Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Grace Topping

  Chapter 11

  Ensure artwork and furniture are in scale and in proportion to the room size and other items around them.

  I searched the crowded reception room for Warren but didn’t see him. It was unusual for him to miss a function like this since he was a big supporter of anything related to the arts in Louiston. Could the police have detained him?

  Tyrone, biting into a cookie, approached and handed me a serving plate of cookies. It looked like he had eaten most of them already. “Laura, I need to leave. Got a date. Could you give Gran a ride home?”

  “I’m riding with Nita and Guido, but I’m sure they’d be happy to drive her home.” I looked around. “By the way, have you seen Warren? I thought he’d be here. Since the police wanted to question him again, I’m worried that he’s not here.”

  “He came into Vocaro’s this afternoon. Said the police had wanted to ask him about who else Ian Becker hung around with when he lived here. They didn’t detain him.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Behind us, we heard raised voices and turned to see Monica and Damian. Her face was reddening and her hands curled into fists. Damian kept trying to quiet her, but as Monica became more agitated, her voice grew louder.

  “I can’t let you do that!” Monica screeched.

  Damian, noticing the crowd had turned toward them, took Monica by the arm and ushered her out a side door. The room remained silent for several seconds before the buzz of conversation started again. Monica always knew how to make an entrance—and now a dramatic exit.

  “Well, that was interesting.” I started picking up paper cups and plates from a nearby table and disposing of them in a trash bag. Nita had used her strong arm to find volunteers to help clean up after the reception—me among them. “That was one scene I could have done without.”

  Tyrone took the bag from me and held it open as I cleared another table. “I gather their decorating collaboration, or whatever they call their relationship, isn’t going well.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. But Monica never has a smooth relationship with anyone. If nothing else, it makes life interesting for the rest of us.”

  At the end of the evening after Nita and I finished cleaning up, I noticed a box sitting on a side table. I held it up and motioned to Nita. “This got left behind.”

  “Agatha Christie!”

  “What?” I stared at Nita, wondering what had gotten into her.

  Guido laughed. “Since finding that body and being stressed, she’s started using a few expletives and wants to cut them out before the kids come home. Now when she’s upset, she uses the name of somebody famous. What’s wrong, Nita?

  Nita pointed to the box. “That’s the thank you gift Anne gave Damian for serving as the juror. In his haste to get Monica out of here, he probably forgot it.”

  I handed her the box. “He might come back for it.”

  “Yes, but we’re ready to close up, and if he doesn’t come back soon and we leave it, someone might take it. It’s too valuable to leave.”

  Nita turned to Guido. “It’s not too late. Do you mind if we drop this at his place when we take Mrs. Webster home? He doesn’t live far from her.”

  During the short drive to Damian’s house, I found my eyelids becoming heavy and noticed Mrs. Webster’s head bobbing and occasionally jerking upright. We’d all had a tiring day, and I was anxious to get home and curl up in bed with Inky, if he wasn’t deserting me again for Aunt Kit’s bed. Aunt Kit had joined old friends for dinner that evening, so I wasn’t sure what time she would be getting in.

  Damian’s mid-century modern house was set back from the road in a grove of pine trees. The large front windows typical of that style of home were dark and the place looked rather foreboding. Guido pulled into the long driveway and stopped the motor. We could see a dim light from a side window, which could mean Damian was still up.

  Nita hopped from the car with the box. “I’ll knock quickly, and if he doesn’t answer, I’ll leave it near the front door and send him a text letting him know it’s there.”

  The cool night air and the lovely fragrance of pine coming in from an open car window helped relax me. I rested my head on the seatback, planning to sleep the rest of the way home.

  A piercing scream jolted us fully awake.

  Looking toward the sound of the scream, we saw Nita by the front door frantically beckoning to us. We scrambled from the car, nearly stumbling over ourselves, and ran toward the house. Our relief at seeing she was okay was overwhelming.

  When we reached the front door, Guido entered first, with Mrs. Webster and me following. Not knowing what we’d find, I tried to push in front of her, but she wouldn’t have it.

  We gaped at the scene in front of us. There, wide-eyed and covered in blood, stood Monica Heller—a knife in her hands. At her feet lay Damian Reynolds.

  Chapter 12

  Arrange furniture to provide balance to a room.

  Guido grasped Nita to his chest, trying to soothe her and to assure himself that she was okay. Monica looked dazed and was keening like a sick animal.

  “Monica, drop the knife.” I attempted to keep my voice calm, feeling more like running away than trying to talk a crazed killer into giving up her weapon. If we didn’t get it away from her, would she come at one of us with it? Me in particular, given our history.

  Monica didn’t appear to absorb what I’d said. Finally, she focused on me with a questioning look, as though wondering why I was there.

  “Drop the knife,” I repeated. Monica looked down at the knife in her hands and abruptly thrust it away from her. It landed on the terrazzo floor with a clatter, splattering spots of blood as it skittered across the shiny stone surface.

  Mrs. Webster knelt on the floor next to Damian Reynolds and checked his pulse. She pushed aside his long ponytail, matted in blood, and exposed an expanding dark circle in the middle of his back. Not again.

  Assured that Nita was okay, Guido pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in 911. Behind me, I could hear him giving details to the dispatcher. Would it be Patty again?

  Monica stood as though rooted next to Damian’s body. Now that she was unarmed, I took her by the arm, gently led her to the sofa, and eased her into it. She rubbed her sticky hands together as though to rub away the blood on them. My instinct was to get some wet paper towels in the kitchen so I could wipe her hands clean, but on reflection, thought better of it. The police would need to see things the way they were before we entered.

  Monica’s eyes came back into focus and with a jerky voice asked, “Is he…going to be okay? I tried to save him.”

  Save him? “How, Monica? How did you try to save him?”

  “I found him…on the floor. He wasn’t moving…the knife.” She started to sob. “I pulled it out…trying to save him.”

  If Monica pulled the knife out, had she thrust it into his back to begin with? Regretted what she had done and then pulled it out? But if she hadn’t stabbed him, who had?

  If she hadn’t stabbed him, it was natural her first instinct had been to remove the knife. If she read mysteries, she’d have known not to do that. Now she was covered in blood, been seen holding the knife, and looked every bit as guilty of stabbing him. Oh, Monica, what have you done?

  Given all the evidence of what four people had seen, would the police be willing to believe her story about finding him and removing the knife to save him? Especially after they had argued so publicly?

  We could hear the wail of sirens in the distance and knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the emergency response team arrived. At this point, I didn’t know if Damian was alive or dead, but it didn’t look good for his chances of survival.

  When we heard the sound of vehicles screech to a halt nearby, Guido left Nita’s side and went outside. From the window, I saw him talking to the policemen who had arrived wi
th the EMTs. I was grateful to have Guido running interference for us. The EMTs nodded their heads, and I assumed that Guido had apprised them it was a crime scene. That way they could take steps to attend to the victim and try their best to preserve any evidence.

  With the EMTs there to take over, Mrs. Webster stepped back from Damian’s body and came over to where Monica and I sat. The grim look on her face confirmed my fears that Damian was dead.

  Leaving us, Mrs. Webster poked her head into several doorways, and when I heard running water, I realized she had gone to wash her hands. I looked over and saw Monica rubbing her hands on her skirt, looking unaware of what she was doing. She stared anxiously at the EMTs as they went into action.

  Guido had taken Nita outside. I looked through the large front window and could see them sitting on a bench near the front door. I desperately wanted to join them and not be here, witnessing what was happening in front of me. But I didn’t want to leave Monica alone in the state she was in. Would there be any effect on the investigation if we removed her from the immediate scene of the crime? If we left through the front door or even a rear door, we could end up harming the crime scene. What a mess.

  It was times like this that I wished I’d read more true crime and police procedural novels instead of traditional mysteries. Perhaps then I would know how to handle the situation better.

  I looked up to see Detective Spangler coming through the doorway. He caught sight of me and shook his head. After conferring with the uniformed police officers and the EMTs, he came over to where Monica and I sat.

  “Am I going to find you near every body that’s found in town?” He flipped open the small notebook he was never without.

  What could I say? Given my ill luck, that was about what was happening. And with each instance, it wasn’t getting any easier.

  Chapter 13

  Each room should have a focal point. To provide a focal point for a bedroom, use a headboard that is about sixty inches high.

  In the morning after a late night, I dragged myself from bed, fed Inky, left a note for Aunt Kit, and made my way to Vocaro’s to meet Nita and Tyrone. We were scheduled to stage another unoccupied home that morning and couldn’t put it off. Fortunately, the truck we had reserved hadn’t mysteriously been canceled, so we were set to go. Nita, just as bleary-eyed as I felt, arrived soon after I got there.

  It had been quite late by the time we had given our statements to Detective Spangler and were allowed to leave. Fortunately, he’d felt compassion for Mrs. Webster and directed a police officer to take her home, saying he would get her statement in the morning. With four of us to attest to what we had witnessed when we arrived at the house, he could get most of what he needed from Nita, Guido, and me—and later get Mrs. Webster’s story.

  When Detective Spangler had broken it to Monica that Damian was dead, it was as though she had gone into shock. Her vacant stare unnerved me. When she parted her lips to speak, words didn’t come out.

  Later when Detective Spangler questioned her, she mumbled her responses. It surprised me that he’d allowed me to stay at her side during the questioning. The last thing we saw that night was Monica being driven away in a police car for further questioning. It hadn’t been her finest hour.

  Now with little sleep, Nita and I stared up at the menu board hanging above the counter, trying to decide on something we could stomach. The shock of finding a second body within days of each other was taking a toll on us, and neither of us felt very hungry.

  Tyrone stood behind the counter, ready to serve people as they came in. Soon he would be getting off work and we could leave to pick up Will Parker and then the furniture we were taking with us. Tyrone still amazed me at his ability to hold several part-time jobs and manage to get passing grades—in fact, more than just passing.

  Today, however, after hearing about the events of last evening from his grandmother, he didn’t seem as buoyant. Monica wasn’t among his favorite people either, but with his experience of being accused of a crime and then proven innocent, he could well sympathize with her plight.

  We finally decided on muffins and coffee and claimed our favorite table in Vocaro’s rear seating area and sank into our seats. We’d both ordered large coffees in an attempt to become more alert.

  Vocaro’s served as a crossroads for the community, and a large segment of the population came through it during the day. So it was no surprise when Nita’s cousin Neil came in. His wrinkled police uniform and mussed hair a sure sign he’d pulled an all-nighter.

  When he saw us, he put up both hands, palms out as though stopping traffic. “Don’t bother to ask, I’m not saying anything about Damian Reynolds’s murder or about Monica Heller.”

  “Relax, Neil. Have a seat.” Nita patted the chair next to her. “We know you wouldn’t have information about what’s going on.” Knowing Nita so well, I knew her words, innocent on the surface, were meant to goad her younger cousin into saying things he shouldn’t. He could never resist trying to show her how much in the know he was.

  She turned away from him as though ignoring him. “What do you think, Laura? Did Monica stab Damian? Or was it as she said—she found him on the floor when she got there and pulled the knife out to save him?”

  I pondered the question, glad I wasn’t in a courtroom being asked that—it was a tough one. “I don’t know. We didn’t see her stab him, but what we witnessed was pretty incriminating. I heard her tell Detective Spangler that after she and Damian argued at the Arts Center, he dropped her at her place. Later, she got in her car and drove to his house. The door was ajar, and getting no answer when she called his name, she stepped inside. That’s when she saw him on the floor. Without thinking, she pulled the knife from his back, hoping it would help him. We arrived to find her holding the knife.”

  “If what Monica says is true, and she didn’t stab him, who did? We didn’t pass anyone on the road near Damian’s house. But who knows how long Damian could have been lying there before Monica arrived.” Nita shuddered, probably reacting to the memory of finding them there.

  “It couldn’t have been too long, because they left the Arts Center only about an hour before we did,” I said. “Perhaps a little longer since we helped clean up.”

  “Two stabbings within a week. Could we have a serial killer on the loose in Louiston?” Nita looked at Neil out of the corner of her eye, hoping he wouldn’t be able to resist adding something.

  Neil didn’t resist for long. “Did you know that Damian fellow is a famous artist? Or was.” The color rose in Neil’s cheeks at his blunder. “You should’ve seen the reporters coming into the station. They were shouting questions at the Chief about the murder—and about the murder of that man from New Zealand. The Chief wasn’t happy, especially after he received a call from the New Zealand Embassy. The whole squad later heard him yell at Detective Spangler to get those cases closed—and fast.”

  Suddenly, Louiston was becoming an international hotbed of criminal activity, and we’d been caught up in it.

  Chapter 14

  Buyers will be in and out of a vacant house within minutes but will linger in a furnished home an average of forty minutes. The longer they stay, the greater the opportunity for them to picture themselves living there.

  When we reached the site of the unoccupied home staging, I grabbed my check-off list and went to work directing Tyrone and Will Parker in unloading the truck and telling them where to take the furniture and rugs we’d brought. Nita carried in the large canvas bag we brought with us to each work site. We didn’t always need everything from the bag, but being able to pull out things like furniture sliders, two-sided tape, or removable picture hangers when we needed them was helpful.

  The hundred-year-old house, built in a Victorian style with a wide front porch, was typical of the homes in that section of Louiston. Tyrone, who was studying design, found the old homes interesting. Standing in front of the hou
se, I pointed out some of the characteristics of the house style. “Real craftsman built these old homes. Look at the decorative trim in the gables.” I pointed to the house across the street. “That one has fish scale shingles on the sides.”

  “I never paid much attention to them before.” Tyrone looked up and down the street at the homes with various decorative trim.

  I pointed to a little door in the porch foundation. “See that? It opens to a coal chute. Workmen used to deliver coal to a bin in the cellar by dumping it into the chute. When people switched to gas, most of the chutes got covered up. I imagine most people living in these homes don’t even know there is a coal chute.”

  “Probably lots of things in these old places people don’t know about,” Tyrone said.

  On the porch, I then took a can of brass cleaner from our tool bag and wiped some on the house numbers. With a little buffing, they looked brand new. People could either be attracted to or turned off by a house based on a first impression—and that started at the front entrance.

  After a busy morning, we stopped for lunch at noon and pulled out the sandwiches and drinks we’d brought with us, gathering around the kitchen table we’d set up. It gave us the break we needed from all the physical work we had been doing.

  Will took off his cowboy hat and fanned himself. “I can’t believe you ladies stumbled on another body.”

  Nita’s phone rang. She got up and walked away to answer it.

  “This has been a bad week, Will.” I unwrapped my sandwich and took a bite, savoring the taste of the tuna and dill pickle on pumpernickel bread I’d packed.

  “That’s for sure. I didn’t know either of those two gentlemen, but I sure was sorry for ’em. Doesn’t it make you wonder about two murders so close together and both of ’em stabbings?”

  Tyrone sat down and pulled the tab from a can of Pepsi. “Sure sounds strange to me. I had an art class with Damian Reynolds last semester. Man, he was a tough instructor but a talented guy.”