Fireside Homicide Cozy Mystery Bundle

by Willow Monroe

“Starla, you ready?” Tucker called from the other side of the counter.

  Poppy gave me an ‘I told you so’ look and hurried back out to her post by the register, her pony tail dancing a jig on her shoulders.

  “Let me grab my jacket,” I called out and bounded up the stairs to my apartment.

  Why I felt like I needed to touch up my make-up, I had no idea, but I did that, brushed my hair and slicked on some shimmery lip gloss. At the last minute, I dabbed on some perfume and then headed out the door. True, we were just going to interview potential suspects but I wanted to look good if one of them confessed and my picture was in the paper and...

  Okay, so maybe I was over thinking it a bit.

  “Let’s roll, Doll-face,” Tucker said, as I breezed past him and out the front door of the diner.

  Poppy’s laughter followed us out the door.

  “I thought it might be a good idea to use my personal vehicle instead of a police vehicle,” he explained, opening the door to his black Jeep Renegade. “Less conspicuous. We don’t want to spook anyone.”

  “Good idea,” I said, buckling myself in.

  “Where to first?” he asked, climbing behind the wheel.

  The clean scent of his cologne teased my nose and watching those big, strong hands skillfully steer the vehicle out onto the street made it difficult to think. I checked his notes. “Helen Means. She lives with her son over on West Beverly Street. She’s the closest.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled and we headed off the main drive into one of the older residential areas of Sugar Hill.

  I kept myself busy looking at the stately old Victorian homes lining the wide streets. Some of them looked a bit shabby and run down but it was easy to imagine what they might have looked like when they were built back in the early nineteen hundreds. I’d always wanted to go inside of one and now it looked like I was going to get my chance.

  A curtain shifted at one of the tall front windows when we stepped onto the wide porch.

  “I called ahead,” Tucker whispered and rang the doorbell. “Didn’t want to frighten anyone.”

  I had been hoping for more of a surprise visit but didn’t say anything.

  The door opened almost immediately and Helen Means greeted us. She looked like Mrs. Santa Claus with her snow white hair, her wire rimmed glasses and her round face. The rest of her was pretty round as well and she wore an apron covered with flour.

  “Land sakes, look who showed up at my door,” she squealed. “Little Tucker Ashe, you’ve grown a foot since I last saw you.”

  “No, ma’am, I still only have two,” Tucker said, holding up one foot and then the other.

  Helen laughed and her whole body shook, well, like a bowl full of jelly.

  “And Starla Cupp, you are the spittin’ imagine of your grandma when she was your age.” She squished me against her bosom.

  “Are you two getting reacquainted?” she asked, leading us through a large living room and dining room and into an even larger kitchen. “I know you were inseparable as kids.”

  “Something like that,” Tucker said with a grin.

  The ceilings were as high as I imagined they would be, the thick, dark mahogany woodwork gleamed and the hardwood floors were covered with beautiful, fringed rugs. All the walls were painted a soft gold color that brought out the warmth of the wood.

  “Well, I have a fresh batch of cookies just out of the oven and hot coffee,” she said, maneuvering us to a large island in the center of the room. “Once I get started baking for Christmas, it’s kind of hard for me to stop.”

  “I understand,” Tucker said.

  “Are you entering something in the Winter Festival baking contest?” I asked.

  “Thought I might enter that cupcake contest everyone is talking about. I’m pretty handy with a cake decorating bag and I taught myself to make sugar flowers,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I should be able to handle cupcakes.

  Great, more competition.

  “Miss Helen, we don’t want to keep you,” Tucker said, taking a sip of the coffee she’d poured for both of us. “But we’d like to ask you a couple of questions about Mr. Nettle.”

  At the mention of his name, her face dropped and tears gathered in her eyes.

  “That poor, poor man,” she said softly. “He was such a sweetheart. Who would want to do something like that to him?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out,” Tucker assured her.

  “Well, if I can help in any way...”

  “Actually, we found this note in his pocket and we were wondering if you knew something about it?” I said, motioning toward the plastic bag Tucker was pulling out of his jacket pocket.

  “A note?” she said softly. “Like in one of those detective novels. Oh, I just love reading those things, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, smoothing the note out on the island in front of her so she could read it better.

  She gazed at it for a split second and then the timer on the stove buzzed. Tucker and I munched cookies and watched as she pulled more cookies out of the oven, popped a second cookie sheet in and reset the timer.

  “Now, let me look at this note,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, picking up the plastic bag and carrying it to the window.

  We watched while she studied it and then she finally shook her head. “This would have been the day he was killed?” she asked.

  Both Tucker and I nodded.

  “I was hosting my weekly garden club meeting here at the house at precisely that time,” she explained as if we were asking her for an alibi. “There were seven other ladies here at the meeting. We were studying our seed catalogs. I can give you their names and numbers if you like,” she offered.

  “No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary,” Tucker said quietly. “We were just wondering if maybe, for some reason, you and Mr. Nettle had scheduled a meeting.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Oh, my, no,” she gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “He was a sweet man and I’ve known him all my life but he was much too old for me.”

  I bit back a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Means. That’s was all we really needed.”

  “Who else here in town is named Helen?” Tucker asked as if the thought just struck him. “I’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Let’s see. There’s Helen Rogers, the preacher’s wife,” Mrs. Means said, her brow wrinkling in thought. “And Helen Taylor. Her husband sells insurance.”

  “Any others?”

  She shook her head after a bit more thought. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, thank you. You’ve been a big help,” I told her.

  It took a few minutes but we were able to finally get away from Mrs. Means and back out to the Renegade. Tucker pointed it toward Sears Hill. For the most part, the roads were clear and a trickle of weak sunshine broke through the clouds as we climbed the steep hill toward the water tower.

  “Remember when we used to come up here as kids?” Tucker asked as the big tank came into view.

  I laughed. “Yeah, you used to scare the stuffing out of us with ghost stories.”

  Tucker laughed as well, as if it was a memory he’d long forgotten. “There are a bunch of tunnels under this town. Could be ghosts in them.”

  The houses on Sears Hill weren’t as old or as well-kept as the Victorians downtown but they were clean with neat fenced in yards all full of snow from the recent storm.

  “Okay, here we are,” Tucker said, parking in front of a white house with blue shutters.

  The walkway had been cleared, as well as the center part of the steps, so getting up to the front door was easy. Tucker rang the bell and shifted from foot to foot while we waited for someone to answer. His breath fogged in front of him and my thoughts strayed to the kiss we’d shared the night before.

  Fortunately, those thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and a dark haired woman I recognized as Helen Rogers appeared.

  Tucker took off his big hat.
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br />   “Starla Cupp, what a nice surprise,” Helen said. “Please come in.”

  We were led into a small living room, neatly arranged with a fire blazing in the fireplace. The room was stifling hot and I quickly removed my hat and gloves.

  “I’m afraid my husband isn’t home right now. He went over to the hospital to visit a sick friend.”

  “We actually came to see you, Mrs. Rogers,” Tucker said, flashing her a big, innocent smile.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “This is Tucker Ashe. He’s investigating the murder of Mr. Nettle,” I explained.

  “Oh,” she repeated.

  “We found this in his pocket and I was wondering if you might know something about it,” Tucker said, offering her the note still in the plastic bag.

  She read the note in silence and then handed it back to us. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Positive,” she said, with a shrug. “He seemed to be a nice old man but I don’t think we’ve ever spoken more than a dozen words to each other. I was sorry to hear of his passing,” she added.

  “Do you know of anyone else in town named Helen?” Tucker asked. “I was born and raised here but I’ve been away a while.”

  “Helen Means lives here in town and then there’s that lady who runs the genealogy society.”

  “Helen Taylor,” I offered.

  Helen Rogers wrinkled her nose slightly. “Yes. You might want to talk to her.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rogers,” Tucker said, ushering me toward the door.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” she said, following us.

  “You were a big help. Thanks again.”

  “I think she was as happy for us to leave as I was to get out of there,” I said, once we were back in the Jeep.

  “Can you spell wild goose chase?” Tucker said, when he started the engine.

  “Humor me,” I said. “Let’s go visit Helen Taylor and see what she has to say.”

  “I’m telling you we need to follow the money,” he said.

  “And I’m tell you we need to follow the Helens,” I argued.

  Chapter Ten

  “I’ve already got a court order to pull all of Adam’s bank records for the last six months,” Tucker announced as we drove away from the water tower. “If he paid someone to kill his father, that should tell me.”

  “He didn’t,” I said, holding fast to my original thoughts.

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself there, Doll-face,” he teased.

  “Call it intuition,” I said, ignoring his teasing. “Mr. Nettle’s murder has something to do with that note.”

  “Well, we’ve got one more Helen to talk to and then I’m going back to real police work,” Tucker said. “After I take you to lunch.”

  Helen and Robert Taylor lived just outside of town in a new development with big yards and cookie cutter McMansions lined up like soldiers. A big green sign marked the stone walls at the entrance. I was pretty sure it was beautifully landscaped but that day it was nothing but snow.

  “Raven’s Crest. A Community for Active Adults Over-Fifty,” Tucker read aloud as we turned onto the well-plowed main street. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Who knows,” I said, looking for the address.

  The house looked like all the others around it. A two car garage, a wide paved driveway and concrete steps leading up to a front porch that I was pretty sure had never been used. A path had been shoveled and the steps were clear.

  I followed Tucker and used his big body to block the wind while he rang the doorbell and waited.

  And waited.

  He pushed it again.

  Nothing.

  “Looks like no one is home,” Tucker said, sounding confused as he checked his watch. “I told her about what time we’d be here and she said she would be home.”

  “Maybe she’s going to meet another mail man,” I suggested.

  Tucker shot me a hard look.

  “Come on, let’s get out of this wind,” he said, heading back down the steps to his Jeep. “I don’t think anyone is home.”

  I had just settled into the passenger seat when I heard someone calling out. My first instinct was to look at the house. Maybe she hadn’t heard the bell or maybe she’d been in the shower. Nothing there but two men trotted toward us, dressed in expensive running gear, their faces red from the cold and wind, teeth white against their vivid tan.

  “Can we help you?” the taller of the two asked Tucker.

  “We had an appointment with Helen Taylor,” Tucker explained. “It appears she’s not home.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “What kind of appointment?” the second man asked.

  “It’s a private matter,” Tucker returned.

  “We’re head of the neighborhood watch,” the second man said, giving Tucker a look. “What is your business here?”

  Tucker reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. “I’m Tucker Ashe, detective with the Virginia State Police.”

  The two men exchanged glances again.

  “Sorry, sir, there’s just been a lot of traffic on the street here and with that gruesome murder at the park...” he finished with a shrug.

  “I understand your concern,” Tucker said, his slow, southern drawl returning. “And I do appreciate your vigilance.”

  “What kind of traffic?” I asked, not wanting to interrupt but it seemed a logical question.

  “Let’s see, there’s Ronnie. He’s been driving for UPS for years. He’s here at least once a week. Mr. Nettle, of course. He parks on the corner there and walks from house to house. He’s here...was here every day. Old Man Jenkins, the guy who does home repairs, comes by once or twice a week.”

  “You mean here?” I asked. “At the Taylor house?”

  “Must be a lot of broken stuff in that house,” the taller one said with a grin.

  “Oh, and Mayor Gillespie,” the second man said.

  “Mayor Gillespie?”

  “Yes, he’s here two, maybe three times a week for the past few months. We just figured they’re working on some genealogy project together.”

  “Probably,” Tucker said.

  “Should we tell her you stopped by?” the taller one asked.

  Tucker shrugged. “I’ll see if I can catch her down at the Historical Society.”

  “Or the mayor’s office. I understand they work closely together on lots of projects. She’s practically his right hand man,” the second one added.

  That was the first I’d heard of that.

  “Thanks, you’ve been a big help,” Tucker said, offering his hand to each of them in turn. “And thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.”

  “Yes, sir,” the taller of the two said. “We mean to watch out for our own.”

  We climbed into the Renegade and then Tucker thought of another question for the two. “Gentlemen, do either of you carry a gun?”

  Their eyes grew big. “Oh, no, sir. We have guns at home but we just make sure everyone is safe at home and report any strangers to the Homeowner’s Association.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Still think we’re on a wild goose chase?” I asked, when we were heading out of the community.

  “Yep,” Tucker said with a nod.

  “Helen Taylor is awfully busy,” I mused, thinking about the pretty older woman with her trim figure and her perfectly done hair and make-up. In contrast to the other two Helens, she was a super model.

  “What? You’re thinking she and the mayor...” Tucker began to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked. “It could happen.”

  “Some crazy old geezer love triangle?” Tucker laughed aloud. “Do you think that’s what got Mr. Nettle killed?”

  As always, Tucker’s hearty laughter was infectious and I was soon laughing as well.

  “So, where to for lunch?” I asked, when we had calmed down somewhat.


  “Mama is expecting us,” he said, with a wink.

  Oh, Lord.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Here’s a good one,” Poppy said, angling my laptop so I could see the screen.

  She’d been sprawled across my bed all afternoon searching for YouTube videos about cake decorating. So far, all she had found were wedding cakes. I needed to know how to decorate cupcakes.

  “That’s a wedding cake,” I told her as we watched the process.

  “Same thing,” Poppy argued. “You just put your icing in that bag and use a special tip and you can make flowers or ropes or...

  I sighed. I’d already decided on my recipe and had an idea for a sweet little surprise inside each cupcake. It was this decorating thing that was going to do me in.

  “You’re just not into this right now are you?” Poppy asked, rolling onto her back and looking up at the ceiling.

  “Not really. Besides, I don’t want to invest in a bunch of cake decorating equipment that will end up just gathering dust. You know how expensive that stuff can get,” I answered.

  “You can’t let Tiffany get the better of you again. The last time you were in a funk for weeks.”

  “Poppy, right now I’m more concerned about who shot poor Mr. Nettle,” I said.

  I’d already told her about visiting the three women in town named Helen that morning and how I was just sure it had something to do with his murder. Tucker strongly disagreed and had already begun chasing the money angle. And, well, he did have more experience than I and more training and...

  “So tell me about this kiss,” Poppy said.

  “Oh, that,” I turned my attention back to the YouTube video. Suddenly I found it very interesting.

  “Come on,” Poppy said, closing the laptop. “Fess up.”

  I sighed. I’d been trying not to think about the way if felt when Tucker kissed me there in the diner the night before. Both the action and my reaction surprised me. Yes, Tucker had grown into quite a hunk, but I’d known him all my life. I’d also been trying not think about the look on Joe’s face when he came into the diner and caught us.

  “Tucker kissed me,” I said, quietly.

  “And when were you going to tell me about this?” Poppy leaped off the bed and paced back and forth across my tiny bedroom.