It had been Nita’s family, the Romanos, who showered me with love and showed me life could be filled with fun and laughter. It had also been Nita who urged me to follow my dreams of becoming a stager. How different my life would have been if Nita and her large Italian-American family hadn’t virtually adopted me.
Barely able to keep my eyes open, I pulled an Aran wool afghan over my legs to ward off the chill. As I was about to doze off, Inky jumped into my lap and startled me to full wakefulness. He circled around in my lap until he became comfortable and settled himself. I ran my hands over his sleek black coat, and his soft purring helped relax me a little. My mother had never allowed me to have a pet when I was growing up, and Derrick hadn’t wanted pets. Once I had a house to myself, I visited an animal shelter and picked out Inky. Rather, it was Inky who had picked me. My plan had been to get a cat with a light coat, but when a black cat latched on to my pant leg with a look of desperation, I couldn’t tell him no.
When the phone rang, I nearly fell off the sofa in my haste to answer it. Inky landed on the floor and glared at me with annoyance.
“Hello, hello.” I was holding the phone upside down.
“Laura, this is Ted Wojdakowski. I wanted to let you know I just left Tyrone.”
“How is he?” I was nearly shouting. “And, where is he? I’ve been so worried about him.”
“He’s still down at the city jail.” There was a long pause. “Look, there’s no easy way for me to say this. The police are holding Tyrone on suspicion of murdering Victoria.”
“What!” This time I yelled loud enough for my neighbors to hear me. “That’s ridiculous. Tyrone couldn’t kill anyone. Besides, why would he murder Victoria? I’ve known Tyrone since he was a child, and there isn’t a mean bone in his body.”
“All I can tell you is that when the police questioned everyone who was at the Denton house that day, someone said they heard Tyrone threaten her.”
“Who told them that? Nita’s brother Angelo and his painters wouldn’t have viewed Tyrone’s comments as a murderous threat. It must have been Ernie Phillips. He washed windows at the Denton house that day.”
“I’m not at liberty to say. However, that and Tyrone’s previous trouble with the police were enough for them to strongly suspect him.”
“What trouble?”
“The time he was arrested for getting into a fight.”
“You don’t mean the fight two years ago, do you? That was a big misunderstanding. Tyrone shouldn’t have been charged in that fight. A college kid came into Vocaro’s Coffee Bar drunk, thinking it was a bar where he could get another drink. When Tyrone tried to serve him coffee to sober him up, the kid got belligerent and took a swing at Tyrone. He took a few punches before he knocked the kid out. Unfortunately, they were both taken in for fighting. Still, that shouldn’t be enough to accuse Tyrone. What about his grandmother? Won’t she confirm he was home?”
“That’s another problem. Tyrone didn’t go straight home. He said he went for a run to work off his anger and didn’t get home until long after the time Victoria was murdered. He doesn’t have anyone who can account for where he was the rest of the time.”
I sat still, trying to absorb what I was hearing. “I can’t believe that’s enough to charge Tyrone.”
“There’s more. A resident of Lookout Hill spotted Tyrone running back down Battlement Drive around dusk.”
“I don’t care if he was seen coming from the house by the mayor and the whole city council. Tyrone did not kill Victoria. I know him.”
“Your faith in him is admirable. He’ll need all the support he can get.”
“When can we get him out on bail?”
“In cases like this, the bail is pretty high, and Tyrone said his grandmother wouldn’t be able to guarantee the bond. I’m afraid he’s going to be sitting there for a while.”
“Until you can discover who killed Victoria?”
“Look, Laura, I don’t want to disappoint you, but you hired Ted Wojdakowski, not Perry Mason.”
Early the next morning, I bounded up the steps to the police station, intent on talking to Detective Spangler about Tyrone. Remembering when he had interviewed me I had been in jeans and covered with dust, I dressed in the most businesslike attire I could find in my closet, a Talbot’s navy-blue suit from my IT days. I wanted to be taken seriously.
Two uniformed police officers sitting behind the counter didn’t even bother to glance up as I approached. I listened to them talk about the Pirates’ chances of winning the pennant that year. When it became apparent they were going to continue ignoring me, I rapped on the glass separating them from the lobby.
“Excuse me, where can I find Detective Spangler?” I tried not to look annoyed.
“What do you want him for?” asked one of the officers.
They were both so young I wondered if they were police cadets.
“That’s for me to discuss with him.”
“He won’t see you unless he knows what it’s about.”
I gritted my teeth. “I’m Laura Bishop. I want to talk to him about the Victoria Denton murder. I’m the one who found her body.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledumber eyed me suspiciously. From their vacuous expressions, I wondered if they thought I was there to confess to the murder.
“Wait here.” Tweedledumber went through a doorway behind them. Of the two officers, he might have been old enough to shave, but I wouldn’t have bet money on it.
About ten minutes later, he returned and pointed to a nearby door. “Come through there and follow me.” I trailed after him down a number of gray, dimly lit corridors and past a warren of tiny cubicles that all too vividly reminded me of places I’d worked. It made me wish I’d dropped crumbs so I could find my way out again.
Tweedledumber stopped abruptly and pointed to an office door. “He’s in there.” With that, he ducked around the corner, looking as though he were afraid I would open the door before he could get away.
This was becoming stranger and stranger. I tapped on the door. It was my first visit to a police station, and it wasn’t anything like the ones I’d seen on television.
“Come in.” The voice definitely sounded unfriendly. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
Detective Spangler stared down at a desk piled high with papers. When he looked up, he seemed surprised to see me, even though Tweedledumber had told him I was there to see him. The scowl on his face was enough to show me I wasn’t welcome and made me want to escape. He looked exhausted. His dark hair, graying at the temples, stood in spikes from his head as though he had been running his fingers through it. From the rumpled condition of his clothes and the empty food wrappers and coffee cups around him, I judged he hadn’t been home for a while.
I noticed again his dark eyes, which were surrounded by thick lashes any woman would envy. I remembered his eyes from our first meeting. They were mesmerizing, and I could imagine him compelling suspects into confessing simply by staring at them. For half a second, I almost found him appealing. Or I was feeling sorry for him, looking so worn out.
“Ms. Bishop.” He nodded to a chair in front of his desk.
I picked up the folders stacked in the seat and looked around for a place to put them. His office looked like a tornado had struck. The bulletin board behind him was plastered with layers of papers, some of them yellowing and curling on the edges as though they had been there for years. It was a wonder he could find anything on it. A cloudy film covered the lone window in the room, making the sunny day outside appear overcast. I eyed the window with distaste. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned since smoking in government offices had been banned years ago.
“Here, let me have those.” He took the folders from me and dropped them onto the floor next to him. “The caseload keeps mounting, and the paperwork never seems to get done. We’re moving
to digital records, which you would think would reduce the paper, but it doesn’t.”
I studied him, wondering how I should start. He didn’t seem to be in the mood to meet with anyone this morning.
“Should I come back another time?” I hoped he would agree. When he’d questioned me after Victoria’s death, I was glad he stopped when he did. If he had gone on much longer, I would have gladly confessed to anything so I could get some sleep. Thinking more clearly later, I was relieved I hadn’t ended up as his number one suspect. Unfortunately, he had cast Tyrone for that role.
“Another time won’t be any better,” he said before I could make my escape. “This better be important. I don’t have time for chitchat.”
I gritted my teeth. I wanted to throw the nearby stapler at him but restrained myself for Tyrone’s sake. “I want to talk to you about Tyrone Webster.” I paused, trying to come up with the right words. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“What makes you think that?” He slapped the flat side of a letter opener on the palm of his hand at a slow cadence. I could well imagine him playing a terrorist in a movie. He would have been perfect for the role. “And what do you base your assessment on? Your long history of doing police work?”
His condescending manner and sarcasm irritated me. “I’ve known Tyrone most of his life, and he wouldn’t harm anyone. Besides, he didn’t have a reason to kill Victoria.”
“That’s not what we heard.” He put down the letter opener and picked up a rubber ball and began squeezing it. Did he do these things routinely to intimidate people? If so, it was working.
“Tyrone was…was upset following the scene about the vase.” I realized I was sputtering. “But it wouldn’t have been enough for him to want to see her dead.”
“He was heard threatening her when she said she would prevent his getting a scholarship.”
“That didn’t mean he would kill her to stop her interfering with it.” This wasn’t going well. “There were others on the committee, so he still could have gotten the scholarship. Even if he didn’t, Tyrone could survive without it. It would take him longer to get through school only paying for a few classes at a time, but he would be okay.”
“There was no evidence of forced entry into the house, and Tyrone had a key. He was also seen running away from the house about the time of the murder. You said yourself you had locked all the doors earlier. Given his history of getting into fights—”
“Tyrone is not violent.” I jumped out of my chair. “When the fight occurred at the coffee shop, and it was only one fight, he was trying to calm down a drunken college student.”
“Please sit down, Ms. Bishop.”
I sank back in my chair, embarrassed at my outburst.
“Tyrone is a friend of yours, so it’s natural you’d want to defend him. Besides, we have plenty of reasons to suspect him and nothing pointing to anyone else. Most people arrested for a crime have people in their lives who will say good things about them. Which isn’t enough to get them off the hook.”
He stood, towering over me, and walked toward the door, effectively ending the discussion. “It’s wishful thinking on your part that Tyrone is innocent, but you have to accept we have reason to charge him.”
I waited a beat, trying to think of another approach. “Can I visit him?”
“I’m sorry. Only family and his attorney at this time.” He leaned over to open the door. He didn’t look sorry.
“You’ve got the wrong man.” Those words had been spoken about many a wrongly accused person.
I stood next to the office door Detective Spangler firmly closed behind me. His comment about Tyrone and keys to the house bothered me. Skip Denton might have a key—if Victoria hadn’t changed the locks after they separated. Who else could have a key? And had used it?
Chapter 8
Few buyers are looking for a place that reminds them of their grandmother’s house. A dated house will look more up to date simply by adding new lighting fixtures and hardware.
The next morning, I attended church and then took a longer route than usual home so I could spend a few minutes in Veterans Park. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and the park’s peaceful atmosphere was what I needed. During the night, worries about Tyrone had woken me several times and left me depressed and sleepy. The fragrance from the blossoming lilac bushes in the park had been as effective as an aromatherapy treatment in helping to perk up my spirits.
Visits to the park always brought back memories of the times I’d spent there with my father. A veteran of the Marine Corps, he used to point out the statues and memorials to different veterans groups. A sharp feeling of loss came over me thinking of him. I shook it off and tucked the memories of our times in the park away for another day.
When I reached home, I entered through the back door. Before I could put down my purse, I heard a light knock on the front door, followed by one that was definitely louder. Opening the door, I was surprised to discover Mrs. Mariah Webster, Tyrone’s grandmother, standing on the porch, her black vinyl purse clutched firmly against her breast as though anticipating muggers.
Mrs. Webster, who stood about five feet tall and weighed next to nothing, could easily be knocked over in a heavy wind. However, her small stature belied her true nature—a woman of strong character and determination, who had raised Tyrone from the time he was five and molded him into the fine and well-liked young man I’d known for years. When Mrs. Webster chose to smile, which, with her serious manner, wasn’t often, you could see where Tyrone got his good nature and good looks. They had the same high cheekbones and beautiful eyes.
Standing there now, Mrs. Webster looked shrunken and tired, and, for the first time since I’d known her, discouraged. Her yellow suit hung on her, and her usually rich, dark mahogany skin looked pale, even next to the bright yellow of her matching large-brimmed hat.
“Mrs. Webster, come in.” I opened the storm door for her and led her to a chair, afraid if she didn’t sit down, she might collapse on the spot.
“I’m sorry to come without first calling.” She spoke softly as though it were an effort to speak. “I came straight from church.”
After getting the news about Tyrone, I’d called Mrs. Webster to see if she needed anything. At the time, her sister had been visiting for a few days, so I knew she would be in good hands. But now she was on her own again.
“I’m so sorry about Tyrone. Is he okay at the jail? I heard Ted Wojdakowski got you in to see him yesterday. Since I’m not family, they won’t let me in.”
“You know Tyrone. He makes the best of everything.”
I knew Mrs. Webster was trying to do the same. “I can’t believe this is happening.” I wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. “Ted is doing everything he can, but right now, he doesn’t have much to go on to help clear Tyrone.”
“At times like this, it’s only the Lord you can truly rely on to help you,” Mrs. Webster closed her eyes as if meditating. “But, in His wisdom, He sends us helpers to overcome our difficulties.”
Please don’t let her say I’m that helper!
“I prayed for my Tyrone, and then I thought of you.”
Yikes, she believes I’m that helper. “To do what?” Was Mrs. Webster going to ask me to guarantee Tyrone’s bail bond, which, sadly, I wasn’t in a position to do?
“Why, to find out who murdered Victoria Denton. You’re the only one I can turn to. The police think Tyrone did it, so they won’t be searching for anyone else. I don’t have the money for a private detective, nor would I trust one even if I could afford it, but I trust you. I’ll never forget how you helped Tyrone when that other youngster created a ruckus at the coffee bar.”
I hoped panic wasn’t showing on my face. Nita always said my facial expressions exposed my feelings. When we were kids, it often got us into trouble.
“All I did was serve as a character witnes
s for him. That’s a far cry from trying to find a murderer.”
“But you came through for him. Tyrone needs a fighter like you at his side.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Webster, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to go about it.” I ran my fingers through my hair and paced the room, trying to come up with a response. “Listen, I was a computer specialist and am now a home stager. Nothing in either of those jobs has given me the skills to seek out a murderer.”
“You believe Tyrone is innocent, don’t you?” Mrs. Webster demanded.
“Absolutely, and if I had a clue how to find out who actually did it, I would help in any way I could.” I didn’t want to disappoint Tyrone’s grandmother, who, for some misguided reason, had such faith in me. I knew my skills, and investigating murder wasn’t among them. I’d spent my career trying to find bugs in computer programs, and that had been as close as I’d come to solving a mystery. I also wouldn’t do Mrs. Webster the disservice of promising to help and then being able to do little or nothing.
“Please, Laura.” Mrs. Webster took my smooth hand into one that had known hard work. “For Tyrone’s sake, and mine, please promise me you’ll find Victoria’s killer. I know you’re the one to clear Tyrone’s name. The Lord will give you the guidance you need.”
Looking into her beseeching face, I remembered Mrs. Webster’s comfort and support when she had nursed my mother during her long and final illness. How could she have such faith in me? Feeling myself weakening, and, against my better judgment, I slowly nodded. “But what happens if He doesn’t give me enough?”
Chapter 9
To inexpensively fill empty walls and make a room feel finished, frame and hang attractive pictures from calendars and magazines or your children’s school artwork.
“Got time for a mystery?”
Staging is Murder Page 5