During dinner that evening, Aunt Kit proved to be a great sounding board. Of course, it came with the usual warnings about dire consequences.
“Have you reported anything you’ve learned to the police? You need to involve them in this. It was one thing for Sister Madeleine to want you to help Monica’s business while she is in jail, but it’s a completely different thing for you to be asking questions about Damian’s murder.”
“Well for a start, I’m only asking questions. We haven’t learned anything the police probably don’t already know, and they don’t want people getting involved in their investigations. I’m simply making inquiries and taking an approach the police may not be taking.”
“Do you think the police are inept?”
Wasn’t that always how the amateur sleuths in the mysteries I read frequently viewed the police? “Of course not. I may not be crazy about Detective Spangler, but I respect him for his abilities. It doesn’t hurt for citizens to assist the police. They don’t suspect a link between Ian and Damian’s deaths. Primarily because we caught Monica over Damian’s body, so she looks pretty guilty. Also, there’s nothing that shows a motive for her killing Ian.”
“What about Emily and Brandon Thompson?”
“That’s a hard one. I think eventually over the years Emily was happy to have Ian stay out of her life and didn’t want anything more to do with him. It helped that Doris helped them financially, so she hadn’t built up resentment because they had to struggle financially. But I’m not sure about Brandon. He’s filled with anger. Now whether he was angry enough to stab Ian in the back, that’s another thing. I can’t see that, but who knows. He took classes from Damian Reynolds, but I haven’t heard anything that would point to a motive for Brandon to kill him.”
Aunt Kit picked at the sautéed chicken I’d made especially for her. The one with mushrooms and Harvey’s cream sherry she liked. When she finally took a bite, she chewed it for so long I worried it might have become too dry for her to swallow. If Aunt Kit choked when swallowing it, would I be able to do the Heimlich maneuver on her?
“I wonder how much of a relationship Doris had with Emily and Brandon, especially since Brandon was her grandnephew?” I held my breath, watching Aunt Kit continue to chew.
She finally swallowed. “Anne Williamson was a good friend to Doris. I’m going to have lunch with Anne tomorrow. I’ll ask her what she knows. By the way, is this a new recipe? It’s a bit dry. You might want to add a bit of Harvey’s next time you make it.”
What? Nita had been right. I should have added a double measure of it to her food.
“Also, how about Damian’s agent?”
“As far as I know, he wasn’t in town when Damian was murdered. But who’s to say he couldn’t have come into town without anyone knowing it, got into another argument with Damian, and stabbed him in anger. But he made a very good point. If he had killed Damian, he definitely would have cut off a major source of his income.”
“People have done stupider things than that. Who else do you have to look at?” Aunt Kit took another bite of chicken, and again I held my breath.
“Nita’s niece said that one of the professors at the college held a grudge against Damian—something about his wife having a history with him. Then there’s Damian’s ex-wife. She held him responsible for their daughter’s drowning—enough so that it resulted in their divorce. I’ll probably leave that one until last.” With any luck, I wouldn’t have to talk to her.
I cleared the table, ready for dessert, which I knew Aunt Kit would have no trouble swallowing—strawberry shortcake. With ice cream.
Aunt Kit surveyed the room, looking around her. “You’ve done a lovely job brightening this place since your mother died. You didn’t get your decorating talent from her, that’s for sure.”
“Thanks. The brighter yellow paint gives the place a completely different feel from when I was growing up.” When my mother lived there, the house had been very gloomy, which pretty much matched her outlook on life. Now might be the perfect time to ask Aunt Kit about my mother and dad.
“Speaking of Mom, I can’t help but wonder what happened to my dad. I only saw him a few times after they divorced, but then he stopped coming to visit me. When I asked her about him, she said that he’d moved away from the area and didn’t want to see either one of us. Later when I asked her again, she said he had died and then quickly changed the subject. Even as young as I was, I didn’t quite believe her. When I was older and had the wherewithal to search for him, I was so hurt that he’d turned his back on us, on me, that I decided I didn’t care and didn’t want to know.
Aunt Kit frowned as though the memory of my dad was a painful one, and it made me wonder about Mrs. Webster’s suspicion that Aunt Kit had been in love with him. But from what my mother had said, many women had been enamored with him. At least that was what she believed.
“Your parents were terribly mismatched. Unfortunately, your mother never saw anything but doom and gloom, and your dad was just the opposite. I give him a lot of credit living with her for as long as he did.”
“She said she divorced him because he had been unfaithful. Was that true?”
“She believed he’d been involved with another woman. He could have been, but I don’t know if that was the case. He was utterly handsome—and charming in a nice kind of way, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if other women hadn’t come on to him. As to where he is, I don’t know. I never heard that he was dead, so that story surprises me. But after all these years, he could be.”
“I should have tried harder to find out about him. But after I married Derrick and came to know of his affairs with other women, I couldn’t tolerate the idea that my dad had been the same way, and I didn’t want anything to do with him. I came to understand better why my mother was so bitter, but that doesn’t explain why he didn’t want me in his life.”
Aunt Kit stopped eating her shortcake and ice cream and looked at me with gentle eyes. “Your father loved you very much.”
“Then why hasn’t he tried to contact me after all these years? He could have another family now and might not want to hear from me.”
“Well, then, you won’t know unless you try.” Aunt Kit added another scoop of vanilla ice cream to her bowl.
“I’ll think about it. Right now, I have to focus on my business, Monica’s business, and trying to convince the police to further investigate the link between Ian and Damian.” If that were possible.
Chapter 37
Add seasonal scents. In the fall and winter, simmer apple cider with cinnamon. In the spring and summer, add a vase of fragrant lilacs or roses.
There was no way I could avoid it. I needed to talk to Detective Spangler about Monica’s case. Even at the risk of being called a busybody twice in one week. But rather than going to his office, I decided I might have better luck meeting him away from his turf and on neutral territory. I knew from the past he frequently went to Hibbard’s Bakery in the morning, so early the next day I waited outside the bakery in my car, hoping he’d show up.
There were pros and cons to that plan. If I waited until he got inside, it might appear I was following him. If I waited inside, he might grab something and be out the door before I could catch him. Amateur sleuthing could be exasperating.
When my car got too hot without the air conditioner running, I broke down and decided to wait inside. The lure of coffee and freshly made donuts and pastries helped. The donuts wouldn’t be nutritious, but I needed a reward for my efforts.
Just as I reached the door, Detective Spangler came from the other direction. I couldn’t have planned it any better.
“Well, Ms. Bishop, we continue to collide in doorways.”
“Good morning, Detective Spangler. In need of coffee?”
“Always.”
He opened the door and allowed me to enter first, which meant I could be first a
t the counter to place my order. Good. That way I could sit down and it would be up to him to join me or not. I gave myself a good mental shake. This was beginning to feel like being back in high school and plotting to run into a crush.
I took a seat in a back booth, unwrapped my English scone with butterscotch chips, and took a bite. Heaven. I then took a sip of coffee and tried to look nonchalant—or as relaxed and unconcerned as I could, which wasn’t easy when facing a talk with Detective Spangler. We always seemed to be on opposite sides of a discussion.
“May I join you?”
I looked up to see Detective Spangler. “Please do.”
He sat down and unwrapped a giant bear claw pastry and took a big bite. That gave me a chance to speak while he had a mouth full.
“I’m glad I ran into you, Detective. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Monica Heller.”
I waited for him to finish chewing and swallow, which seemed to take forever. I seemed to be spending a lot of time recently watching people chew. What was with these men and their big bites? Didn’t they know you can choke on a bite that size?
He then slowly took a sip of coffee. “You’re going to say she’s a friend of yours and she could never have killed someone. Is that it?”
That was far from the truth. “Not really. My relationship with Monica has never been a friendly one and, given half a chance, she might stab me in the back. Figuratively, not literally. But I can’t believe she stabbed Damian.” Perhaps I should have said Sister Madeleine couldn’t believe that. I still had my doubts.
“Figuratively, okay. What did you want to say about her?” He finished the bear claw in about four bites.
This was going to sound just about as stupid, but I decided I might as well just jump right in. “You know we never saw Monica stab Damian. She swears she only removed the knife.”
“Yes, she’s stated that, but there’s nothing to prove it. No other suspect, no one seen running from the scene of the crime by you or anyone else. We see this all the time. We catch someone with a smoking gun. When we ask, ‘Is that your gun?’ we get a response. ‘Not my gun.’ As though it had just appeared out of thin air. Do you have anything concrete you can present to prove Ms. Heller didn’t stab Damian Reynolds?
“No, but that’s what I want to get to. I think you need to look more closely at a possible link between Damian’s murder and Ian Becker’s murder.”
He took a long swallow of coffee and eyed me over the rim of his cup. “Ms. Bishop, give us some credit. Don’t you think we’ve already done that? Other than both victims being stabbed, we found no other link. What possible link do you think there could’ve been?”
“Maybe art? Ian’s aunt was a member of the local art group.” It still sounded pretty weak.
His eyes narrowed and he slammed his coffee cup on the table. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been questioning people about these cases.”
“No, not really…well, maybe a little. When you are in business, you come into contact with people.”
“And someone told you because Ian’s aunt dabbled in art she might have had some connection to a world-famous artist?”
“My Aunt Kit suggested—”
He groaned, the equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Suggested what? That because they both had lifted a paintbrush there was enough reason to connect the murders?”
“Wait. There’s more.”
“Please tell me. I can’t wait to hear what other reasons you have. When you were younger, did you want to be a police officer?”
There was no warming up to this guy, regardless of how attractive he was, and single. “Did you know that Ian’s aunt, Doris Becker, named two local people in her will and that one of them was Ian’s illegitimate son?”
“But how does that link the two murders? In one of those mystery novels you read, that might’ve been a motive in Ian’s murder. But considering Doris Becker left little to any of them, that’s not enough to suspect them of killing Ian.”
“There’s always that possibility. Ian’s son Brandon was really angry at his father for deserting them when he went off to New Zealand.”
“Angry enough to want to kill him as soon as he arrived in town?” He paused. “We’ve already questioned Emily and Brandon Thompson. I didn’t learn that Brandon had tried to contact his father, so I’ll look at him again. Even if it were true and Brandon was responsible for Ian’s death, that doesn’t link him to Damian’s murder.”
“Did you know that Brandon took some classes from Damian at the college?
Detective Spangler pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, I didn’t know that. And you think what, that he could have taken revenge on Damian for giving him a less than desirable grade?
I gave him a withering look. “Don’t you see? He could be the link between Damian and Ian.”
“Okay. I’ll check it out.”
Maybe another tactic might work. “Did you know that Damian’s ex-wife blamed him for their daughter’s drowning? She lives only a couple hours’ drive from here. And he was unable to paint because of the trauma of the accident.”
“Yes, we know all that.”
“And that Damian and his agent argued? And his agent resented Monica.”
“Yes. Anything more?” He wadded up the paper wrapping from his bear claw, preparing to leave.
“Okay, here’s this: Did you know that Professor Albertson’s wife and Damian had a history and the professor resented him because of it? Professor Albertson is on the faculty at Fischer College
“You’ve got me there. I didn’t know that, but I’ll check it out.” He stood up, ready to leave. “Did you hear me? I’ll check it out.”
“Can you let me know what you learn?”
He groaned again. “Ms. Bishop…”
“Yes, detective?”
“Stay safe.” With that, he walked away.
Drat! I forgot to ask him about the knife used to stab Damian. If it had been one from his kitchen, whoever killed him could have become enraged and reached for it. If however, the knife wasn’t one of his, the killer must have brought one with him. That could prove the murder was premeditated. The same thing could’ve been said about Ian’s murder. What about that knife?
Monica said she went to Damian’s house to find out why he wanted to cancel the decorating orders. She probably wouldn’t have gone armed with a knife for that discussion. Would she?
Chapter 38
A home for sale as-is can sit on the market months longer than homes that are move-in ready.
It was one thing trying to solve the mystery of two murders, but it was another thing trying to do it while attempting to make a living. Fortunately, we had been getting calls from people who’d picked up our flyers at the Small Business Fair. I’d spent the last two hours doing a consultation with a man who wanted to sell his home and move to Florida. I didn’t realize it would be just him there. And although he was a nice man, I decided in the future I would take Nita or Tyrone along on calls from men. You just can’t be too careful.
After I had gone over his home and made recommendations, we stood on his porch talking. “Since my wife has gone down to Florida to take care of her mother, that leaves all this staging to me. Sometimes I think we should ship everything to Florida and sell the house as it is.”
“That’s entirely up to you. But with vacant homes, buyers are in and out within minutes and make quicker decisions. They’ll stay longer in a furnished home, and the longer they stay, the more likely they are to imagine themselves living there. If you’d like to move your things sooner than later, we could always bring some furnishings in to make your home look lived in. Also, be aware that if you sell it as-is, it could sit on the market for a while. We could help you get it in condition to sell.”
“All at a cost?”
“Yes, but within your budget. The staging cost will be f
ar less than your first price reduction if it doesn’t sell right away.”
“Yeah. Furniture or no furniture, it needs to sell fast. The house across the street will be going up for sale soon, and I don’t want to be competing with it. I thought it would go on the market by now, but the nephew of the woman who owned it was murdered. I don’t know what’ll happen to it now.”
“Murdered?” I looked at the large Victorian home. “Was that Doris Becker’s house?”
“Yeah, it was. Did you know Doris?”
“No. I just read about her nephew in the paper.” It didn’t serve any purpose telling him that I’d been one of the people who found him.
He slowly shook his head several times. “Sure was a shame about him. He used to spend summers with her when he was a youngster.”
“Did you know Doris Becker well?”
“Not really. She kept pretty much to herself. But the times I talked to her, I found her to be a real nice lady. She was a painter, but we never saw anything she painted. Too afraid people would laugh at it. Darn shame she developed dementia. Got to the point where she didn’t know who we were.”
I looked over at the house with its large wrap-around porch and a huge turret. With all that natural light, the turret must have been a lovely place for Doris to paint.
“Sad she lived there all alone for so many years.” I felt a pang thinking about how lonely she might have been. It made me think of Aunt Kit growing older and living alone in another town.
“She used to have friends come and go, but over the past few years, the only person I saw was that woman from the arts group—Anne somebody.”
“Anne Williamson?”
“Yeah. That’s right. We’d see her going in a couple of times a week. She’d carry in groceries and occasionally bring things out. I went over once to ask if I could give her a hand loading up her car, but she said she was managing fine. Said she was taking some of Doris’s things down to the Salvation Army to donate. I have to give it to her. For a woman her age, she didn’t have any problems carrying that stuff. Awfully nice lady to help Doris as she did.”
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