STAGING WARS

by Grace Topping

  A shiver ran down my body. A missing guest. A man found dead in the funeral home. This didn’t sound good. I looked at Geoff’s and Ron’s open, unsuspecting faces.

  “Guys, I think you need to contact the Louiston police.”

  Chapter 7

  Key rooms to stage include entryways, living rooms, kitchens, and master bedrooms.

  The next morning, Ernie Phillips parked his truck in my driveway ready for us to load the furniture stored in my garage. The truck was hard to miss. On the side of it Ernie had painted Window Wizard in bright neon green, using a wide paintbrush. Not the most professional job, but no one would miss it.

  I had a list of items we would be taking to the staging site and started to check off the carefully wrapped items as Tyrone, Ernie, and Will Parker loaded them. My current inventory wasn’t large enough to fill a house, but between what we had stored in my garage and at Nita’s place, we had enough to make a house look cozy and attractive. Getting a large storage area would enable us to expand our inventory.

  The owners of the home we were staging thought my idea of having the windows cleaned was a good one, so I hired Ernie for his window cleaning capability, the use of his truck, and his loading skills. We would have to make more than one trip, but it would work out.

  When Nita arrived, I knew something was up. Her sparkling eyes and wide grin usually meant she had news to share. “I saw Neil. Guess what I learned?”

  Poor Neil. Even as a grown policeman, he could never stand up to his older cousin, Nita, especially when she was seeking information. He frequently ended up spilling police news he shouldn’t be sharing.

  “What were you able to wheedle out of him this time?” I asked.

  “They found Ian Becker’s phone at the funeral home—under a chair. Maybe it flew out of his hands when he was struck down. His phone records showed he’d made calls to his aunt’s attorney, Warren Hendricks, Anne Williamson—one of his aunt’s friends from the arts group—and Emily Thompson. He dated her during his last summer here.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?” Nita asked with sudden interest. “If the police arrest Warren for the murder, we need to help him.”

  “What do you mean what are we going to do? Nothing. We aren’t getting involved in this. We didn’t even know Ian Becker. And I don’t think the police are seriously linking Warren to the murder.”

  “But it’s all so intriguing.”

  “As intriguing as it sounds, we have a house to stage today. Let Detective Spangler handle it.”

  We made quick work of the staging. Ernie, standing on a ladder to the upper floor, yelled down, “Laura, I hate to say it, but I think these are the dirtiest windows I’ve ever cleaned. I don’t know how the homeowners could distinguish morning from night.”

  “Do your wizardry, Ernie, and make them sparkle. We need to brighten the inside of this house, which is really dark. Clean windows will help, especially as dirty as these are.”

  We opened all the shades and blinds, and removed window dressings that overpowered some of the windows. It did a lot to brighten the rooms.

  “Where do you want these, Laura?” Will Parker stood in the doorway holding rolls of area rugs. It was good seeing him well recovered from a hit-and-run accident that had almost killed him months ago. I directed him where to put them. After everything was in the appropriate rooms, we arranged the furnishings and added some artwork, making sure not to make holes in the freshly painted walls.

  This was a much simpler job than some since our contract with the homeowners had us bringing in minimal furnishings. After setting up some furniture in the living room and kitchen, Nita and I made up the bed in the master bedroom, added a bedside table and lamp, and some accessories. Fresh white towels in the bathrooms gave them a spa look. A few accessories completed the job.

  I stood back and looked at the results—simple but elegant.

  Now that the feverish pitch of activity to get the staging work done was over, I thought more about the phone calls on Ian Becker’s phone. Who was Emily Thompson?

  Asking around out of curiosity wasn’t the same thing as getting involved, right?

  Chapter 8

  Turn a small condo balcony into a charming area by adding a small café table and chairs.

  The following day, I arrived at Antiques and Other Things to find Geoff and Ron waiting outside for me. It was a beautiful but unusually cool morning—one requiring a light jacket. But the cool day didn’t prevent Geoff and Ron from enjoying the small seating area outside the main entrance. Josh Sheridan, the owner, had put out small café tables and chairs, surrounded by planters and hanging baskets filled with blue and yellow petunias. Ron entertained himself by throwing small pieces of donuts from a Hibbard’s Bakery bag to three tiny birds that pecked at the crumbs.

  Both men gave me a warm hug in greeting. “Before we go in,” I said, “let me tell you a little something about Josh. He loves old movies and frequently dresses as a character from a film he watched. If you can guess who he’s dressed like or what movie it’s from, you’ll have a friend for life.”

  The old-fashioned bell over the door jangled as we entered, alerting Josh he had a potential customer. Today he sported a long Madras print shirt hanging outside his trousers and khakis.

  “Hey, Josh. I’ve brought in some new Louiston residents. This is Geoff Clarke and Ron Zigler. They own the new B&B in town.”

  After the introductions were over, I pondered what movie character Josh was dressed like. He enjoyed this aspect of my visits so much I didn’t want to disappoint him. The Madras shirt was reminiscent of the fifties or sixties, so I made a wild guess. “The main character from State Fair?”

  “Wrong.” It didn’t help much that he only gave me one guess.

  Ron stood back, studied Josh, and rubbed his chin as though deep in thought. “I’m going to guess American Graffiti.”

  Josh gaped at him in astonishment. “Right!” Just that fast they became movie-loving kindred, and Geoff found himself a friend forever.

  “Josh, I’m going to show Geoff and Ron around, but after that, I need to talk to you.”

  “Y’all go on ahead. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Josh’s Georgia origins were still recognizable in his accent. “Give a holler if you need me.”

  After giving Geoff and Ron a quick tour, I left them to browse, and I returned to the front entrance where I found Josh stacking wooden crates.

  “Take a look at these, Laura. I refinished them. They were crates used to ship matches and gun cartridges. They sure look pretty, don’t they?

  “Oh, they are nice.” I took a closer look.

  “I was able to preserve the labels on the sides.” Josh stacked up two more of the crates. “There’s lots of demand for them, and they nearly fly out the door as soon as I put them on display.”

  I liked the look of them and could think of a dozen ways I could use them, but I didn’t want to look too interested until we could negotiate a price. After a few minutes, Josh and I came to a price we were both happy with.

  Josh dumped some matchbooks and small matchboxes into a large bowl he placed on the counter. “Someone spent years collecting these, but most of them don’t have much value.” He reached into the bowl and pulled out two. “Here, take a couple. You never know when you might need a match.”

  “Thanks, Josh.” I slipped the matches into my jacket pocket.” They’ll come in handy. I keep candles in case the power goes out, but I can rarely find a match to light them with.”

  “Now you’ll be prepared.”

  Time to get down to business. “Josh, a while ago we talked about me renting some storage space. Now that I’ve accumulated a fair amount of furnishings we use when staging empty houses and plan to obtain more, I’m running out of space at my house and at Nita’s place. Since you’ve taken
over those two new mill buildings, do you think you could find space for us to rent?”

  “I just might be able to. Let me check the buildings and see what kind of space I can find for you. You’ll need an area you can secure and get things in and out easily. How about I look around and call you this week?”

  “That would be great. Thanks.” I picked up my new acquisition.

  “What do you have there?” Ron asked, coming up from behind me. He pointed to the crate. “That’s a nice piece.”

  “It’s a crate Josh refinished. I think it’ll make a good end table or maybe an occasional table. Nice isn’t it? He has more.”

  Josh pointed to the crates he had stacked behind the counter. “Interested? I’ll give you a good price on ’em.”

  Ron ended up purchasing two of them, and Josh was a happy businessman.

  “By the way, Laura,” Josh said, “your old friend Monica Heller came in here the other day—along with that artist who’s teaching at Fischer College.”

  My old friend? I would definitely not describe Monica as such. Just the thought of her raised my hackles. “Oh, yes?” I feigned interest.

  “Yeah. She introduced Damian Reynolds—one of those artistic types—wearing a black silk shirt. Not many guys in Louiston wearing silk shirts. I could’ve bought a tank of gas with what he probably paid for his haircut. The interesting thing was he came back a couple of days later on his own and asked if he could consign some artwork.” So much for keeping his customers’ business confidential.

  “Was that unusual?” The curiosity bug bit me again.

  “Sort of. Him being so big in the art world, you’d think he’d take his stuff to an auction house. He’d get better prices than I could get for him here.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Josh. He obviously felt comfortable bringing you the pieces.”

  I studied a collection of colorful vases on a shelf nearby. Why would someone well-known in the art world consign pieces to a small-town business like Josh’s? It was great for Josh, and a good idea if Damian didn’t want word getting out that he was selling his stuff. Had he fallen on hard times?

  Geoff had been standing nearby. “Did you say Damian Reynolds came in here? He and his agent stayed at our B&B recently while he looked for a house in town. It was exciting having someone so famous as one of our first guests.”

  “Yeah, but his stay wasn’t without drama,” Ron said, putting a bust of Jefferson on the counter.

  Josh, who loved a good gossip, was all ears.

  “One night, he and his agent got into a big row,” Ron said. “We thought we were going to have to break it up. Fortunately, it didn’t come to more than words. We didn’t want our B&B to become known as the place a famous artist was murdered.”

  Chapter 9

  A good design guideline is to hang artwork sixty-two inches from the floor to the center of the piece.

  That afternoon, Nita pulled up in her lime green VW bug for our ride to the Fischer College Arts Center. She was involved with the Louiston Arts Festival and had convinced me to help with the art intake. Aunt Kit had volunteered to come along.

  When we approached the car, Aunt Kit insisted on squeezing her tall frame into the small backseat—too stubborn to let me sit back there. I’d hoped to get in first because I knew I’d later hear how the backseat caused her sciatica to flare up. There was no winning with Aunt Kit.

  Nita looked perkier today. “How’d your meeting go with Josh? Is he going to rent us storage space?”

  “He’s going to look around his buildings for a spot large enough to meet our needs. Also space we can lock to keep his customers from picking through our things looking for a bargain.”

  Aunt Kit squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable. “Why do you need all that furniture?”

  “We use it to stage houses that are unoccupied,” I said. “For an occupied home, we work with things the homeowner has—many times removing some furniture to make a place look bigger. But if the home is unoccupied, we furnish it to make it look lived in. Furnished homes sell faster than empty ones.”

  As Nita and Aunt Kit chatted, my thoughts strayed back to Warren and his worries about being a suspect in the murder. I wondered how he was doing. Warren and I had been friends for years, and I couldn’t imagine him striking out at anybody in anger much less stab a man in cold blood. It just wasn’t consistent with his gentle nature, which was perfect for comforting the bereaved at his funeral home.

  “You sound quite knowledgeable, Nita.” Aunt Kit’s words brought me back to the present. I could tell she was impressed and relieved I’d finally begun to build a team of helpers.

  “Nita’s been taking online courses to obtain her staging certification. Having two certified home stagers will give us more creditability,” I said.

  Aunt Kit grunted. She was still convinced I’d made a mistake leaving my well-paying job in IT to start a home staging business. She was also upset about our discovering a body at the funeral home. So was I, but it was hardly my fault. Nothing I’d said so far relieved her worries. As her only living relative, she worried about me far too much.

  Nita pulled into the Arts Center parking lot, and after much back and forth maneuvering, she managed to park. Nita’s driving and parking abilities, or lack of, were her biggest challenges. I helped Aunt Kit pull herself from the backseat where she had been curled up like a pretzel. Once we alighted, we helped Nita unload her bags of gear and the framed photographs she was submitting to the festival and carried them into the center.

  Nita had joined the arts group after she’d become serious about her photography. I was happy to see her more active and involved in things for herself and suffering less from empty nest syndrome. Being a part of the arts group inspired her to do more with her photography than just take photos of the houses we staged.

  When we walked into the Arts Center, the place was bustling with activity. Aunt Kit wandered away and hopefully would stay out of trouble. She tended to direct people how to do their jobs. Once she’d told the bishop which priests he should assign to the various parishes in the diocese. The funny thing was the assignments nearly matched her recommendations. Pure coincidence?

  Volunteers had already started to erect the wooden display boards the artwork would hang on. The boards created a maze throughout the large room. When the volunteers saw us, they bombarded Nita with questions about the body she’d found.

  She assured everyone she didn’t have anything more to say other than she’d found the body, and that was it. Again it made me wonder who could have wanted to kill someone who hadn’t been in town in over twenty years.

  “I remember Ian Becker,” a voice called from the back. “He was a nice kid. Occasionally got into trouble, but nothing serious—just enough to keep his aunt chasing after him.”

  I glared at him and he must have gotten the message we didn’t want to hear anymore because he faded into the crowd.

  When everyone returned to work, Nita assigned Mrs. Webster, another volunteer Nita had recruited, and me to direct the artists where to take their artwork and check off their names. It was an assignment we could handle that didn’t require any experience in dealing with the artwork. My only involvement with artwork was recognizing pieces I liked and selecting ones to use in homes we staged. As the pieces came in, I kept my eye out for any that would be a good addition to our inventory. Some of them were brilliant.

  The pieces would be displayed in various categories and labeled with the name of the artist, the name of the piece, and a price for each.

  Mrs. Webster’s eyebrows shot up. “Heaven sakes. Do you think anyone is going to pay these prices?”

  “The artists set their own prices. From what Nita said, they have to be willing to sell the piece to enter. If they don’t want to sell it, they set the price high to discourage buyers. But that doesn’t always work. I understand
one artist priced her piece for what she thought was an outrageous amount so it wouldn’t sell and was shocked when it sold.”

  Later, Nita stopped at our table to see how we were doing. “Have they all checked in?”

  Mrs. Webster nodded and handed her the check-off sheet. “Who is the juror for the show?” The juror would select first, second, and third places in each category as well as honorable mentions.

  “Damian Reynolds,” Nita said. “He’s famous for his wild abstracts, and you see his artwork everywhere. He recently joined the faculty of Fischer College, either as an instructor or guest lecturer—I don’t know which. Great for the college, but people wondered why someone so famous would come to a small town like Louiston.”

  “That is a bit surprising,” Mrs. Webster said.

  “Anne Williamson still can’t believe she was able to convince him to serve as the juror.” Nita pointed to a short, stout woman with a head of tight gray curls, hanging paintings. “That’s Anne over there.”

  Nita grimaced. “I tried to convince her to hang the art so the center of each piece is sixty-two inches from the floor, a decorating standard. But she insists the top of each piece is to be seventy inches from the floor, regardless of size. It makes the smaller pieces look funny. But she heads the organization and holds it together—almost singlehandedly—so I don’t make an issue of it.”

  “Anne always likes doing things her way.” Mrs. Webster knew most of the people in town and their idiosyncrasies.

  “She usually refuses help. And everyone is happy to let her do it so they don’t have to. Except for this festival.” Nita pointed to the gallery. “She couldn’t do all this on her own.”

  Mrs. Webster sniffed. “You know what they say. People often don’t want anyone involved to cover up their mishandling of the funds.”

  Nita laughed. “Believe me, Mrs. Webster, there isn’t much money to mishandle. And from what I understand, there never has been. Besides, Anne is a very talented artist and her work sells for lots of money. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”