“He was famous, so there’ll be a big crowd there, including other people who didn’t know him. Nobody will notice us.”
Nita placed her hands over her chest. “My heart is beating fast. I’m feeling faint. Maybe you should take me to St. John’s Hospital in case I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re not having a heart attack. It’s probably a panic attack. Breathe in slowly counting to seven, hold your breath, and then breathe out again. That’ll help calm you.”
“What’ll happen if I get inside and faint?” Nita’s eyes widened as though panicked at the idea of being rolled out of there on a stretcher with everyone watching.
“Don’t even think about it. We’ll sit in the back. If you start to faint, you’ll make a spectacle of yourself. We need to fade into the crowd. Drawing attention to ourselves to that degree won’t help us.”
A black Limousine pulled up and parked nearby. The driver got out and opened the car doors. A man and woman stepped from the car, followed by a young woman. Dressed all in black, they were probably members of the family.
“Please hand me that folder with the photos you downloaded from the Internet.” Nita handed it to me. I quickly pulled out the photos and studied them. “That’s Garrett Fletcher, Damian’s agent. That must be Mrs. Reynolds, but it’s hard to tell since her hair looks different. That’s Damian’s daughter. No mistaking that California beach girl look.” I watched as Mrs. Reynolds reached for her daughter’s arm and the daughter pulled away. Ah, some history there.
“I wonder how Damian’s daughter is adjusting to life in Central Pennsylvania?” Nita burst out laughing.
“Be nice. She just lost her father, and before that, her sister. Life has to be rough for her right now, regardless of where she’s living.”
“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just such a contrast in lifestyles.”
“We didn’t do too badly growing up here.”
We waited for several more people to go inside before we went to the front entrance ourselves. The flash of news cameras caught us by surprise. Several reporters and cameramen milled about the front entrance. I kept forgetting that Damian had been famous and that photos or live footage of the people going into the service would be on the next news program.
Nita ducked behind me. “If I’d known we were going to be photographed, I’d have worn a better outfit.”
“I think any photos or videos of us will end up on the cutting room floor.” I patted down my hair just in case they didn’t.
Warren Hendricks and an assistant in somber suits with black ties stood inside the main entrance greeting visitors and directing them to the funeral chapel. Seeing us, he quirked an eyebrow as though to ask why we were there. Nita had been right. But hopefully, we’d be lost in the crowd.
The chapel was filling up quickly and few empty seats remained in the pews. Nita and I sat in some folding chairs that had been placed in the back of the chapel in anticipation of a big crowd. Scanning the room, I recognized many people, including Detective Spangler, who looked at us speculatively and frowned. Seeing us there, he probably suspected I was up to something.
A young woman sat down next to Nita. I looked up and recognized her niece Jaime. It was only natural she would want to be there since she had worked with Damian at the college. She hugged Nita and waved at me. Pachelbel’s “Canon” played softly in the background, partially covering the murmured whispers around us. It always amazed me the piece was played at both funerals and weddings.
Jaime pointed out some of the people from the college as they came in. Finally, just before the service began, Garrett Fletcher, Mrs. Reynolds, her daughter, and some other people walked in and sat in the front pews.
The service itself was somewhat of a blur since my thoughts were filled with a jumble of images from the past few days. Several people spoke at length about Damian. A cousin recounted some of their adventures growing up, evoking some laughs from those gathered. A former classmate spoke about their college days, and Garrett Fletcher described Damian’s early struggles to gain recognition in the art world. Damian’s daughter gave a tearful eulogy, recounting some of her happiest memories of her father. How he had tried to teach her to paint and her view that she was hopeless at it. I admired the girl’s courage getting up to speak about her father and her ability to get through it.
I looked up to see bowed heads and realized they were saying some final prayers, and it was over. Such a short ceremony to mark the passing of someone who had died all too soon. Thankfully, no one said anything about the way he’d died or mentioned Monica in any way.
Jaime wiped her eyes and turned to us. “Are you going to stay for the reception?”
“I don’t think so—”
“Why not?” Nita asked. “It will give you a chance to meet and question Damian’s ex-wife and agent.”
“Because I don’t think it would be appropriate here, especially with so many people trying to talk to them. Besides, I called Ron earlier to see if they were staying at the B&B, and fortunately, they are. First thing tomorrow, I’ll take Ron and Geoff up on their invitation to join them for breakfast someday—and if I happen to be there at the same time as the guests are having breakfast, all the better.”
“I’m going along with you,” Nita said. “It won’t look as strange as you being there on your own.”
As we got up to leave, Jaime whispered. “See that tall man by the side door—the one with the pink shirt and plaid bowtie? That’s Professor Edward Albertson. From what I heard, he was really upset when the college hired Damian.”
“Why? Because he wanted the job?” Nita asked, her ears perking up at the idea of another possible suspect.
Jaime shook her head. “No. He’s a historian, not an artist. Someone said it was because Damian and Professor Albertson’s wife had some history.”
As people began spilling out of the chapel, I spotted Helen Reynolds heading to a corridor that led to the restrooms. Perhaps I could casually run into her there. As we both dried our hands at the sink, I could express my sympathy. Later when I questioned her, she might remember me as someone who attended Damian’s funeral and be a little more forthcoming.
“Nita, I’ll be right back.”
When I entered the long corridor leading to the restrooms, I stopped abruptly when in the distance I saw Helen Reynolds walk into the arms of Garrett Fletcher. Their embrace was much more intimate than two people consoling each other.
Chapter 28
Grimy bathroom tile is a turn-off to buyers. Thoroughly clean grout. Replace outdated tile or paint with a special ceramic epoxy covering.
After I arrived home from Damian’s memorial service, I thought about the embrace I’d witnessed between Helen Reynolds and Garrett Fletcher. Damian and Helen had divorced long before Damian’s murder, but it still made me wonder. Could she have been involved with Garrett while she was still married to Damian? Even now, could Helen or Garrett have had a motive to see Damian out of the picture—one besides Helen’s feelings toward him because of the death of their daughter?
I wondered if Detective Spangler had questioned Helen Reynolds. She lived within driving distance of Damian and could have easily gone to his house the night he was murdered and returned home again within a few hours.
Thinking of pictures, I remembered reading that candid photos can sometimes reveal things about people and relationships—children who are always standing away from their parents in family photos, couples who shouldn’t be gazing at each other longingly, and individuals who aren’t smiling when everyone else in a photo is laughing. Photos sometimes tell a story. Perhaps if I could view photos of Damian, Helen, and Garrett together, they might tell me something. It was worth a try.
I reached for my laptop and searched on Google for photos showing the three of them together. Dozens of photos came up, but I didn’t see anything in them that was revealing. That
is until I saw a captioned photo that included Edward and Phyllis Albertson. In the photo, Damian had been standing close to Phyllis, with his hand possessively on her shoulder. Her husband had been on the far end of the group.
According to Jaime, Professor Albertson had been upset when the college hired Damian—something about there being a history between Damian and Professor Albertson’s wife. Could there have been enough between Damian and Phyllis Albertson that could have driven Professor Albertson to murder? A stretch, but stranger things have happened.
Early the next morning, Nita and I arrived at the B&B, well before the time Geoff and Ron served breakfast. Fortunately, when I’d explained to Geoff and Ron my reason for wanting to be at the B&B that morning, they were more than willing to accommodate us.
The cool early morning air felt wonderful and helped soothe my frazzled nerves. I’d slept poorly the night before, dreading the session with Damian Reynolds’s ex-wife and his agent. But we needed to grab the opportunity to see them while they were still in town, and this could be our only opportunity to do so.
We parked in the back of the tall mansion. When we came around the corner of the house to the front entrance, we found Geoff standing on the porch, holding a cup of coffee. The smell of it hit me and reminded me how ready for breakfast I was.
“Good morning, ladies. Glad you got here early. I need to talk to you before our guests start coming down for breakfast.”
“Hi, Geoff. What’s going on?” Nita stretched her arms out wide and breathed in the fresh mountain air. A look of pure joy filled her face. It was good getting out of town occasionally. We needed to do it more often.
Geoff’s expression wasn’t as joyful. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Laura. Garrett Fletcher is still here, but Mrs. Reynolds and her daughter decided not to stay another night. They came back after the memorial service and checked out, saying they were anxious to get home. After all that’s been happening to them, I can’t blame them. I think the daughter was having a particularly hard time of it.”
That was disappointing, but it helped take some of the pressure off. I wasn’t looking forward to questioning Mrs. Reynolds, especially with an unhappy or sullen daughter nearby. I’d have to find another way to talk to her. I was hopeful that someone else would be identified as Damian’s killer before it came to that, especially after witnessing her intimate embrace with Garrett Fletcher.
Geoff looked concerned. Did he think I was going to break into hysterics at the news Mrs. Reynolds had gone home? Asking questions related to a murder was filled with lots of roadblocks. Thankfully, I didn’t have to do this as a full-time job. I’d leave that to Detective Spangler. Thinking of him reminded me that I needed to fill him in on what I’d discovered so far.
Geoff opened the large oak front door. “Come on in, and I’ll get you some coffee. Ron and I are excited about watching you interrogate a suspect.”
My heart sank. This was going to be worse than I expected. “No, Geoff. He isn’t a suspect—simply someone who might be able to give us some information. We thought the opportunity to talk to him and Mrs. Reynolds here and away from others would be perfect. It’s unfortunate that we won’t get to see both of them.” I might view Garrett Fletcher as a suspect, but it wouldn’t do for Geoff to view him as such.
“Whatever. It’s still exciting. You just do your thing. I’ll listen in while I serve breakfast. Ron will listen at the door. If you need us to come to your aid, we’ll be ready to intervene.”
I didn’t know what they expected to happen, but I certainly hoped their intervention wouldn’t be necessary. It made me laugh imagining Ron bounding out of the kitchen waving a meat cleaver to rescue us. I hoped after breakfast with us Garrett Fletcher wouldn’t have reason to demand a refund for his stay.
“Let’s go ahead and get you seated in the dining room. Should we pass you off as other guests?”
“No. It’s better if we just stick to our original story. We came here to taste test some of your new breakfast items and provide you with feedback. How does that sound? Nita and I will play it by ear and decide how much to say.”
Geoff clapped his hands together. “Sounds great. Let me check in the kitchen to see how things are going with Ron.”
We took seats at the long dining table that had been set with crisp white linens and lovely bone china. Nita turned over a cup and peeked at the maker’s mark on the bottom. Pink and blue hydrangeas from the plants we had passed in the garden filled a crystal bowl in the center of the table. I didn’t have any experience staying at bed and breakfasts, but if this proved to be an example of the lovely setting and level of service guests could expect, I’d have to stay at them when I traveled, which sadly wasn’t often.
A sideboard groaned under the weight of platters filled with a variety of bread, muffins, and croissants, chafing dishes, and a bowl of mixed fruit. Seeing it reminded me of the description of breakfasts served in English manor homes that were the settings for some of the historical mysteries I read—all the more so with Geoff acting as butler.
Geoff entered the room carrying a china coffee pot in one hand and a teapot in the other. “Coffee or tea?” Ron followed him, carrying a container he placed in one of the chaffing dishes. He winked at us and returned to the kitchen. This was probably the best entertainment they’d had in quite some time.
Oh, the joy of being waited on. I asked for tea, somehow thinking it was more conducive to the setting. Nita opted for coffee. I wondered if it would be as good as the coffee at Vocaro’s.
“Today, we have a new mango muffin for you to try and a cheese strata Ron devised. See if you can guess the types of cheese he used.” Geoff placed individual dishes filled with pats of butter in front of us. “Anytime you are ready, please help yourselves.”
I wondered whether we should wait until Garrett joined us or start eating so we didn’t look like we were ready to ambush him. Hunger won out. I went over to the buffet, looked at what was on offer, and began filling my plate. Nita didn’t hesitate to follow me.
As we sat down, a tall man I recognized as Garrett from his photos and seeing him at the funeral home entered the room. Geoff greeted him and directed him to a seat near us. We both wished him a good morning and he nodded at us. Not a great start.
Geoff interceded for us. “Mr. Fletcher, please let me introduce Laura Bishop and Nita Martino. They are doing a taste test for us today.” I smiled at him, and Nita waved.
Geoff described the dishes on offer, and then told Garrett to help himself. Garrett filled his plate and sat down at the table across from us.
Like guests in those country manor mysteries, constrained by excessive formality, I wasn’t sure how to break the ice. Fortunately, Nita didn’t feel those same constraints.
“I understand you were Damian Reynolds’ agent. His death was so tragic.”
He looked up from the plate with barely concealed irritation. It was hard to tell whether his reaction was toward us or being reminded what had happened to Damian.
“Yes, it was tragic.” Obviously in his line of work he’d learned to be polite, but just barely.
Nita tried again. “We attended his memorial service yesterday.”
“Oh, yes?”
My turn. “We don’t believe Monica stabbed Damian, and we would like to try to prove she is innocent.” Nothing like cutting to the chase.
“And what? Find out who did?” He studied us for a long moment. “Bishop and Martino. Weren’t you two of the people who found Monica standing over Damian’s body? How can you ignore that? Didn’t you believe your own eyes?”
“The thing that everyone forgets is that we found Monica holding the knife. We didn’t see her stab him.” I couldn’t believe that I was coming to Monica’s defense. “We’ve known Monica for most of her life. And even though we found her as we did, she wouldn’t or couldn’t have killed him. From what we understand, s
he had come to care deeply for him.”
“Care for him or his fame and money?” Garrett asked, with a barely concealed sneer.
That brought out Nita’s fighting spirit. “If you were his agent, you are aware of his income from his works. If he had so much money, why was he trying to sell paintings—his own and from his collection—and keep it a secret? Where did all his money go?”
That caught him by surprise. “What are you insinuating? If you are looking at me as a suspect, you can forget it. Damian was my biggest client. I would have been foolish to do anything that would have cut off a major source of my income.”
This was going worse than I’d expected. Nita and I were such amateurs at this. Time to change tack. “When you two stayed here before, I understand you had an argument and you left town abruptly. Would you mind saying what the argument was about?”
“Yes, I mind. But I’ll tell you anyway so that you two busybodies can look at someone else to suspect. After Damian’s daughter drowned, he stopped painting. Not because he didn’t want to paint, but because he couldn’t. Just picking up a brush caused his hand to shake so uncontrollably he would drop it. That’s why he took a job in this Podunk town. If he couldn’t paint, he decided to teach. We argued that night because I was trying to convince him to get some counseling, which he refused to do.”
“What about Mrs. Reynolds—”
He pushed back his chair, threw his napkin onto the table, and stood up. “This is outrageous. Helen was miles away the night Damian was murdered.”
Geoff walked back into the room and received the brunt of Garrett’s fury. “I don’t know what your purpose was in allowing these two busybodies to be here, but their questioning was not welcome. I’ll be checking out—and I won’t be back.”
After he stomped from the room, Nita eyed his nearly full plate. “Ngaio Marsh! That was a waste of a delicious meal.”
I noticed Nita was again using writers from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction for her expletives. I turned to Geoff. “Sorry, I think we cost you a satisfied guest.”
Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 34