COZY MYSTERY: Wedding Bells & Murder?: A Margie Lauderdale Cozy Mystery (Book 2)

by Liz Turner

  The kitchen had made a few too many miniature chicken pot pies, and Margie asked Mr. Bevins to let her take them. He’d given them to her without hesitation, especially when she mentioned what she planned to do with them.

  It was how she ended up on a bus to Kitty’s part of town. Margie held the basket of pies in one hand and kept her other hand elevated and protected from accidently knocking into anything. It still throbbed dully. The cream the doctor had given her numbed the worst of it, but she wanted to avoid further injuring as much as possible.

  Kitty answered the door. She looked a little better, a little less pale and the smile she offered looked a little more genuine.

  “Good evening; sorry to drop by so late. We had a few extras pies at work, and I thought you could use them.” Margie blushed; she’d been so busy with the case, she had forgotten to cook for the grieving. Knowing how food made people feel better, Margie usually tried to make something for people she knew when they had a big life event. A little food went a long way.

  Kitty’s face lit up as she eyed the basket. “Oh, you are a lifesaver, Margie! How did you know I was just eyeing the pantry and trying to scrounge up a meal?” Kitty hugged her gently around the waist.

  “Must be gaining mind powers in my old age,” she replied as Kitty gestured her inside. There were piles of flowers, ribbons, and cards by the front door. It was as if Kitty no longer wanted to look at them, but didn’t have the heart to throw them out.

  The house still managed to look well-kept; there was a bit of mess here and there, but nothing too disastrous. It was nice to know that Kitty hadn’t let the housekeeping go completely. She stopped and glanced at the mantle; there were pictures of Kitty’s family there. One of her and some of her cousins. There was even one of her and her father, Carlton.

  They were on the deck of a boat together, smiling. “What a lovely photo of you and your father,” Margie said casually, pointing at the photo with her bad hand. “When was this taken?”

  Kitty smiled at the picture, her blue eyes lighting up like stars. “My father and I used to take my grandfather’s boat out every summer on the lake. I guess I was eight or nine in this picture,” she picked it up, running her fingers over the glass. “I miss those summers.”

  Margie noted that not a single photo of Martha existed here; Kitty probably hid them, not wanting to look at the face of her murdered mother over and over again. She winced. Poor Kitty.

  Kitty led her back toward the kitchen, which was nearly spotless except for a couple of plastic trash bags and a box with some books in it. The whole room smelled delightfully of freshly made coffee.

  “My mother’s things,” Kitty said, her eyes following Margie’s gaze across the kitchen. “It was what she had with her in the hotel room; just some clothing and some books. All the stuff the police didn’t want.” Kitty looked at them forlornly. “I know I don’t want her clothing or the books, and I have them packed up to get rid of, but it is nice to have a piece of her here with me.” Kitty fumbled with her coffee maker, pouring both herself and Margie steaming mugs.

  Kitty reached into the basket of pies, pulling out one of the tiny packets and nibbling on the edges. Her eyes widened, and she bit into it with a little more gusto. Margie knew how she felt; she’d had one or two of them herself, and they were divine. It was one of Mr. Bevin’s grandfather’s prized recipes.

  Margie gently touched Kitty’s arm. “There is no use holding onto her things, Kitty. Clinging to them won’t make her come back. Besides, I’m sure the library would love some new books.”

  Kitty nodded sadly, reaching for another pie and eating it without even glancing at it. She must have been starving, the poor thing. “I guess you’re right, Margie. Would you take the books for me? You can have what you want and give the rest to the library.” Kitty stared at the books forlornly for a moment, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

  Margie downed her coffee, luxuriating in the taste of the amazing brew. “Thank you very much for the coffee, Kitty, I should be getting back home.”

  “Of course,” she said, sadly, standing from her chair. She picked up the box of books and handed it to her. “Would you like me to drive you into town? I don’t know if the buses run this late.”

  “That’s quite alright, Kitty. It isn’t that far and the sun isn’t down yet. The last bus isn’t for another half hour.”

  Margie was quite right; the buses were still running. Although she was panting a little from the exertion, it felt good to get out and walk, even with her burdens. Ray had spoiled her, driving her around town. The air was very cold, burying its icy spikes into her lungs. But it was still quite a lovely day. Margie managed to make it to the bus stop without incident before it was completely dark, catching the last bus into town.

  She settled down into the first seat, her finger itching to dig through the books.

  She opened the box on her lap, pulling out the first. It was a murder mystery novel; Margie winced at the irony. She pulled it out the box, eyeing the cover. It looked like something she’d love, and it also looked brand new. Margie had never heard of the author before, but the cover made it sound promising. Flipping to the inside flap, Margie almost didn’t notice when a piece of paper fell from the pages, landing on her lap. She blinked at it, unsure of where it had come from. Setting the book back into the box, Margie lifted the paper up for a look.

  It was a warranty with a little credit card receipt stapled to it for the necklace Martha had been wearing the day of the wedding; the sapphire and gold chain. Hmm, I guess she did buy it for herself, Margie thought, eyeing the paper. There was the date of purchase; only two days before the wedding from one of the two jewelry shops in town. It was Marline and Caster Boyton’s shop, called the Glass and Gold; it was down on Maple Street near the diner that Camelia and Margie liked. They had mooned over the pretty jewels in the window many times on their way to and from, wishing they could afford such pretties on their wages. But the shop was pricey even for a jewelry store. The pieces were one-of-a-kind and really well made. Margie had been unaware that they offered warranties.

  She sighed, her mind all tangled up in poor Martha’s murder. The more days that passed by, the less chance they would ever catch the person responsible. It was a shame; Kitty deserved better. Margie started to fold up the paper, her fingers pressing it in half before she stopped.

  The credit card receipt was signed, but it wasn’t Martha’s signature.

  Margie stared at it for a long time, her eyes tracing the looping letters over and over again, trying to remember where she had seen it before. Instead of riding to the bus stop near her apartment, she got off at the stop near the police precinct. Her fingers were itching as she clutched the piece of paper. There was no doubt in her mind that Ray would still be there; he always worked late into the night when he was on a case.

  Sure enough, there he was, sitting at his desk. It always looked like a disaster site, the wreckage of leftovers, papers and other various pieces and parts scattered about. Nothing had changed in all the seven years Margie had visited this desk over and over. And she doubted it ever would change.

  “So, do you remember that really beautiful necklace Martha was wearing?”

  Ray glanced up from his paperwork, hope lighting up in the depths of his tired eyes. “Indeed, where did you get this?” He held out a hand for the paper, and Margie obliged. His eyes scanned the document, coming to rest on the price at the bottom; he winced. Perhaps seeing jewelry purchases in his future?

  “Kitty gave me the three books that Martha had with her in her room. This fell out of the pages. Look at the receipt, Ray. Does that signature look familiar to you?”

  Ray squinted at it, then quickly found the copy of Dolly’s wedding cake receipt from his massive stack of papers. Margie was once again startled at his ability to find anything in this trash heap he called a desk.

  Ray’s eyes trailed over both documents. “No doubt about it, both of these were signed by Jacob Rattcliffe.
” He leaned back in his chair, his hands falling to his sides. “You think Kitty’s husband was the killer then?”

  Margie’s face fell; her heart turned to lead inside of her chest. Tears clogged her throat, stopping up her voice. But she managed to choke out, “Yes, I do. Poor Kitty...”

  Ray winced, his eyes running over the papers. “I know, Margie. It must have been hard to bring this to me.”

  “More than anything in the world, I don’t want to hurt the poor woman any more than she already has been.” She sat down putting her head in her hands. Jacob had killed Martha, and learning it would ruin Kitty. The thought weighed heavily on Margie’s shoulders. But what else could she have done?

  But, no matter who was responsible, a woman was dead.

  No matter what, for Martha’s sake, Margie would never hide evidence. It was important to make sure to avenge what had been done, but that didn’t stop it from hurting.

  Ray walked around his desk, placing an awkward yet comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Margie. I know it won’t make you feel any better, but you are doing the right thing. No one should be allowed to get away with murder.”

  Margie glanced up at him, her eyes glossy from unshed tears. “You’re absolutely right, Ray. That didn’t make me feel better at all.”

  Chapter 14

  Margie took her sorrows to the Bonne Table, unable to think of anywhere else that would be able to diminish the mood that had plagued her evening.

  The decor had been updated in the months since Margie had been here; the glittering crystals and big floral arrangements had been exchanged for elegant, geometric shapes in bright colors. The paintings were replaced with sculptured art; they looked like huge collections of metal rings welded together. The effect was much more modern, and Margie loved the look. It was more 1970s than French couture now, and she loved it.

  Camelia squealed as she walked in the door, throwing her arms around Margie. “Come to visit me at work!” she hollered, drawing the attention of all five of the late-night guests drinking at the bar. They smiled at her before turning away, chuckling behind their hands at the hostess they knew so well. Camelia, as usual, didn’t even notice she was causing a scene.

  “This place looks amazing!” Margie cried, her eyes running over the interior again. “When did this happen?”

  “Right after you left. Mr. Carter said that we needed a facelift; wanted to be cooler for the ‘kids.’”

  Margie laughed. “And what ‘kids’ is he trying to appeal to?”

  Camelia shrugged, her eyes glittering wickedly. “Who knows. But the customers dig it; it is sort of groovy looking. Oh well. Come to the back and see everyone! They’ve been asking about you this whole time!”

  So she did. She talked to everyone she remembered from her work six months ago. It felt like ages since she'd been here. Everyone smiled and greeted her and patted her on the shoulder; it felt like she’d never left.

  Apparently, the newest member of the team, Dillon, who had been there less than a year, was soon to be having a child with his pretty new bride. He was beaming. Mr. Carter was still the same, his sweaty, nervous pessimism not likely to ever change. For the most part, everything was the same, and Margie felt like she was home for the first time in months.

  Mr. Carter closed up early once the bar group had left. The whole gang sat around their biggest table, eating spaghetti and swapping war stories. Margie told them about school, and they caught her up on town gossip. She was laughing so hard that her sides hurt before the end of the evening. The blues she had felt creeping into her mind had dissipated completely.

  There was no doubt that wherever she ended up, this would be the place she missed the most.

  Once dinner was finished, everyone pitched in to help clean up. Camelia, blushing, packed up a boxed dinner for Ray. She planned to visit him briefly, once she was off work. Margie helped wash a few dishes, still chatting amiably with Mr. Carter and the cooks.

  “What will you do, Margie?” one of the cooks asked, a big smile spreading across his face.

  Margie smiled back, his grin too contagious to be stopped. “I’m hoping to start up my own place.”

  The company nodded, their happiness for her dreams unforced and genuine. Not a single one of them doubted her ability to succeed, and that warmed her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

  “Ahh, we miss you here, Margie,” Camelia said, wrapping her arm around Margie’s as they walked out, burdened down with plenty of leftovers to ensure Margie wouldn’t have to cook again until her hand had healed up. She wasn’t entirely sure they would be able to eat it all. “None of it is the same without you.”

  “Don’t get all mushy on me, Cammy; it’s hard enough to leave this place without you getting nostalgic.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, smiling. “You are my best friend in the world, Margie, and I know you will succeed in whatever you put your mind to.”

  They parted ways at the corner; Camelia headed left to stop by the precinct and Margie went straight across the street toward their apartment. She walked in silence, the warmth of a good evening with great friends still glowing inside of her. Content with her belly full and her mind at peace, she walked into the apartment building. It was too late for the office to be open so she had no one to greet on her way in. Margie walked to the back stairs, her aching feet already protesting the climb to the fifth floor. Her arms ached too, the books and the food weighing her down.

  In all the years they had lived there, never once had they seriously considered moving to a lower floor; it would be too much to get all the furniture down the stairs by themselves. So, as usual, she braced herself for the climb and started up the stairs, counting them as she went.

  Puffing, Margie finally reached their apartment door and walked in. She threw all of her things on the floor, taking the food into the kitchen. Too full to think about more food, Margie grabbed herself a glass of water from the tap and changed into her pajamas. She put the food in the refrigerator, stashed away Martha’s books for later, and gathered her textbooks to start a long, night of studying. Perhaps the books would help get her mind off of the evidence she had given to Ray this evening.

  It isn’t your fault, she reminded herself over and over. You did it for Martha. Never before in any of the cases she worked with Ray had evidence ever hit so close to home. Never before had she felt guilty about trying to get the bad guy.

  You did it for Martha. Margie glanced down at the textbook in her lap as she settled down onto the couch. She knew the guilt would fade eventually. Maybe she could talk to Camelia about it when she got home. Margie, determined to stay up until Camelia walked in that door, dove into her textbook, trying to get a jump start on the reading that Mr. Bevins has assigned her. Grabbing a pen and some paper to take notes, Margie leaned back into the couch and tried to get focused.

  It wasn’t riveting stuff; it was mostly health codes specific to catering. Knowing that Margie was interested in getting into the catering business herself, Leroy had assigned it to her. Although it was important, it was still dull reading. It took every ounce of her patience and attention reading more than a few pages. So it wasn’t a surprise that she nearly jumped off of the couch in surprise when someone knocked at the door.

  Who could it be this late? Margie walked up to the door, unlocking the deadbolt and the door handle. Probably Camelia; lost her keys again...

  But it wasn’t Camelia.

  Jacob Rattcliffe stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed. “Where is it, Margie?”

  Squeaking in terror, Margie slammed the door shut, only to have it stop up against Jacob’s boot. He pushed his way inside. “Where is it?” His voice was rough with anger and his eyes glowing. Margie stumbled backward, her heart trembling in terror.

  “Get out of my apartment, Jacob,” Margie said, quivering with fear. But her voice was steady as she stared him in the eye. “I have nothing that belongs to you, and I will call the police.”


  There were tears streaming down his face. “I need those books back that Kitty gave you, Margie,” he said, slowly. There was a hint of madness in his voice.

  “Okay, Jacob. I’ll get you the books.” Margie turned away from him, walking slowly into her bedroom. He followed close on her heels, his breath hot against her neck. There was a murderer in her house. A chill swept through her whole body, grinding away at her sanity. What was he going to do when he noticed the receipt missing?

  “Here, Jacob. Here are the books that Kitty gave me.” She gestured to the box still on her bedroom floor, unwilling to pick them up herself. He bent forward to the books, his eyes mad. She backed up, heading slowly for the phone on the other side of the wall.

  She never made it.

  “Where is it!?” Jacob’s yell echoed through the walls, his rage coating her entire body with goose bumps. He dove around the corner, his eyes wide and angry. Skin tinted pink with emotion, Jacob flung himself at her, wrapping his hands tightly around her neck and knocking her to the ground. The side table holding the phone crashed to the ground, pens and paper hitting Margie’s prone body. Jacob barely noticed; his eyes were wide and crazy.