Geoff’s expression wasn’t as joyful. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Laura. Garrett Fletcher is still here, but Mrs. Reynolds and her daughter decided not to stay another night. They came back after the memorial service and checked out, saying they were anxious to get home. After all that’s been happening to them, I can’t blame them. I think the daughter was having a particularly hard time of it.”
That was disappointing, but it helped take some of the pressure off. I wasn’t looking forward to questioning Mrs. Reynolds, especially with an unhappy or sullen daughter nearby. I’d have to find another way to talk to her. I was hopeful that someone else would be identified as Damian’s killer before it came to that, especially after witnessing her intimate embrace with Garrett Fletcher.
Geoff looked concerned. Did he think I was going to break into hysterics at the news Mrs. Reynolds had gone home? Asking questions related to a murder was filled with lots of roadblocks. Thankfully, I didn’t have to do this as a full-time job. I’d leave that to Detective Spangler. Thinking of him reminded me that I needed to fill him in on what I’d discovered so far.
Geoff opened the large oak front door. “Come on in, and I’ll get you some coffee. Ron and I are excited about watching you interrogate a suspect.”
My heart sank. This was going to be worse than I expected. “No, Geoff. He isn’t a suspect—simply someone who might be able to give us some information. We thought the opportunity to talk to him and Mrs. Reynolds here and away from others would be perfect. It’s unfortunate that we won’t get to see both of them.” I might view Garrett Fletcher as a suspect, but it wouldn’t do for Geoff to view him as such.
“Whatever. It’s still exciting. You just do your thing. I’ll listen in while I serve breakfast. Ron will listen at the door. If you need us to come to your aid, we’ll be ready to intervene.”
I didn’t know what they expected to happen, but I certainly hoped their intervention wouldn’t be necessary. It made me laugh imagining Ron bounding out of the kitchen waving a meat cleaver to rescue us. I hoped after breakfast with us Garrett Fletcher wouldn’t have reason to demand a refund for his stay.
“Let’s go ahead and get you seated in the dining room. Should we pass you off as other guests?”
“No. It’s better if we just stick to our original story. We came here to taste test some of your new breakfast items and provide you with feedback. How does that sound? Nita and I will play it by ear and decide how much to say.”
Geoff clapped his hands together. “Sounds great. Let me check in the kitchen to see how things are going with Ron.”
We took seats at the long dining table that had been set with crisp white linens and lovely bone china. Nita turned over a cup and peeked at the maker’s mark on the bottom. Pink and blue hydrangeas from the plants we had passed in the garden filled a crystal bowl in the center of the table. I didn’t have any experience staying at bed and breakfasts, but if this proved to be an example of the lovely setting and level of service guests could expect, I’d have to stay at them when I traveled, which sadly wasn’t often.
A sideboard groaned under the weight of platters filled with a variety of bread, muffins, and croissants, chafing dishes, and a bowl of mixed fruit. Seeing it reminded me of the description of breakfasts served in English manor homes that were the settings for some of the historical mysteries I read—all the more so with Geoff acting as butler.
Geoff entered the room carrying a china coffee pot in one hand and a teapot in the other. “Coffee or tea?” Ron followed him, carrying a container he placed in one of the chaffing dishes. He winked at us and returned to the kitchen. This was probably the best entertainment they’d had in quite some time.
Oh, the joy of being waited on. I asked for tea, somehow thinking it was more conducive to the setting. Nita opted for coffee. I wondered if it would be as good as the coffee at Vocaro’s.
“Today, we have a new mango muffin for you to try and a cheese strata Ron devised. See if you can guess the types of cheese he used.” Geoff placed individual dishes filled with pats of butter in front of us. “Anytime you are ready, please help yourselves.”
I wondered whether we should wait until Garrett joined us or start eating so we didn’t look like we were ready to ambush him. Hunger won out. I went over to the buffet, looked at what was on offer, and began filling my plate. Nita didn’t hesitate to follow me.
As we sat down, a tall man I recognized as Garrett from his photos and seeing him at the funeral home entered the room. Geoff greeted him and directed him to a seat near us. We both wished him a good morning and he nodded at us. Not a great start.
Geoff interceded for us. “Mr. Fletcher, please let me introduce Laura Bishop and Nita Martino. They are doing a taste test for us today.” I smiled at him, and Nita waved.
Geoff described the dishes on offer, and then told Garrett to help himself. Garrett filled his plate and sat down at the table across from us.
Like guests in those country manor mysteries, constrained by excessive formality, I wasn’t sure how to break the ice. Fortunately, Nita didn’t feel those same constraints.
“I understand you were Damian Reynolds’ agent. His death was so tragic.”
He looked up from the plate with barely concealed irritation. It was hard to tell whether his reaction was toward us or being reminded what had happened to Damian.
“Yes, it was tragic.” Obviously in his line of work he’d learned to be polite, but just barely.
Nita tried again. “We attended his memorial service yesterday.”
“Oh, yes?”
My turn. “We don’t believe Monica stabbed Damian, and we would like to try to prove she is innocent.” Nothing like cutting to the chase.
“And what? Find out who did?” He studied us for a long moment. “Bishop and Martino. Weren’t you two of the people who found Monica standing over Damian’s body? How can you ignore that? Didn’t you believe your own eyes?”
“The thing that everyone forgets is that we found Monica holding the knife. We didn’t see her stab him.” I couldn’t believe that I was coming to Monica’s defense. “We’ve known Monica for most of her life. And even though we found her as we did, she wouldn’t or couldn’t have killed him. From what we understand, she had come to care deeply for him.”
“Care for him or his fame and money?” Garrett asked, with a barely concealed sneer.
That brought out Nita’s fighting spirit. “If you were his agent, you are aware of his income from his works. If he had so much money, why was he trying to sell paintings—his own and from his collection—and keep it a secret? Where did all his money go?”
That caught him by surprise. “What are you insinuating? If you are looking at me as a suspect, you can forget it. Damian was my biggest client. I would have been foolish to do anything that would have cut off a major source of my income.”
This was going worse than I’d expected. Nita and I were such amateurs at this. Time to change tack. “When you two stayed here before, I understand you had an argument and you left town abruptly. Would you mind saying what the argument was about?”
“Yes, I mind. But I’ll tell you anyway so that you two busybodies can look at someone else to suspect. After Damian’s daughter drowned, he stopped painting. Not because he didn’t want to paint, but because he couldn’t. Just picking up a brush caused his hand to shake so uncontrollably he would drop it. That’s why he took a job in this Podunk town. If he couldn’t paint, he decided to teach. We argued that night because I was trying to convince him to get some counseling, which he refused to do.”
“What about Mrs. Reynolds—”
He pushed back his chair, threw his napkin onto the table, and stood up. “This is outrageous. Helen was miles away the night Damian was murdered.”
Geoff walked back into the room and received the brunt of Garrett’s fury. “I don’t know what you
r purpose was in allowing these two busybodies to be here, but their questioning was not welcome. I’ll be checking out—and I won’t be back.”
After he stomped from the room, Nita eyed his nearly full plate. “Ngaio Marsh! That was a waste of a delicious meal.”
I noticed Nita was again using writers from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction for her expletives. I turned to Geoff. “Sorry, I think we cost you a satisfied guest.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was worth it for the entertainment value. Did you learn anything worthwhile?”
“Just the reason why Damian came to Louiston,” Nita said.
“I don’t think this was our finest hour.”
As we drove home, I pondered what we’d learned. I needed to see Monica again to find out what she could tell me about Garrett Fletcher.
Chapter 29
Colors can evoke different emotions. Warm colors can make a house feel cozy and inviting while cool colors can provide a sense of calm and relaxation.
That afternoon, I found myself again standing in front of the police station, facing a meeting with Monica. I didn’t want to visit her again, and the thought of it caused my stomach to clench. But I felt I should give her an update on what Nita and I had been doing related to her business and tell her about the memorial service for Damian Reynolds. Sister Madeleine would expect that of me at the very least. When would I ever learn to resist helping people or simply saying no? I also hoped Monica could tell me something about Garrett Fletcher and Edward Albertson.
I climbed the granite steps into the police station with as much enthusiasm as a novice hiker starting up Mt. Kilimanjaro. The trek up the stairs could be just as dangerous, recalling my collision there with Detective Spangler. I carefully looked for anyone coming around the corner at the landing.
I’d arranged the visit in advance, so Monica knew I was coming. After checking in and showing my ID card, I took a seat and waited to be called. Following my visits there with Tyrone in the spring and now with Monica, the waiting room was becoming all too familiar. Any more visits and the authorities would be issuing me a frequent visitor card.
When Monica appeared on the other side of the glass divider, I took my seat in front of her. She didn’t look any more pleased to see me than I was to see her, and we sat staring at each other. It had to be mortifying for her to be seen like this and know that her business rested in my hands.
I decided to be the better person and break the ice. “You’re looking well.” I knew that sounded inane, but I didn’t want to ask her how she was doing. What could I expect her to say: “I’m doing great, how are you?”
Monica ran her fingers through her hair. “I’d look a lot better if you could smuggle me in some hair dye.”
I laughed. “And get jailed for smuggling contraband?”
“If I’m here much longer, I’ll end up a brunette.” Monica sighed deeply, as though she’d brought the exhaled breath all the way from her toes. “And to think I had such lovely blond hair while growing up.”
What could I say? If we couldn’t discover who’d killed Damian, she could be coming out of prison someday, if she ever got out at all, with white hair.
Monica sat up straighter, possibly to shake off the same thought. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my hair. Why did you come?”
“Maybe to console you that your business isn’t falling apart—yet.” I filled her in on my meetings with her young assistant and all that Nita and I had been doing to help meet deadlines. “The Greens were quite pleased with how the apartment over their garage turned out. It will be a terrific short-term rental.”
“That was a cute space and one begging to be used. I’m glad they were pleased.”
I contemplated asking Monica about her move into home staging and the things that had been happening to sabotage my business and then decided against it. The incidences had stopped once she had been arrested, so I could only assume she’d been responsible for them. Nothing would be gained by confronting her about them now.
Abruptly, Monica’s eyes welled with tears. “Why do things have to change? Damian and I were doing so well together.”
That I couldn’t answer. Damian and Ian couldn’t have anticipated the abrupt changes in their lives. That thought made me think.
“Did you know Ian Becker?”
“Ian Becker? Wasn’t he the man who was murdered a few days before Damian?”
“Yes. The one Nita discovered at the funeral home. He used to spend summers in Louiston with his aunt—his last stay was about twenty years ago.”
She shook her head. “I don’t recall anybody by that name. Why?”
“It’s just so strange that both Damian and Ian had been stabbed in the back. With you being found with Damian, the police have no reason to suspect the same person committed both murders. If we could find a link between the two murders, perhaps we can discover who killed Damian.”
Monica’s face broke out in a wide smile. “You finally believe I’m not guilty of stabbing Damian.”
“I’m not going to go that far,” I said. “But if you didn’t kill Damian, the only way to prove you are innocent is to find out who did.”
“Does that mean you’re investigating again?” Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Let’s just say that I’m asking questions.” I didn’t want to give her false hope.
“You helped Tyrone—maybe you can help me.”
Monica must have become desperate for her to look at me as the solution to her situation.
“What can you tell me about Damian’s agent?” I asked.
“Garrett Fletcher? I didn’t like the man, and he didn’t like me.” Now that was a big surprise.
“I heard he and Damian had a heated argument while they were staying at the B&B. Did you know about that?”
“No, but it got to the point where they were arguing quite a bit, so that doesn’t surprise me. Garrett represented Damian from the time his work started gaining recognition. He was quite controlling, and Damian let him get away with it. That is until he moved here and we started seeing each other. Garrett saw me as a threat to their relationship.”
“Do you think Garrett had any reason to want Damian dead?”
“I didn’t like the man, but I really can’t see him killing Damian, even in anger. He would be really foolish to do so since Damian was his most successful client.”
“Could Garrett have been cheating Damian?”
Monica shrugged. “I don’t know. But since you said Damian had consigned some of his art collection to Josh’s business, something had to account for his financial problems.”
“It could be as Garrett said—Damian stopped painting. That would have started drying up a major source of his income. You don’t make a fortune teaching at a small college.”
Monica’s forehead furrowed as though deep in thought. “Damian didn’t say much about it, but I got the impression the divorce settlement with his ex-wife was huge. That could have taken a bigger toll on his finances than he expected.”
“Do you have any reason to think there might have been anything between Garrett and Helen Reynolds?”
Monica eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t know. I never met her, and Damian didn’t say anything about that. Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to consider anything that could have a bearing on Damian’s death—even if farfetched.”
Monica seemed to mull that over but didn’t add anything more.
“What about Professor Albertson at the college? Do you know anything about bad feelings he harbored about Damian?”
“Are you talking about that old story about Damian being involved with Edward Albertson’s wife?”
I shrugged.
“Damian said he was surprised to discover Edward Albertson was a member of the Fischer faculty. He’d known him from somewhere e
lse—I don’t remember where. Edward was pretty unpleasant to Damian when we saw him at functions. When I asked him about it, he said Edward long ago had accused him of being involved with his wife. Damian denied it.” Monica laughed. “After seeing Phyllis, I believed him.” Typical Monica.
I didn’t mention the photo I had seen of Damian with the Albertsons. Monica was probably as gullible as I was occasionally, wanting to believe him.
Time to change the subject. “I also came today because I thought you might like to hear about Damian’s memorial service.”
Monica nodded slowly, so I went on. “Nita and I attended the service. The chapel at Hendricks Funeral Home was filled to capacity. Family and friends talked about his school days and how hard he’d worked to get a foothold in the art world.”
Monica dabbed at her eyes that were starting to fill with tears again. “Did anyone mention that Damian’s father had been angry he didn’t go into engineering and join his firm? He predicted Damian would become a starving artist.” Monica paused. “I wish his father had lived long enough to see how successful Damian had become.”
“It was a moving service,” I said.
When Monica’s chin began to tremble, I decided it was a good time to leave.
As I walked away, I heard a faint “Thank you.”
Now that I’d gotten Monica’s hopes up, how was I going to deliver on finding out who’d killed Damian?
Chapter 30
New stainless steel appliances will scream new kitchen.
The next morning, Aunt Kit sat at the kitchen table while I prepared breakfast for us, wholegrain pancakes with ground almonds. While I cooked, I filled Aunt Kit in about my meeting with Monica.
“I don’t know if there is any hope for her,” Aunt Kit said, shaking her head.
I worried about the same thing. After serving Aunt Kit, I took two pancakes and poured a small amount of maple syrup over them, skipping the butter in an attempt to eat somewhat healthy. I took a bite, enjoying the crunch the almonds provided.
STAGING WARS Page 12