STAGING WARS

by Grace Topping

  Nita’s cell phone rang, and she answered it. “Yes, we know where she is. We’re at the self-storage facility just off the highway. Yes. Okay.” Nita hung up. “Detective Spangler said they’re on their way.”

  We sat in place for about ten minutes, impatiently waiting for Anne to come out.

  “Here she comes,” Mrs. Webster said, spotting the Lexus approaching the exit.

  I opened my car door. “Get out quick in case she decides to ram the car.” It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she did. We all jumped from the car and stood beside it, facing the gate.

  The metal gate slid open. Anne started to move forward and stopped when she saw my car blocking her exit. That’s when she spotted us standing close by. The look on her face was worth crawling up the coal chute for. It would have been impossible for her eyes to widen any wider than they did.

  Anne opened her car door and stepped out as though to get a better look and confirm it was us blocking her path.

  “You again,” she screeched and then said something I wouldn’t repeat. She looked around her as though searching for a weapon. Finding nothing, she removed one of her shoes and threw it at us. It bounced off the hood of my car leaving a ding. Now she’d really made me determined to get her.

  Chapter 47

  Remove vehicles or anything blocking a clear view of your house. At night, turn on outside lights so an interested buyer who drives by at night can see it.

  Three police cars with flashing lights pulled in front of the storage facility. Detective Spangler and several uniformed police officers jumped from their cars and came toward us.

  Anne Williamson saw the police and ran toward the back of the facility, limping with only one shoe on.

  Detective Spangler pointed to two officers nearby. “Go after her. And be careful—we don’t know if she’s armed.” The officers jumped the metal gate and gave chase. For a woman her age, and with only one shoe on, she gave them a run for their money.

  “Stanelli, get the owner of this place on the phone so we can get inside.”

  Detective Spangler turned to us. The look on his face when he saw Nita and me was priceless. It was the first time I’d seen him speechless. Well at least until he started talking.

  “Care to explain this?” he asked, pointing to us and, presumably, our dirty faces.

  Nita jumped right in. “Anne locked us in her basement and the only way we could get out was climbing up her coal chute.”

  He did his best to stifle a laugh but didn’t quite succeed. “You climbed up a coal chute?”

  “It was the only way we could get out. Otherwise, you might have been searching for us for months.” Nita looked indignant that he didn’t understand.

  I tried hard not to sound smug. “I told you there was a link between the deaths of Ian and Damian—and the link could be art. She killed Ian and Damian to cover up her theft of Doris Becker’s artwork.”

  He shrugged. “Things sometimes come to light that’ll guide us to the solution of a case. You obviously discovered what it was before we did.”

  I was surprised he was magnanimous in admitting we were ahead of him in this case. He must be mellowing in his old age.

  A driver jumped from his car, walked over to the metal gate, and punched in a code, opening the metal gate. Just about the same time, the uniformed officers came around the corner holding Anne Williamson by her arms. She didn’t struggle but looked haughty, assured she was going to be proven innocent of all wrongdoing.

  We looked at Anne’s fancy Lexus. “I think, Detective, you’ll find some paintings in the backseat or trunk signed by Doris Becker.” At least I hoped he would.

  Chapter 48

  A home stager with credentials from a certifying home staging organization can take the pain out of getting your house ready for sale.

  The following morning, Aunt Kit and I met Nita at Vocaro’s. We needed a quiet morning to recover from our adventures of the previous day, especially after spending hours giving statements to the police. Dealing with Detective Spangler hadn’t been quite as difficult as it usually was. Perhaps he was warming up to me—or I was tolerating him better.

  Tyrone greeted us as we walked in. “Hey, ladies. Great job solving those murders. Coffee’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, Tyrone. I’m sorry your grandmother won’t be joining us.” I was exhausted from the previous day’s adventures, and I only could imagine how someone Mrs. Webster’s age would be feeling.

  “You just about wore her out yesterday chasing down Anne Williamson. But she enjoyed every minute of it. She hasn’t had that much excitement in years.”

  Tyrone took off his apron and signaled to one of the other baristas to take over. “Mind if I join you to hear the rest of the story?”

  “Join us. It’s a hard tale to believe,” I warned him as I picked up the tray with our coffees.

  We sat down in the comfortable leather club chairs Luigi provided in an adjoining room for customers who wanted to stay for a while. Aunt Kit looked downcast.

  “What’s wrong Aunt Kit? Are you feeling upset Anne was guilty of those crimes?” I asked her.

  “Yes, I am. But I’m more upset I endangered you and Nita, feeding all that information to her about what you’d been discovering. That’s why she lured you to that house.”

  “You couldn’t have known. Anne was the last person anyone would have suspected of stealing Doris Becker’s art and passing it off as her own. And then murdering two people to cover up her crime. If we had suspected Anne earlier, the message from M. Cassatt to meet at that house might have been a tip-off.”

  “How so? The message was pretty straight forward,” Nita said.

  “Anne took great pride in having people treat her like a great artist. When she selected a pseudonym to use in her message to us, she chose the name of a famous woman painter—Mary Cassatt.”

  “It still makes me shudder to think she could have stabbed you like she did the others,” Nita said.

  Nita looked pale, but I admired how she’d stood up to finding two bodies, being imprisoned in a basement, and chasing down a murderer.

  “Anne probably regrets now she didn’t put an end to me.” That thought made me shudder. “I believe it was only because of her fondness for Aunt Kit she decided to give me a scare instead of killing me.” I gave Aunt Kit, who was sitting next to me on the sofa, a hug. Aunt Kit was a dear, even if she had a dark cloud hanging over her head most of the time. Although it seemed recently she hadn’t been filled with as much doom and gloom. Could Nita and I have become a good influence on her?

  “Do you think she would have left us to die in that basement?” Nita’s eyes were wide, and she still looked shocked at the idea.

  “I’d like to think after she got away she’d have called someone anonymously that would’ve prompted somebody to check out the house. She might not have, but I’d like to think she would.” I decided not to say that Anne probably would have left us there without a backward glance. That thought might have given Nita nightmares for months.

  “I can’t understand how Anne got the paintings to begin with.” Aunt Kit shook her head confused.

  “I can answer that,” Nita said. “I heard the other art group members tried to keep Doris connected to the group when she became too ill to attend meetings. They all took turns visiting her. When Anne got involved with the group, she visited Doris frequently. She told the other members that with Doris’s growing dementia it was best she alone visited her, saying too many people confused Doris. The members left it to Anne, who from all appearances was very helpful to Doris. Somehow she must have discovered Doris’s hoard of paintings, which no one had ever seen, except perhaps her nephew Ian.”

  “So that’s why she decided to kill Ian—to prevent him from exposing what she had been doing?” Aunt Kit shook her head as though still trying to accept that Anne was a mur
derer.

  I took a sip of my cappuccino, suddenly feeling hungry. “The sad thing is, as a teenager, Ian probably showed little interest, if any, in his aunt’s painting and may not have questioned them being missing or noticed that some awful paintings had been brought in to replace them. But Anne couldn’t take that chance. Since the police didn’t find Ian’s wallet, we can only assume she took it, hoping no one would know who he was and never connect his murder to anything other than a mugging gone wrong. And when Damian showed great interest in Anne’s painting at the exhibit, she viewed his interest as suspicion. It doomed him.”

  “Lucky she didn’t know Mrs. Webster had seen some of Doris Becker’s paintings,” Nita said. “She might have gone after her too.”

  Aunt Kit looked grim. “And when you started showing interest in discovering what happened, she decided to frighten you off. I’m so thankful she didn’t….”

  Aunt Kit didn’t need to say more. I was thankful too. I reached over and placed my hand over hers to comfort her. “It wasn’t your fault. Anne knew from the day we had tea at the Orangery that I was inquiring into the deaths.”

  Nita perked up. “One bright thing out of all this is the size of Doris Becker’s estate grew with the retrieval of the paintings, which could prove to be worth something. That should benefit Emily and Brandon Thompson.”

  Nita put her cup down abruptly. “Would you believe it, there’s Monica. They sure were quick to release her from jail.”

  I looked up surprised to see Monica approaching. She wore a large Nantucket style straw hat covering her hair, probably to cover her darkening roots. She looked good for someone who had been incarcerated, but her eyes showed a seriousness that hadn’t been there before.

  She walked over to me. “I thought I might find you here. Can we have a word?” She motioned to a table on the other side of the room. Typical of Monica, she didn’t say anything to Nita, Aunt Kit, or Tyrone.

  I followed her toward the table and took a seat. Monica lowered herself into her chair gracefully, every bit the country club lady.

  “You can imagine how difficult this is for me,” she said and faltered for a second as though trying hard to find the words, “but thank you. For Damian and me. I couldn’t have lived not knowing why someone wanted him dead.” She studied her nails, now devoid of polish. “I truly cared for him you know. Following his daughter’s death, he was a broken soul—and for once someone needed me.”

  She took a deep breath and paused, probably to prevent herself from crying in front of me. “Detective Spangler told me all you did to discover what happened to Damian.”

  “Only because I can’t stand an unsolved mystery.”

  She laughed. “Sister Madeleine also kept me informed about all the ways you were helping my business. I’ll be checking to see what kind of job you did.”

  I laughed too—more a snort than a laugh. “I assure you, Nita and I surpassed your expectations.”

  Monica became more serious. “I know we’ll probably never be close friends, but perhaps we can bury the hatchet?”

  “I’d like that.”

  With that, she stood and walked away. Abruptly she turned. “Just so you know, I never had an affair with Derrick. I wanted to, but he wasn’t interested. Not because he was so noble, you knew Derrick, but because he was involved with someone else.”

  After she left, I sat staring at the wall. Sister Madeleine had been right. I’d been carrying my resentment toward Monica for far too long. Today that weight had been lifted from me.

  When I joined the others again, they looked up at me, hopeful looks on their faces that I would share with them what Monica had wanted.

  I shrugged. “She wanted to thank me for finding Damian’s killer.”

  Nita looked outraged. “You did more than that. You saved her hide.”

  “She’s aware of that. And she knows I’m aware of that. That’s enough.” I slid back into my chair and reached for my cold coffee.

  “Where do we go from here?” Nita asked.

  “I know what I need to do,” Aunt Kit said. “Now that I know you two are safe and not chasing killers, I need to go home.”

  Aunt Kit’s sad eyes and pursed lips told me everything I needed to know.

  “There never seems to be an end to our adventures, Aunt Kit. Why don’t you move back to Louiston? I need you here.”

  Recipes

  Laura Bishop doesn’t ply sources with liquor to loosen their lips. Instead, she knows the value of questioning them in a place conducive to sharing secrets—a cozy English-style teashop. Who wouldn’t open up while enjoying sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, and fruit tarts, all washed down with fragrant tea? It worked for Laura, and she was able to get good leads that helped her unmask a murderer.

  Next time you want to coerce someone into spilling their secrets, serve an English-style tea and include scones like the ones served at the Orangery, the teashop frequented by Laura and her sources.

  English Butterscotch Tea Scones

  Ingredients:

  4 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  1 stick cold unsalted butter (4 ounces) cut into small pieces

  1 cup butterscotch chips (or substitute 1 cup cinnamon chips, currants, or raisins)

  1 egg

  1 ½ cups buttermilk (or substitute 1 ½ cups milk with 2 tablespoons white vinegar. Allow to sit for ten minutes.)

  Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Mix dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Cut in butter until the mixture is the size of small pebbles. Add butterscotch chips (or currants or raisins) to dry mixture and stir to coat well. Set aside.

  Beat egg and buttermilk together and add to dry ingredients. Stir to combine all ingredients. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead lightly. Roll dough until it is 1 inch thick or press with floured fingertips.

  Cut rounds with a lightly floured cutter or a juice glass and place on a greased baking sheet or one lined with parchment paper. Brush lightly with milk or cream and sprinkle with granulated sugar.

  Bake 20-25 minutes or until scones are lightly browned. Allow to cool. Slice in half and spread with butter or whipped cream and jam. Enjoy!

  Aunt Kit’s Favorite Chicken Dish: Chicken with Mushrooms and Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry Sauce

  Ingredients:

  2 tablespoons butter

  4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves

  2 cups sliced mushrooms

  1 can condensed cream of mushroom soup

  1/2 cup Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry (or any brand of

  cream sherry—sweet, not dry) or more to taste

  ¼ cup milk

  Heat 1 tablespoon of butter in a 10-inch skillet over medium-high heat. Add the chicken and cook for 10 minutes or until well browned on both sides. Remove the chicken from the skillet.

  Reduce the heat to medium. Heat the remaining butter in the skillet. Add the mushrooms and cook until they are tender, stirring occasionally.

  Stir the soup, milk, and sherry in the skillet and heat to a boil. Return the chicken to the skillet. Reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook for 5 minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Season to taste. Serve with rice, cooked noodles, or mashed potatoes.

  About the Author

  Grace Topping is a recovering technical writer and IT project manager, accustomed to writing lean, boring documents. Let loose to write fiction, she is now creating murder mysteries and killing off characters who remind her of some of the people she dealt with during her career. Fictional revenge is sweet. She’s using her experience helping friends stage their homes for sale as inspiration for her Laura Bishop mystery series. The series is about a woman starting a new career midlife as a home s
tager. Grace is the former vice president of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime, and a member of the SINC Guppies and Mystery Writers of America. She lives with her husband in Northern Virginia.

  The Laura Bishop Mystery Series

  by Grace Topping

  STAGING IS MURDER (#1)

  STAGING WARS (#2)

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