Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Grace Topping

  Mrs. Webster had cared for dying patients in their homes over a number of years and could recognize when a person was dead. Though probably not many of them had been murdered. I gave Patty the address of the funeral home and my callback number, thankful I’d recharged my cell phone that morning.

  “Police and an ambulance are on their way. Stay on the line with me until the team gets there.” Her use of old phone terminology made me smile, in a situation that didn’t warrant any smiles.

  “Thanks, Patty.

  “You said the man was stabbed. Do you feel safe?” Patty asked.

  We had been focused on the victim and hadn’t given any thought to his attacker. Could that person still be in the funeral home? Unlikely, but I didn’t plan to look around to be sure. How long would it take for the police to arrive?

  “We haven’t seen anyone else,” I said.

  I heard footsteps behind me, and my heart leapt into my throat. “Hold on, Patty, someone’s coming.”

  “Well, hello, everyone. Come in from the heat to cool down?”

  We all turned in unison to see Warren Hendricks, director of the funeral home, ambling down the long hall from a side entrance, looking as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  When none of us answered, he raised his eyebrows. “Anything wrong?”

  Mrs. Webster, the calmest one of us, pointed behind her. “You have an unexpected guest.”

  Warren peered behind us, gawked at the man on the floor, and dropped the white paper bag he’d been carrying. “Have you called for an ambulance?”

  “Hold on, Patty, we’re okay.” I waved my cell phone at Warren. “I’m on the phone with Patty at the dispatch center. She’s sending police and an ambulance.” Seconds later, the front doors to the home flew open and two EMTs rushed in, quickly followed by a uniformed policeman.

  “They’re here, Patty. Thanks for your help.”

  Experience gained from reading mystery novels made me realize we should move away from the area. We’d probably already messed up the crime scene just by being there. I motioned to Nita and Mrs. Webster for us to go into one of the empty viewing rooms to stay out of the way. We took seats in the ornately carved wooden chairs lining the walls.

  Thinking of the body made me wonder. “Did either of you recognize the man?” From the little I could see of his longish blond hair and the side of his deeply suntanned face that wasn’t pressed into an Aubusson carpet, he didn’t look like anyone I knew.

  Nita took a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her sweaty face. “It was hard to get a good look at him, but he didn’t look familiar.” Her eyes were still wide from shock.

  “How old would you say he was?” I asked.

  Nita shrugged. “Somewhere in his late thirties or older. It was hard to tell with that deep suntan.”

  Mrs. Webster shook her head. “Dang, it’s a sad thing when someone can’t even go into a funeral home without getting murdered.”

  Warren came into the room, perspiration running down his forehead and into his graying beard. He removed a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. A ceiling fan high above us did little to cool the room, which was becoming warmer by the minute. It was surprising since funeral homes were usually cold.

  Over the years, I’d seen Warren under a number of trying situations, but this one seemed to unnerve him.

  “Did you recognize the man, Warren?” I fanned my face with a pamphlet outlining the history of the funeral home.

  “Unfortunately, I did. At least I think so. I haven’t seen him in nearly twenty years.”

  “Can you tell us who he was?” The voice of Detective Alex Spangler made me look up in surprise. I had dealt with him before, and seeing his tall figure looming in the tall archway didn’t give me warm fuzzy feelings.

  Before Warren could answer, Detective Spangler scanned the room and stopped when he got to me. “You again.” Obviously, he didn’t have warm fuzzy feelings about me either.

  That morning all I’d wanted to do was promote my home staging business—so I could make a living and save enough money to someday travel to places I yearned to visit. Instead, I was going to be questioned by police about a murder victim I didn’t know. And by a detective I didn’t want to be interrogated by again.

  Chapter 2

  To successfully stage your home, detach yourself emotionally from it and think more like a home seller and less like a homeowner.

  “You’re next, Laura.”

  I looked up from the ornate carpet I had been studying to see Neil Stanelli, a Louiston uniformed policeman and one of Nita’s numerous cousins. Nita, Mrs. Webster, Warren Hendricks, and I had been waiting in separate areas of the home before being interviewed one at a time by Detective Spangler. Most likely we were separated so we couldn’t confer on our stories before he could question us.

  I’d been glad for the time alone in a separate room—time to collect myself. It was one thing reading about a murder victim in a novel and another thing actually seeing a victim. Thinking of the man’s sudden death at the hands of someone vile enough to stab him left me chilled to my very core.

  Now it was my turn to be questioned. I rose from the ornate Victorian chair that had been designed for torture and not comfort, and stretched, trying to work the kinks from my body. I’d been sitting there for what seemed like hours, although I knew it hadn’t been that long. But it had been long enough for me to study the mishmash of old-fashioned wallpaper patterns on the walls in garish hues of peach and green; the heavy, ornate draperies; and the variety of chairs and sofas from different eras, none of them comfortable. I knew because I had tried them all. I regretted not having ear buds with me so I could have listened to an audiobook on my iPhone to fill the time. A Nero Wolfe mystery by Rex Stout, where I didn’t see the body firsthand, might have helped take my mind off this sad business.

  Neil led me into a viewing room across the hall from where I’d waited, slid open tall oak pocket doors, and ushered me in. It was fortunate Warren hadn’t had any viewings scheduled that day. We were running out of rooms, and the police activity would have been disturbing to the family and friends of any deceased there.

  “Laura Bishop’s here.” With that, Neil slid the doors closed behind us.

  Detective Spangler studied a notebook in his hands, ignoring us. When he finally looked up and saw me, he grimaced. His dark eyes and handsome features didn’t appeal to me—much. I have this thing about handsome men. They always seemed to be at the root of any unhappiness I’d experienced in my life, and I tended to steer clear of them.

  Detective Spangler pointed to the chair in front of him. “Take a seat.” Said the spider to the fly. This was worse than being called to the principal’s office.

  “Please tell us what happened.” His eyes held my gaze, which unnerved me somewhat. His intense gaze looked powerful enough to make suspects confess.

  I told him succinctly everything that had occurred from the time Nita left the square to use the restroom until the police showed up. No emotion, no embellishments, no theories. I was sad for the man, whoever he was, and felt emotionally drained. My throat was parched, but I was determined not to ask for anything to drink. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and return to our table at the fair and a world without bodies.

  “Did you recognize the man?” Detective Spangler tapped his pen on his notebook.

  “No. I don’t believe I ever saw him before. If I did, I don’t remember him. Didn’t he have any identification on him?”

  “We didn’t find a wallet.” He looked at his notebook as though to confirm that. “Do you know if any of the others knew him?”

  I’d seen each of the others going in to be interviewed, so I knew he was interviewing me last. Was he thinking I knew something they weren’t willing to say? Perhaps rat on them in some way?

  “Nita and Mrs.
Webster said they didn’t recognize him. Warren said he thought it was someone he knew but hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. You arrived just as he was about to name him.” So there, Detective. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I might be able to give you a name.

  I sat up straighter and reminded myself not to be so grumpy. But something about Detective Spangler always put my teeth on edge. Besides, I had nothing more I could contribute.

  “Warren Hendricks said the victim’s name was Ian Becker. Does that name mean anything to you?” Detective Spangler again tapped his pen on his notebook.

  I shook my head.

  “What was Nita doing in the funeral home to begin with?”

  Uh, oh. Was he keying in on Nita as a possible suspect in the murder? “She went inside to use the restroom. Warren had told us that it would be okay. She’d been gone only a short time before she returned to tell us what she found.”

  I stopped and thought about the sequence of events. “The man was lying in front of the door leading to the restrooms, so she hadn’t made it that far. When I ran into the building, Nita and Mrs. Webster followed me.”

  Then it struck me. Nita might have missed the killer by only minutes. I shuddered to think what would have happened if she had witnessed the attack. Detective Spangler could now be investigating her murder as well.

  Detective Spangler scribbled something in his notebook and stood. I took it as a signal I could leave.

  “That’s all for now. I don’t need to tell you not to discuss this with anyone else.”

  “I need to explain to my assistant outside what happened. He was scheduled to arrive to help us about the time the ambulance and police cars pulled up. With all the people in the square, what happened won’t be a secret for long.”

  “Okay, but don’t go wild spreading Ian Becker’s name.”

  I rolled my eyes, something I frequently reminded my young assistant and myself not to do. Childish I knew, but Detective Spangler always brought out the worst in me.

  I left the room wondering who had wanted Ian Becker dead.

  Chapter 3

  Staging your home with touches of luxury will help buyers view your house as special.

  Outside the funeral home, I took several deep breaths to relieve the stress I’d felt building. The warm summer day was glorious, and I took a moment to enjoy the view of the Allegheny Mountains in the distance. Seeing the green, rolling mountains always calmed me. It was a beautiful time of year in Pennsylvania—but Pennsylvania was beautiful any time of the year.

  I went back to our table in the town square, glad that only our team was there at the moment. The thought of how close Nita had come to danger had shaken me, and I hugged her. Close friends since second grade, and without sisters, we had become more like siblings and worried about each other.

  Tyrone Webster had arrived to help and was sitting with the others. His dark good looks and outgoing personality would help attract people to our table. Tyrone was Mrs. Webster’s grandson, and I’d known him since he was young. Now a design student at nearby Fischer College, he assisted me part-time in my staging business.

  “Hey, Tyrone. I’m guessing Nita and your grandmother filled you in on what happened this morning.” I reached for one of the unopened bottles of water on the table and gulped down half of it before I came up for air.

  “Man, that was terrible. When I saw the emergency vehicles and then didn’t see any of you here, I freaked out.”

  Since his grandmother was his only family, I knew how alarmed he must have been. “I’m sorry. One of us should have come out to tell you what was going on, but everything was happening so fast.”

  “Not to worry. A policeman outside the funeral home told me you all were inside and okay. So I came back here. The crowd came down to this end of the square to see what was going on, so I got to talk to a lot of people about the business.”

  Nita fanned herself with a handful of the pamphlets we’d been handing out. “Emergency vehicles outside a funeral home were bound to attract attention.”

  “It sure attracted the ghouls,” Tyrone said. “I overheard some guy say that maybe one of the bodies brought in hadn’t been quite dead.”

  “Ridiculous. We’re not living in the dark ages.” Mrs. Webster took off her hat and swatted the bees buzzing around the drinks we’d left on the table.

  It was getting hotter as the day went by. Tyrone reached for a fresh bottle of water, opened it, and tossed the lid into a nearby bag of trash. “Thanks to the big crowd at this end of the square, I handed out lots of pamphlets. Nita, your before and after photos in the pamphlet impressed people.”

  During the past few months, Tyrone and I had staged a nineteenth-century mansion, making it more attractive to buyers. It sold for far more than expected. The new owners had bought the mansion and all the furniture and turned it into a fantastic bed and breakfast. It was our first staging job and helped establish our reputation in Louiston. Since then, we’d completed a few more places. Nita joined us, first taking photos of our progress, and now completing online classes to become a certified home stager.

  Mrs. Webster helped when we needed her skillful needlework or on occasions like the fair today. She enjoyed being able to spend more time with Tyrone—and to keep an eye on him. Having raised him since he was orphaned at five years old, she was quite protective of him.

  Nita didn’t respond to Tyrone’s comments about her photos. It was most unusual, since she was thrilled to be using her photography skills. Could she be thinking the same thing I thought earlier—that she might have missed the killer by minutes or even seconds?

  “How did your interview with Detective Spangler go?” I asked her. Having been questioned by him before and how uncomfortable it could be, I worried he might have intimidated her. I always found him intimidating.

  Nita expelled a long breath. “He asked me several questions, often the same ones over and over but worded differently.”

  “The police do that. It must be an interrogation technique to see if your story stays consistent. How about you, Mrs. Webster?” I asked.

  “Don’t you worry about me, girl. I didn’t let him intimidate me. I stared him right in the eye and told him everything I knew.” She sniffed. “I nursed his grandmother in his family’s home when he was a youngster. He knows I’m not going to let him scare me into saying something I shouldn’t.”

  Nita fanned herself faster now. Her face was flushed and her shoulders slumped. With the sun directly overhead, the heat had become intense, and the nearby trees no longer shaded us. Mrs. Webster handed Nita a bottle of water and a tube of sunblock. “Put some of this on, and tomorrow, bring a hat. You young people need to be more careful. In my career, I’ve seen some terrible cases of skin cancer. Tyrone’s already lathered up.”

  Tyrone and Mrs. Webster, with their dark brown skin, showed no effects from the sun, but Nita’s face was reddening, either from the sun or from the earlier stress of finding a body. The hat Mrs. Webster was never without helped protect her skin. I planned to bring one of my straw hats tomorrow when we would again be at the square. The two-day fair was enabling us to educate homeowners about what a home stager could do to prepare their homes for sale. And it was helping to promote our fledgling business.

  Tyrone reached into a box on the ground and placed more pamphlets on the table. “What I can’t understand is why someone would want to kill somebody at a funeral home? But if you are going to get killed, a funeral home sure would be a convenient place for it to happen.”

  “Young man.” Mrs. Webster swatted him with a pamphlet.

  “Sorry, Gran.”

  It was sometimes easy to forget how young Tyrone was. Even at nineteen, the boy in him still came out.

  I studied Nita again. Earlier in the day she had been cracking jokes and now she was subdued. Not surprising after the terrible experience of finding a body
. It had affected all of us but especially her.

  “Nita, why don’t you go home? We can handle this. And if you don’t feel better, stay home tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be okay. Tyrone is picking up lunch for us soon. Once I’ve eaten something, I should feel better.”

  To Italian-American families, good food helps in any situation. It’s like the British and a soothing cup of tea. I wasn’t convinced food would help Nita right now, but I decided to let it go for the moment. I felt quite shaken by the experience myself and longed to call it a day, but I had to hold it together for my business. The fair was held only once a year, and it was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Tyrone walked away from the table, talking into his cell phone. When he returned, the uncharacteristic frown on his face was a dead giveaway I wouldn’t like whatever news he had.

  “Laura, did you cancel the rental truck we reserved for Monday? I just called to confirm the rental, and they said someone canceled it. I told them they must have mixed us up with someone else, but they said the caller specifically said to cancel the reservation for Staging for You. Worse than that, they don’t have another truck available for Monday.”

  “What? I didn’t. Nita, did you cancel it?” I couldn’t imagine why she would have. We needed that truck. We’d reserved it to transfer furnishings to stage an unoccupied house that was soon going on the market. Nita shook her head and looked as puzzled as I felt.

  That was strange—this happening right after someone had anonymously left us a bad review online and some other things that I was beginning to wonder about. It was starting to unnerve me. “It’s too late now to wonder how it happened. Let’s work at getting another truck—that is if we can find one at this late date. Tyrone, can you work on that?”

  Nita sat up in her chair. “If you can’t locate one, let me know and I’ll check with the family about borrowing a vehicle.” Nita’s father and five brothers owned a construction company, and they had often come to my aid.