Color Me Murder

by Krista Davis

  Sergeant Jonquille asked if I could stop by the bookstore. Naturally I agreed, but I’ll admit the thought ran through my mind that I didn’t really want to help him collect information against Professor Maxwell. On the other hand, maybe I could pick up some information from him. . . .

  I took the time to pop frozen muffins in the oven for Jim. He deserved them even if everything at the bookstore had been turned topsy-turvy.

  With a package of two muffins in hand, I left Peaches inside watching birds through the French doors. The Maxwell property appeared calm and serene until I walked out to the sidewalk. Local TV station vans lined the street. A couple of reporters ran up to me.

  Ignoring their questions, I held up my empty palm and said, “I don’t know anything.” I kept walking and they lost interest.

  I stopped by a local coffee shop to buy a cup of java for Jim. I doubted the cops would let me make coffee in the bookstore this morning. While I waited for my order, I heard patrons speculating about Maxwell. It took every ounce of strength I had to not defend him.

  When I left, I stopped by the newspaper vending box outside. Naturally, Maxwell Heir Murdered was on the front page along with a picture of Delbert. But it was the sidebar headline that nearly caused me to drop the coffee. Maxwell Family Curse.

  Chapter 9

  My mouth went dry. I reminded myself that there were no such things as curses. I knew that. Everyone knew that. And yet, I quivered a little bit at the thought.

  I fumbled in my purse for change and plunked coins into the machine.

  Juggling the coffee and muffins, I folded the newspaper so I could glance at the story while I walked.

  It led with a carefully phrased allegation that Professor Maxwell had murdered Delbert. From there, it recited unfortunate deaths of their ancestors from a drowning in the Potomac River to a couple struck by lightning on their wedding night. It made mention of the pig thief and the man who photographed other men’s wives in the buff, and concluded with the mention of the professor’s daughter being kidnapped and most likely murdered.

  Granted, the Maxwells had a good number of strange events in their lineage, but the article went back generations. If I, or anyone else for that matter, went back a couple hundred years, wouldn’t we have some relatives who disappeared or died under odd circumstances? Probably. I chalked the article up as one intended to sell newspapers.

  I tucked the paper under my arm and hurried to Color Me Read. As I had anticipated, yellow police tape hung across the front door.

  Jim sat in his usual spot on the bench, a blissfully normal sight on a stressful day.

  “Good morning, Jim.” I forced a smile as I handed him the coffee and muffins.

  “Didn’t know if I’d see you this morning.”

  “You heard about it, huh?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it. That Delbert was trouble. Sunday wasn’t the first time I’d seen him lurking around.”

  I didn’t recall him coming into the store. “Did you see him here often?”

  Jim took a big swig of coffee. “Good stuff. He came around now and then. Often enough that I recognized his picture in the paper this morning.”

  “How did you know he was trouble?”

  “When you live on the street, you spend a lot of time people watching. Partly out of boredom, partly out of self-preservation. Gotta keep an eye on who’s around. I like this part of town. Not as stressful. Most folks are decent. You get to recognize traits in people. Kind of like tells in poker. I always thought that Delbert was up to something. Just a hunch, you might say. He didn’t seem to have any business here. Wasn’t meeting a girl or waiting for a bus. Looked to me like he mighta been scouting for something. Planning to break into a business maybe.”

  “Thanks, Jim. Let me know if you hear any scuttlebutt on the street, okay?”

  “Sure thing. We know the professor didn’t do it.”

  Hope welled in me for a second. “How do you know that?”

  “Maxwell is a decent fellow. He could have run me off a long time ago. But he takes an interest in everyone. He’s the kind of man who would have been smarter about getting rid of a goon like Delbert.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” I waved and headed to the bookstore, feeling odd about having to knock on the door of the shop that I ran.

  A man wearing a white button-down shirt, navy blazer, and jeans opened the door. “Florrie Fox?”

  “Yes.”

  He waved me in. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Guy Zielony.” He flipped his badge at me. “Sorry to bring you down here. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you come to find the victim?”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but I had already told Sergeant Jonquille. “What happened to Sergeant Jonquille? I told him everything yesterday.”

  “He’s your beat cop. I’m investigating the homicide.”

  Happily, he didn’t sound miffed by my question. I told him how I discovered the trapdoor.

  “When and where did you last see Delbert?”

  “Around dinnertime. I found him seated at Professor Maxwell’s desk. He acted somewhat pompous and told me he would inherit the Maxwell estate and that my job would be toast. The professor came along and told Delbert that his mother was looking for him.”

  Zielony’s eyebrow twitched. He was a large man with a bulky torso and thinning hair. No wedding band graced his pudgy fingers. Most of the time, his expression remained doubtful, as if he didn’t trust anyone.

  “So you saw Delbert and the professor arguing.” He stated it like a fact.

  “No. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t an argument at all. Maxwell told Delbert that his mother was waiting for him. I think the three of them were going out to dinner.”

  “Were you aware of the professor’s animosity toward his nephew?”

  There it was, the question I had been dreading. I told him about moving into the guesthouse so Delbert wouldn’t take up residence there.

  Detective-Sergeant Zielony stared at me dead on. “You’re saying the professor was afraid of Delbert?”

  “His butler seemed to be afraid of Delbert. I think the professor was more ashamed of him than afraid of him. In case you don’t know it yet, Delbert was something of a con artist. Professor Maxwell took great pride in the family name, and Delbert was an embarrassment.”

  “Did you hear the professor say he would take care of Delbert before the weekend was over?”

  My sharp intake of breath gave me away. Bob must have overheard the professor. How else could he know that? “I did not take it to mean that he was going to murder Delbert. I guess it could have been misunderstood that way out of context.” I held my breath. Would Zielony buy that?

  “Then what did you think he meant?”

  “That he would do something legally. Put the family fortune in a trust or disinherit Delbert. Really, Detective-Sergeant Zielony, if you knew the professor, you would realize that he’s not an idiot. Had he meant to murder Delbert, he would not have announced it to anyone, he certainly wouldn’t have done it in his own bookstore, and it would have been much more civilized and hard to detect. Nothing so brazen as stabbing him with a spear that he owned.”

  Zielony’s mouth twisted to the side. “Come with me, please.”

  I followed him upstairs to the professor’s office.

  He walked close to the wall. “Please avoid the flagged marks so they won’t be disturbed.”

  Small white pieces of paper lay on the maroon carpeting of the hallway. I paused and peered at them. They were numbered. “What is this?”

  “Markers of bloodstains. They’re hard to see on the red carpeting. We sprayed luminol last night. It picks up even minute amounts.”

  “So there was a little blood here?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “No. There was actually quite a bit.” He continued to the professor’s office.

  “Florrie,” said Zielony, “I would like you to take a loo
k around the office and think back to last night. Is anything different?”

  “That chair wasn’t knocked over.” I studied the top of the desk. “I couldn’t say exactly what papers might have been on the desk, but I recall seeing a map when Delbert was seated there.” And then my gaze drifted to the blank space on the wall. I sucked in a sharp breath of air. It didn’t really come as a surprise, but was shocking nonetheless. “The spear, of course. The spear was hanging on that wall.”

  “Where the empty hooks are?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was Professor Maxwell in the habit of taking it down to show to people?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “You never saw him hold it?”

  “No. All the exotic objects in this room are mementoes. The professor might have shown them to interested parties. I don’t know about that, but most of the time he focused on research.”

  Zielony nodded as though he had heard that before. “Anything else out of place?”

  “The hatchet that Bob removed. But everything else seems in order.”

  “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

  “Delbert tried to break into the professor’s carriage house at seven minutes to three in the morning on Sunday.”

  Now I had Detective-Sergeant Zielony’s interest. “You saw him?”

  “I saw someone. It was still dark outside, so I didn’t see his face—just a dark figure really, but it must have been him.”

  “Why would he want access to the carriage house?”

  “To scare me? Maybe he thought I would move out and he could live there?”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “No. I called Professor Maxwell. He came over and looked around.”

  “So there’s no record of this?”

  He didn’t believe me! “The professor’s butler, Mr. DuBois, was with him. He can confirm what I told you.”

  He appeared dubious. “That’s all for now. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Do you have any idea when we might be able to open the store again?”

  He leveled a slightly amused gaze at me. “Probably by the end of the week.”

  “Today is Monday!” It came out as a screech.

  “What a conscientious employee you are to be so very eager to get back to work.” He tilted his head a touch. “A murder was committed here. It’s my job to preserve the evidence.”

  I could hear the bookstore phone ringing. “May I answer the phone at least?”

  He shook his head in the negative. “Probably just reporters anyway.”

  I left by the front door, imagining that I felt his eyes burning my back as he watched me leave. I liked Jonquille much better. Why did Zielony have to be so dour?

  I stood on the stair stoop and looked out at the busy street and other shops. People passed just below me, gawking and pointing at the bookstore. I needed to make a little sign to post so our customers would know what was going on and that we would reopen as soon as possible.

  I turned around and knocked on the door again.

  A cop opened it. Inside, Zielony gazed in my direction.

  “Books that were special-ordered for customers will be arriving. Obviously, they were not here when the incident occurred. Would it be possible for you to leave the boxes just inside the back door so I can retrieve them and make sure the customers get them?”

  “No.” Zielony turned his back, effectively dismissing me.

  I looked at the cop who had opened the door.

  He made a face of incredulity to let me know what he thought of Zielony. I bit my upper lip to hide my smirk.

  “Come back in a couple of hours,” he hissed.

  “Thanks,” I whispered. I walked down the stairs thinking I could tap into the bookstore computer to get the names of people who had placed orders. And maybe I could notify the delivery companies to bring packages to the carriage house instead of the bookstore for the rest of the week. Wondering what other details I had forgotten, I crossed the street to my favorite coffee shop, Café Du Conté.

  It reminded me of a Parisian café with bistro-style tables on the sidewalk and a bright awning. But it was definitely self-serve. Everything seemed so normal there. People lounged at the tables, chatting or reading. I pushed open the door and heard my name.

  My eyes took a minute to recover from the bright sun. The professor’s usual cadre of intellectual friends were seated at a table by the window.

  Professor Zsazsa Rosca motioned to me. “Florrie! Come!”

  Born in Eastern Europe, Zsazsa had been named after the famous actress from Hungary. She lived up to her legacy by being a bit dramatic. She had just retired from teaching art history at a local university. Vivid fiery-colored hair fluffed around her remarkably unwrinkled pale face. She wore dark eyeliner and fake eyelashes that curved nearly up to her eyebrows. She had confided to me once that her Spanx were so tight she thought she might not ever get them off. Even though she leaned to the plump side, she always looked voluptuous and didn’t hesitate to show off her ample bosom.

  It had bothered me that I thought of her as Zsazsa, while I thought of the men by their titles or their last names. After all, they had the same credentials. She was entitled to equal respect. But when I mentioned my discomfort to my mom and Veronica, they pointed out that I felt closer to Zsazsa. I had delivered books to her apartment many times. On most of those occasions, she had tea and some kind of pastries ready. She had introduced me to fabulously sinful Danish kringles. So while I recognized her as an authority in her field, she treated me as a friend, and I embraced that.

  Zsazsa held out her hand and squeezed mine when I neared. In her charming accent, she asked, “Dahlink, how is Maxwell? Have you heard from him?”

  “No news yet. I hope they’ll let him out on bail.”

  Professor Bankhouse, who had the lean, lanky physique of a runner, stood up and pulled a chair out for me. “I’m just going for a refill. May I get you a coffee? My treat.”

  “That’s very nice of you. A latte, please?”

  I tried to smile at Professor Goldblum, who sat across from me. He looked so hopeless.

  Zsazsa leaned toward me. “You must tell us everything you know. I cannot believe I wasn’t in the bookshop yesterday. I missed it all.”

  Bankhouse returned and set a latte in front of me.

  I thanked him and told them what little I knew.

  Professor Bankhouse eyed me. “Can you sketch how Delbert lay?”

  “Sure.” Bankhouse handed me a sheet of paper. I rummaged in my purse for a pencil but found only a plum purple crayon. It would have to do. I quickly drew the image of Delbert that burned in my brain. He lay on his abdomen with his face turned to the left and his right hand extended. His left knee had been bent, and the staff of the spear jutted out of his back. I added the footprint about two feet to the left of his shoulder and the nick in the floor near his head.

  Zsazsa gasped. “Horrible,” she murmured. “Our Maxwell would never have done such a thing to anyone. Not even to the terrible nephew.”

  Goldblum peered at it. “Most intriguing. Maxwell would have been intelligent enough to know the body would begin to deteriorate rather quickly. Another point in his favor. He would never have hidden a body there.”

  Bankhouse slid on frameless reading glasses and looked at my drawing closely. “Unless he intended to return last night to remove the body. Most people would have planned to come back the following night to remove the body under cover of darkness. Though it would have been difficult for one person. Easy enough to throw the body into the pit but getting a lifeless body out of there by oneself would have posed a problem for anyone.”

  “I think the use of the spear indicated that it wasn’t planned,” I said. “Maybe the killer panicked and didn’t think it through when he disposed of the body there.”

  “An excellent point, Florrie. Were you able to go up to the third floor?” asked Goldblum.

  I nodded. “This mo
rning.” I told them about the bloodstains.

  “Aha!” cried Goldblum. “I suspected that some sort of fight ensued.”

  “One wonders,” said Bankhouse, “if it ended in the pit or whether Delbert was dragged there. From the angle of the spear, I’m betting it was mano-a-mano combat. I can imagine our friend Maxwell doing such a thing, but not against an inferior opponent like Delbert.”

  “Then who would?” I asked.

  “That, my dahlink,” said Zsazsa, “is what we must deduce. The only way to save our Maxwell is to identify the real killer.”

  Chapter 10

  “It seems most likely that one of the employees would be the perpetrator because they had easy access to the building,” Zsazsa mused. “Anyone else would have had to break in and turn off the alarm.”

  Goldblum snorted. “Sleepy conscience. How many times have I seen one of you punch in the password to turn off the alarm? Half the regulars probably know it.”

  “That’s true.” Zsazsa shot me an apologetic look. “I knew it, too.”

  I gazed around the table. Didn’t they realize they had just enlarged the pool of suspects and included themselves?

  “What about Bob?” Bankhouse stirred his coffee, clinking the spoon against the mug. “Helen tells me he reads a lot of thrillers.”

  “Bob Turpin?” I couldn’t believe anyone would imagine he could murder, much less with a spear.

  “Sure, you saw him wielding that ax when you opened the hatch.” Bankhouse sipped his coffee, looking at us over the rim of the mug.

  “Bob?” Goldblum sounded incredulous. “He hasn’t got the grit to stab someone. I’d put my money on Helen. Did you know that she has never read To Kill a Mockingbird? What’s someone like that doing working in a bookstore anyway?”

  Bankhouse’s coffee mug clunked to the table so hard that a bit of milky brown liquid spewed out and onto the wood tabletop. “I beg your pardon. Helen is my stepdaughter!”

  Goldblum, Zsazsa, and I stared at him in a long awkward pause.

  Goldblum stammered, “Sorry about that. I had no idea. You don’t have the same name. Isn’t she Helen Osgood?”

  Bankhouse tilted his head. “She uses her birth father’s surname. Helen didn’t want anyone to know that Maxwell hired her as a favor to me. She was embarrassed about the circumstances that resulted in the termination of her last job. Frankly, Helen has never been the student I’d hoped she might be. She has the brains but was never interested in school. I tried steering her to social media, but from what I gather, those positions are extremely popular. Nevertheless, in spite of Helen’s general disinterest in books, I can assure you that she had no reason to murder Delbert. I doubt she even knew him.”