Laura Bishop Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Grace Topping

  Surely the knife used to kill Ian couldn’t have been from this set. People lost knives in sets all the time. But the design of the knife used to kill Ian was unusual and matched this set. Could it be the same set? It would be really strange for me to come upon the knife set owned by the murderer. Stuff like that only happened in movies. Or did it? It would be a weird coincidence. But stranger things in life happened all the time.

  The knife used to kill Damian had been different. Otherwise, the police would have linked the two murders.

  If the knife that had killed Ian had come from this set, how had it ended up here? Could the killer’s prints still be on the knives or the holder? Surely the person who got rid of it would have wiped it clean of any fingerprints. Or could the killer have been so arrogant as to think no one would find the set or connect it to the murder?

  The set could be evidence. Thinking about how Detective Spangler would react to my showing up with it made me cringe, but I would put that worry aside for the moment.

  First I had to purchase the set. What a conundrum—having to purchase possible evidence. My chances of convincing the woman at the counter I was confiscating the knife set as evidence in a murder case seemed remote.

  If I picked it up, I’d be adding my fingerprints to those left on it since the killer had dumped it. Maybe I could ask the woman at the counter for a plastic bag to put around it. But I didn’t want to leave the set there in case someone walked off with it.

  A stack of cloth napkins lay among a jumble of linens on a nearby table. I grabbed two and carefully wrapped them around the wooden block and took it to the checkout counter.

  “Excuse me, could you ring this up without handling it?” I asked the clerk.

  The woman looked at me like I was trying to conceal the price. “Sure, but I need to see the price tag.”

  I carefully held the block with the napkins and turned it over to show her the price tag on the bottom.

  “That will be sixty-five dollars. Do you want those napkins as well?”

  Yikes, that was a lot, especially since one of the knives was missing. What brand was it? Oh, well. This wasn’t the time to haggle over the price. “Ah, no. I’ll take the napkins back. I didn’t want to risk cutting myself. Can I use them first to put the knife set in a bag?”

  She offered to wrap the set in paper, but I didn’t want her handling it. Again she looked at me like she was taking a chance selling knives to a nutcase like me.

  “Do you have any idea who donated this?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “All the donated items come in through the loading dock. You can check with Pete back there. He’s here most days. But it’s pretty doubtful he’ll remember who brought it in.”

  I paid her, slid the knife set and wooden block holder into a plastic bag, and took my receipt from the clerk, who still eyed me suspiciously.

  “I’ll return the napkins to the table where I’d found them.”

  She took them from me. “I’ll take them back.”

  What did she think I was going to do—stuff them in my bag? How embarrassing to be viewed as a potential shoplifter.

  I thanked her, took my bag, and slunk away, looking around for the door to the loading dock. I could have asked the clerk for directions, but I’d wanted to get away from her as soon as I could. I located a door marked Do Not Enter, figuring it would lead me to the storage/sorting room and loading dock. I pushed the door open and entered a large room piled high with every kind of item imaginable.

  Near the tall doors opening to the loading dock, two men sat in bentwood chairs. The younger of the two, who looked to be in his early twenties, lounged back with his chair tilted against the wall. As I approached, he quickly drained a Pepsi in a glass bottle, lost his balance, and his chair legs abruptly hit the floor. A much older man sat with his feet firmly planted on the grimy floor. His gray hair and stooped shoulders a sign he’d spent a lifetime carrying heavy loads. Both men looked up as I approached.

  “Hi. Is one of you Pete?”

  “That’s me.” The older man said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just purchased a set of knives in a wooden storage block. Do either of you remember who donated the set?” I held open the plastic bag.

  The gray-haired man looked in the bag and scratched his head. “People bring lots of stuff in here. Impossible to remember who brings what.”

  The younger man leaned over and peered in the bag. He scrunched up his face in deep concentration. “I vaguely remember that set.” He sat for a few minutes pondering the item. “That mighta been the set a fellow dropped off last week. Said he saw it in a dumpster and pulled it out. I remember ’cause he yammered on about what the world was comin’ to when someone threw out a perfectly good set of knives ’cause one was missing.”

  “Did he say where he found it?”

  “He mighta said, but I don’t recall. Is it important? The knives weren’t stolen from you were they?”

  “No, they weren’t mine.” Disappointed I couldn’t find out more, I pulled one of my business cards from the bottom of my canvas bag and handed it to the young man. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. If you remember anything more, could you please call me? The information could be vital to a murder investigation.”

  Now I needed to get the evidence to the police.

  Chapter 42

  Hang new house numbers or polish existing ones, and ensure they can be seen from the street.

  Leaving the shop, I drove immediately to the police station. I decided against going inside since I knew I couldn’t carry several knives in with me. I also didn’t want to explain to the officers at the desk why I needed to see the detective.

  Instead, I pulled out Detective Spangler’s card and punched his number into my cell phone. He answered on the third ring.

  “Spangler.”

  “Ah, Detective Spangler, this is Laura Bishop. I have something I think you need to see. I’m in my car in the lot outside. Can you come down and take a look at it? I can’t bring it into the station.”

  He covered his phone, but I still could hear murmuring in the background. “Can you wait for a few minutes? I’m in the middle of something, but I might be able to get away shortly.”

  It was a pleasant day, so I got out of my car, reached into the backseat to retrieve the bag containing the knife set, and walked over to stand in the shade of a large maple tree nearby. Anyone seeing the detective meeting me in the parking lot would assume our meeting was personal, but I didn’t care. I wanted to hand him the knife set and get back to my business. Besides, I didn’t want him looming over me as I sat in my car.

  About ten minutes later, he walked up to where I stood. “What do you have there?”

  “Good morning to you too, Detective.”

  “Sorry, it’s been a hectic morning. I ducked out of a meeting to see what you have. I hope it’s important.”

  Annoyed that he thought I might have stopped by just for a chat, I picked up the bag at my feet and thrust it to him. “Careful. It’s a knife set. Don’t reach inside the bag.”

  He looked puzzled, opened the bag, and peered inside. “A knife set?”

  “Not just any knife set. Look closely at the handles. Look familiar?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes, they do. Where did you find this?”

  “At the resale shop down on Main Street. If you look closely, you’ll see one knife is missing. One of the employees at the shop said a man brought it in last week. Said he’d found it in a dumpster. The employee said the man told him where, but he couldn’t remember. I asked him to give me a call if the location came to mind.”

  “The knife handles have an unusual design. I’ll give you that.” He rubbed his chin with his hand.

  “Exactly.” I was starting to feel hopeful.

  “But other people in town could have the same set, and pl
enty of them with pieces missing. I don’t know what we gain finding this.”

  “But why would someone throw out an expensive set of knives?” I wasn’t giving up easily.

  “You got me there.”

  “If this is the set, it helps narrow the number of suspects in Ian’s case. And once we can identify his killer, we might be able to link his murder to Damian’s.”

  “There you go again with the we.”

  “Don’t you agree it narrows the search—even if only a little? If someone came from out of town intending to murder Ian, that person might have brought a knife but not a whole set. It must have been someone who lives locally.” There goes the theory that someone could have followed Ian from New Zealand. “It also shows premeditation. If Warren didn’t have a set like that at the funeral home or in his apartment upstairs, the killer had to have brought the knife with him.”

  “You are still going under the assumption that the knife came from this set. Have you considered someone could have owned a single knife with this design without owning a whole set? We have nothing to link this set to the murder. With a pretty questionable chain of custody of the evidence, I’m not sure the evidence would be admissible.”

  “What about fingerprints on it?”

  “Okay. Say the knife came from this set. Even if we got prints from it, unless we have prints in our system to match them against, they wouldn’t do us much good. We’d have to fingerprint every person in Louiston, searching for a match.”

  “You could start with the other people named in Doris Becker’s will,” I said.

  He leaned his head back and expelled a long, drawn-out breath. “Are you trying to tell me again how to do my job?”

  “If it would help solve two murders, yes.”

  He shook his head as though in disbelief, tucked the bag under his arm, and walked away.

  I thought about the sixty-five dollars I’d paid for the evidence. With my tight budget, I started to pull the receipt from my purse and chase after him but decided against it. I couldn’t ask him to reimburse me for the cost of the evidence. That might look suspicious. Once Monica was set free, I’d collect it from her.

  I felt in my bones that we were getting close to discovering something—at least about Ian’s death. But when it came to Damian’s death, would we discover something that would help free Monica or confirm her guilt?

  Chapter 43

  Make minor repairs. Buyers noticing small things that need to be repaired will wonder how well the house has been maintained.

  The rest of the week passed quickly. I worked with Monica’s assistant on several projects, while Nita helped a homeowner with an occupied staging, using the homeowner’s furnishings. Unfortunately, the homeowner’s living room furniture was well-worn and outdated. Prospective buyers seeing tattered upholstery would wonder what else in the house needed attention. Evidence of deferred maintenance caused more lost sales than anything else. Nita solved the problem by convincing the homeowner to purchase inexpensive covers, which made a huge difference.

  At the end of a particularly busy day, Nita dropped me at my house. I looked forward to a relaxing weekend.

  “I hate to remind you of this, considering how exhausted you must be, but we promised to help take down the art exhibit at the Arts Center tomorrow. We have to have everything out by tomorrow afternoon.”

  I groaned. There went my restful Saturday. “Okay, what time do you want me to be there?”

  We made arrangements to meet the next morning bright and early so we could finish and still have part of the day to rest. “I’m picking up Mrs. Webster, so you won’t need to get her. She wants to come. Tyrone has classes tomorrow and won’t be able to give her a ride.”

  The next morning, the Arts Center hummed with activity with artists retrieving their artwork, patrons claiming the pieces they’d purchased, and volunteers dismantling display boards. The various exhibit rooms were filled with everyone taking a final look at the exhibit.

  We all had our assignments, and for a while, it seemed like controlled chaos.

  “Anyone seen Anne Williamson?” someone called from across the room.

  “She’s back in the room where they did the dance exhibits,” another volunteer responded. “If you need to talk to her, better catch her right away because she’s leaving today to go on vacation. Otherwise, talk to Nita. She’s handling the takedown.”

  With responsibility for the takedown resting with Nita, she was dashing from room to room responding to questions and directing volunteers who needed guidance on what they should be doing. I was impressed with how well she was handling it.

  A few minutes later, we took a break and walked into the room devoted to photography to admire the Sold signs on her photographs.

  “Stand in front of your photo,” I motioned to Nita. “I want to get a snap of you with your award-winning photos.”

  “It was only an honorable mention.” Nita stood between her two photos.

  “Still award-winning.” I pulled my iPhone from my bag and looked for the camera option.

  The small room was filled with people trying to get a last look, so it took me a few seconds to be able to step back enough to fit Nita and her framed photos into the camera view. When I finally snapped the photo, I froze. A spicy scent floated across the room, paralyzing me. For a brief second, darkness descended over me and I was back in a closet, wondering about my fate.

  “Laura? Are you okay?” Nita was staring at me, her face creased with concern.

  Dizziness overcame me, but I forced myself to look behind me to see who was wearing a scent I would never forget. But the small room had cleared of everyone except for a young mother with a baby in a stroller and a toddler who was holding her hand. I ignored Nita’s question and moved closer to the woman and sniffed several times, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. Unfortunately, she did. She leaned over the baby in the stroller and sniffed. Glaring at me she pointed the stroller to the door and dragged the toddler from the room.

  “Laura, what’s gotten into you?” Nita came up behind me.

  “I smelled it. The fragrance worn by whoever locked me in that closet.”

  “Someone who was here?” Nita looked around her at the empty room.

  “Either that or someone who walked by the entrance. Did you recognize anyone in here?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I was focused on my photos and then posing for you.”

  “Hurry. Let’s go into the main hall so I can see who’s out there.” I grabbed Nita by the arm and raced through the doorway.

  The room was filled with people. I rushed through the crowd, sniffing so much I was getting lightheaded. I couldn’t find the now-familiar fragrance and felt deflated.

  Mrs. Webster grabbed my arm as I walked by. “Calm down, girl. You look frantic. What’s going on?”

  I explained about catching a whiff of the aftershave or cologne worn by the person who had attacked me.

  Nita came up behind us. “Even if you find someone here wearing that scent, it wouldn’t prove that was the person who attacked you. Lots of men, or women, could be wearing it.”

  “I don’t think so. It seemed distinctive, as in expensive, and I don’t recall smelling it before the other day.”

  “So now you’re an expert on aftershaves and colognes?” Nita said.

  “Of course not. But smells evoke memories more so than anything else. I don’t think I would’ve reacted as I did to a different scent.”

  Mrs. Webster scanned the main display room, which was slowly emptying of people. “Short of lining everyone up and you sniffing each one, which they probably would object to, I don’t think there is anything you can do. Besides, lots of folks have already gone.”

  Nita and Mrs. Webster were right. It would be a wasted effort trying to find my cologne-wearing attacker here. My head began to pound. I was ce
rtain if I ever smelled the fragrance again, it would make me ill.

  Mrs. Webster scrutinized me as though wondering if she should push my head between my knees to revive me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then I need to get back to the front desk. I’m helping to check off the names of the artists as they take their works out.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  Mrs. Webster headed to the front desk but kept looking back at me as though to make sure I hadn’t collapsed on the floor.

  Nita handed me a glass of water. “Here, drink this. It’s hot in here, and it’s easy to get dehydrated.”

  “And you’re thinking dehydration sent me a bit crazy?” I took the glass from her.

  “No. I believe you. It’s too bad you didn’t see whoever it was wearing the scent.”

  I didn’t know what I would’ve done if I’d found that person. Make a citizen’s arrest? It was too late to worry about it now. “Come on,” I urged Nita. “Let’s get back to work. We still have plenty to do.”

  Later, most of the artwork had been taken down except for some large pieces. We found Mrs. Webster staring at the piece painted by Anne Williamson, which had been sold and was waiting to be claimed by the buyer. It was a brilliant piece of art. A young woman, dressed in a flowing gown with slashes of black, purple, and lavender, stood in front of a portrait of a haggard old woman in the same dress. It reminded me of Oscar Wilde’s book A Portrait of Dorian Gray, which told the story of a young man who sold his soul to the devil to stay eternally young, while a painting of him aged in the attic.

  “That’s a fabulous painting,” Nita remarked to Mrs. Webster.

  Absorbed in studying the painting, she didn’t respond.

  Her eyes widened, and she reached out and took my arm to steady herself. “Remember I said there was something about this painting? It was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Although it seemed familiar, I couldn’t remember why. I kept thinking about it, wondering where I could have seen it before. You know how you get something in your head and it won’t let go.”