by V. M. Burns
I waited for someone to respond to my ring. I was just about to ring the bell again when the door opened. Mrs. Parker took one look at me and rolled her eyes. Before she could slam the door in my face, I held up my peace offering.
“Mrs. Parker, I am so sorry for the other day. Please, may I come in?”
She hesitated so long I seriously thought she wasn’t going to admit me. She huffed and walked away, leaving the door open. I took it as an invitation and entered. Hands full with my purse and cake, I closed the door with my foot. Inside, the décor was sleek and modern. The main living area had white walls, high ceilings, and a wall of windows overlooking the beach. A black leather sectional and glass and steel tables dominated the room. My heels clacked like a Clydesdale’s with each cautious step I took across the slippery surface of the white polished marble floor.
Mrs. Parker’s outfit, yoga pants, sneakers, and a sports bra, showed off her six-pack. She stood in front of the fireplace, her arms folded across her chest, and looked down her nose at me. I searched for a place to set the cake. None of the surfaces looked like they had ever seen a cake, let alone held one. Mrs. Parker took mercy on me. She took the cake and walked around the corner to the kitchen. I followed and tried to not make too much noise, although I was trying harder to not slip. I rounded the corner in time to see Mrs. Parker place the cake on a granite bar top. I hoisted myself up onto a barstool, mostly to avoid falling on the marble floors, and smiled as big as I could. “It’s carrot cake, and it’s delicious with coffee.”
She took the hint and pulled two coffee mugs from a white cabinet and put them on the black granite counter. She grabbed a couple of single-brew coffee packs, stuck them in a machine, and pressed one button. Instantly, the smell of coffee filled the room, and the sleek black and white kitchen felt welcoming. When both cups were full, she placed one in front of me, along with a spoon and sugar bowl.
“Cream?” She held up a bottle of Baileys liqueur.
“Oh, yeah.” I had a silly grin on my face, but I couldn’t stop myself.
I liked the way she cut big slices.
We ate in silence, both of us absorbed in raisin and nut-filled delight. The cream cheese icing held everything together. I forgot where I was. I think I moaned.
“This is delicious. Did you make it?” Mrs. Parker licked her fork.
Behold the power of cake.
I shook my head. “I wish. My new assistant at my bookstore made it. He’s a fantastic baker.”
She scraped the last bits of cake and nuts into her mouth and placed her plate into the sink. With a final lick of her fork, she faced me. “Okay, you’ve tamed the savage beast. Now, what do you want?” Her tone was much nicer than her words.
“I came to offer my condolences and to apologize for my behavior at the reception. I’m not a big drinker, and I had four or five glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. It’s no excuse, but—”
She held up her hand. “It’s all right. Forget it.”
“Thank you.” I’d rehearsed my apology many times in my head, and none of my scenarios involved being forgiven. Definitely not this fast.
“Was there anything else you wanted?”
If I didn’t do something quickly, I’d be escorted out without answers. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Mrs. Parker, why did you faint when I mentioned your husband died in my backyard?”
She grabbed a paper towel and wiped the already spotless countertop. Her silence lingered like a bad odor, but I did nothing to alleviate it. If there was anything I’d learned in my years as a teacher, it was the power of silence.
Eventually, she turned toward me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? All that time and that’s the best you came up with?”
She appeared shocked at my boldness.
I gave her my surely you can do better expression.
She smiled. The smile turned into a laugh, and we both laughed.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I guess it was the shock.”
I started to interrupt.
She held up a hand to stop me. “I know it sounds lame, but it’s the truth. Ever since the police told me Clay was murdered, I’ve been on edge.”
Understandable, but I could see the wheels turning inside her head.
She stared at my face, as if she was searching for something. Whatever it was, she must have found it. “Clay had been acting strange for months. Don’t ask me why. He never shared his personal business with me. I was just his trophy wife, an adornment he wore like a badge to the yacht club or the country club. I think it had something to do with that building you bought. At first, he was happy to find a buyer, but then he got really scared.”
“Scared? How do you mean?”
She was silent for a moment. “It’s hard to explain. He drank more. He didn’t sleep. He got angry at the drop of a hat. He started gambling.”
“Did he gamble a lot?” I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold, but the Baileys still tasted pretty darned good.
Mrs. Parker looked out the window at the waves lapping the sand. She shook herself. “I didn’t think so, but he must have. He didn’t share any details of his business, his finances, or anything personal with me. It’s been a long time since we’ve been married in anything other than name.”
Her openness about their relationship gave me the courage to delve deeper. “I couldn’t help but notice the handsome, godlike hunk who accompanied you to the reception.” I raised an eyebrow.
She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Hans. Hans Ritter. He’s my personal trainer.”
“Hmm, yes, I see. Your very personal trainer.”
She laughed. “Hans is sweet. He treats me well.” She paused. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you.”
“Sometimes it’s easier talking to a stranger. By the way, my name is Samantha Washington, but you can call me Sam.” I scooted around on my stool.
“Diana.”
“Great, now that that’s over, tell me about Hans.” I lingered on the name.
“What the heck difference does it make?” She grabbed a couple more coffee pods from the cabinet and refilled our mugs. She sat next to me, and we sipped our coffee.
“Hans and I have been close for over a year now. He wanted me to leave Clay. He knew I wasn’t happy.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
She stared into her mug.
That’s when it hit me. “You couldn’t leave because you signed a prenup right?”
A spark lit up her eyes and went out quickly. “How did you know that?”
“It sounds like something Clayton Parker would do.” I wasn’t anxious to destroy the female bonding moment so I tried to look sympathetic and waited for her to continue.
“I did sign a prenuptial agreement. If I left, I got nothing. This is going to sound mercenary, but I’d invested too much time and effort into my marriage.” As she spoke, she picked up speed and volume. “I put up with all of his moods, his women, and his condescending behavior. I couldn’t walk away after ten years with nothing.” She practically shouted the last words but took a sip of coffee and regained her composure. “I guess that makes me sound like a gold digger.”
“Not really. I had the misfortune of meeting Clayton Parker. He was a first-class jerk.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I panicked. It was one thing for a woman to complain about her husband’s flaws, it was another for someone else to do it.
Diana Parker didn’t seem bothered by my boldness. “He wasn’t always that way.” She tilted her head and looked into her mug as if she was seeing into the past. “He could be very charming when he wanted to.” She smiled at a memory and then the smile faded. “He could also be cruel.”
“Do you know anyone who would want your husband dead?”
“Other than Hans and me, you mean?”
I didn’t mean to imply I suspected her of murdering her husband, but Diana was no fool.
“The more successfu
l he got, the crueler he became. Clay had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. The list of people who wanted to murder him was probably a mile long, but I did not kill my husband and neither did Hans.”
I must have looked skeptical.
“We were together that night. The police have already checked. I’m sure the manager at the South Harbor Inn will confirm what time we checked in and what time we checked out.”
I stayed another fifteen minutes. Diana Parker was a very lonely woman who obviously needed a friend, but I’d been gone from the bookstore a lot longer than I’d intended. I reluctantly left.
During the drive back to the store, I sifted through the information I’d picked up. I wasn’t sure how it fit together, but something told me it was important.
The remainder of the afternoon I worked in the store and tackled the paperwork that had piled up during the week. Christopher had run reports I needed to analyze. The POS system book said the reports would help determine future inventory. My brain wouldn’t focus. Between getting Dawson settled into the garage apartment, seeing the fulfillment of a lifelong dream with the bookstore, writing a novel, and trying to solve a murder, I was exhausted.
Miss Marple made investigating seem so easy, but it was a lot of work. Nana Jo and the girls had accumulated a lot of data, certainly more information than I could have collected on my own. Sitting in my office, I looked out the glass door onto the courtyard. Snickers slept in a sunny corner. Oreo stared at an impudent robin strutting around the courtyard. My mind wandered.
Thoughts of Leon were ever present. He would have loved the bookstore. I stocked a lot of hard-boiled mysteries because of him.
Since we had decided to make life easy for ourselves and shelved the books alphabetically by author rather than by subgenres, Zaq recommended setting up displays of books recommended by staff. The Hard-Boiled Mystery Table, with a foam board placard identifying Leon’s favorites, brought tears to my eyes. He would have loved it.
The crowds dwindled after the opening, but that was to be expected. My job was to create ideas to inspire people to continue to come. I’d received a couple of requests from book clubs who wanted space for their meetings.
Even though neither of my nephews shared my love of mysteries, I was thankful they were willing and able to help me in so many ways. Dawson was great too. He was strong and dependable and his treats were becoming one of the main attractions. I overheard him and Christopher discussing the possibility of converting a storage room at the back of the building into a commercial kitchen.
I wanted to be financially responsible and was reluctant to sink too much money into the bookstore until I knew it was successful. But, I’d gotten the building at a really good price. There had been some structural damage, which had frightened away two local banks and forced two previous offers to fall apart. However, Chris Martinelli and the ever-handy Amish Craftsman, Andrew, didn’t frighten easily. Between the insurance money left over from Leon’s death and the money from selling my home, I was in a strong financial position. Initially, I was going to finance the building, but thanks to Clayton Parker’s antics, my banker got cold feet. Finally, my attorney offered the sellers a cash deal in exchange for a quick closing and that had cooked Clayton Parker’s goose. Looking out at the courtyard, I was filled with warmth and satisfaction. This building belonged to me. I still had my pension from years of teaching. If I didn’t live too extravagantly, I should be able to live comfortably.
It was Friday night. Poker night for the girls and Nana Jo. Both Christopher and Zaq had dates. Dawson agreed to stay to help me close up. The sun was setting, and I looked at my watch. Seven forty-five, almost closing time.
I started to get up. A shadow moved across the back fence. Oreo’s growl and erect stance told me he saw it too. Snickers, aroused by Oreo’s growls, got up and looked. At one time, I might have shrugged off the intruder as teens looking for a place to relieve themselves, but those were the days before a man was murdered in my courtyard. I reached for my cell phone and dialed the police.
The wait for the police was interminable. I peered into the darkness and considered opening the door and letting the dogs take care of the intruder. Oreo had proven he was a fierce protector, but I saw no sense risking his safety. I tried to not attract attention by moving and mentally willed Oreo and Snickers to not bark or move. It didn’t work. Whether due to the dogs barking and lunging at the window or the sound of the police sirens, the shadow disappeared.
The police officer checked the courtyard but didn’t find anything worth reporting. He promised to request the officers patrolling the downtown area to make a couple of extra checks of the alley and to notify Detective Pitt in case my “alleged intruder” had any bearing on the murder investigation. The prospect of another visit from Stinky Pitt left a bad taste in my mouth.
I needed a drink. I warned Dawson, who promised to be watchful without doing anything stupid. Football had made him a big guy, but he was still no match for an armed intruder.
I needed to go upstairs and relax. “Alleged intruder indeed.”
Chapter 16
I thought writing would help me unwind, but my mind refused to focus on Great Britain in 1938. I decided to start revisions. With a stack of printed manuscript pages, a glass of wine, and a red pen, I curled up on the sofa. Within a minute, I was transported to the British countryside.
It felt like a minute later when I woke to my favorite smells, bacon and coffee. The pillow under my head and the blanket over me meant not only had I slept through Nana Jo’s arrival last night or this morning, but I’d slept while she’d made me comfortable. I grunted at her cheery good morning and hurried to the bathroom to take care of pressing business and to brush my teeth.
Refreshed, I joined Nana Jo at the breakfast bar. I downed almost an entire mug of coffee before I noticed she was reading while she ate.
My manuscript. “Where did you get that?”
“Off the floor when I put the blanket over you. Why didn’t you tell me you’re writing a book?”
“You had no right.” I grabbed the pages and clutched them to my chest. The sudden rush of blood to my head made me a little dizzy.
I wasn’t being reasonable. She didn’t know about my book. She certainly didn’t realize how protective, or perhaps the better word was fearful, I was. The novel was my baby. I’d dreamed of writing a book for more years than I could remember. Leon was the first person with whom I’d shared my secret. Jenna happened to overhear us talking about it and was brought into my dream.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” Nana Jo said. “Please forgive my intrusion.”
I felt like a total and complete idiot. “I’m sorry, Nana Jo. I didn’t mean to be rude.” I put the pages on the counter. “It’s just, I didn’t want anyone to know. It’s sort of personal.”
“I understand, honey. No need to apologize. I should have asked. I’m really sorry.” She patted my hand and returned to her breakfast.
“I was only doing some editing. I must have fallen asleep.”
She nodded and continued to eat. Her body language said she wasn’t angry, but I felt guilty and a little curious. I smoothed the pages I’d creased when I grabbed them and started to eat.
Those one hundred or so pages turned into the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. Curiosity got the better of me. “What did you think?”
Nana Jo beamed. “I thought it was wonderful. I really did, honey. I liked the characters, and I was amazed how you transported me to England.”
“You aren’t just saying that because you’re my grandmother, are you?”
“You know me well enough to know that if I didn’t think it was good, I’d tell you, granddaughter or not. God knows there are enough bad books out there. No point adding any more. A good cozy mystery is a rare thing.”
I basked in the glow of my nana’s praise and slid the pages to her. “I guess it would be okay if you read it, but please, don’t tell anyon
e. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. Nana Jo thanked me, found her place in the pages, and read. I studied her facial expressions and body language. She smiled a lot and laughed out loud a couple of times.
After a particularly funny bit, she said, “I can read a lot faster without you watching me. Don’t you have work to do?”
She was right. It was almost nine thirty, and the store opened in less than thirty minutes. I heard Dawson downstairs getting things ready. Oreo and Snickers barked and did their Lassie-trying-to-lead-me-to-Timmy-down-the-well act.
“You get dressed. I’ll take the dogs.” Nana Jo scooped up the pages, grabbed a couple of dog biscuits, and headed downstairs.
I took a quick shower, got my wet hair under control, put on jeans and a T-shirt, and rushed downstairs. From the moment I hit the bookstore, traffic was nonstop.
Despite the economic depression hanging like a moldy blanket over the rest of North Harbor, the downtown area thrived. Small business owners had turned the vacant, abandoned, and derelict buildings into an eclectic mixture of antique shops, bakeries, art shops, and cafés. On weekends, artists brought their paint, photography, glass, ceramics, and ironwork onto the sidewalk. Christopher suggested we move some books outside and take advantage of the foot traffic. The experiment paid off. Inside, Nana Jo and I tended to customers while Zaq and Dawson took care of the cash register and the baked goods and espressos. Despite a few glitches, we were turning into a well-oiled machine.
At almost two, Stinky Pitt walked into the store. I was helping a customer decide between Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe and Raymond Chandler’s Phillip Marlowe when Nana Jo let me know the detective was waiting in my office. I had a hard time getting away. My confused customer wanted my personal opinion about the books, and I’d never been shy about sharing my personal opinion when it came to mysteries. Just when I thought she’d made a decision, she launched into more questions.