Empaths and Paws

by Penny Brooke

  “Here,” I said. “Let me open the curtains, so you get more light in here.”

  “No. Stay right there and back out of the room.”

  “Oh, geez, that’s what I was afraid you were going to say. Ben warned me. It’s a crime scene, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m guessing the mummy didn’t put himself in there. It may not be murder, but someone certainly did the moving part, which is against the law because a body has to go into the ground.”

  “Even if it’s mummified?”

  Peter’s head turned very slowly as he focused on me. “I’ll have to look this one up in the books, Fiona. I’ve never had a ‘mummy hidden in the wall’ case before.”

  “Peter, don’t mock me, please. This is my whole life we’re talking about. If this gets out, no one will stay here, and I won’t be able to stay in business. Please, help me keep it quiet.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but no promises. The media loves to put out these stories, you know.”

  “No! No! No media, please Peter. Can’t we just handle this quietly?”

  “Depends.”

  “On…?”

  “If it’s a murder and who did it.”

  “What if it’s a murder, Peter?” interrupted Gretchen, who had come up behind me. “You think I could become famous?”

  “Gretchen, be quiet,” I said. “That’s not the kind of famous you want, believe me. You’ll never find another husband.”

  Peter looked downward. “Oh, my gawd.”

  “You saw the feet, didn’t you?” I guessed.

  “What the…?”

  “Lizzie Borden.”

  Peter’s body scrunched slightly as he processed my words. “Lizzie Borden?”

  “My aunt’s mini schnauzer. Remember I told you she accidentally got locked in here last night? Well, that’s the mess I was referring to.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Peter, stay calm. I have her kenneled for right now.”

  “Fiona, do you have any idea how I’m going to explain this to the coroner?”

  “Oh, dear.” I frowned. “You will have to get him involved, won’t you?”

  “Of course!”

  I sighed deeply. “Okay, I understand. Please, just get that thing out of here quickly before any of the guests come back. A story like this will ruin me.”

  Peter stood up, walked toward me in the doorway, and I backed up. He closed the door and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Fiona, you don’t seem to understand. This is possibly a murder investigation. You are not allowed back in that room. The coroner will have to come, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the state police get involved. This room has to remain untouched until they’ve all made their investigations. That could take weeks. I don’t see any way possible for you to hide it. I’m sorry.” He tapped a number. “Walt? This is Peter. Grab your bag and get over to 538 Atlantic right away, would you? Yes, that’s the Mortimer House. I’d advise you to clear your schedule for the afternoon. You will want to spend some time here.”

  Tapping the call dead, Peter looked at me. “I’m truly sorry, Fiona. If there was anything I could do, I would.”

  I nodded, my heart breaking. I was going to lose it all.

  8

  The Nightmare Begins

  Walter Gibbons, the coroner, was scratching his head, looking over his shoulder to see if he had an audience. I was standing in the doorway next to Peter and smiled gently. He was a thin man with papery skin and most likely some sort of skin condition because he scratched regularly.

  “Gosh, I don’t want to even touch the thing,” Walter said. “And what’s this with the feet?”

  “That’s Lizzie Borden,” I mentioned to help fill in.

  He looked over the top rim of his glasses at me. “Lizzie Borden? Are we talking about the woman who took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks? That Lizzie?”

  “It’s my aunt’s mini schnauzer.” I shrugged. “I like the name.”

  Walter was shining his flashlight and suddenly shot backward. “Whoa! Oh, gawd!”

  Peter leaned forward, over his shoulder. “What do you see, Walt?”

  “Something ungodly—looks like coagulated blood and flesh. What in the…?”

  I peeked, my curiosity overwhelmed. “Could you shine your light on it again?”

  Walter complied.

  “Oh, no, that’s nothing,” I said. “Lizzie got into the strawberry pie we had for dinner last night, and as you can see, she made herself sick. Probably eating the foot didn’t help.”

  Walter’s lips flatlined. “Uh-huh. Okay, Ms. Parkins, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside so the sheriff and I can have a chat…”

  Surprised, I let my arms fall to my side and retreated. “No problem,” I added as I closed the door. Ben was sitting down the hall in a hardback chair tipped against the wall. He was sound asleep. I envied him.

  The door to the scene opened, and I overheard Walter. “Well, Pete, I think this is going to be one for the state boys. I don’t have the lab they do, so I don’t know what to call this. I know it feels like something was illegal, but offhand, I’m not sure what.”

  “Kind of was my impression, too, Walt. Okay, so will you call them or should I?”

  “You go on ahead. My job is done, but they’ll want you in the loop until things are solved.”

  “Yup. Okay, Walt. Appreciate it.”

  Walter nodded, looked down the hall at me, and began scratching his head. He went down the stairs and out the front door at a brisk pace.

  “He thinks I’m nuts, doesn’t he?” I asked Peter as we went downstairs as well.

  “Yup.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That he was right.”

  “Peter!”

  “Oh, calm down. He’s all confused and doesn’t want to get involved, as far as I can tell. Between you and me, unless the corpse is lying on the floor with a tag around his neck reading ‘Heart attack,’ Walt is generally lost.”

  “Should I go in and clean up the strawberry pie?”

  “Nope. It might have foot mixed in with it. I’d say you ought to be at your desk figuring out what you’re going to do to keep the place open,” he said as we began to descend the staircase.

  “Oh, darn!”

  “It’s going to be a mess. I’m hoping I can get the state boys to maybe take a day to survey the scene and then take the body to the state lab for further analysis.”

  Just then, the front door burst open, and it was the Smiths. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Peter and turned to bound up the stairs and close the door to the scene of the crime. I wasn’t going to wake Ben, so I just picked up the old nail, put it in the same hole, and used the hammer to tap it. As I was going back down the stairs, Mrs. Smith called to me from the library. I poked my head around the corner. “We’re having chicken salad for lunch,” I threw out.

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m after,” she said. “I was wondering whether we might move back into our room tonight. The other room just isn’t the same, and I didn’t sleep well.”

  “That room is off-limits for now, Mrs. Smith. I can move you to one of the unoccupied rooms in the other wing.” I didn’t want to add that soon, every room would be open, and she could have her pick.

  “No, I want the room we started with.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps in a few days.” I left for the kitchen to begin making the chicken salad, and Peter followed. Then Gretchen came in. “Gretch, could you choose the biggest, ripest tomatoes and gut them so we can put in the chicken salad filling? I’ll slice up a loaf of the bread I baked yesterday, and we’ll make pitchers of iced tea. Some of them may have eaten while they were downtown.”

  “Sure will.” She winked at Peter. “How about you, big boy? Anything I can do for you?”

  Peter didn’t say a word, and I didn’t even have to look around. I just kept chopping chicken. “Gretchen, you’re making a fool of yourself.”


  “Ohhhh, am I, big boy?” she tried one more time.

  Peter cleared his throat. “Gretchen, I’ve known you since we were kids. You and I both know we’re different kind of people.”

  “Okay, Peter, don’t say you never had a chance. There are plenty who would trade shoes with you gladly.”

  “Gretchen, right about now, I’d trade shoes and a badge and be on my way if I could. Bye, Fiona. I’ll be in touch.” He sailed out the back door and disappeared around the house.

  “I don’t know what you ever saw in him,” Gretchen commented, miffed at the rejection.

  “I told you. You were making a fool of yourself. Peter doesn’t like women who come on too strong. Just not his type.”

  “I think he has only one type—you!”

  “I’ve almost got the salad done,” I said, trying to change the subject. “I’ll go set the table, and we can begin stuffing tomatoes when I come back.”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  One after another, the couples returned from town and poked their heads into the dining room to inquire about what was on the menu. I told them, and they seemed pleased, but I wanted things really special. Before the day was out, I’d be begging each one of them not to leave. I thought of the chocolate layer cake I’d baked for supper and decided to bring it out at lunch, instead. I’d add a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and a drizzle of hot fudge. That should keep them happy, at least until dinner. Actually, cooking the rest of the afternoon away would help me pass the time. I was running on fumes as it was.

  Just before dinner, Peter called. “The state boys will be over in the morning. They know the situation and said they’ll keep it low key. I suggested they not wear uniforms—a suggestion they may or may not take. Did my best, Fiona. The rest is up to you.”

  “I’ll think of something. Thanks, Peter. I appreciate your efforts.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I put Gretchen in charge of breakfast and closed the door to the kitchen and dining room. Luckily, as I’d hoped, the police came while the boarders were at breakfast. I hurried the men upstairs and into the room. I closed the door behind me. There was a lot of eye-rolling and under-breath cussing, but I pretended I didn’t hear and let them take their many photos and samples from the floor and surrounding areas.

  The sergeant gave me a serious look. “Ma’am, I know this is an uncomfortable situation for you, and Sheriff Sullivan put in a special request that we take this low-key. When I give you the signal, if you can hustle your guests out, maybe into the backyard for a while, we’ll wrap this up and get it out of the house for you. The rest we’ll do at the lab.”

  “Oh, sergeant! That would be a godsend, thank you. What do you expect? Ten, twenty minutes?”

  He looked at his watch. “Let’s say at exactly nine o’clock.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take care of it on my end.”

  I hustled downstairs and heard Gretchen leading everyone in a rousing rendition of “We Will Rock You” by Queen. I had to admire her creativity; it was plenty loud.

  When they were quieting down, I clapped my hands. It was three minutes until nine. “Everyone, I have a special surprise for you. We’re starting a new program, and everyone is expected to join. Three mornings a week, we’re going to play badminton or croquet right after breakfast. We’ll keep an accumulated score over the week, and the winner will get a special surprise at dinner. A good way to get those muscles moving. Now, let’s all go out to the backyard.” I gave Gretchen a significant look, and she took the cue, herding them out the back door, ignoring the eye rolls and grumbling. There was a little standing around as Gretchen and I poked through the piles in the shed to find the game gear, but we eventually emerged victoriously and set it all up.

  Gretchen and I took turns cheering for individual guests and keeping score. Making my excuses, I went inside with the intent of making a pitcher of lemonade for everyone. The sergeant and his crew were just closing the front door behind themselves, and I dearly hoped they’d covered the mummy thoroughly, so the neighbors weren’t able to see.

  I took the stairs two at a time to be sure it was gone and then firmly closed the closet door. Later, I’d send Ben in to see if he could put the wall panel back in place. I felt such a sense of relief.

  I delivered a tray with the lemonade and glasses out to the backyard and gave Gretchen the high sign. I scooted upstairs with a pan of hot, sudsy water and a scrub brush and gave the closet a thorough cleaning. As I came out, I met Ben on the stair, and he looked at me, questions in his eyes.

  “All gone,” I said. “I cleaned it all up. If you can pop that panel back in place, no one will ever know the difference.”

  For once, he didn’t prescribe a way to behave but simply gave me a smile and a thumbs up. I was so grateful.

  After he came back out of the room, securing the door, he called for me. I went up the steps in a hurry.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Were you able to get the panel back on?”

  “I did. But look who decided to come on out before I closed it up,” Ben said, holding up a furry bundle of energy.

  My eyes were wide at the discovery. “Sherlock!”

  “You might want to keep him in a small kennel from now on. I think I saw a plastic kennel in one of the rooms. I think it’s the one your aunt used for him. Maybe keep him on the first floor.”

  I nodded, taking the ferret from him, and we found the plastic kennel, carrying it downstairs to set up in a less busy part of the house.

  After I finished with Sherlock, I returned downstairs to tell Gretchen the news.

  “So, let’s keep him from getting in the walls again,” she said.

  “No kidding,” I whispered to her.

  Gretchen smiled as I winked at her as the guests wandered in and set off on their own days, oblivious to everything that was transpiring around them. I owed Peter one. He was the one who’d saved me and my businesses.

  Cheered by the at least temporary resolution of Mr. Mummy, as I called him, the idea of opening a tea room became more palatable. Spending an afternoon on the Internet, I netted a dozen recipes I would augment with my own to create a menu. There was a sunroom at the back of the house, and I decided to ask my guests to spend their leisure time there. I moved the television, computer, and comfy chairs there, assuring them that come winter, it would be a cheerful room, filled with plants and a woodstove. This appeased them, so I converted the library and parlor into my public rooms.

  “Gretch, you’re so good at creating atmospheres. I wonder if you would see what you could do with those two rooms to make them a tearoom. All of my aunt’s antiques are in storage. Take anything you want that would work; I know there are tons of tables and chairs. There are more things, including serving pieces and table linens in the chests in the attic.”

  “Finally! Something I’m really good at!”

  Mrs. Smith tapped on the door to the kitchen before she popped her head in. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Certainly! Come on in. I’m just trying out recipes. These are to be lemon curd biscuits. I think they’ll go well with some green tea. Try one and tell me what you think.”

  “Mmm… definitely add these to the menu,” she advised. “Listen, Mr. Smith and I wondered whether we might move back to the other room now?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. I’m sorry; I’ve had my mind on other things. Yes, I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t. Why not go over to the small cage in the corner and get used to Sherlock? He’s the one you saw that night. I can’t predict whether he might get loose again or not, and now that he knows where one hiding place is, he’s very liable to come back. I wouldn’t want you to be frightened.”

  “Yes, I can do that. How about the cat and the dog?”

  “They stay in my room with me overnight and shouldn’t bother you except when they’re around the house in the day. If either of them bothers you, let me know, and I’ll kennel them.”

  “No, not necessary. I appreciate
the accommodations.”

  “Sure! Now, it’s back to baking for me. Your original room is all clean, and the bed made up with fresh sheets.”

  She waved over her head as she disappeared through the door. I went back to my baking, trying two comparable recipes for blueberry muffins. These would be given to my guests for breakfast; I had live-in taste testers.

  I had time for a quick nap. Gathering my little furry family, I went up and lay down, falling asleep in probably under ten seconds. I later awoke to someone tapping on my door. “Yes?”

  The door inched open, and Ben poked his head around. “There’s someone downstairs who wants to talk to you. Actually, I know who it is, but I thought I’d say it like that because that’s how they do it in the movies, draw out the suspense and all that—”

  “Who is it, Ben?”

  “Mrs. Markham.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right down.” He nodded and left. I stepped into my bathroom, threw some cold water over my face, and ran the brush through my hair, hoping to bring some life back to it. I needed a visit to the salon.

  “Mrs. Markham?” I came into the library to find her seated there in a brown, tufted wingback chair.

  “Ach! You don’t know how good this chair feels on my back. I could sit here all day. And call me Sylvia, dear.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to, Sylvia,” I was quick to say.

  “Shouldn’t take long. I’ve thought it over and came up with a proposal for you. A business proposal, I should add.”

  “Okay. Please… feel free to tell me about it.” I wasn’t looking for any new businesses, but she’d been kind to me when I was down, and there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t be the same for her.

  “So, the way I see it is that I’ve got a bakery that’s been around for generations. We were known for our recipes, and I did my best after my husband died to keep things going, but… well, you know the rest. So, as you know, I had no choice but to shut it down. I can’t be on my feet all day. Now, you, on the other hand, are young and wanting to build a name for yourself. I get that. So, I got to thinking. I live over the top of the bakery, if you didn’t know. So, when I sell the business, there goes my bed and sofa at the same time, you see.”