Summer Walsh Mystery Series (3 complete cozy mystery novellas)

by Debby Mayne

  "I'm a former cop," I said. "I know what you're dealing with." I paused to let it sink in. "And no matter what you say or do, it'll never be enough, and you'll never make everyone happy."

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. "That's not even the half of it."

  "Why don't you talk to the rest of the folks so they can go. It might take them a while to find other accommodations."

  "How about you?" he asked. "Aren't you eager to leave?"

  I shrugged. "I suppose I am in a way, but it's really no big deal for me. I can sleep in my car if I have to."

  "You won't have to." His temple pulsed as he stood. "Let me have a chat with that couple so they can go." He took a step, paused, and turned slightly toward me. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

  I waved him away. "I'll be right here when you need me."

  As he walked away, I studied the situation. Something was odd … something I couldn't put my finger on.

  "Has anyone seen Bert?"

  I glanced up and spotted a youngish woman – maybe five or ten years older than me – rushing around looking frantic. "Who's Bert?"

  The woman made a sour face. "If you don't know who Bert is, you don't have any business asking."

  Okay, so it was none of my business.

  She finally dropped the look. "Bert is Ms. Birchfield's fella. They been lovey-dovey for near 'bout a year." She pointed to the mistletoe over the kitchen door. "She was always trying to get him under that."

  She'd just nailed what seemed odd. "We do need to find Bert, don't we?"

  "We sure as heck do," she said. She leaned away from me and looked me up and down. "Who are you? Do I know you?"

  I shook my head and extended a hand. "No, I don't believe we've met. I'm Summer Walsh, and I live in Nashville."

  "Summer Walsh, huh?" She glanced at my hand but didn't take it. "Any kin to Dan and Belva Walsh?"

  "My parents."

  "Get outta here. They're your parents? Can't be. They're too young."

  "I'll tell my mom you said that." I smiled at her. "It'll make her very happy."

  "Ms. Birchfield really liked your parents, ya know. She said if all her guests were as easy to please she'd never think about sellin' this place."

  "She was thinking about selling?"

  The woman nodded and then shook her head. "Some guy came around a couple 'a months ago and made her an offer she said she couldn't refuse. I told her it might be better to take a look at other offers, but she said she didn't want the hassle."

  "How do you know all this?" I asked.

  The woman rolled her eyes. "You really don't know much, do you? I'm Ms. Birchfield's right-hand woman. I do everything she can't do." She gulped. "I mean I did everything she couldn't do. That's all history now, isn't it?" She took a long look around at the crowd that had thinned out quite a bit. "She was gonna take me with her, wherever she went, but looks like that's all over now."

  "If you don't mind my asking …" I cleared my throat. "What is your name?"

  "Connie." Her voice held a tinge of a whimper, and I wondered if it was real.

  "It's nice to meet you, Connie. Too bad it's under these circumstances."

  "You can say that again." She gestured toward the detective. "Do you think he's cute?"

  "Wha—?"

  "I saw how you were lookin' at him, all googly eyed."

  "I wasn't …" Oh what was the point of trying to explain anything to this woman who was obviously thickheaded?

  "If it makes you happy, he likes you too."

  "He does?" I chanced a look his way. "How do you know?"

  She shrugged. "I just know these things. I even spotted that look Bert gave Ms. Birchfield right after they met."

  "We probably need to find out where he is," I said. "Does he normally come back for dinner?"

  "Most of the time he does." Connie glanced at the wall clock. "He should walk in that door any minute now. He never misses meatloaf night. I make the best meatloaf if I do say so." She planted a fist on her hip and bobbed her head as she narrowed her eyes, as though daring me to argue.

  I decided to bring the conversation down a notch on the calmness chart since I knew she'd be questioned more rigorously than the guests. "You do all the cooking here?"

  She dropped her attitude and shrugged. "Half the cookin', half the shoppin', and most all the cleanin'."

  "Must be quite a chore," I said.

  "I don't mind. Me and Ms. Birchfield get … got along just fine." She paused and rubbed her nose with the back of her wrist. "I can't believe this. Who would want to go and do a thing like this?" Her chin quivered.

  "Who knows?" I'd seen so many homicides during my years as a cop and heard so many excuses nothing would have surprised me. "Do you live here?"

  "I stay here part-time. My mama lives about a mile from here, so I stay there when things get slow around here."

  At least she wouldn't be stranded.

  The police officer finished with the other people in the room and started toward us. "Looks like you might be next."

  "Oh lordy." She squeezed her eyes shut, and my heart went out to her. Based on her body language, I didn't think she was guilty of anything but being suddenly unemployed.

  As the officer questioned Connie, I tried my best not to stare, but it was hard since I felt somewhat protective toward this woman. I suspected she was trembling beneath her tough-girl façade.

  Finally, after what seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life, the detective let Connie go. I watched her take off like a streak of lightening before turning back and seeing the officer's gesture to join him.

  "I wish I could help you more." I glanced over at the spot where I'd found Mrs. Birchfield. Then I remembered the man Connie had mentioned. "Did the housekeeper tell you about Bert?"

  He tilted his head and gave me a curious look. "Bert?"

  Obviously she hadn't. "According to Connie, Mrs. Birchfield was seeing a guy named Bert. In fact, he was a long-term guest here at the boarding house."

  It didn't take my years of training to see that this was the first he'd heard of Bert. "What's Bert's last name?"

  I shrugged and pointed to the desk across from the kitchen. "That shouldn't be too hard to figure out. Looks like the registration book was left open."

  Without another word, he turned and walked over to the desk. I followed behind but kept a comfortable distance. He glanced down at the open book but didn't touch it. Instead, he motioned for one of the forensics people to come over and take the book as evidence.

  I was about to ask if I could leave when he spoke. "Would you mind sticking around for a couple of days?"

  "That's fine. I'll just have to find a place to stay." I gave him a sheepish look. "I was just kidding about sleeping in my car. I tried it once, but it was miserable."

  He glanced around the room and then turned back to me as he lowered his voice. "There's another small inn in town that keeps a room for the police department." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a card. "Tell her Jim sent you."

  "Jim?"

  He nodded and pointed to the card. "That's me. Jim Lupton. The inn's address and contact name are on the back."

  "So am I free to go now?"

  "Yes. We'll need to talk to you more tomorrow, but you're free for the rest of the day."

  I gave him a thumbs-up and left. It wasn't until I got to my car that my hands started shaking. I'd been away from police work for a while, but I still had the ability to hold everything together until I was away from the scene. Now I knew it was time to be alone for the hours-long recovery I needed. Even though I'd seen many murder scenes through the years, they still affected me.

  On the way to the inn, I stopped off at a deli for a sandwich that I hoped I'd be able to eat later. Finding the inn was easy, but convincing the woman who ran the place, not so much.

  She gave me a dubious once-over and shook her head. "You don't look like the other folks Jim has sent over in the past."

  "I'm sorry," I s
aid. "But he really did tell me to come here. He said you have a room, and I need one."

  She tightened her jaw as she glanced down, clearly trying to decide what to do. I still hadn't told her about Mrs. Birchfield's murder, and I didn't plan to. However, after she answered her ringing phone, I could tell she knew.

  "That was Jim. He said Anna Birchfield was murdered, and you found her body." She swallowed hard but didn't look terribly upset. "That must have been gruesome."

  I didn't respond. It wasn't as gruesome as most stabbings, but saying that didn't seem appropriate at the moment. She finally turned away and started for the counter.

  "Let me get the key to the room, and I'll take you up." On the way to the room, she stopped and turned toward me. "By the way, my name is Mavis Anderson. If you need anything, let me know. I'm the only one here. Unlike Anna, I don't have the luxury of full-time hired help. I can only offer day work, and that's not a regular thing."

  I sensed a touch of animosity, but I didn't say anything. I just nodded.

  The room she showed me was small but adequate. It had a bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser with a mirror above it that looked like it had just come from someone's attic.

  "The bathroom is two doors down. If someone is in there, you can use the one at the end of the hall." Her demeanor remained hard as she added, "Since you're getting a free room, don't expect me to serve you meals."

  "I understand. Thanks." The room was nowhere nearly as nice as the ones at Mrs. Birchfield's B&B, but it looked clean enough.

  She headed toward the door, then turned and gave me a smirky smile. "I'm sure this is a step down for you if you're used to the hoity-toity places, but I didn't marry a rich man who could give me everything I wanted."

  Whoa. There was definitely some serious hostility going on here.

  "No, really, this is fine. And …" I took a look around and tried to come up with something specific. "I like uncluttered space." Well, that was the best I could come up with, considering how undecorated this room was.

  She made a snorting sound as she left and closed the door behind her. I was about to open my small suitcase when my phone rang. It was Jim.

  "So how's the room?" he asked.

  "Adequate."

  He chuckled. "Don't tell Mavis that."

  "Mavis?"

  "Mavis Anderson, your new innkeeper."

  "Oh, that's right, she did tell me her name." I thought for a moment. "Trust me, I won't tell her what I really think."

  "Did she give you a hard time?"

  "No, not a hard time, exactly. But I can tell she's not thrilled about the fact that I'm here."

  "It's not you. She's rather salty, and from what I've gathered, she and Lady Birchfield weren't exactly the best of friends."

  "Lady Birchfield?"

  He laughed again. "Her late husband Bernard was from England. He was knighted quite a few years ago, and he dubbed her Lady Birchfield."

  "How interesting. Now that I won't be eating at … Lady Birchfield's Bed and Breakfast, do you have any recommendations?"

  "I'll come by and get you."

  "No, you don't have to—"

  "I want to. I've made a few calls, and I think you can help more than I realized." He paused. "I think we hit pay dirt with you."

  "Huh?"

  "It didn't take more than two calls to find out that you were one of the best detectives with the Nashville Police Department and not too long ago, you managed to help solve a crime at a country club in Florida."

  "That's just because my uncle was framed."

  "Uncle Bing, alias John Smith?" He snorted. "You must be really good to help someone who couldn't do better than that. John Smith. Really?"

  I wasn't in the mood to listen to insults about my clueless uncle, so I sighed. "Okay, but give me a half hour to freshen up."

  "See you in the lobby in half an hour."

  As annoyed as I was, I couldn't blame Jim for doing his job and checking on my background. In fact, if I were in his shoes, I would have done the exact same thing.

  I pulled the toiletry bag from my small suitcase and carried it down the hall to the bathroom. I'd barely finished touching up my mascara when someone banged on the door. "Hurry up. You've been in there long enough."

  While gritting my teeth, I grabbed the bag and flung open the door. There stood the sweetest looking little old smiling man I'd ever seen in my life. "Did you just knock on the door?" I asked.

  He nodded, still smiling. "Yes, ma'am. Are you finished yet?" His voice had softened considerably – in an almost creepy way.

  "Um … yes, I suppose I am." I could put my lipstick on in my room in front of the grainy mirror.

  "I don't mean to rush you. It's just that …" He shrugged. "Things happen when you get to be my age."

  I jumped out of the way and gestured toward the bathroom. "Go right ahead."

  I'd barely made it to my room and realized I'd left my brush in the bathroom when I heard Ms. Anderson's grating voice. "Have you been hogging the bathroom, young lady?"

  "I just—"

  "I'll have you know that Bert Zuckerman is a paying guest, unlike some people."

  "Bert Zuckerman?" I pondered the name and wondered how many Berts there might be around here.

  "Yes, in fact, he just moved in … um, last night."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Do you know where he came from?"

  "He's from Connecticut, but he's been staying around here somewhere. He said he got tired of being watched all the time at that other place, so it was time to move on." She flipped her hand from the wrist. "Which is why you need to not bother him." She crinkled her forehead. "Give the man some space."

  "Yes, of course," I replied as I went into my room and closed the door behind me. This was odd. I made a mental note to ask Jim if he'd learned the name of Mrs. Birchfield's Bert.

  Chapter 3

  Jim did a double take when he saw me coming down the stairs to join him in the lobby. "You clean up well."

  "Thanks." I'd had worse insults as a police officer. "So have you learned anything new?"

  He nodded toward the door. As soon as we got outside, he slowed down. "Yeah, I did even more digging and heard that you are a pit bull when it comes to looking for murderers."

  "Don't insult pit bulls," I said. "But I guess I can be pretty aggressive."

  "And tenacious. From what I read and heard, for all intents and purposes, your uncle looked mighty guilty. I just wonder what you would have done if you'd discovered he really did murder that woman."

  "There was never any doubt," I replied. "My uncle is a ladies' man who doesn't mind getting them all worked up, but it isn't his style to kill them. He leaves before that thought ever has a chance to cross his mind."

  "And it appears that you were the one who solved all the difficult cases in Nashville too. You're some sort of genius when it comes to finding murderers and thugs." He opened the unmarked police car, waited for me to slide into the passenger seat, and closed it before going around to the driver's side. "Am I right?"

  "Maybe." I could tell where this was going, and even though it sounded good to say I wasn't interested, my old fix-it nature didn't leave when I left the police force. "So what do you want from me?"

  He feigned shock as he started the car and pulled out of the shell-covered driveway. "You think I want something?" Before I had a chance to respond, his shoulders dropped. "C'mon, Summer. Do you even have to ask?"

  "You can't very well expect me to get too involved as a civilian, and there's no way you'd be able to get me on the payroll …" I paused to clear my throat. "But I don't like seeing sweet little old ladies getting knocked off. If it happened to Mrs. Birchfield, there's no telling who else it might happen to."

  "Unless the murderer had a bone to pick with her and only her."

  I shrugged. "Well, yes, there is that."

  "But you're right. You're not on the payroll, but if you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them."

  He pulled into
a small diner parking lot, put the car in park, and turned off the ignition. But he didn't make a move to get out. He just sat and stared at me.

  "There are several people we need to keep an eye on." I held up one finger. "There's Bert, who seemed to have disappeared from Mrs. Birchfield's place. However …" I wasn't sure about the guy I'd met at Mavis's B&B. "Did you ever find out his last name?"

  "Yup. Zuckerman."

  I groaned and slid down in my seat. "That's what I was afraid of."

  He gave me an inquisitive look. "Why?"

  "He's staying down the hall from me."

  "How do you know?" Jim pursed his lips. "Did you actually see him already?"

  "Yes, he banged on the bathroom door and told me to get out." I rolled my eyes. "He said I was taking too long."

  Jim laughed. "Just like a—"

  I lifted one eyebrow and challenged him with a visual dare. "Like a what?"

  "Never mind. So tell me what you know about him."

  "He has a loud bark, but face-to-face, he seems like a sweet little old man." I thought for a moment. "What I want to know is why he didn't go back to Mrs. Birchfield's place and suddenly showed up at Mavis's."

  Jim had already pulled out a pad and started jotting things down. "Did you say anything to Mavis?"

  "No, of course not," I said. "By the way, there is new technology that is faster than manual note taking."

  "I like doing things the old fashioned way." Jim smiled as he kept writing.

  "What do you know about Mavis?" I asked. "She isn't exactly Miss Hospitality."

  "Maybe that's why she struggles to stay in business," Jim said. "She's pretty gruff, but deep down, she's actually very sweet."

  "I haven't seen that side of her yet."

  He flipped the notebook shut and looked me in the eye. "And you might never see it. I think she keeps it pretty well hidden. Ready to eat?"

  "Sure."

  All heads turned as soon as we entered the diner. It took me a moment to realize that was because Jim knew everyone in the place, and they were curious about me. When it dawned on me, I just smiled and kept moving forward. Jim was a nice looking guy, and I didn't mind being seen with him.