“That’s right,” Krakowski said.
“And some of the rings were stolen?” Heather asked.
“No.” Krakowski turned his top hat upside down and bopped the inside of it with a fist. “No, but other things were stolen. One of my tiaras, bracelets, necklaces. A priceless timepiece from the civil war era.”
“A tennis bracelet?” Heather asked.
Krakowski grunted agreement. “Yes, a tennis bracelet and many others like it. The woman was a thief. A dirty thief and I –”
Heather waved a hand to cut him off. She’d heard the rhetoric before – he’d say he was glad she was gone, but he’d never have dreamed of hurting her.
“Mr. Krakowski, where were you on Monday morning?” Heather asked.
“I was at home. I had one of my assistants come in to open the store,” he replied, in clipped tones.
“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?” Heather asked.
“Of course,” he said, and tugged on either lapel of his suit. “My wife was with me. Speak to her if you need confirmation.”
That wasn’t a strong alibi, but it would have to do for now.
“Do you know of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt Helena Chadwick?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know much about the woman. Only that she was a thief and you and the police did nothing to stop her. She was probably a criminal.” Krakowski placed his top hat back on top of his neat haircut. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a shop to get back to.”
Krakowski spun on his heel and marched back toward the counter at the back of his store.
Heather chewed her lip and backed away from the first gate.
“What do you think?” Amy asked, and flicked her short blond hair back.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like the sound of this one bit,” Heather whispered. “Krakowski believed Helena stole from him and begrudged the cops their inability to act on what happened.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, he has a motive. He could’ve taken matters into his own hands,” Heather said. “Eva told us that Helena spoke with someone just moments before the bookshelves fell over. It could’ve been him.”
Amy linked her arm through Heather’s, and they strolled down the sidewalk together. “Let’s go check out the alibi,” Amy said and patted Heather’s forearm. “If he says he was home, we should find out if it’s true.”
“Assuming his wife will tell us the truth,” Heather replied. She fished her cell out of her pocket and shot off a text to her husband.
“What are you doing?” Amy asked.
“Asking my contact for Krakowski’s home address,” Heather replied. “Unless you’ve got a phone book in your pocket.”
“I’m all out,” Amy said and patted herself down. “I’ve got gum, though.”
Heather chuckled and led the way back to her Chevrolet Spark.
Chapter 7
The Chevrolet’s tires crunched on the gravel which led up to the massive front porch of the mansion, hidden among the trees.
Amy rolled down her window and stuck her head out. “It’s cold,” she said, “But it sure is beautiful.”
A fountain sat directly in front of the stone steps which led onto the porch. Water tinkled from the head of a lovely maiden and dribbled down her slender form into the basin below.
Evergreens surrounded the house, shading it from the sun and protecting it from unwanted eyes. Not that anyone on the Highway on the way into Hillside would glare up at the house.
Heather stopped the car and pulled up the parking brake. “It’s unbelievable,” she said and leaned on her steering wheel to take in the entirety of the three-story home.
“I can’t believe Krakowski freaked out about a few diamonds. He’s obviously making a killing,” Amy said.
“I don’t see how. This is Hillside, not one of the big-time cities where the celebrities shop,” Heather said. She tapped her thumbs on the sides of her steering wheel, inhaling the scent of her lavender car air freshener. “Only one way to find out, I guess.”
Heather opened her door and got out and scattered a few stones with her boots. Cool air whipped her hair back, but it wasn’t icy. The trees blocked the breeze for the most part.
Amy followed her out and gazed at the bruised clouds overhead. “Storm’s coming,” she said.
The pre-rain moisture clung to the air and brought back Heather’s memories of baking with her grandmother. They’d spent many a storm huddled in front of a gas stove, creating glazes and fudges, and even a ganache.
During one violent storm, the power had cut out, and they’d been forced to mix a glaze by candlelight, cackling like two witches in front of a cauldron.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of Heather’s lips.
“I love the smell of rain,” she said.
“I love the smell of rain and donuts. I think they go well together, don’t you?” Amy asked. “We’ll have to get some after this.”
They crunched across the gravel and up the front stairs. Amy stopped to dig a bit of gravel out of the ridges on the sole of her shoe.
Heather pressed the button beside the intercom.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice crackled through the silver speaker. “Hello, who is it?”
“Hi, this is Heather Shepherd. I’m working with the Hillside Police Department. I need to speak with Mrs. Krakowski.”
“All right,” the woman said. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”
Heather blinked at Ames.
Her bestie straightened with the piece of gravel wedged between her thumb and forefinger. “Got it,” she said.
Heather pressed the intercom button again. “I – uh, we should just enter?”
“Yeah. I’m in the living room. It’s the fifth door on your right. If you hit the stairs, you’ve gone too far,” said the woman, who had to be Mrs. Krakowski.
Heather hurried forward and depressed the curved golden door handle on the right-hand side. The door opened on a grand lobby, which suited a hotel more than a home. It yawned upward, encompassing all three stories and framed by the railings of the halls which overlooked it.
Heather whistled.
“Wow,” Amy said. “Are you sure we’re at the right address?”
“Count the doors,” Heather replied.
They entered, and the front door swung shut behind them with a clang. Amy jumped and grabbed hold of Heather’s arm. She giggled and let it go again, then brushed off the front of her puffy blue jacket.
“Fifth door on the left,” Heather said and paced across the polished wooden floor toward the grand staircase ahead.
She peered into each doorway and caught a glimpse of a living room, a bathroom, a study, a bedroom and then… Mrs. Krakowski herself, draped across a sofa, a plaid blanket covering her legs.
“Hello,” she said, with a bright smile. “Please, come in.” She readjusted the sparkling tiara on top of her dyed platinum blond hair. Wrinkles around her eyes and mouth placed her at around fifty.
She had to be about ten years younger than her husband.
Heather didn’t meet Amy’s gaze. She’d only prompt a shocked stare or an inappropriate joke if she did.
“Please,” Mrs. Krakowski repeated.
Heather walked into the living room and halted beside an armchair. “Mrs. Krakowski?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t come to the door. I’ve been feeling ill of late. I don’t get around much.” A pile of books teetered on the coffee table beside her sofa.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Heather said and took a seat. Amy followed her lead but didn’t say a word. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the tiara since they’d entered. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Krakowski said. “How many I help you.”
“I’m hearing investigating the murder of Helena Chadwick,” Heather said. “Did you know her?”
Mrs. Krakowski looked out of the window at the far end of the room, at the tre
es, their branches brushed by the winds which came before a Hillside storm. “No,” she said, at last. “No idea.”
“Your husband seemed to think Helena stole from him,” Heather replied.
Mrs. Krakowski sighed. “Jones thinks many things,” she said. “Some of them aren’t wise to talk about.”
What on earth did that mean?
Heather coughed into her fist, but Mrs. Krakowski didn’t shift from her position.
“There’s a storm coming,” she said, after a moment. Her lightning blue eyes, similar to her husband’s, fixed on Heather, at last. “What did you want to ask me?”
“Where was your husband two days ago? On the morning of Helena Chadwick’s death.”
Mrs. Krakowski adjusted the tiara in her hair. A flicker of sorrow dragged at her porcelain fine features. “He was here, of course. Where else would he have been?”
“You’d be willing to testify in court on that?” Heather asked, and hardened her tone.
The woman sat up straighter. “Has it come to that?”
“Not yet,” Heather said. “But if I can’t figure out who might have harmed Helena, it might.” She pushed hard because she didn’t have any other lead but Krakowski and his disdain for the librarian.
Hopefully, Ryan would have more information for her this evening, after work.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the woman said. “He was here. He’s always here at that time of the morning.”
“Why?” Amy asked.
“Because he has to give me my medication and lecture me about drinking fluids. Then he’s gone for the day,” Mrs. Krakowski replied. “Gone and I don’t see him unless I stay up very late. My husband is dedicated to his store.”
Dedicated enough to linger for hours? How on earth had the jewelry thief pulled off the heist then?
“I think that will be all for now, Mrs. Krakowski,” Heather said. “Thank you for your time.”
They’d lingered long enough already, and Heather had to get back to the store and make sure everything had run smoothly that morning.
“Of course,” Mrs. Krakowski said. “I’ve got plenty of reading to keep me busy. Oh, and if you need evidence that my husband was here when he said he was, just check the surveillance cameras.”
Heather could’ve kicked herself. A mansion like this was bound to have surveillance.
“Thank you,” she said and rose from her seat.
Chapter 8
Heather tucked her feet underneath herself in her classic position on the sofa in her living room. It’d been a long day – running back and forth from the store to Krakowski’s Jewelers and then out to see his wife. She clutched a cup of Chai tea to her chest and inhaled the soothing aromas.
Cinnamon, cardamom, clove and just a hint of black pepper. Col Owen’s love of tea had rubbed off on her, and she’d bought a bag of the stuff from him for home use.
“We can do it at the end of the week,” Ryan said, to Lilly.
Their daughter hovered in the doorway, outfitted in her pink PJs and fluffy slippers, Cupcake tucked against her chest.
“What’s going on?” Heather asked. She’d totally zoned out for a second there. The dinner, a delicious pasta carbonara prepared by Ryan, settled in her stomach and rocked her to sleep.
“It’s Nicolas’ birthday on Sunday,” Lilly said. “And I really want to throw him a party at the shelter. He’s the kid who lost both his parents in a car accident.”
Heather bit back a gasp. “Yeah, we can do that Lils. We can throw a donut party if you like.”
Ryan chuckled. “Does that settle it? Are you happy to ascend to your chambers, madam?”
“Sheesh, Dad, talk like a human,” Lilly said and stuck out her tongue. “Thanks a lot. I think Nicolas will be really happy. He hasn’t had a lot to be happy about lately.”
“Don’t forget it’s your birthday in a few weeks,” Heather said. “You’ve got to figure out what you want to do,” Heather replied.
“I will,” Lilly said. “Maybe like a trip somewhere?” Lilly blew Heather a kiss, then hurried out of the room and up the stairs. Dave hopped off the sofa and tailed her, his claws ticking on the hardwood floors.
Heather took another sip of her tea and swirled the flavorful liquid around her mouth before swallowing. “At least she’s happy.”
Ryan strolled to the sofa and sat down beside her. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “And you’re not?”
“I am. I’m confused about the case, but yes, I’m happy.” She lived in an awesome house with people and animals she adored. How could she not be happy?
“Confused is the right word for it. We haven’t found anything that matches those markings on the underside of the bookcase,” Ryan said.
“Have you gotten back the results of the analysis?” Heather asked, and her wedding band clicked against the side of the mug.
“Yeah, and they’re not clearing anything up. No fingerprints that we can identify and even if we could, I don’t think it would be much of a lead. We can’t pinpoint who might’ve come and gone in the library the day before.”
“No surveillance?” Heather asked.
“Whatever system they have is so old it went on the fritz months before this happened. No news on when it will be repaired,” Ryan said.
“So, no prints, no footage, and no matches for the scratches on the underside of the bookcase,” Heather said. “We’re stumped.”
“I wouldn’t say that. We’ve still got people to interview. I picked up on a rumor that the local jeweler was robbed a few days before the murder,” Ryan said.
“Wait a second; you picked up on the rumor?” Heather asked. “Mr. Krakowski said he reported the theft to the police.”
“Nope,” Ryan replied and shrugged his shoulders. “Looks like Mr. Krakowski lied. You already spoke to him, then.”
“Yeah. Col told me that same rumor this afternoon, and I followed up on it,” Heather said. “I spoke to Krakowski’s wife too, and she gave us the surveillance tapes which prove the jeweler was at home at the time of the murder. Or the butler gave them to us on her orders.”
“The butler,” Ryan said, in a monotone.
“That’s right. She has a butler. Amy almost passed out. She couldn’t handle the glitz and glam.” The tapes had shown them exactly what both Krakowski’s had claimed – Jones had been home at the time of the murder.
He couldn’t possibly have pushed over the bookshelf. Which left no one that knew, and Eva without a lead for her, apart from –
“Oh! Did Eva tell you about the stranger she saw?” Heather asked.
“The guy with the Mohawk, yeah,” Ryan replied. “We don’t know who he is, yet, but we’ve got people out watching for him, particularly around the library.”
“Great,” Heather said. Though, she didn’t feel great. Nothing about the situation felt great. “That only leaves me with one option.”
“And what’s that?”
“Speak to the other librarian, of course,” Heather replied. She’d yet to press the woman for information. Hopefully, Miss Rizzo would offer up something useful. A case breaker, even.
After all, she’d been in the library at the time of her colleague’s death.
Chapter 9
The Hillside Public Library was open to the good folks of Hillside once again. People didn’t exactly stream in and out the doors, but a crowd of teens pushed past Amy on their way up the stairs.
“Hey,” Amy said. “Old people walking over here.”
The kids ignored her.
“We’re not old people,” Heather said. “We’re young at heart.”
“That just means we’re old on the outside,” Amy replied and pinched the skin on her cheek. She pulled it away from her face and let it settle back. “Look at that. It takes for every to bounce back. You know you’re on the way out when your skin does that.”
“Don’t be so negative.”
“Is it negative? Is it? Or am I being a realist?” Amy cou
ntered.
“I think all this fresh air is getting to you,” Heather replied. The storm still hadn’t come, and she’d have done anything for the pressure to break and those first drops of rain to patter from the heavens and wet the top of her head.
They’d had a rash of winter storms, lately, but Hillside had a history of those.
Heather imagined it was the last struggle for control between an angry, deluded Winter and the new shoots of Spring.
They entered the open doors of the library and hurried toward the front counter, where a middle-aged woman sat, her wire-frame glasses pinched on the tip of her hooked nose.
Martha Rizzo wore her bright red hair in a tight, ballerina bun on top of her head. A few bobby pins held the stray strands in place. Meticulous, really, apart from the jelly stain down the front of her steel gray sweater.
The teens who’d practically shoved them down the stairs – okay, bumped – giggled and gathered around the two bookcases which’d fallen during the crime.
The cases had been propped upright, their tomes organized alphabetically once more as if nothing had happened.
Martha looked up from her book and pressed a finger to her pale lips. “Shush,” she said, to the kids.
The group giggled again but moved further on down the line.
“That’s in poor taste,” Amy muttered.
“Kind of noisy isn’t it?” Heather directed that at Martha, behind her desk.
Miss Rizzo huffed a sigh. “Kind of. These kids have been running amok in the library ever since it happened. The murder, you know. Helena just had to go and die in the middle of the library. Never good. Oh no, no. Never good to draw this kind of negative attention to a peaceful place.”
Heather blinked. Amy narrowed her eyes at the teens at the end of the aisle. One of them picked up a book and chased a girl with it. She let out a girlish shriek and darted out of sight.
“Scandalous,” Martha said.
“Miss Rizzo, I’m working with the Hillside Police Department to solve the murder of Helena Chadwick,” Heather said, softly. “The sooner I solve it, the sooner the kids will lose interest in chasing ghosts around here.”
Pecan Nut Crunch Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 35 Page 3
