, “Were you having financial problems?”

  Roz sighed. “The truth is—I don’t know. Ted handled the bills and investments. But last month he did deposit less in my checking account than he usually does.”

  “Without discussing it with you?”

  “We hadn’t been discussing much. And when he returned from his business trip before the open house and seemed in a better mood, I didn’t want to rock an already unsteady boat. The same was true when we went to New York.”

  To tell her about Valerie or not to tell her? Caprice just couldn’t make herself do it. Not tonight. Not when Roz was dealing with so much else.

  “Do you want privacy to make your calls?”

  As if the dog gave her comfort, Roz kept her hand on Dylan’s furry little body. “That probably would be best.”

  “I’ll warm up some of Nana’s bread to go with the soup. Take your time. If you need me, yell.”

  Caprice left Roz in the living room, wondering if Roz would hold up or collapse under the weight of all that had happened tonight.

  Roz looked as if a stiff wind had blown her around and weakened her as she came into the kitchen.

  “Eat,” Caprice encouraged, setting a bowl of steaming minestrone and a thick slice of homemade bread at her place.

  “I’m really not hungry—”

  Caprice just gave her a look.

  Dylan squatted next to Roz’s chair as she sat and picked up her spoon.

  Silence reigned until Caprice broke it. “How did Monty react?”

  After a bite of bread Roz answered, “I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He didn’t seem shocked. He was very pragmatic. Just asked if I was going to keep him on. I told him I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ll need him to work on the grounds if I can’t sell the house. But for now, he said he’d be glad to help you. You can give him a call.”

  “I will. When we’re finished. Then we’re going to my closet and find you some clothes—something to sleep in and something for tomorrow. You’re taller and thinner than I am, but that won’t matter with a nightshirt. And I have a couple of no-waist dresses that might work.”

  “I wonder when I’ll be able to go home.”

  Caprice wished she knew. But she guessed Roz’s nightmare was just beginning.

  The following morning, a potential client said to Caprice, “Patty Colinstead told me to contract with you before I called a real estate agent.” Marge Gentry seemed to want Caprice’s reassurance that she’d done the right thing.

  Patty had been one of Caprice’s first staging clients, and her house had sold within a month. Marge looked to be about the same age, in her late forties, though her husband Grover was more than a dozen years older. “I believe that’s the best strategy. Often an agent can see more potential after I’ve staged.”

  “You’re known as a fluffer,” Marge said as if she was proud she knew the term.

  “A house fluffer,” Caprice confirmed with a smile.

  As she examined Marge’s house in York, taking notes, she had trouble concentrating. Roz had looked pale this morning. Although she’d slept after taking the medication Dr. Randolph had prescribed for her, she still seemed tired and drawn. Yet she’d told Caprice she needed some alone time and she should keep her appointment. Nevertheless, Caprice was worried about her. She herself couldn’t get the murder scene out of her head. The story on the news had been sensational but short—Ted Winslow had been stabbed in his home. There had been long c
amera shots of Roz’s house. Caprice’s car hadn’t been visible tucked beside the garage.

  Marge interrupted her introspection. “Grover said we should redo the kitchen before we sell. But all that money and mess. Is it necessary?”

  Bringing her focus back to the task at hand, Caprice considered her initial assessment of the Gentry house. She always targeted the main areas that needed the most change. After considering those, the client chose a theme. This home, which was five thousand square feet and about twenty years old, didn’t need to be brought up to date as much as it needed some polish.

  “I’ll write up a proposal and plan, which will include the most time spent on the kitchen and family room and overall de-cluttering. Are you prepared to sell or put into storage everything that isn’t absolutely necessary?”

  “I guess we are.”

  “That means furniture as well as personal belongings. We want a prospective buyer to see his or her family living here as soon as he or she steps inside. We’ll do a virtual tour for the agent’s Web site as well as choosing ten or twelve more exceptional photos to use for the MLS.”

  “Multiple Listing Service.”

  “Right,” Caprice said approvingly. She glanced around the living room where they’d ended up. “You seem to like French country furniture. How about a theme like Country with Panache?”

  “I think Grover would approve of that. He was afraid you’d want to do something more . . . unusual . . . like that Camelot house in Kismet. You know, the one where Ted Winslow was murdered. Can you imagine a killer in Kismet?”

  “Every house has a distinctive character,” Caprice explained to Marge, hoping to put the conversation back on the home-staging track rather than on murder. “I try to emphasize that.”

  “Grover and I went through the Winslow house on Sunday because we wanted to see what you could do. Mr. Winslow explained to Grover the history behind some of his . . . weapons. You know, all those swords and knives. I wasn’t interested, so I looked around. Grover knew Ted because he’s on the board of directors of PA Pharmaceuticals.”

  Grover Gentry was CEO of one of the largest air-conditioning companies in the state. “I see.”

  Marge didn’t need much incentive to keep going. “He was shocked when he learned Ted Winslow was killed. Though he did say there had been dissension on the board last month. Something about expansion. Apparently Ted didn’t want any part of it.”

  Why wouldn’t Ted want to expand? The economic climate? Something more serious happening to the company?

  “Did your husband say why?”

  “I think Ted was concerned with pleasing shareholders and keeping their dividends stable.”

  That made sense. But why wouldn’t the rest of the board want that too? Unless they thought even higher dividends were possible.

  “Did you get the feeling Ted was respected and well liked?”

  “I don’t know about that. Grover once mentioned that Ted Winslow had a ruthless side.”

  “In business,” Caprice said just to clarify.

  “Well, I think he was known to fudge his golf score too. Didn’t like landing in the rough.”

  Kismet’s Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club had a course bigger communities would envy. They also had an elite clientele, and the members paid a hefty yearly fee to belong.

  “Grover plays at Country Squire?”

  “As a guest. I’ve passed Roz Winslow now and then when I’ve played tennis there. I can’t imagine being in her shoes right now, wondering who did this awful thing. What if it was someone she knew?”

  “What makes you think it might be?” Caprice was curious, and since the subject had been well and truly opened . . .

  “Well, I would imagine a house like that would have a security system. Not just anybody could get in easily.”

  Yet Caprice remembered the unlocked front door and the back door standing wide open. A security system couldn’t be reliable if it wasn’t turned on.

  “And to be stabbed . . . I bet it was with one of his own swords. How ironic.”

  The best tack for Caprice to take was to remain silent, then return to the reason she was here. “I don’t want to tie you up any longer than necessary today. Do you think you’ll be able to remove yourself from the memories you have in this house so we can make the best changes to sell it? You’re going to have to think of your house as a product.”

  “Grover has been telling me over and over that I need to do that. If we find the type of estate property he wants, where we can have horses, I think I’ll be able to leave this behind. We didn’t want to start looking until this sold.”

  “You mentioned not wanting to tear apart your kitchen. You don’t have to. We can redesign it with paint, accessories, and an uncluttered look.”

  “We were impressed with your portfolio and the results you’ve accomplished,” Marge assured her. “You seem to be able to do a lot with whatever budget your client gives you.”

  “I don’t remodel, Marge. I redistribute, redesign, and give a buyer a chance to imagine herself in your home.”

  “I really do like the idea of Country with Panache.”

  Caprice could tell Marge was ready to sign on the dotted line. As she opened her briefcase to pull out a contract, her phone vibrated. She always turned off the ringtone when she was with a client.

  Considering everything that had happened, she checked the number and said to Marge, “Excuse me for a minute.” Since it was Roz’s number, she had to take the call.

  Extracting a contract from a manila folder, she set it before Marge. “This is my standard contract. If you’d like to look it over, I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

  Then she stood, walked into the hall, and answered her phone. “Roz. Is everything all right?”

  “No! It’s not. Detective Jones called my cell. The police want a list of everything in the curio cabinet in the sword room, as well as a list of Ted’s friends and colleagues. They also want to talk to me, and I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call a lawyer?”

  In everyday life, reason told Caprice that innocent people had nothing to hide so they should answer questions freely. But . . . Caprice had read enough suspense novels and watched enough TV—especially the program with the adorably sexy, intuitive investigative consultant—to know even truthful answers could get a person in trouble if they became the target of the investigation. Better to be safe than very sorry.

  “Do you have a lawyer in mind?”

  “No! And I don’t just want to finger someone in the yellow pages. Your brother’s a lawyer. Could he help?”

  “He’s involved in family law, wills, and house settlements.”

  “That means he’s all-purpose. At least I’d know he’d be honest.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I know if he’s a De Luca, he’s honest.”

  “When does Detective Jones want you there?”

  “Now. He wants me now. I suggested tomorrow, but he just snapped at me and asked if I want to help them catch my husband’s killer. He made it sound as if I didn’t go in right away, that I’d have a reason for waiting.” Roz sounded desperate, and Caprice didn’t blame her.

  “I’ll call Vince. Hold tight.” She didn’t check with Marge before she did.

  First she called Vince’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail, which meant he had his phone turned off. Next she called his office. The firm’s office manager, Giselle Browning, answered. In her fifties, Giselle was efficient, no nonsense, and indispensable. She was on top of every case and client that passed through the De Luca and Weatherford law firm’s door.

  “I need to speak to Vince, Giselle. Is he in?”

  “Caprice! No, he’s in court. He said he’ll be tied up all day. Can I help?”

  “No. I need his physical presence.”

  “Grant’s in his office. Maybe he could help.”

  Grant Weatherford.

  Automatically, Caprice could see the
rugged-looking attorney in her mind’s eye, with his thick black hair and intense gray eyes. He’d been her brother’s roommate in law school. Once in a while he’d come home with Vince for the weekend. He’d gotten married right out of law school and worked for a large firm in Pittsburgh. But then tragedy had struck. He and his wife had lost their child to a pool accident, and their marriage had broken apart. According to Vince, Grant had wanted a fresh start, and that’s why he’d moved to Kismet and teamed up with her brother.

  When Caprice had first met Grant, she was attracted to him—he was a few years older, confident, irresolutely masculine—but she’d set aside pulse-racing fantasies when he’d gotten engaged and then married. Since his divorce and his move to Kismet, she’d kept her distance. Grant seemed to be a changed man . . . much more guarded, not as talkative, very introspective. A few times, Vince had brought him along to one of their family dinners. Now when she thought about asking him for help, something in her rebelled.

  But Roz’s future was at stake.

  “All right,” Caprice capitulated. “Patch me through.”

  It was only a few seconds until Grant came on the line. “What do you need, Caprice?”

  No small talk. Not even a “How are you?” Just straight to business.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t reach Vince.”

  “So Giselle said.” He waited.

  “I have a friend, Roz Winslow. Last night her husband was murdered. She and I found the body.”

  She thought she heard him blow out a breath. But he didn’t say anything. Maybe he was surprised because he’d thought this would be about a family dinner.

  Continuing, she explained, “Roz just got a call. Detective Jones wants her to come to the station as soon as possible. We thought maybe she should call a lawyer.”

  “Vince and I aren’t criminal attorneys.”

  “I know that. But she didn’t want to call a stranger. And on short notice . . .” She trailed off.