The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  “Do you have another key?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

  Mrs. Churchill shook her head. “Unfortunately, we haven’t seen the spare key for years. Inches had a master key, but he’s in Scotland with a broken ankle.”

  James pounded on the door and rattled the knob.

  Mrs. Churchill turned to the footman. “Get Randolph.”

  His eyes got wide and a flash of terror crossed his face. To his credit, he hesitated only a second, bowed, and hurried to Randolph’s door. He knocked timidly at first, then louder when there was no answer. He turned and looked back at Mrs. Churchill, who merely stared impatiently, tapping her foot. Thompkins, who stood behind Mrs. Churchill, nodded slightly and the footman turned back to the door, turned the knob, and entered the room. After several moments, they heard Randolph swearing at the young footman and a crash as a glass was flung at the wall and shattered.

  The footman hurried out of the room into the hall.

  Mrs. Churchill yelled, “Randolph, come here at once.”

  After several moments, a bleary-eyed Randolph stumbled into the hall. His face was flushed and he frowned. “What the bloody hell is going on out here?”

  “Randolph, watch your language,” Mrs. Churchill said. “We’re concerned your friend may be ill. We’ve tried to rouse her. Perhaps you can get her to open the door.”

  Randolph stared at his mother for several seconds, then walked to the door. He grabbed the knob and twisted. He pounded on the door and winced from the effort. “Jessica, open the bloody door.” He waited. “Jessica,” he yelled.

  After a few moments, he stepped back. “Do you have Inches’s keys?” He looked from his mother to Thompkins.

  Thompkins shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “You know we haven’t seen the spares for ages,” Mrs. Churchill replied.

  Randolph threw his hands up. “Then I guess you’ll have to break the door down if you want to get her out.” He stepped aside. “Have at it.” He looked at James.

  James moved to the door and rammed it with his shoulder several times. However, the solid oak door was sturdy and barely wobbled under the effort. After several more attempts, he stopped. “Is there another way in?”

  “There’s no connecting door into that room. The only way in will be from the outside,” Mrs. Churchill responded.

  James looked at the footman. “Get a ladder and meet me outside.”

  The young footman nodded and hurried down the back stairs. James followed him.

  Lady Elizabeth turned to Thompkins. “I think you’d better call a doctor.”

  Mrs. Churchill said, “You’ll find Dr. Wilson’s number on a notepad down by the telephone.” She turned to the maid. “Ethel, please help Thompkins.”

  The maid curtsied and hurried toward the back stairs.

  Thompkins bowed and followed the maid.

  Randolph stood with the two ladies in the hall for a few seconds after everyone else left. “I’m going back to bed.” He pulled his robe closed, walked to his room, and closed the door.

  Mrs. Churchill looked after her son and then shook her head. “I knew he’d bring nothing but trouble. I wish he’d stayed away.”

  “I don’t know if you can blame Randolph for this, Clemmie.”

  “Of course I can. He brought her here.”

  Mrs. Churchill frowned. She paced back and forth in front of Jessica’s door. She walked hard, but there was more than anger reflected in her face. Her gaze darted around as she paced. She wrung her hands and her posture, normally very erect and straight, was slouched.

  “What’s wrong, Clemmie? What are you afraid of?”

  She stopped pacing and looked down at the ground. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I just have a horrible feeling.”

  Lady Elizabeth took a step toward her friend but stopped as she heard movement behind the closed door. They stood and listened intently for several seconds. They heard a click and watched as the knob turned and the door opened.

  James stood in the doorway, blocking the two ladies from entering.

  Lady Elizabeth could tell from the look in James’s eyes something was terribly wrong. “What is it, James? Is she ill?”

  James shook his head. “She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” both ladies whispered.

  Lady Elizabeth recovered first. “How?”

  “Murdered. We have to call the police.”

  “Murdered? Are you sure?” Mrs. Churchill asked. “Could it have been an accident?

  James shook his head. “No accident. She was shot.”

  Mrs. Churchill clutched at the collar of her gown. “Could she have done it herself?” she whispered.

  James shook his head slowly. “Whoever did it took the gun. She was murdered.”

  Lady Elizabeth stared at James. “But the door was locked.”

  He nodded.

  Mrs. Churchill looked from James to Lady Elizabeth to James. “The window?”

  “It was locked too. I had to break the glass to get in.”

  “Then how?” Mrs. Churchill whispered.

  He shrugged. “That’s what the police will have to tell us.”

  Chapter 15

  “Well, that’s going to be a challenge,” I said out loud. “A locked room murder? No idea how I’m going to get out of that.”

  Snickers and Oreo were apparently accustomed to hearing me talk to myself. They didn’t move until I stood. Then they both stretched as though they’d just worked a twelve-hour shift.

  I put on a simple mid-length black dress I’d ordered online. It was a sheath style with three-quarter-length sleeves. The bust had a crossover detail that created a sweetheart neckline. It was made of rayon, nylon, and spandex and clung to my curves in all the right places. Best of all, the dress was machine washable. It was simple, and basic. Every woman needed a basic black dress, so my sister told me. I liked the fact the dress wasn’t covered in lace, tulle, chiffon, or anything super fancy. However, it could be dressed up with the right jewelry and accessories. It was cold, so I pulled on a pair of warm tights rather than panty hose and a pair of ballet flats rather than pumps.

  The retirement village had planned a memorial service for Maria and we were going to snoop around for clues. Magnus’s death earlier today had thrown a bit of a monkey wrench into the plans and left the staff scrambling. However, Dorothy called earlier to say they were including Magnus in the memorial. Two birds with one stone, or something like that.

  I surveyed myself in the mirror and grabbed my purse. Dawson and Jillian were sitting at the kitchen table. Textbooks and papers were strewn over the surface. The apartment smelled of peanut butter and cinnamon. There was a plate of peanut butter cookies and snickerdoodles on the table, along with two large glasses of milk.

  Dawson whistled.

  “You look really nice, Mrs. Washington.” Jillian spoke around a large mouthful of cookie. She quickly swallowed and washed it down with milk. “Sorry about that.”

  “Thank you. You two are great for my ego.” I grabbed a snickerdoodle. “These are delicious.”

  Dawson smiled. “I found the recipe in an old cookbook I bought at the antique store across the street.” He shoved a snickerdoodle in his mouth. “I love old recipes.”

  I grabbed a glass from the cabinet in the kitchen and poured some milk, then returned to the table.

  “Me too.” I took a peanut butter cookie this time. It was warm and soft and fine crystals of sugar glistened on top of the traditional crossed fork pattern. I bit into the cookie. It was not only beautiful to look at but delicious as well. “I think this is one of my favorites.”

  “Mine too,” Jillian said.

  I noticed the two were seated side by side. Their faces shone with a brilliance that spoke volumes. Without being told, I knew they had talked and everything was good between them. I smiled as they returned to their studies. I wasn’t sure where the relationship was going, but, for now, they were happy and that was good enough for me.

 
I couldn’t coax the poodles away from the table. The possibility of cookie crumbs was too great a temptation to miss. I left with assurances from Dawson and Jillian that they would take them out after I left.

  Nana Jo was to meet me at Shady Acres, so I drove off alone to the memorial service.

  At Shady Acres, pictures of both Maria and Magnus were enlarged and placed on easels in the front lobby. One of the larger reception rooms was filled with people and I headed in that direction.

  The room was spacious and included a large fireplace, a bar, and tons of seating. Residents could reserve the space for parties. I’d attended a couple of tailgate parties here a few years ago when JAMU played in the Cotton Bowl. Today, people mingled and spoke quietly while chamber music played over the sound system.

  I scanned the room for familiar faces. Ruby Mae was seated on the sofa, with her knitting bag next to her. She had a glass of wine and a plate of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table in front of her. A large woman with long, curly gray hair sat next to her. She wore a brightly colored loose-fitting dress with a lot of gaudy jewels. She had rings on every finger and bracelets on both arms and even around her ankles. She had a plate of food on her lap and held a glass of wine. If the flush in her face was any indication, this wasn’t her first or second glass. She leaned close to Ruby Mae and whispered intently. Her eyes darted around the room as she spoke.

  Judge Miller and Freddie stood nearby. They were talking to a man who looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. It wasn’t until he looked up at someone who entered the door and waved that I recalled where I’d seen that gesture before. He was the security guard I’d seen a hundred times sitting behind the desk. In casual clothes and without his uniform, he blended in with everyone else.

  Irma stood near the bar. In un-Irma-like fashion, she was alone and not flirting with any of the men. Not only was she not flirting, but something else seemed wrong. Again, it took a bit of staring until I realized what it was.

  I jumped when Nana Jo whispered in my ear. “Looks weird to see Irma when she isn’t tarted up like a five-dollar hooker, doesn’t it?”

  I was so intent on figuring out what was different with Irma, I hadn’t seen Nana Jo’s approach. “Now that you mention it, I’d have to say yes.”

  Irma was dressed conservatively in dark slacks, loafers, and a pullover.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her when she wasn’t wearing six-inch heels.” I accepted the glass of wine Nana Jo gave me and took a sip.

  “That’s probably the only pair of flat-heeled shoes she owns.” Nana Jo shook her head. “On anyone else, it would be okay, but somehow, on her, it just seems . . . odd.”

  “I know. I was thinking the same thing. What’s wrong with her?”

  She shrugged. “Been that way ever since she came back from talking to Stinky Pitt.”

  “Maybe he scared her.”

  Nana Jo laughed. “It’d take more than Stinky Pitt to scare Irma Starczewski. She’s made of sterner stuff.”

  “Something’s definitely different about her.” I looked at Nana Jo. “Maybe you could talk to her and find out what’s wrong.”

  She nodded. “I’ll talk to her as soon as this shindig is over.”

  “Who’s Dorothy talking to?”

  Nana Jo glanced casually around the room until her eyes rested on Dorothy. “That’s Denise Bennett.”

  Denise Bennett was a tall, slender woman. She was probably in her mid-forties, although her hair was completely white and she wore it cut short.

  “Oh, I remember her now. What do you know about her?”

  “Not much. She doesn’t talk about herself. She’s hardworking and efficient. Runs this place like a drill sergeant.”

  We were so engrossed in our conversation neither of us had noticed Freddie and Judge Miller had joined us until Freddie spoke. “I had drill sergeants in the Marines with more compassion than that woman.”

  “A bit of a martinet when it comes to following the rules. The restrictive covenant for Shady Acres states you can’t shake your rugs outside. Can you believe that?” Nana Jo looked at each of us.

  I smiled. “Did she catch you shaking your rug outside?”

  Nana Jo nodded. “Apparently one of my nosy neighbors reported me. She told me if I got caught doing it again, I’d get a fine.” Nana Jo’s eyes flashed. “Well, I showed her.”

  Freddie pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, but he wasn’t able to hide a smirk or the twinkle in his eyes.

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “The next time I needed to shake my rugs, I brought all of them here into the lobby and shook them out right there.”

  Judge Miller nearly choked on his drink. Freddie and I laughed.

  “She never questioned me about shaking my rugs outside again.” She grinned.

  We chatted for a few minutes and then split up to mingle.

  Memorial services weren’t my favorite places, but Nana Jo and the girls had taught me a lot could be learned. I sauntered around the room looking for a familiar or friendly face. In a quiet corner of the room, I saw an old gentleman sitting alone in a chair. He wore a yarmulke. He looked angry, which was probably why he was alone. I couldn’t have said what drew me to him, but I sat down in the chair opposite him and smiled.

  He looked up but didn’t return my smile.

  The force that drew me to this angry man vanished as soon as I sat down. I tried to compel myself to speak, but no words came. I sat there in the hostile silence, unable to speak. After what felt like an hour, but was more like a few minutes, I noticed tears stream from his eyes. I reached in my purse and pulled out a packet of tissues and silently shoved several into his wrinkled, gnarled hands.

  I half expected he would fling the tissues back at me. Instead, he used them to dab at his eyes and blew his nose. When he recovered, he looked up and thanked me.

  I reached out and squeezed his hand.

  “You must think I’m a foolish old man,” he said with a heavy Eastern European accent.

  I shook my head. “No, of course not. There’s nothing foolish about grief.” I squeezed his hand again. “Did you know Maria or Magnus well?”

  His eyes widened and he stared at me. Then he shook my hand away. “Grief? You think I shed tears of grief for that . . . that animal?” He spat on the floor. “No. These are tears of thanks. I thank God that I have lived to see my enemy vanquished. God has smote my enemy at last and I rejoice.”

  The violence of his words left me staring with my mouth opened. “What did she do to you?”

  He tilted his head, puzzled. “She? I barely knew that silly woman. No, I speak of him.” He inclined his head toward the picture of Magnus on an easel. “Magnus von Braun.”

  It took a few seconds for me to recover. “You knew Magnus von Braun?”

  He smirked. “Not personally, but I was a scholar. I studied. There is a verse in your Christian Bible, ‘You will know them by their fruits.’ Yes? I knew Magnus von Braun by his fruit. He and his brother built bombs that destroyed millions. They used men, women, and children as slaves to build their weapons.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed his arm. Five numbers were tattooed on his inner arm.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He stared into the distance. “I was fourteen when they took my parents away. I hid with my brother in the woods for months, surviving on berries, squirrels, and other vermin. I learned of a couple in Lisbon who helped children escape to England. We walked miles, hiding during the day and traveling only by night. By the time we arrived, we were nothing more than savages.” He paused. “I was too old. Martha Sharp was her name. She was an angel. She tried to get papers to take us both, but I knew the guards would not be fooled. I sent my brother, Aaron, with her on the train. He didn’t want to leave me, but I made him go. I told him I would join him one day.” He paused.

  I waited for him to collect himself. Then I prodded. “Did he make it?”

  He had a faraway look in his eyes and a s
mile crossed his face. “Yes. He made it. Aaron made it to England.” He pulled out a wallet and took out a picture and handed it to me. “That’s my brother, Aaron, and his wife, Mildred, and their children. Now they have grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

  I looked at the picture. It was creased and tattered with dog-eared corners. It was fragile and I handled it accordingly. “He looks happy.”

  He nodded. “Yes. He was lucky.”

  I handed the picture back. “But you weren’t so lucky?”

  He shrugged. “Luck . . . what is luck? I survived a few weeks after Aaron left before they found me. I was sent on a train to Belzec.”

  I knew from my research Belzec was a death camp in Poland. “Not many people survived Belzec.”

  He shook his head. “No. I was lucky. I survived. But, I cannot forget the things I saw there. I can’t forget the stench of it. I close my eyes and I see the horrors.” He shook his head. “But as you say, I was lucky. I escaped but was captured and taken to Dora—Mittelbau in the Harz Mountains.” He wiped his face and returned his wallet to his pocket. “From there, I was taken to work the caverns. Magnus von Braun was a monster. I don’t forget. I don’t forgive. I am thankful God allowed me to live to see him get what he deserved.”

  I sat quietly, unsure of what to say or do next. This man had a strong motive for wanting to kill Magnus von Braun, but had he killed him? My brain was spinning. Without a thought to the consequences, I blurted out, “Did you kill him?”

  He stared for what felt like a minute and then laughed for what felt like ten. “I wish I could take credit for that service to humanity, but unfortunately, I did not. I didn’t even know he was here. I was away visiting my grandson in Holland, Michigan.” He hoisted himself up out of his chair. “However, if you find out who did, please let me know. I would like to buy them a drink.”

  I watched as he ambled out of the room. It wasn’t until he was completely out of sight I realized I didn’t even know his name.

  Denise Bennett tapped her glass with a pen to get everyone’s attention. She stood in front of the fireplace and waited for silence.