One Hot Murder

by Lorraine Bartlett

  “I understand you’re not a stranger to reporting crimes,” he said in the same monotone. Was he bored or just reciting the dialogue from an old Dragnet episode?

  “You got that right,” Katie said, and had a feeling the following conversation was going to be difficult. She settled back in her chair for what promised to be a long and boring interview.

  He went over what he knew about the investigation so far, including the trespasser who’d been residing in Chad’s Pad. “You may be interested to know that Mrs. Abby Wheeler identified the shirt that was found in your upstairs storage room as belonging to her husband.”

  “Oh. Well…good. I guess.” And then it occurred to Katie. “I just remembered. I found a suitcase full of stuff in my bathroom Sunday night. Soap, deodorant.” Had the lab team found it the night before? She hadn’t looked under the sink when she’d cleaned the room only an hour earlier. She jumped up and scooted around the corner, but found the door to the washroom was locked. She knocked.

  “It’s occupied,” came a woman’s voice.

  Katie turned to find Hamilton looming over her. “There’s no telling if it’ll still be in there. I mentioned it yesterday in my note to the vendors. It could have already been claimed.”

  “I think you should let me handle this,” Hamilton said, and motioned for her to stand aside. He knocked on the door. “Ma’am, this is Detective Hamilton of the Sheriff’s Office. Could you hurry it up, please. This is official business.”

  They heard the toilet flush, and then water run in the sink. Seconds later a chubby woman who looked to be in her late sixties opened the door, giving them both a glare. “Can’t a person pee in privacy?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but as I said, this is official business.”

  The woman stood rock still. “Oh, yeah? Like the cops who speed and run their sirens until they hit the McDonald’s parking lot for a burger and fries?”

  Hamilton’s face remained impassive.

  “Now, if you’ll step aside, maybe I can get out of here,” the woman said with indignation.

  Katie stifled a smirk as she and Hamilton backed out of the way, allowing the woman to leave. As soon as she was gone, Hamilton entered the washroom.

  “It was in the cabinet under the sink,” Katie said.

  Hamilton crouched down, opened the cabinet door, and then didn’t move. “What did you say this suitcase looked like?”

  “A small, faux alligator-skin job in brown.”

  He stood and Katie looked around him. There was no suitcase under the sink.

  Hamilton glared at her.

  “I swear, there was a suitcase there on Sunday night.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to Detective Davenport last night?” Hamilton growled.

  “I forgot all about it until just a minute ago.”

  His expression said, A likely story.

  “I have no reason to lie,” Katie said defensively.

  “I’d like to see the storeroom where the suspect was hiding, if you’d be kind enough to show me the way,” Hamilton said.

  “I’d be happy to,” Katie said, and exited the doorway with Hamilton striding right behind her. Did he think she was going to try to get there before him and hide some other evidence?

  Katie took the steep back stairs two at a time while Hamilton maneuvered up the narrow enclosure. She had to wait for him to catch up at the top before she threaded her way through the aisles to the back loft to Chad’s Pad.

  The room was as it had been left the night before by the lab team—messy, and still contaminated with fingerprint dust. She waited for him to catch up.

  “Here you go,” she said, and opened the door to the small storage space. She flipped the switch just inside the door, and the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling did a poor job of illuminating the gloom.

  Hamilton entered the stifling hot space and poked around for what seemed like forever. Katie stood watching him while the sweat beaded on her scalp and then ran down the back of her neck. It wasn’t even noon yet and already the temperature had to be in the nineties in the loft. She’d have to get a thermometer and chart the temperature by the hour. Maybe that would convince her to sell her treasures to Nick Farrell.

  I don’t want to sell my stuff! It had taken her years to collect the furniture and other items. She had paid a king’s ransom storing the things. She’d never get her money’s worth out of them if she sold now.

  I am not selling my stuff!

  She wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead and realized she had to get out of the loft before she became dehydrated. “I’ll be in my office if you need me, Detective,” she called, and saw Hamilton wave a hand in dismissal.

  Katie hurried down the back stairs and reentered the vendors’ lounge, glad to escape the heat—but not the guilt of dragging her feet to upgrade the HVAC. But that cost money, money she didn’t have.

  But could have—if she sold her treasures.

  She entered her office, determined not to think about it. She had far more important matters to ponder. The potluck dinner, the trespasser who’d been hiding in the Alley, and if it was Dennis Wheeler, then who’d been killed at Wood U just four days before?

  Thirteen

  It was almost lunchtime when Katie decided to take a break and head back to her apartment. Now that she’d restocked her cupboards—and refrigerator—there was more than just kitty treats to snack on. She was hankering for a ham and cheese sandwich on rye. The cats would be happy to have company for a half hour or so, and maybe she’d stop and see Andy, too.

  She was just leaving her office when she saw a familiar figure threading his way through the sales room, heading for the vendors’ lounge. Detective Ray Davenport, retired.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bonner,” Davenport called brightly. “Or should I say afternoon?”

  “Hello, Detective.” Katie studied his face, which seemed impassive. “Are you allowed to talk to me anymore…in an official capacity, I mean?”

  “You’ve heard,” he said and frowned. “Who says we’re talking officially? I’m now a man with lots of time on my hands.”

  “And a hankering to solve your last case…even if they did take you off it. And why was that?”

  “I can’t go into that right now. But everything will become clear as soon as this murder is solved.”

  “And you don’t think your colleague Detective Hamilton can do the job?”

  “He’s very capable. He’s known around the office as Fine-tooth-comb Hamilton. He’s extremely meticulous. Likes all his i’s dotted and t’s crossed. It’ll just take him several years to come up with the killer.”

  “And you don’t want to wait that long?” Katie guessed.

  “Got it in one.”

  Godfrey walked into the vendors’ lounge, making a beeline for the fridge. He grabbed a mug from the rack and poured himself cold water from Katie’s bottle.

  “Why don’t we go into your office to talk,” Davenport said, and pointed the way.

  The two of them entered and Davenport shut the door, parking himself against her file cabinet.

  Katie took her chair and leaned back, marveling at how their relationship had changed since the first time she’d met him some ten months before. He’d been obstinate, disagreeable, and apparently uninterested in solving Ezra Hilton’s murder. And now…she wasn’t so sure she’d judged him fairly. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m not sure I have one…yet. But don’t you think it’s disturbing that a dead man is found in Wood U and the owner goes missing? Yet his car is still behind the shop. There’s no credit card trail to follow, so where did he go and how is he surviving?”

  Katie’s eyes narrowed. “Right here only steps from his store—in Artisans Alley?” As if she hadn’t come to that conclusion the night before.

  “It’s more than plausible. So who among your vendors would have helped him? Was he particularly friendly with anyone here?”

  Katie shook her head. “No
t that I know of.”

  “What about that guy who sells the wood in Booth 37?”

  “Vance Ingram? I already asked him about it. He told me he didn’t know Dennis.”

  “What if he lied?” Davenport asked with a raised eyebrow. “He wasn’t exactly truthful during the Hilton murder investigation.”

  “Things were different then. I trust Vance—and he trusts me. He wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “I’ve had a lot more experiences with liars,” Davenport grumbled. “We’re going to have to go at this differently.”

  “We?” Katie repeated.

  “I need you to speak to people that I can’t officially talk to.”

  “So that I can get in hot water with Detective Hamilton instead of you?” she asked.

  Davenport shrugged, adopting what was probably supposed to be an innocent expression. “Who says he has to know?”

  Katie sighed. “If I pulled this crap while you were working an investigation, you’d have a fit.”

  “You’re probably right,” he admitted. “But I’m not asking you to do anything that will hamper the investigation. I would encourage you to tell Hamilton everything you learn.”

  “And is he going to be just as receptive as you were after Ezra Hilton’s murder?”

  “Probably. But that isn’t likely to stop you either. Will it?”

  Again Katie sighed. “As head of the Merchants Association, I do have a stake in getting the killer caught and hopefully clearing our former member’s name. That’s just good business.”

  “I agree,” Davenport said with a nod.

  Something about his affability smelled as rotten as a week-old dead trout. “Still, if you can’t be honest with me, I see no reason to help you poke around.”

  He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “The name of Wood U’s new owner,” Katie demanded. She hated being the only one who didn’t seem to know.

  Davenport shook his head. “I’m well aware of who now owns the business. There’s no connection to the death at the shop. The new owner had taken over the business in name only and has an iron-tight alibi.”

  “Who told you the identity of the new owner? Fred Cunningham? Seth Landers?” she demanded.

  “That’s none of your business, Mrs. Bonner. Now, are you going to help or not?”

  So much for the detective being her newfound friend. “Not unless you tell me,” she said petulantly. Goodness, she sounded like a spoiled ten-year-old.

  “I can’t,” Davenport nearly shouted.

  Katie sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her Artisans Alley T-shirt and waited. Davenport was going to have come clean if he wanted her help.

  She started silently counting backward from ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two…

  “Okay, it’s me,” Davenport admitted.

  Katie’s jaw dropped. “You? Why on earth would you buy the business?”

  “Because I’m retiring. I’m not ready to be put out to pasture. I figure I can make this a second career. And I’ll tell you one thing, I’m a hell of a lot better woodworker than your friend Dennis Wheeler ever was.”

  “He wasn’t my friend. He was an associate.”

  “Whatever,” Davenport said hotly. Katie had never seen him so riled before.

  “Good grief, Detective, no wonder you’ve been relieved of duty. It had to be a huge conflict of interest for you to be the chief investigator of a murder committed on property you own. How come your superiors allowed this transgression in law enforcement protocol for the first three days of the investigation?”

  Davenport said nothing.

  It couldn’t have been Seth who turned him in. Although he was an officer of the court, if questioned, he could also play the attorney-client confidentiality card.

  How long had Davenport dabbled in woodworking as a hobby? He’d never mentioned it. Then again, they weren’t exactly buddies. The only reason she knew about his deceased wife and his college-age children was because one of the deputies had mentioned them to her days after Ezra Hilton’s death. Davenport had never revealed anything to her that could be construed as personal, and now he was going to be her neighbor here on Victoria Square. The thought of him arguing with her at upcoming Merchants Association meetings filled her with dread.

  “Why all the secrets?” she asked finally.

  “Because somebody broke into my shop and killed another human being. Someone set fire to my shop. It’s my obligation to find out who did these things and bring that person to justice.”

  “But you can’t do it as a member of the Sheriff’s Office because it’s a blatant conflict of interest for you to be investigating, right?”

  “Yes. But just because I’ve been officially taken off the case doesn’t mean I can’t poke around on my own.”

  “Oh, come on, Detective. Aren’t you doing what you’ve chided me not to do in the past?”

  “The stakes are much different.”

  “I don’t see how. You’ve been exonerated—at least I’m assuming so. But when Ezra Hilton was killed, you were thinking I might have done it.”

  “I ruled you out right away,” he grumbled.

  She let out an exasperated breath and crossed her arms over her T-shirt once again. “Well, you might have let me know it.”

  Davenport glared at her.

  “So what happens now?” Katie asked.

  “I’m supposed to go back to the office and pack up my things. They’re going to let me loose a few days early,” he said bitterly. “A reward for a job well done or some kind of crap like that.”

  His expression was a mix of anger and deep disappointment, and Katie actually found herself feeling sorry for the man.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, you can now join the Merchants Association and become a full-fledged member of the Victoria Square family.” Odd how just minutes before, the thought had repelled her.

  “I was planning on doing that…eventually. I thought it best to let Wheeler make the decisions until I had a better handle on how the store operated. He was supposed to mentor me—for a fee.”

  “Which you already paid?”

  Davenport nodded.

  “You don’t need to pay a fee for mentoring from anyone in the Association. And I’d be glad to give you any advice and information you might need. I haven’t had as much experience as some of the members, but I seem to have had a bit more success than some of them, too.”

  “‘No brag just fact’?” he quoted from an old TV Western.

  “Yup,” Katie replied. “Maybe we would make a pretty good team.”

  Davenport rubbed his chin. “Yes. We might. And maybe we should start working together right now.”

  Katie’s eyes widened in surprise. “Now, Detective—”

  “About-to-be-retired detective,” he corrected bitterly.

  “Wouldn’t going after a murderer put us both in danger?”

  “I think I know how to handle myself. And I can take care of you, too.”

  Katie frowned. What an ego! “Okay, what do you want me to do?” she asked, resigned. After all, she wanted to know how all this turned out, too.

  “First, we need to ascertain that it was indeed Dennis Wheeler who’s been hiding in Chad’s Pad.”

  “According to Detective Hamilton, Abby Wheeler confirmed that the shirt we found last night did belong to Dennis. And didn’t you say it could take weeks before the state lab results come through with fingerprint and DNA evidence?” Katie reminded him.

  “Exactly. And that’s why we need to trap him.”

  “And how do we do that? We frightened him away last night. You don’t seriously think he’ll return, do you?”

  “He might. If we bait him.”

  “With what?” she cried, her exasperation level rising.

  “He may have left something behind that he needs. I want to have another look at that room.”

  “There wasn’t anything in there—besides what Chad left�
��except for some dirty clothes and dirty dishes. But there is something I forgot to tell you.” She told him about finding the suitcase on Sunday night—and how when she’d mentioned it to Hamilton and they’d gone to look, the suitcase was gone.

  “Damn. No sign of it in Chad’s Pad, I suppose…”

  “You suppose right. I didn’t see what the lab team took as evidence, but there couldn’t have been much in there. And the place was as hot as a sauna. If Dennis was staying in there day and night, he probably lost half his body weight in sweat.” But it did explain the thefts in the vendors’ lounge refrigerator.

  “It is a pretty miserable place to stay,” Davenport agreed. He sighed in exasperation. “Would you be willing to talk to Abby Wheeler?”

  “What about?” Katie asked suspiciously.

  “Things!”

  “What do I say? ‘Hello, Abby. Looks like your husband is wanted for murder. Tell me about that and every other crime he may or may not have committed.’” She frowned. “Can’t you see her slamming her front door in my face?”

  “Mrs. Bonner,” he said, his voice dropping to a tone of admonishment.

  “Katie. If we’re going to be partners in this, you’ll have to call me Katie.”

  “Katie, I’m sure you’ll think of just the right thing to say. You always have in the past,” he added snidely.

  She ignored the dig. “What’s my excuse for showing up on her doorstep?”

  “You feel bad for her, because no matter what happens, it’s likely she’s lost her husband. Or how about pulling the comfort visit from the head of the Merchants Association? Use your imagination,” he encouraged.

  Katie’s frown deepened. “How soon do you want me to talk to her?”

  “How about now?”

  “Detective—”

  “Ray,” he corrected. “If I have to call you by your first name, you have to call me by mine.”

  “Ray,” she said, and oh, it felt so wrong on so many levels, “I have a business to run. And besides, this just doesn’t feel right.”