STAGING WARS

by Grace Topping

  After that, we got busy rearranging furniture, boxing up items Jaime didn’t need until after they moved, rehanging prints on the wall that had been hung too high, switched a rug from one room to another, and did myriad things. At the end of the night, we were exhausted but pleased with the result. It was a cute cottage and would appeal to a young couple or a single person. I was hopeful someone would fall in love with it in the next few days.

  As we drove home, I thought again about what Jaime had said about Damian. What had he been so preoccupied with the day he was murdered?

  Chapter 16

  Show off the amount of storage space your home has by clearing out unnecessary items from closets and shelves.

  The next morning, I received a call from Josh, saying he had identified a place in one of his warehouses that might work for us. I made arrangements with him to check it out.

  On my laptop, I pulled up my inventory of furniture and home furnishings. Since we had just furnished two unoccupied houses, we didn’t have as much inventory on hand, but we’d soon be adding to it.

  I’d just disconnected from Josh when another call came in, this one a result of the Small Business Fair, asking if we could meet with the homeowner about staging her place. It was a relief to know the fair and the expense of printing the brochures hadn’t been a waste and that new staging work had come from it. Hopefully, we’d get even more business from the fair.

  The third call I received wasn’t as welcomed. Not the message anyway.

  “Laura, this is Nita. Neil just called to say Monica has been formally charged with Damian Reynolds’s murder.”

  I went through the rest of the day in a fog. If we hadn’t arrived at Damian’s house when we had, would Monica have gotten away from there? Would it be our testimony that convicted her of murder? The thought utterly depressed me. I was thankful I hadn’t been alone in witnessing Monica standing over Damian’s body with a knife. Given our history, my testimony on its own might have been suspicious.

  Later, Aunt Kit and I had a light supper of chicken salad with fresh mixed greens. Neither of us had an appetite for a heavier meal. We left soon after eating for a meeting of the Mystery Lovers’ Book Club being held at Marshall Library. If I hadn’t already invited Aunt Kit to go along, I might have been tempted to stay home—clean the attic, upholster the living room sofa—anything as an excuse to skip it. I was that exhausted.

  Since I didn’t want to miss the talk my friend and former teacher, Sister Madeleine, was giving on clerical detectives in fiction, I decided to go. It had been Sister Madeleine who had nurtured my friendship with Nita, knowing my life at home was dreary and would be perked up by the loving and fun Romano family. She had also been the one who’d introduced me to mysteries, giving me my first Nancy Drew book. After that, she’d introduced me to books by Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, and Helen McGuiness and then more recent ones by Elizabeth Peters and Sue Grafton. We’d bonded over our love of traditional mysteries. Since we were both natural-born problem solvers, trying to solve the puzzles presented in real life also appealed to us.

  The parking lot at Marshall Library was nearly filled when we arrived. The book club drew a fair number of people in town to discuss a shared interest and enjoyment of traditional mysteries. A few fans of crime novels, police procedurals, and thrillers also attended. With the topic of clerical detectives in fiction, Sister Madeleine had been the natural choice to give the talk and lead the discussion afterward.

  When we walked into the library, Aunt Kit wandered off to scan the bookshelves while I claimed two seats for us. I always felt that Aunt Kit enjoyed her visits to Louiston primarily because of the Marshall Library’s wide selection of books. She frequently complained about her local library’s small collection and the lack of a bookstore in her village.

  When she joined me and plunked down a large stack of books on the table in front of us, my heart sank. She would have to stay for weeks to read all those.

  Will Parker sat down near us, and I introduced him to Aunt Kit. He tipped the cowboy hat he was never without. “Howdy, ma’am.”

  When I discovered Will enjoyed reading mysteries, we had some good discussions about the authors we liked, and I invited him to the library’s book club meetings. He had been attending the meetings ever since.

  Aunt Kit looked up in surprise at Will’s southwestern accent. “What brought you to this part of the country. I would imagine it is quite different from what you are used to.”

  “You can say that again. Everything is so green here. I settled here ’cause my daughter Claire thought I was getting too old to look after myself. A lot she knows. I think she wanted someone to help her with all those kids she has.”

  “Whose books do you enjoy, Will?” Aunt Kit asked.

  “I’m partial to Tony Hillerman’s books. They’re set out West in an area I’m familiar with. Sure was sad to learn he’d died.”

  “But you should know that Hillerman’s daughter Anne picked up the Leaphorn and Chee series,” Aunt Kit said. That resulted in a discussion of the merits of that series.

  While we waited for the meeting to begin, Will and Aunt Kit discovered they were also fans of conspiracy theory books. They quickly became fast book friends.

  The meeting began, and after a few business affairs were discussed, the leader of our book group turned control of the meeting over to Sister Madeleine.

  On her way to the lectern, Sister Madeleine paused next to my chair and whispered, “Stay after the discussion. I need to talk to you.”

  What could that be about?

  Sister Madeleine gave an amusing and informative talk about amateur clerical detectives, such as Father Brown, Sydney Brown from Grantchester, Brother Cadfael, Clare Fergusson, Rabbi Small, and others. I never realized there were so many clerical detectives. Sister Madeleine knew her subject and drew on her experience as a teacher to keep certain members of the group on the topic. One member kept trying to steer the discussion to which was better, the books or the TV series featuring the detectives discussed.

  Sister Madeleine’s presentation captured the groups’ interest, and the discussion continued afterward even when members moved over to the refreshments table. It made me wonder why she hadn’t tried her hand at writing detective fiction. Maybe she had. I’d have to ask her. She had so many varied interests it wouldn’t surprise me.

  I left Aunt Kit talking to Will Parker, discussing the latest conspiracy theories, both in fiction and real life, and went in search of Sister Madeleine. I found her sitting away from the other members at a table near the back of the room and took a seat across from her. The look on her face was quite solemn.

  Uh, oh. I had a feeling this was going to involve something I wouldn’t like and sure enough it did.

  Like Nita, Sister Madeleine wasn’t subtle and didn’t mince words. “You know they’ve arrested Monica Heller for Damian Reynolds’s murder? She didn’t do it.”

  I was too stunned to talk. When I recovered from my surprise, I could barely get words out. “I’m one of four witnesses who found Monica standing over Damian’s body with a knife in her hands. I hate to say this, Sister, but she looked pretty guilty.”

  “Did you see her stab him?”

  “No.” I squirmed in my seat, remembering the image.

  “Then how do you know she did?”

  I sighed. “There can be no other logical alternative. We caught her red-handed. Literally. As much as you would like to think she’s innocent, how can we believe otherwise?”

  “Because she told me she didn’t kill him.”

  It took all I could do not to roll my eyes. When was I ever going to be able to break myself of that bad habit? Sister Madeleine wanted to think the best of everyone, and it was obvious she didn’t want to think Monica, one of her former students, could be capable of murder. Nita, Monica, and I had been in the first class Sister Madeleine
taught as a young nun. She had a special fondness for us, and as she watched us grow, we became like the children she never had.

  “When did she tell you she didn’t kill him?” I asked.

  “As soon as I heard she had been arrested, I went to see her at the jail. At first, they weren’t going to let me in, but I convinced them I was her spiritual advisor, so they relented.”

  The thought of Monica having a spiritual advisor almost made me laugh. I knew Sister Madeleine had made that up, but it’d worked. It wasn’t easy getting into the jail to visit a prisoner, as I’d discovered.

  “Monica said she found Damian on the floor and instinctively pulled the knife out. I know what you saw sounds bad, but I believe her.”

  Sister Madeleine was a much better person than I was. Thinking of Monica being humbled in jail gave me a sliver of satisfaction—though not enough to want to see her convicted of murder.

  “Sister, I think people would be willing to give Monica the benefit of the doubt if everyone at the Arts Center hadn’t witnessed her argument with Damian and seen how angry she was. The fact that she drove to his house after he had taken her home points to her still being angry and wanting to continue the argument.”

  “Or perhaps to resolve it?”

  “Okay, let’s say she entered the house after someone else stabbed Damian. What happened to that person? Did he just walk away with no one catching sight of him? Did Monica see a car leaving? We didn’t see anyone fleeing the scene of the crime.”

  “All I know is what Monica told me. I trust she wasn’t lying to me.”

  “Accused killers lie all the time. Do you think they are going to confess as soon as they are arrested?” I braided my fingers and rested my chin on them.

  “Regardless of whether you believe her guilty or innocent, Monica needs help—help you can give her. While she’s in jail, her home decorating business is going to suffer. It doesn’t take long for a small business to go under when the owner isn’t there to run things. It’s particularly bad for her because her senior assistant recently moved away. With your talent, you can help keep her business afloat until she’s released.

  With Monica no longer able to do staging in town, I didn’t want to give the impression my business was benefitting from her imprisonment. Still how could I agree to help her?

  “Sister, how can you expect me to help Monica? You know how I feel about her. She made my school days a misery. She never tired of taunting me about my second-hand clothing and anything else she could think about.”

  “I realize that, but that was a long time ago. You are both mature adults now.”

  “It isn’t just that.” I hated bringing this up because it embarrassed me that my husband had turned to other women. “I always suspected Monica had been involved with Derrick. The less I have to do with her, the better. His affairs with other women, especially Monica, ate at my heart.” Just the thought of Monica and Derrick being together caused me to shudder. I had been making plans to leave him when he was killed in a car crash—with another woman.

  I thought I was dealing better with my resentment, but now I realized I’d only buried it, and so shallowly that it erupted easily. “I can’t help her.”

  “What you mean is you won’t.” Sister Madeleine eyed me critically.

  It was mortifying having someone I was fond of witness my refusal to help someone. And all because of my unwillingness to forgive. But I couldn’t. Why couldn’t Sister Madeleine understand that?

  “There’s something else.” I moved around in my chair, trying to get more comfortable. “Recently some strange things have been happening that have been affecting my business. Trucks we’d reserved getting canceled, bad reviews popping up online about my work, and lots of other little things that I’m starting to link together. When I heard that Monica was moving into the home staging business, I started to suspect she could be responsible for those things. I haven’t told anyone else about my suspicions because I could be wrong. And I only mention it to you because I know you won’t repeat what I’m telling you.”

  “Even if that were the case, and as you said, you only have suspicions, I’d hoped you’d have more compassion for Monica’s plight now.” Sister Madeleine drummed her fingers on the table, which I knew from old she meant, “Let’s get on with things.”

  “There’s something else you need to think about.” Sister Madeleine gave me the stern look I remembered so well from school. “Whether you help Monica or not, your resentment toward her and your late husband is dragging you down and preventing you from moving forward.”

  Chapter 17

  If a room lacks a focal point, add a console table and a piece of artwork or mirror above it.

  Throughout the night, I found myself thinking about my conversation with Sister Madeleine. Her words had stung. Could she be right? My feelings about Monica had been with me for so long I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t felt that way about her. I might have eventually gotten over her school days’ taunting if I hadn’t later suspected her of being involved with Derrick.

  And then there was my resentment toward Derrick. Does a wife ever get over being married to someone as unfaithful—or as selfish and controlling—as Derrick had been? Derrick, with his handsome looks and charming manner, had easily attracted women willing to become involved with a married man. Was Sister Madeleine right and my feelings about him were dragging me down? Could they also be feeding my aversion to handsome men?

  Sister Madeleine’s words filled my head. It was as though she had invaded my thoughts like the spirit of the dead soldier that invaded Inspector Ian Rutledge’s mind in Charles Todd’s series featuring the inspector.

  It was with those thoughts in mind that I found myself that morning standing in front of the steps leading to the police station to see if I could get in to visit Monica. Sister Madeleine would never know how much my actions were costing me.

  I squared my shoulders and started to climb the wide granite steps. When I reached the top step, I abruptly found myself falling toward the steps I’d just climbed. A set of arms caught me before I hit the granite, but not before we both lost our balance and ended up on the steps. Fortunately, my rescuer had twisted his body in the fall so that I landed on top of him. It took me a few seconds to catch my breath and wonder if I had broken something. It was only then that I looked up and realized that I was sitting in Detective Spangler’s lap.

  If I hadn’t been so shaken, I would have sprung up and stomped away with as much hauteur as I could muster. As it was, I could only stare at him, his face just inches from mine.

  “Ah, Ms. Bishop, could you move over a bit so I can get up?” A flash of pain crossed his face, and I wondered if he’d been injured in the fall.

  Of all the people, in all the world, I had to end up on top of him. I rolled over onto my hands and knees and slowly pushed myself to my feet, accepting the hand he extended to help me.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Bishop. Are you okay?”

  He was apologizing? I honestly couldn’t say if I was okay or not. It would probably take a few minutes for me to recover from the shock of the tumble to know for sure. When I didn’t respond, the detective opened the door to the station lobby and led me to a row of benches.

  “I think I’m okay.” I sat down as gently as I could. “What happened?”

  “We collided. It was my fault. I came out a side door on the landing and dashed around the corner too quickly, apparently just as you reached there.” He looked me over from head to toe as though to detect any injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked again.

  “I think so. Just let me sit here for a few minutes.” I wiped my hands together and then ran them down my skirt to brush any dust away. I did it more out of nervousness than because of any actual dust. Tomorrow I’d probably be covered in bruises.

  “What brings you here today?” His dark eyes with those lovely thick
lashes studied me with suspicion.

  “I hoped to visit Monica Heller. Sister Madeleine asked me to see how she was doing and find out if she needed anything.” I was stretching the truth a bit, but he didn’t need to know the purpose of my visit.

  “Ah, Sister Madeleine—the spiritual advisor.”

  So he had also been suspicious of the purpose of her visit.

  “You know we only allow family members and legal representatives to visit at this point, and if the prisoner agrees.” He peered at me intently, probably hoping I would hop up and walk away briskly to show that I changed my mind about seeing Monica. When I didn’t, he got up from his seat. “Let me see what I can do.”

  I was relieved and hoped his guilty conscience about knocking me over was prompting him to help me. If it took a tumble to get in, I’d do it again.

  A few minutes later, he returned. “Okay, I’ve cleared it, and she agrees to see you. If you are feeling okay, go through the doors over there. They’ll sign you in and take you back to the visiting area.”

  He paused and turned back to me. “You aren’t going to get involved with this investigation, are you?”

  That wasn’t my plan.

  I gave him an underhanded wave to go away, hoping he would take the hint. As he walked away, I remembered my manners and called out to him. “Detective? Thank you for not knocking me all the way to the bottom of the steps.”

  He grinned at me and walked through the doorway, limping a bit.

  Chapter 18

  Certain paint colors can help promote wellness or a sense of well-being. A home stager can help you select those colors.

  The visitors’ area of the jail, covered in awful green paint, was as dismal as I remembered it. The painters hadn’t done a very good job of it either. After I showed my driver’s license and signed in, I sat where directed and waited for Monica to be seated on the other side of a glass partition.