by N. C. Lewis
"Then, no doubt you will wonder where my tools of the trade are. We artists are a messy bunch. There's paint, brushes, canvases, metal, wood, stone, and clay. There'll be none of that this evening. My presentation is strictly audiovisual."
Edwina pressed a button on the remote control, and a large screen descended from the ceiling.
"Are there any questions before I begin?"
"Yes," said Amy, raising her hand.
Edwina indicated Amy should continue.
"Is this the studio where you do your creative work?"
"Yes. I've rented this unit for over two decades, although this is the first time I've opened it on a Saturday evening. I do all my creating Monday through Friday; the weekends are strictly for"—she looked down at her cigar—"pleasure."
"That's interesting," said Miles. "I wish I only had to work weekdays. My event-planning business is a seven-day endeavor."
Edwina smiled. "Rest is important for the regeneration of creative faculties. Between these hallowed walls I have created my most famous works, including my Portrayal of a Frenzied Day—it sold for nearly eight hundred thousand dollars. It was here in this room"—she began to sob softly—"that I created the Battle of San Jacinto figurines."
There was a sound of metal scraping against the front door. Everyone glanced in that direction. The door flew open. A person dressed in black with a bandanna across the face and menacing eyes limped into the room. In the left hand the figure held a large poster. But it was the small-caliber gun clutched in their right hand that put a chill on Amy's neck and a sudden surge of tension deep down low in her belly.
The figure, jabbing the gun in the air like an actor in a B movie, stepped into the studio stopping by the grandfather clock. The pendulum ticked loudly, marking off a minute and then some before Edwina, the first to react and her eyes wide with fear, screamed. "What do you want?"
In a practiced move, the figure flipped the poster around, holding it high so everyone could read it. Amy recognized the handwriting, and she recognized the message:
I SAW WHAT YOU DID, AND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE—CB
Chapter 30
Everyone around the table raised their hands slowly above their heads. So this, Amy thought with growing unease, is CB. The figure waved the poster in the air like a flag. Then with the other hand jabbed the gun toward the ceiling. Then the figure repeated the move.
Amy had a flash of realization that the masked figure would not pull the trigger. The individual was waiting for something, but she didn't understand what. After several rounds of poster waving and gun jabbing, the figure stepped forward, and in a deep male voice said, "Edwina, I have—"
Amy thought of Nick as a roar of gunshot filled her ears, its volume amplified by the steel and concrete of the studio walls. She saw the figure stagger against the grandfather clock and collapse, the poster fluttering to the floor as he fell.
All eyes were on the man who lay still on the floor. But Amy's eyes focused on Edwina Lutz and the pistol in her trembling hand. "He was going to kill us. Y'all saw that, didn't you?"
"All right, all right… Edwina, you did the right thing," said Dr. Stubbs, rising to his feet and hurrying over to the fallen figure. "Everyone in this room is grateful for your fast action. You saved all our lives. Now, put the gun down."
Edwina placed her pistol on the counter letting out a long thin breath. "Is he dead?" she asked in a tremulous voice.
But Dr. Stubbs wasn't listening. He kneeled over the body and took the bandanna off the face. "Someone call 911. We need the police… and an ambulance."
The board members sat still at the table: their eyes wide, faces pale. Miles dialed for help. "They'll have somebody here in five minutes," he said.
Dr. Stubbs stayed by the body, his thick hands easing the bloodstained shirt collar around the man's neck. "If you can hear me," he whispered. "Tell me why you did it?"
But the man didn’t answer.
Amy walked to the counter and placed an arm over the shoulder of Edwina. "Do you know who he is?"
Edwina glanced over at the body and shook her head.
"But have you ever seen him before?" Amy pressed, still in a daze. "Maybe hanging around here or at home?"
Again, she shook her head. "I didn't want to shoot. He's dead, isn't he?"
Amy didn't answer directly. "Are you positive he isn't a friend, or associate, or perhaps even a student in one of your classes?"
Edwina's hands flew to her face. "I'm positive. The man is a total stranger, and I've killed him, haven't I?"
Amy removed her arm from Edwina's shoulder. "You said you never work on weekends. How did he know we would be here tonight?"
Edwina placed her hands on the counter. "I've no idea… stalker! Yes, he must've been watching my every movement."
"How did he get in? Dr. Stubbs checked the door. It was locked!"
She blinked. "We always have burglaries in these units. Even an amateur criminal can pick the locks."
"I guess so," Amy commented reflectively. "It's just that if it's that easy to pick the lock, why all the fuss insisting Dr. Stubbs check the door?"
Her eyes narrowed. "It made me feel safe."
"A cigar-smoking, gun-toting woman like you?"
Edwina pulled at a lock of hair twisting it around her finger but didn't answer.
Amy knew now who killed Floyd Adams, and she thought she knew why. "Suppose"—she began watching Edwina closely—"an artist loses their creativity and finds themselves as dry as a Texas Creek. Suppose further, that after ten long years of drought, an admirer of their earlier work proposes a new project for a large fee. Now, suppose the artist accepts the fee, but the creative muse doesn't strike. What are they to do?"
Edwina stopped twisting her hair and stared hard at Amy, who continued. "If they fail to deliver the work of art, they give up the fee. For an artist in need of a little financial water that wouldn't do. So, suppose they deliver the artwork."
"Go on," Edwina said in a slow voice.
"And before it is examined by a renowned expert, the artist steals it. But the theft somehow goes wrong, and the expert is shot dead. Later, the artist receives the insurance payment."
Edwina made a sudden grab for the pistol, but Amy got there first knocking it off the counter onto the floor. Then Edwina jumped to her feet and hesitated as if trying to decide whether to go for the gun or run for the door. But she did neither. Glancing frantically around the room and realizing everyone heard the conversation, she sat back down.
"All right," she said, nodding suddenly. "You got it pretty much right. I lost my creativity over a decade ago, haven't produced a real piece of artwork in years. When Floyd offered me the figurines contract, I almost bit his hand off. It was really very simple. I created a set of cheap clay figurines and sent them to the museum using a tracking number. I knew Floyd would have the package taken to his office so he could examine the figurines in privacy. I didn't want to kill him, but he was there when I arrived."
"What about this gentleman?" boomed Dr. Stubbs, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Who is he?"
Edwina sobbed. "An actor by the name of Charles Goulet." Then she broke down, unable to go on.
It didn’t matter, though; it was all clear to Amy now. She leaned on the counter and explained. "Edwina hired Charles to fake a break-in this evening. The poor man probably thought it was an acting gig and didn't expect to be shot."
"But why?" asked Dr. Stubbs, his mouth half-open.
"The insurance money wasn't enough. Edwina also wanted the reward for the capture of Floyd's killer"—Amy hesitated; she didn’t like what came next—"dead rather than alive!"
Miles, still pale-faced and trembling, spoke up. "But he had a gun, how do you explain that?"
"Charles had to have a gun, didn't he, Edwina?" Amy asked. But Edwina sat in silence. Amy continued. "It's the weapon that killed Floyd Adams. Edwina hoped it would be found on his body marking him as Floyd's killer. Then when the dust had settled she'd
cash in the big fat reward check from the museum."
There was a frantic knocking on the studio door. Moments later, it flew open.
"Sorry I'm a little late," said Nick, glancing around. "Amy, I decided I didn't want to watch the game after all."
Chapter 31
The following Wednesday…
"Are you saying Edwina Lutz shot Floyd Adams to get her hands on the insurance money?" Victoria asked, spreading a red-and-white tablecloth across a wooden table. The family had gathered for a late afternoon picnic at Mayfield House. They sat together at the picnic table under the shade of tall oak trees. An enormous peacock strutted in the distance, its feathers fanned out in an elegant display.
"That's right," Amy answered, handing out paper plates. "I suppose she saw it as a shortcut to making cash, especially since she'd lost her creative ability."
"What about the poor actor; what was his name… Charles Goulet?" Victoria asked, sitting down.
"He'll survive as it was only a flesh wound," Nick replied. "He fainted when he saw Edwina pointing a pistol at him. It was a total blackout; he doesn't even remember the shot. She would've killed him, though, for the reward. That marks her as a cold-blooded killer in my book."
Amy placed food containers on the table with serving spoons. "So Charles Goulet was the mysterious CB?"
Nick spooned rice onto his plate. "It stands for the nickname he picked up in acting school—Charlie Boy. Apparently, he hates the name and only uses it with his old-time acting buddies."
"But how did the handwritten note get into Floyd Adams' jacket pocket?"
"It was almost a random event. Charles works on and off at Moonies Burger Bar. They met one lunchtime, a few weeks ago. They hadn't seen each other in years. Floyd gave Charles a business card, and in return Charles wrote on a scrap of paper."
Amy sat down and dished out salad. "From a Moonies takeout bag?"
"That's right," replied Nick, putting a chicken leg on his plate. "Charles said Floyd put it into his pocket without reading it."
"Oh, so Mr. Adams didn't read the message?" asked Noel, shuddering at the memory of discovering Floyd's body.
Nick spooned out coleslaw, chopped tomatoes, and a cup of corn. "Probably not. They found it folded in his pocket. We'll never know for sure, though."
Amy put down her fork. "You know, honey, there are two things I don't understand. The first is the message on the note, and the second is why Charles Goulet carried a poster with the same message."
Nick laughed. "That's where things get weird, not in a bad way but Austin weird. Charles Goulet is a struggling actor and a movie buff. One of his all-time favorites is the horror movie I Saw What You Did."
"I've seen that," interrupted Ruby. "William Castle produced the film, and it starred Joan Crawford."
Nick nodded in appreciation. "And the catchphrase from that movie is—"
"I saw what you did, and I know who you are," Ruby responded.
Nick continued. "Apparently, Charles uses the catchphrase all the time. He says, like in the movie, people fess up to things he never knew. He used it to spook Floyd Adams because he was jealous of his success. When Edwina hired him to act like a bandit, she asked him not to speak, but to write a message on a poster. She thought it would be more menacing. Charles wrote his favorite catchphrase."
Ruby nodded. "So it was a total coincidence that Edwina hired Charles?"
"Not quite. Charles worked as a model for one of her portrait classes. When she found out he was an actor, she naturally approached him. The rest, as they say, was down to serendipity."
Victoria picked at a lettuce leaf on her plate. "One final question. How did Edwina get access to the museum?"
"I'll answer that," Noel replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small rectangular plastic card. "Everyone in the administrative wing has an electronic key that opens all doors. Board members also get the key, as do volunteer docents, and visiting artists. That's how Edwina got her pass, as a visiting artist."
"The museum needs better security," muttered Nick. "Each key should have a unique ID."
"Agreed," Noel responded, chewing on a chicken leg. "Museum security would have easily identified the killer if that were the case. I don't think the board wanted to spend the money. I expect they will do so now." He glanced up at Nick. "Shame about Dr. Stubbs."
"What happened?" asked Ruby. "I don't think I've heard the full story."
"He stepped down from the board, something to do with a police raid," Noel turned to glance at Nick. "Isn't that right?"
Nick folded his arms. "Yes, it involved Austin Police Department officers, but it was a federal investigation into the trafficking of stolen historical artifacts."
"What has that got to do with Dr. Stubbs?" said Ruby, leaning forward. She enjoyed gossip, and this one sounded juicy.
"Apparently, he has a collection of historical figurines. I hear they were on display in a private room in his apartment."
Ruby's eyes grew wide. "He stole them!"
"No, he obtained most of his collection from legitimate sources. However, he recently bought two clay figurines from an art dealer by the name of Loren Harrington. She worked as a volunteer docent at the Bullock Texas State History Museum. Loren made money trading stolen artifacts. Unfortunately for Dr. Stubbs, the two small pieces she sold him were stolen."
"How was he to know? We all make mistakes," Ruby said. "I can't see why he should resign."
Nick lowered his voice. "Loren stole the items from the Bullock Texas State History Museum! Although no formal charges are being brought against Dr. Stubbs, he had little choice but to resign from the board."
"How embarrassing!" Ruby cried. "What happened to Loren Harrington?"
"The feds are throwing the book at her. The last I heard prosecutors are seeking the maximum sentence. I expect, when the dust settles, she'll do a long stretch behind bars."
For several minutes the family sat in silence enjoying the late afternoon warmth and the view across the country-like lawns of Mayfield House. Amy's mind drifted to her future grandchild. She suspected Victoria knew whether it was a boy or girl and intended to get the truth out of her before she and Zach returned to London. Nick thought briefly about the lollipop liaison unit, improving his relationship with the lieutenant's administrative officer, Barbara Edwards, and an upcoming lunch with Detective Wilson, who he hoped to encourage to stay in the police department.
Zach wrapped his arm around Victoria. The young couple had challenges ahead, the most difficult being whether his job would still be there when he returned to London in a week or so. And then there was the new baby to think about. It will all work out, he thought, with the optimism of youth.
Ruby sipped iced tea, thinking about getting a part-time job. Noel would object, but they needed the money. She had worked as a part-time librarian before she met him and could go back to that. Then she remembered her mom's friend Danielle who worked as a teaching assistant. "I might try my hand at teaching," she whispered cheerily under her breath.
A sudden fluttering of feathers disturbed the family's thoughtful silence. An enormous peacock landed in the center of the table. It cocked its head to one side, regarding the gathered family with curiosity. Then it headed for Ruby. "Oh no!" she cried, getting to her feet and running away, "Not again!"
Murder Under MoPac
Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other n
oncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
What is MoPac?
MoPac is a roadway that runs north to south through Austin, the capital city of Texas. It is loved and hated by locals. Loved as an accessible way to transverse the city. Hated during rush hours when it becomes the city's largest parking lot.
Chapter 1
Chloe Foreman closed the lid of her laptop computer with a satisfied sigh. She was in her early forties with high cheekbones set in a china-doll face and a mane of jet-black hair that made her look ten years younger. She was the owner of Rumpus House, a dog pampering parlor in a converted, 1920s wooden barn, on the edge of Town Lake beneath the MoPac Expressway in downtown Austin.
Her business was booming.
If Mrs. Foreman, as all knew her even though she was no longer married, sat very still and listened hard she could hear the low rumble of vehicles passing overhead. It was possible, she discovered, to tell time by the frequency and volume of sound. Morning and evening rush hours were the noisiest with an almost continuous clatter overhead like a rolling Hill Country thunderstorm.
From the large gap between her and the thunderous roar of wheels on tarmac, Mrs. Foreman knew it was late. Glancing at the clock, in the shape of a dog's face, that hung on the wall above the counter she confirmed her conjecture—eleven fifteen p.m.
She stood up, stretched, and breathed the jasmine scent of the incense sticks that had burned almost to the base of their silver holder. Still smiling inwardly she recalled the words of Sage Oats and took another deep breath.
"Burning incense," the sage had said, "is good for the health of the body and the spirit." He was the head of the Austin chapter of the Natural Mystic Order of the Organic Temple on Twelfth Street. In a soothing tone he had continued, "Always buy your incense from us. We say a special blessing over every stick."
The temple's incense sticks, Mrs. Foreman reflected, were twice the price of those from the store. She hoped the extra blessings, especially those related to health, worked. "Of course," she had said to Sage Oats, "I'll stock up after every prosperity session."
The sage had developed a reputation for his prosperity ceremonies, which involved bare-chested Indian men banging tabla drums, and if the fee was right, a troupe of Asian women dancing in colorful saris, their gold bangles clanging along in rhythmic tinkles. Mrs. Foreman had heard this was the ultimate in the temple's prosperity offerings, guaranteed to unleash untold riches. She didn't believe in the woo-woo stuff, but as a hardheaded businesswoman would take any advantages offered, and that involved a new business venture for which she had already hired a new employee.
