Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Grace Topping

  “Thanks for checking on the truck, Tyrone. If you hadn’t, we would have been in a real fix on Monday.” I’d known Tyrone since he was a youngster, and he had proven himself time and again to be an asset to our small team. Not only did he provide the brawn we needed to move furniture, but he also had an excellent eye for good décor and design. He designed stage sets for the Louiston Players, the local community theater group, and could do a lot with very little.

  I pondered who else could have a truck we could rent or borrow. “We could call Ernie Phillips. If he doesn’t have any window cleaning scheduled for Monday, perhaps we could rent his truck. In fact, I’ll check with the homeowner to see if they can work window cleaning into their home staging budget. That will help make it worth his while.” Houses for sale with sparkling clean windows help them stand out from other houses on the market.

  As the number of people attending the fair dwindled, we began packing our promotional materials to place in my car overnight. After church in the morning, we would start again. Closing the back door of my car, I let out a big sigh.

  “Was that a sigh of relief, or are you tired? Nita asked.

  “Neither. I was thinking about Aunt Kit’s arrival this evening. She’s coming to town to attend the Louiston Arts Festival and is staying with me for a few days.” Aunt Kit was my mother’s older sister who had moved away from Louiston several years ago to take a job. She had never married, and was, to my knowledge, my only living relative. Her outlook on life was about as grim as my mother’s had been.

  Nita laughed, a sound I was glad to hear coming from her. “You mean Aunt Kit with the glass-half-empty-smudged-and-cracked outlook? That will sure help lift your spirits after the depressing events today.”

  “It must be genetic. She’s as dour as my mom used to be. I hope I didn’t inherit the same genes.” With the bearing of a stern mother superior, Aunt Kit had missed her calling.

  “Give her a small glass of the Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry she likes. Then she’ll be halfway pleasant.”

  “She doesn’t drink often.” Maybe that was just as well. Cream sherry sounded innocuous, but the potent sweet drink could provide a real punch to an unsuspecting imbiber.

  “Then serve her some sherry trifle—with an extra dose of sherry.”

  “That reminds me, I need to pick up a bottle of it. If Aunt Kit becomes too much to deal with, I’ll have it to drink.”

  “Glad you mentioned that Aunt Kit was coming into town for the arts festival. Don’t forget you’re helping with the art intake on Tuesday. Come prepared for an interesting session. If we don’t hang the artists’ works where they want them, they can get pretty upset.”

  Chapter 4

  Most homebuyers form an opinion fifteen seconds after entering a home. Stage your home to ensure their first impression is a good one.

  After a draining day, I happily returned to my craftsman bungalow and was greeted by my tiny black cat, Inky. Unlike many cats who only tolerated their owners, Inky was affectionate and curled around my ankles, displaying how happy he was to see me. He was even more so when I put clean water in his bowl, with two ice cubes, which he loved, and fed him his favorite salmon dinner. It smelled awful to me, but he loved it—it pays to have a happy pet. I’d heard too many horror stories from pet owners about how their pets had taken revenge on them for minor infractions.

  After tending to Inky, I stepped in the shower, wishing the hot water pouring over me could wash away memories from earlier that day. I hadn’t realized how stressed I had become. The water helped relax my stiff muscles and reminded me again how wonderful it was to have a shower. My father frequently talked about how much he appreciated a shower. As a Marine, who had served in both the jungle and the desert and frequently had only cold water to bathe with; he viewed a hot shower as pure luxury. Memories of him caused a sharp pain to hit. Even after so many years, I still missed him. After my parents’ divorce when I was young, he gradually disappeared from my life, and I didn’t know whether he was alive or dead.

  I dressed quickly and went about preparing dinner so Aunt Kit could have something to eat following her long ride. It didn’t matter what I fixed. She would pick at whatever it was and say she wasn’t hungry. But she always had room for dessert.

  The doorbell sounded just as I slid a frozen pizza into the oven. I had doctored it with red peppers, onions, mushrooms, and olives to make it healthier.

  Aunt Kit stood at the door, a tall, erect figure, holding two large cases that would have weighed down anyone far stronger. She hadn’t even bothered to rest them on the porch floor while waiting for me to come to the door. It always amazed me that someone who ate so little could be so strong.

  “Well, you took your time,” she said, every bit as imperious as Maggie Smith in Downton Abby.

  Lovely greeting. “Hello, Aunt Kit.” She was so much like my late mother it was like having her there—just when I thought I had exorcized her disgruntled spirit from the house I had grown up in. My mother resisted any bit of happiness that tried to fight its way into our lives. Fortunately, I’d had Nita’s family to show me how good life could be. As a result, I had a much better outlook on life than I would have had without them.

  “Here, let me give you a hand with your cases.” I made the mistake of reaching for one of them.

  She pulled back. “I can still manage on my own, thank you very much.”

  I shrugged and led the way to the guest room.

  Inky scooted around us and launched himself onto the bed. I held my breath, wondering how Aunt Kit would react, but I needn’t have worried. She was fond of me in her gruff way, but she loved Inky. And for some inexplicable reason, he loved her too. He would be her constant companion while she was there.

  I was ravenous, but as I expected, Aunt Kit toyed with the pizza I placed in front of her. As I cleared our plates away, I told her about Nita finding the body in the funeral home. I knew if I didn’t, someone would tell her about our involvement. She had grown up in Louiston and still knew lots of people in town who were bound to tell her.

  “How do you get yourself involved in things like that?” She stated it as though I went looking for trouble.

  There was no explanation for it, so I ignored her question.

  Aunt Kit continued. “How is that little business of yours going?”

  Hearing people use the term little in that way had the same effect on me as hearing fingernails scrape across a blackboard. It was as though they were dismissing the subject as having little value.

  “It’s growing. Nita is working with me now. Also Tyrone, when he isn’t at school or one of his other part-time jobs. We have enough work that I’ll occasionally call in Will Parker to help. Do you remember Will? He’s the retired rodeo star who was hit by a car this past spring, but he’s doing a lot better now.”

  “I remember you telling me about that, but I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”

  “He’s a real character, but I like him a lot. He lives with his daughter and her big family up near the B&B.”

  “I’m glad he helps you out, but how you could give up a well-paying job in IT to go into a business moving furniture about is beyond me. I can’t imagine what your mother would think if she were alive.”

  I knew how my mother would think—exactly like Aunt Kit. As young women, neither of them had any sense of adventure. It made me wonder what their parents had been like with both their daughters viewing the world so glumly. Maybe it was just as well I didn’t know.

  “Working in IT bored me. Home staging allows me to use my talents for decorating. And there’s a lot to be said about being my own boss. But best of all, I’m doing work that makes me happy. And I’m doing it while still young enough to try it.

  “What does being happy have to do with making a living? You’ll never be able to make the money you made in IT. I wasn’t happy in my work, but it�
��s given me a good retirement that I can depend on. Derrick wouldn’t have approved of you chucking your job.”

  Uh, oh. She’d used the D-word. My late husband, Derrick, had never had time for anything I wanted. Everything had always been about him. I was elated that I no longer had to worry about what Derrick thought.

  “Frankly, Aunt Kit, I’ve reached the stage in my life where I’m doing what I want to do—even if I go broke doing it.” Entering a new field, that was always a possibility, but I wasn’t going to let a fear of failing stop me from trying. “You don’t have to worry about my finances. The home staging field is growing, and the more people recognize its value, the more they’ll be turning to businesses like mine.”

  And then she softened. “Just take care, dear. I worry about you.”

  That statement deserved a reward. I opened the freezer and surveyed the two containers of ice cream stored there. Should I give her butter pecan to butter her up, or rocky road, which seemed to hold a warning? Decision made, I placed a bowl of butter pecan ice cream in front of her. Her face broke out in a wide smile. Dessert always put a smile on her face.

  I scooped up a bowl for myself. Maybe after the day I’d had it would put a smile on my face—and help me prepare for whatever tomorrow held.

  Chapter 5

  A home stager knows what helps to get a house sold fast.

  The next morning after church, I waited for Nita at Vocaro’s Coffee Bar, where we met most mornings and she read our horoscopes. None of the horoscopes came true, but since she enjoyed reading them, I listened and attempted to sound interested. She was running late that morning. I’d asked Aunt Kit if she wanted to join us, but she said she planned to relax in my hammock and read a new release by Cindy Brown, whose humorous mysteries featured a different Broadway play.

  As I sipped my cappuccino and waited for Nita, I spotted Warren Hendricks coming in and waved at him to join me. I hadn’t talked to him since the tragedy at his place, and I was curious about what he knew of the man we’d found there.

  As Warren approached, I noticed how unlike himself he looked. His usually neat hair was standing up from his head in spikes. And instead of the immaculate somber suit he wore during the day, he had thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt with a logo that had long since faded beyond recognition. At one time it might have said Penn State.

  “Hey, Warren, take a seat. I’m sorry about what happened at the funeral home.”

  Warren pulled out a chair, turned it, and straddled it, facing me. “I’m surprised you want to be seen talking to me.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Since I’m being considered for the role of villain in Ian Becker’s murder.”

  In addition to operating the funeral home, Warren directed the Louiston Players, our local community theater group. He could be every bit as dramatic as any of the characters he directed.

  “I don’t think Detective Spangler is going to consider you involved in the murder just because it occurred at your place. Besides, what motive could you’ve had? Did you even know Ian Becker? Was that his name?

  “Yeah, Ian. He used to spend summers here in Louiston with his aunt, and we hung around together. I was two years older, but we got along okay. The last summer he came was about twenty years ago. I remember it because it was the summer before my last year of college.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “No. After that summer, his folks moved the family to New Zealand, and that was the last I heard of him—until he called me on Friday. Quite frankly, I was really surprised to hear from him, especially after so many years. He said his aunt had died, and he was in town to help settle her affairs.”

  “Who was his aunt?”

  “Doris Becker. We handled her burial. I thought he might be calling about that and told him his aunt had made all the arrangements and set money aside for it years ago, so her estate didn’t owe us anything. But he said he wanted to come by and say hello for old times’ sake. With his parents traveling so much when he was a kid, he’d spent a lot of summers here. Louiston probably felt more like home to him than any place.”

  “That’s so sad.” I thought about him lying on the floor at the home and shuddered.

  “And weird. He comes back here after twenty years, and as soon as he walks into my place, he gets murdered. And with his wallet gone and no other ID on him, if I hadn’t recognized him, the police might have been unable to identify who he was.”

  “Did anyone else know he was meeting you at your place?” I was starting to sound like Detective Spangler.

  “That I couldn’t tell you. We made arrangements to meet at the home at noon. I told him to come for lunch—that I’d get us hoagies. He used to love them, and we ate a lot of them that summer. I figured he probably hadn’t had a good one since moving to New Zealand and thought it would be a treat for him. I went to get them just before noon.”

  So that’s what Warren had in the bag he dropped when he saw the body—hoagies? “Where did you get them?”

  “Johnny and Kathleen’s. Their salad on the hoagies is the best.”

  “It is.” Just the thought of the foot-long bread roll filled with Italian meats and cheeses and heaped with lettuce coated in the best salad dressing in the state made me hungry. “Could someone there say they saw you and when?”

  “I doubt it. The place gets busy, and I don’t go there very often these days. Someone might remember I’d been there but not what day or time.”

  “Detective Spangler and his team will check it out. How long were you gone?”

  “About twenty minutes. I hadn’t planned to be away long, so I didn’t lock up, especially since I’d told your group they could use the restrooms. I didn’t want you to find the doors locked and think I had forgotten. Also, I’d told Ian that if I wasn’t back by the time he got there to go to my apartment upstairs. He knew the way. We planned to eat lunch there.”

  I took a sip of my now-cold coffee. “Do you have any security cameras near the entrances to the home?”

  Warren shook his head and laughed. “People aren’t usually dying to get into the funeral home. Sorry. That wasn’t the best way of expressing that. People breaking in hasn’t been a problem.”

  “Too bad. A camera would have shown who entered and left,” I said. “Since Ian’s wallet was gone, robbery was probably the motive. But why stab him in the back?”

  “Maybe to keep Ian from identifying him. It’s all so strange. I’m not convinced the police are thinking it was simply a robbery. That’s why I’m worried they’re looking at me as a suspect.”

  “But what motive could they think you had for killing him? Especially since you haven’t seen him for so long. Could he have been involved with someone’s wife or girlfriend that last summer he was here and that person wanted revenge?”

  Warren shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like Ian. And who would want revenge after so many years?”

  “Don’t they say revenge is a dish best served cold? Or could he have been here long enough this time to cross someone? It doesn’t take some people long to get into trouble.”

  “He said he’d only just arrived in town.” The corners of Warren’s mouth tightened. “Why are you so interested? You aren’t planning to get involved are you?”

  “Definitely not. You know me, Warren. I’m intrigued by a mystery. That’s why I read mysteries over other novels. I love trying to solve a puzzle. Someone in this town murdered Ian. Doesn’t it drive you crazy thinking it could be someone we know?”

  Since Warren seemed to relish being in the police spotlight, I didn’t say what I was really worried about. With Nita being the one to find Ian’s body, Detective Spangler might also consider her a suspect. Worse, Nita walked in just minutes after the stabbing. Could that person have seen and recognized Nita and wondered if she saw him commit murder?

  Chapter 6

/>   The cost of staging a home is always less than your first price reduction.

  Warren left Vocaro’s, taking his paper coffee cup with him. He was probably a nervous wreck since he hadn’t taken a sip the whole time he sat there. I hoped Detective Spangler wasn’t considering Warren a suspect, or Nita, for that matter. As I’d learned in the past, once he strongly suspected someone of a crime, it was difficult to have him look elsewhere.

  A few minutes later, Nita took the seat Warren had vacated and put her coffee and croissant on the table. “Sorry I’m late.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “I needed that. After tossing and turning all night, I overslept and nearly missed church. Now I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “I was just about to call to see if you were okay. Warren was here, so I filled the time talking to him.”

  “I saw him as I came in. Poor Warren. He looks about as bad as I feel.” Nita’s normal healthy color was gone, and she had dark circles around her eyes. She definitely hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Finding a dead body is more traumatic than mystery books portray.

  “He’s afraid the police suspect him of killing Ian Becker. That’s the name of the man killed at the funeral home.” I eyed my now-empty cup and contemplated getting another one.

  “Not a name I know. One of my brothers may have known him. I’ll have to ask the guys. Why does Warren think the police suspect him?”

  “Warren’s always been a bit dramatic and a worrier. And with things slow at the funeral home, he has time on his hands to worry. Frankly, I think he secretly enjoys the thrill of being a suspect.” I finished the last of my muffin and crumpled the wrapper.

  “Not if they put him in jail. Thankfully, tryouts for the Louiston Players will be starting soon. That’ll help keep his mind off murder.”

  I was a fan of the local community theater group Warren directed and rarely missed a production. “What show are they doing this season?” I hoped it wasn’t a production featuring murder. Last season Warren had directed a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, which had numerous murders.