Murder in Mystic Grove

by S F Bose

  I narrowed my eyes as I looked at Damian, trying to see the young man I knew years ago. He was in his early forties now, with graying brown hair, a neatly trimmed grayish-white beard, and wire rim glasses. He looked distinguished like his father. However, I saw the same, warm gray eyes and friendly smile I remembered from years ago.

  “Sorry about my appearance and lack of mobility,” Damian said with a sheepish grin. “I pulled a muscle in my right leg at the gym. After a hot shower, I couldn’t bear the thought of a suit and tie, so I put these on again,” he said, looking down at his sweats. I smiled. From what I could see, Damian had a medium frame, but his shoulders and arms looked muscled from working out.

  “With all the hard candy and sweets that you eat, you need to work out,” Martin Fletcher kidded.

  Damian laughed. “That’s true. I tried giving up both and can’t. I banned candy from my office, though. Thank God for the gym.”

  “Well I’ll leave you to your meeting,” Martin said and left the office.

  Damian was staring at me with a smile, clearly doing the same thing I had done a moment ago. He was trying to see the little kid he knew years ago. I stared back and smiled.

  “Liz, I would hardly recognize you,” he said.

  “Is it the white hair?” I asked.

  Damian laughed. “That’s part of it, I guess. I remember all of you Bean kids having red hair and freckles. No, I think it’s that you’re all grown up and professional looking.”

  “Thank you. You’ve changed too. You look so distinguished now,” I said. I was surprised when he blushed.

  Sam leaned forward in his chair. “Do you have any embarrassing Liz Bean stories you could share?”

  Damian shuddered. “I imagine she’d kill me if I did.”

  I nodded vigorously. “I would,” and we all laughed.

  Damian’s face sobered and he shifted in his chair. “Sam mentioned, when he called earlier, that you had some questions about Justin Church.”

  Sam nodded. “Right. We’ve been retained by a client to look into Justin’s death.”

  Damian looked somber. “It was such a shock to hear about his murder. He was in my class in grade school and high school. Smart guy. Lots of friends.”

  “Were the two of you friends in school?” Sam asked.

  “No, we hung around with different people back then. After high school, I didn’t see Justin until we were both older. I mostly saw him at Village Board meetings and we’d chat. He was a nice guy. I can’t imagine who’d want to kill him.”

  I reached into my messenger bag and retrieved a photocopy of the letter we’d received. “Damian, someone left this at our office. They also sent a copy to the police,” I said and handed him the letter.

  As Damian read the short, typewritten note, his face and ears got bright red. He looked up. “What the hell? Who sent this?”

  Sam shook his head. “We have no idea.”

  Damian looked down at the letter and back at us. He was clearly angry. “So does this mean I’m a suspect?”

  “No, not at all. This is just something we need to check off our list. I expect the police will stop by to talk to you too,” I said.

  “Yeah I do have an appointment with someone from the police department tomorrow. I’m just flabbergasted. This is insane.”

  Sam took out his notebook. “Do you remember where you were the day of the murder?”

  “When was it again?” Damian asked.

  “Monday afternoon,” I said. I had forgotten to turn my voice recorder on and decided to focus on Damian and not take notes.

  “Monday?” Damian checked his appointment book. “Monday I was here at work. I had a 1:00 p.m. meeting. Then I left early at 2:00 p.m. I decided to go home and surprise my wife. II often travel for business on Mondays and Tuesdays but I didn’t this week. As you know, my wife and I have had problems and I’ve been trying to make things better. So that day I went home early and spent the afternoon and evening with Sherrie.”

  Sam and I both nodded. “You stayed in?” I asked.

  “Yes. You can confirm that with Sherrie, if you want,” he offered. I smiled and nodded.

  “Do you know anybody who would try to set you up like this?” Sam asked.

  Damian looked down at the note again and shook his head. “In my business, you can make a lot of enemies. Nevertheless, I can’t see someone upset about a business deal doing something like this. Unless…”

  “What?” Sam and I both asked.

  Damian looked up. His mouth was open and his eyes went back and forth between us. “Could it be Sherrie’s…friend?”

  Sam and I glanced at each other.

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “He covered his identity really well. You could ask your wife, but I don’t want to suggest something that might lead to an argument.”

  Damian nodded. “I can ask her, I guess. I doubt she’d tell me. I can’t believe this.”

  “Damian, was Justin involved in any business deals that you were aware of?” I asked.

  “No, nothing I was involved with.”

  “You mentioned you chatted with him at some Village Board meetings. Did he seem to be a religious man to you?” asked Sam.

  Damian’s eyebrows shot up. “Justin? No, not that I noticed. Why?”

  Sam explained that Justin had been carrying a Bible around and quoting scripture. He also seemed optimistic about the future.

  “News to me. When I spoke to Justin, it was usually about land development or some issue up before the Village Board,” Damian said. “At least the Bible will be a comfort to his parents,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Peter and Martha are still looking for the Bible. It’s a long shot but it might help us figure out the motive for Justin’s murder. But for all we know, the killer may have taken it,” I said.

  Damian listened to me closely and nodded. “Well, I hope they find it,” he said, looking down at the letter again. “Justin was a good man.”

  “Justin talked about land development?” Sam asked.

  Damian sat back and took a deep breath. “He did. He thought that zoning laws in Mystic Grove were too restrictive. He favored rezoning smaller parcels of protected land and building tasteful housing or business projects.”

  “Did he invest in any projects like that?” I asked.

  Damian shrugged. “I really don’t know, Liz. He never mentioned it.”

  I decided to switch gears. “Damian, do you know Mark Sweet?”

  Damian’s eyebrows arched up. “Sure. I’ve done several land development projects with Sweet over the years. He’s a hard person to work with though. He has a bad temper. After our last project, I decided to never work with him again.”

  “Why exactly?” asked Sam.

  “A real estate developer has to be able to communicate with many different people and move a project forward to completion on time and hopefully on budget. Sweet’s temper, lack of people skills, and poor planning resulted in many project delays. Why are you asking about him?”

  “He found Justin’s body,” Sam said.

  “Mark Sweet? Really? I hadn’t heard that,” Damian said, looking surprised. “Is he a suspect?”

  “We can’t really talk about suspects,” I said apologetically.

  “Except for me,” Damian said, but then smiled. “What else do you want to know?”

  “I think that’s it,” Sam said, looking at me. I nodded.

  Damian handed the photocopy back. “If you find out anything about whoever sent that letter, I’d appreciate if you’d let me know?”

  “If we can,” Sam agreed.

  “If you think of anything else about Justin or Mark Sweet, could you let us know?” I asked, setting a copy of my business card on the desk. Damian just looked at it, but he nodded. Then he stood up slowly.

  “I will.”

  “Thanks, Damian,” I said. “It was good seeing you after all this time.”

  Damian smiled and his eyes warmed again. “It was.
I hope the next time is under better circumstances.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” We shook hands, said goodbye, and left Damian’s office.

  In the elevator I said, “Damian was a lot friendlier today than he was on the phone the other day.”

  Sam pulled his gloves on. “He was probably stressed over Finn when he called. He’s one of those quiet guys who erupts over something and calms down five minutes later.”

  “That’s very possible,” I agreed.

  On the walk to the Jeep, we agreed we hadn’t seen anything linking Damian to Justin’s murder.

  “My gut tells me Finn Daley wrote those letters in order to set Damian up,” Sam said and I agreed. We didn’t talk much on the drive back to the office. Snow flurries started to fall and the rhythm of the windshield wipers made me sleepy. Sam dropped me off at my car and waited until I was inside and Lulu fired up. Then with a tap of the horn, he drove off.

  I drove through the lot and turned right onto Mystic Road. Heavy snow slanted down through the darkness, covering everything. During the drive home, I thought about Justin. I wished I knew what he’d been involved in and why he thought money was coming his way. The answers to those questions would probably lead us right to the murderer. Despite Sam’s caution, I didn’t think we were dealing with a random killer.

  I merged onto Farm Road, which hadn’t been plowed very well. Reducing speed, I drove even more cautiously. Miles later, when I saw the B&B sign emerge from the swirl of falling snow, I felt relieved. Slowing Lulu, I turned left and drove up the driveway past the B&B. Dad or Ryan had plowed away the earlier snow. I parked Lulu in the empty garage and trudged toward the darkened coach house. Chloe and Olivia must still be at their herb shop.

  I stopped and looked at the B&B in the distance. Raven was probably sitting down to dinner. I shook my head and continued to the coach house. I didn’t have the energy to talk with him.

  When I entered the coach house and clicked on the light, Snap and Sammy waited in the small, entrance hall. Sammy meowed, flung himself to the floor, and rolled over on his back. Snap gave me a slow blink of his eyes. Laughing, I knelt down and gave them both tummy rubs and chin scratches. Soon they were both purring.

  I hung up my parka and took off my boots. Then I ran upstairs and put my messenger bag on the bed. When I saw Nate’s letter on the nightstand, I turned away. Still not ready.

  I ran back downstairs and turned right into the kitchen. Flicking the light on, I busied myself with feeding the cats. Snap waited patiently while Sammy did figure eights around my ankles. After putting the food dishes down on the floor, I watched as they both attacked their tuna.

  I made a ham and cheddar sandwich with mayo and ate that in the breakfast room. I washed it down with cold apple juice. Looking out the patio door, I watched the snow build up on the driveway. The blowing snow hid the larger family garage and fence line in the distance.

  After I finished eating, I washed the dishes. Then I went through the first floor, closing all of the insulated drapes. Snap and Sammy followed me back upstairs to my bedroom.

  After I put my gun in the top drawer of the nightstand, I quickly changed into my pajamas. When I slid under the sheet, blanket, and homemade quilt, I stretched and sighed. Snap and Sammy jumped up on the bed and kneaded the quilt. Then they curled up together next to me. I slowed my mind, and focused on my breathing. When I turned on my right side, Nate’s letter seemed to glow in the dark. It was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

  Chapter 28

  The next morning I drove Lulu through inches of snow and high winds to work. Farm Road was especially slick. Consequently, I was cold, grumpy, and running late for our conference call with Mitch Shepherd when I pushed into the office.

  “Hello,” I called.

  “Morning,” Sam shouted back from the direction of the conference room. I checked my watch. 9:02 a.m. Rats, I thought, and hurried down the hall to my office. I dumped my hat, gloves, and balaclava on a side chair and hung up my parka in my little closet. Then I quickly checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. Relatively neat short, white hair. Tired baby blue eyes. Dark blue Henley top and faded blue jeans. Hiking boots wet with melting snow. I sighed. It was the best I could do. I brought my messenger bag into the conference room across the hall.

  Sam sat at the end of the table and smiled as I came in. I returned the smile, and sat next to him. He wore his gray Irish cap, a gray flannel shirt, and black Dockers. I’d have to consider going monochromatic like Sam. It would take much less effort if I could grab anything from my closet and know that everything would match.

  “Mitch, Liz just came in,” Sam said. He spoke into a spaceship-like phone we used for conference calls.

  “Hey Liz,” Mitch said in his nasal voice.

  “Hi Mitch. Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “No problem. I just got here. Enjoying my coffee,” he replied.

  “We were just chit-chatting,” Sam said. He pushed a cup of Farmhouse Café coffee over to me and I nearly cried with relief.

  “Thank you,” I mouthed to Sam and he smiled.

  I pulled out my notepad and opened the coffee. It already had cream in it and a quick sip told me Abbie had added sugar too. I took a deep, cleansing breath to slow my heart rate and looked at Sam expectantly.

  “Okay,” he said. “Mitch, you have the profile for Mark Sweet, right?”

  “Right,” Mitch said and the sound of shuffling paper came through the speaker. “I’ll email you the profile when we’re done.”

  “Okay,” Sam said.

  “Mark Sweet is 54 years old and married to Cindy Sweet, who is 49. It’s his second marriage and her first. They have three, grown children who all live within thirty miles. There are two grandchildren,” Mitch said. We heard him pause to sip his coffee.

  “He works as a real estate developer. His wife works as an Area Manager for Midwest Inventory Service,” Mitch said and cleared his voice. “Now, Mr. Sweet has financial problems. His North Winds shopping mall on Hwy 14 near Middleton is less than 50% occupied. Consequently, he’s bleeding money there and hasn’t been able to unload the mall. He also has some other office building projects that are underoccupied. His wife is currently bringing home more money per month than he is. As a result, they’re able to pay their mortgage and other bills,” Mitch said. “Also, he’s pitched a number of new projects, but hasn’t gotten investors or bank financing.”

  Sam and I both took notes.

  “Mitch, does Sweet work with anyone else or is he solo?” Sam asked.

  “Solo. He has offices in the Evergreen office park in West Madison. He had one misdemeanor battery conviction when he was younger. It was a bar fight. As far as his personal life, he was married to his first wife, Jasmine, just shy of two years. It was a clean split. They didn’t own property, had no kids, and she didn’t want or need spousal maintenance. Now remember this was decades ago. They both married other people and went on with their lives. Then a year ago, she got a harassment restraining order against him.”

  “Any idea what the grounds were?” I asked.

  Mitch grunted. “The petition was very interesting. Last year, he called her up at home unexpectedly and said he wanted to rekindle their relationship. In the petition, she stated she was shocked and declined. He persisted by calling her home number repeatedly. Then he got her cellphone number and things got worse. He called and texted her ten to fifteen times a day. After that, he changed his pitch. He told her about his business projects and asked her to invest. He also asked for loans and monetary gifts.”

  “Jasmine has money?” asked Sam.

  “Jasmine is loaded. She inherited a chunk of her father’s estate, which made her a multimillionaire,” Mitch replied.

  “Let me guess. Sweet heard about the inheritance and pounced,” I said.

  “Exactly. Her father was Joseph Daniels, a heavy hitter in the oil and gas industry. There was a lot of coverage of his death locally because he was from
Madison,” said Mitch. I looked at Sam and shrugged. I had never heard of Joseph Daniels.

  “So Sweet was desperate for money. Did he back off after the restraining order?” asked Sam.

  “He did. Those were the only two legal actions I could find for him,” Mitch replied. He paused for more coffee slurping and I took a healthy sip of my own coffee. We heard shuffling paper and then Mitch continued.

  “Okay, I can’t give you handgun registration information because the state doesn’t require registration. Sweet does have several shotguns and suppressors registered appropriately. He’s also licensed for concealed carry,” Mitch said.

  Sam and I both nodded.

  “Now I also reached out to some people using a ruse that I was thinking of working with Sweet. The message I heard repeatedly was that he’s difficult to work with, doesn’t do a good job of managing projects, and has a volatile temper,” Mitch said. That matched what Damian told us.

  “So has he been black-balled?” I asked.

  There was silence on the speakerphone while Mitch thought it over. “No, I wouldn’t go that far. The people I spoke to don’t plan on doing business with him. But as one of them commented, there are always new players who might work with him. ”

  “Mitch, did you find any connections between Mark Sweet and Justin Church?” I asked.

  “No, Liz, nothing that was documented. No loans, partnerships, or business deals,”

  “Anything else we should know about him?” Sam asked.

  There was silence on the line and we heard Mitch shuffling through papers. “No, that’s it for Mr. Sweet,” Mitch finally replied.

  “Thanks buddy,” said Sam.

  “Be in touch soon, Mitch said and clicked off. Sam hit a button on the speakerphone and our end of the call disconnected.

  We sat in silence for a few beats.

  “He really sounds like a great suspect,” I said, “but I don’t see the motive. Sweet needed money and said he wanted to talk to Justin about a business opportunity. However, as far as we know, Justin got one thousand dollars a month from a trust. That’s not a lot to invest.”