Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter

by Sara M. Barton

  Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter:

  A Scarlet Wilson Mystery

  by Sara M. Barton

  Published by Sara M. Barton at Amazon

  Copyright Sara M. Barton 2013

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Chapter One --

  The shiny blade of the pen knife glinted in the noonday sun. It stuck out of the wooden birdhouse post, the black plastic handle jutting out at an odd angle. Even as the little chickadees and pine siskins waited for me to move away, chattering busily, I studied the note attached to the knife.

  Get out now, before I am forced to act!

  It was like something out of a wannabe Agatha Christie novel, with letters that seemed to be cut from the Hartford Courant. Was it a prank? Was it someone’s idea of a joke? There was no name on the note, no way of knowing the intended recipient.

  I grabbed my cell phone from its holster on my hip and dialed Bur, my older brother by a year and a half. He was up in his office in the carriage house apartment over the garage.

  “Can you get down here now? Something’s very wrong,” I told him. “I’m in the bird garden.”

  “Wrong how?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m looking at a threatening note.”

  “What kind of threatening note?”

  “In the time it takes you to ask me all these questions, you could be down here looking at it yourself, Bur.” My brother can be a pain in the tuckus, even as he slides into his fifties.

  “Fine. Give me a minute,” he replied as he hung up.

  It was more like four. And while I waited, I looked at the dangling piece of paper with its pasted-on letters as it wafted in the light breeze. I could see our logo for the Four Acorns Inn smack dab at the top of the page, two inches above the warning. Clearly this piece of paper was taken from one of our printed notepads, the kind we tuck inside every night table drawer, for the convenience of our guests.

  At the moment, we had four guests staying at the inn. Mary Anne Turley was a fifty-something writer from Denver, in the area to research a book about the silk mills. She had respiratory problems and needed supplemental oxygen, so I arranged for the local medical supply house to deliver the necessary equipment to the Red Oak Room. Paul Duchamps was undergoing treatment in Hartford at the cardiac center. He was expected to have surgery in a week, go to a rehab facility to recover, and then come back to the inn to recuperate in the Black Oak Room. The Powicks arrived this morning from Edgewater, New Jersey for a cousin’s funeral. Lonnie, who had suffered a stroke, and her daughter, Gretchen, were sharing the White Oak Room. It seemed unlikely that any of them was behind this. More likely one of them was a victim.

  “Okay, sis,” said the skeptical voice behind me. “What’s so important?

  I pointed to the post, stepping back to let him see the threat for himself. His reaction wasn’t all I had hoped for, let alone needed. He stood there a moment and then burst out laughing. His annoying snorting seemed to go on forever.

  “Oh, that’s rich!” he guffawed. “You did it. I admit it. You got me, Miz Scarlet.”

  “What?” I hated when he teased me about being a character in the game of Clue. It made me feel like I was ten years old again.

  “I get it. Payback for what I said to you last week.”

  “Bur, will you please pull your head out of your....”

  “You expect me to believe you didn’t do this?” he interrupted, disbelief written all over that smug mug.

  “I didn’t do this. Now can you please help me figure out what’s going on?”

  “You’re telling me this isn’t a joke?” Those words were dipped in skepticism. “Come on, Miz Scarlet. Confess.”

  “I swear,” I insisted.

  “Then what’s this all about?” he demanded.

  “More importantly, who is the note written for, Bur?”

  He grabbed the pocket knife in his right hand and pulled to free it from the post. I snatched the paper as it came away. I could see him examining his miniature Excalibur.

  “Swiss Army,” he announced. “No engraving. Nothing special.”

  “Well, we know the paper is ours. It doesn’t mean it came from the house, does it?” We often gave away notepads to promote the inn. Still, it was unusual. Why not just a plain piece of paper?

  “No way to know.”

  “Now what?” I wondered aloud. Standing there, note in hand, I didn’t really have a clue. Did we ignore it or take it seriously?

  “Did you irritate someone yet again, Scar?”

  “No,” I said indignantly. “I did not irritate someone. And I resent the suggestion that it’s something I do on a regular basis. Besides, how do we know it wasn’t written for you?”

  “Oh.” Bur nodded, considering the possibility. “Maybe Chapman had one of his buddies bring it.”

  Chapman was Bur’s son from his first marriage. Now living with a wife and new baby in New York, he remained close to his dad. The two of them had a long history of playing practical and impractical jokes on each other.

  “I don’t know, Bur. Chappy’s usually more intelligent than that.” As much as I would like to believe the answer was that simple, my nephew wouldn’t have put the inn in such a dangerous position. He was smart enough to know that it would cause problems if a guest came across it before his father got it.

  “Yes, but he lost the Super Bowl bet.”

  “Hardly a reason to fake a menacing warning,” I insisted.

  “Well, he did have to wear the crow costume for his tribute to the Ravens.” Bur pointed to the pole.

  “No, I don’t think this is about us.”

  My brother shot me a sharp look. He glanced back down at the note.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing it was left here, in the bird garden. Why would anyone expect it to be found? We don’t have a reason to come here at the moment.”

  It’s true. It’s too early in the season to be fussing outdoors. When we decided to open the Four Acorns Inn, the garden was added as a respite spot for those needing peace and quiet, especially those who loved songbirds and blossoms. We promoted it heavily in our website and online brochure. The gazebo nestled at the edge of the woods makes it a wonderful spot to sit on a pleasant afternoon. Birdfeeders on tall posts surround the gazebo, drawing in the tiny songsters. An old cement fountain was refitted to serve as a gurgling bird bath, and it often attracts any number of critters, from chattering squirrels to the occasional garter snake, but we only turn it on in the warmer months. Colorful bird houses scattered throughout the quarter-acre parcel of flowers and shrubs offer shelter to an assortment of wrens, sparrows, finches, and chickadees. When early spring rolls around, the garden is a pleasant place to pass the time. You can see any number of migrating birds stopping by to refuel as they make their way north.

  At the moment, though, we were still cleaning up from a late winter storm that dumped three feet of snow on the grounds of the inn in the last week of February. Day by day, we waited for the snow to disappear. I had managed to clear off the terrace outside the French doors,
so I could fill the feeders outside the dining room window. We were still two or three weeks from welcoming our feathered friends in the bird garden.

  “I don’t know, Scar. Crow, raven, birdfeeder pole, bird garden....”

  “That’s ridiculous. Chapman is too responsible for that kind of nonsense.”

  “What were you doing here?” Bur wanted to know, changing the subject.

  “It was a nice day. I thought I would get started snipping some of the winter kill off the roses.”

  “Oh.” He looked at me, in my heavy boots, with my pair of pruning shears in hand and my collapsible garden container. “You wore your good clothes, I see. Left the tiara in the safe, did you?”

  “What can I say? An innkeeper’s work is never done.”

  I never set out to be the owner of a small hostelry in Connecticut. In my wildest dreams, I never would have expected it. I trained as a teacher and that’s what I was doing when a terrible accident forced my hand and changed my life forever.

  Oh, I wasn’t the victim, although on tough days I sometimes felt like I was. No, my mother was struck by a car as she was crossing Main Street in the village of Cheswick fifteen years ago this July. The driver had a brief moment of distraction when his toddler son tried to climb out of his car seat. Once my mother, Laurel, was stabilized, she needed long-term care, but my dad, who was the general manager of Four Oaks Pressboard Company, was needed on site at the sister mill down in North Carolina. I gave up my tiny bungalow in Bolton, two towns over, and moved back to the old family homestead on White Oak Lane. It was only supposed to be until my father returned, but that year turned into two, and eventually my teaching position went to my temporary replacement.

  The house has been in my family for three generations, dating back in the day when paper mills and silk mills were the main employers in the county. My maternal grandfather, Randolph Googins, was a part-owner in Four Oaks Pressboard Company. Made from cellulose, pressboard was subjected to high heat and pressure, until it was as firm and rigid as a wood board. The company supplied the covers for accounting books back in the day when ledgers were kept for decades. Randolph and his brother, Wallace, were ambitious sons of the mill foreman, working their way up the company ladder. They learned the production process inside and out, and then designed and built a new machine to press the pulpwood more efficiently, speeding up the manufacturing process and reducing costs. That enabled the Googins boys to eventually become junior partners.

  The two senior partners, Frederick and Boswell Toms, who inherited the company from their father, built mansions on the top of White Oak Hill, giving them a view of Hartford in the distance. The Googins brothers followed suit. Randolph built his enormous yellow Victorian on the edge of the lower pond by the falls, just down the road from the Four Oaks mill in the little village of Cheswick. Wallace built his brown-shingled home with the wrap-around porch on the edge of the upper pond. When their own houses were complete, the two men built their parents a charming cottage situated between the two mansions, where my mother’s cousin, Myrtle, now lives with her daughter, Willow, and three cats.

  The old mill has been turned into a machine shop that manufactures custom aircraft parts for United Technologies. Most of the workers’ row houses were torn down and replaced by newer homes, and a few of the tiny duplexes that remained have been transformed into single family houses. As the years went by, the neighborhood grew. Now there are a few shops within walking distance of the Four Acorns Inn. Most days, you’ll see kids popping wheelies on their bikes on the quiet streets, babies pushed in strollers along the sidewalks, and avid runners chugging along the side of the road in pursuit of the chance to challenge their legs on the ever-changing terrain. In other words, we’re hardly living in a high-crime area.

  “Hey, Bur,” I said to the man who was busy checking a text message on his cell phone. “Do you notice anything unusual in the snow?”

  It took him another twenty seconds and a few more taps on the digital version of the tin can before I got his full attention.

  “Sorry. What?” He tucked his phone into his pocket before turning his attention back to me.

  “Check out the footprints in the snow. What do you see?” I waited as my brother tracked our prints back to the garage and the house, and then looked up at me like I had a screw loose.

  “There’s me, there’s you. What’s your point? You think I did it?”

  With a sisterly hand on his shoulder and a shove in the opposite direction, I drew his attention to a third set of boot prints in surface of the crusty snow.

  “What the....Scarlet, those tracks are coming from the upper pond.”

  He was right. The footsteps remained true to the buried path that meandered to the edge of the woods and continued all the way up to Wallace Googins’ home.

  “Coming and going,” I decided. “Not an inn guest.”

  “Wallace’s house has been empty for the last month and a half, ever since the Jordans left in the middle of the night,” said Bur. He still had the note and the pocket knife in hand.

  “Maybe I should bag those,” I suggested, pulling out a doggie doo-doo bag. As a responsible pet owner, I always have at least one handy.

  “You’ve been watching too much ‘Law and Order’, Scar,” he laughed, shaking his head.

  “Humor me,” I told him, “just in case it’s important. You’re wearing gloves, so if there are prints, you probably didn’t ruin them.”

  Bur gave me a slight shrug before capitulating. Carefully folding up the pocket knife, he put it in the proffered bag and then carefully added the note. If the threat was real, if this was the beginning of a criminal case, the least I could do was make an effort to preserve the evidence. Or was I overreacting? Maybe my brother was right -- I had watched one crime drama too many.

  I studied at the indentations. Man or woman? I looked at my own prints and at Bur’s. Judging from the tread, these were serious hiking boots. The maker of the marks in the snow appeared very sure of his or her actions, a little too sure. One set of prints coming straight to the post in the bird garden, one set of prints going back towards Wallace’s mansion. Either the person was very familiar with hiking and knew how to read the lay of the land, even in snow, or the person was very familiar with this particular trail.

  My brother was in pretty good shape and weighed about one-eighty in a six-foot frame. The boot prints sunk deeper in the snow than Bur’s did. That meant the boot wearer weighed more. But judging from the size of the track, I guessed he or she had to be shorter. I was four inches shorter than my brother, so I made a pretty good impression of my own on the snow. These prints were an inch or two longer than mine. What did that mean? Definitely not Myrtle or Willow. Probably a man. Was it a stranger? An intruder?

  Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Was there a logical explanation? Even as I started to doubt myself, Bur seemed to grow more concerned as we traveled through the woods.

  “Scarlet, I don’t like this. This isn’t a trail open to the public. It’s not part of the park. The only people who should be walking through here are family members.”

  “Or the tenants who rented Wallace’s house,” I suggested helpfully. “Maybe they came back.”

  Chapter Two --

  “I don’t think so.”

  We passed the section of trail that split off in the direction of Willow and Myrtle’s place. The walker never hesitated or took a step in that direction. I found it a relief. Two women living in a home alone, one a sixty-something widow? It would have been disturbing. But the tracks were headed straight for Wallace’s house -- what was going on? The now-missing couple and their three kids had lived there for the better part of four years, until they just vanished one day without a word.

  “Just out of curiosity, have you heard anything more about the Jordans or why they up and went in the middle of the night?” Bur asked me as we came in sight of the brown-shingled house perched above the bank of the pond.

  “Only
that Boynton’s pretty upset. He wasn’t happy when the rent payment never arrived, even after he sent them several emails about it. He tried, but couldn’t reach them by phone.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “First time,” I replied. “Lacey told Laurel the Jordans never missed a rent payment.”

  Jim Jordan was a computer software consultant who worked from home, helping Fortune 500 companies close loopholes in their security programs. Back in his youth, he was a hacker, learning the ropes at MIT, and after a couple youthful brushes with the law, he found himself working on the right side of legal. He turned over a new leaf and began to extol the dangers of Internet vulnerabilities just ripe for the pickings by unscrupulous hackers. He made a pile of money building firewalls for government agencies, health care conglomerates, and insurance companies that stored personal and financial information on clients. His specialty was cloud computing, off-site data storage. I had only seen him a handful of times over the years. We had exchanged waves, nods, and hellos as we passed each other in the neighborhood, even though we had never been formally introduced.

  Julie Jordan was better known as Julie Wlazuk, reporter for the local NBC station, WVIT. You could often see her on TV at the scene of a multi-car pile-up on I-91 or standing in front of a bank that had just been robbed. Once in awhile, the evening news producer put her on the anchor desk as a fill-in. She was cute and perky, with a face the cameras loved. In person, she was pleasant, friendly. I usually ran into her when I had the dogs with me at the middle school on Parker. She would jog on the path around the soccer fields, passing us a few times as I exercised the pooches and her oldest child had soccer practice. Sometimes in the summer, we would meet up at the White Oak Swim Club. Stretched out on adjacent chaise lounges, we’d make some inane comments about the lifeguard or the snack stand before settling in for a pleasant afternoon poolside. Julie would have been the last woman I would have expected to pack up the family and disappear in the middle of the night.