SOME ENCHANTED MURDER
AN APPLE MARIANI MYSTERY
SOME ENCHANTED MURDER
LINDA S. REILLY
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2013 by Linda S. Reilly.
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Reilly, Linda S.
Some enchanted murder : an Apple Mariani mystery / Linda S. Reilly. — 1st ed.
p. cm
ISBN 978-1-4328-2681-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-2681-6 (hardcover)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2826-4 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2826-6
1. Legal assistants—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. New Hampshire—Fiction. 5. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.E564526S66 2013
813′.6—dc23 2012037280
First Edition. First Printing: February 2013
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2826-4 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2826-6
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Printed in the United States of America
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SOME ENCHANTED MURDER
CHAPTER ONE
From the journal of Frederic Dwardene, Thursday, November 9, 1950:
I have never written in a journal before, but today I was compelled to buy one. Where else can I express the giddiness I am feeling right now? In whom could I confide the emotions that some might find improper for a man my age? It began early this afternoon at the bank, when the most beautiful woman I have ever seen walked up to the teller’s cage …
I’d just plucked a dog-eared paperback off a shelf in the library of the old Dwardene mansion when my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my wool jacket. I fished it out and saw my aunt Tressa’s bubbly visage grinning at me. Her feminized Beatles’ do and dazzling smile did not match the voice that bellowed into my eardrums.
“Apple, where are you?” she squawked. “In the library,” I said as quietly as I could. “Is something wrong?” “Come upstairs,” she commanded. “And bring a weapon. Something big. And heavy.”
In a flash, I shelved the book. I quick-stepped toward the foyer and hustled up the staircase that curved in a graceful arc to the second story. Although I was long accustomed to my aunt’s arachno-encounters, the odd crackle in her tone made the back of my neck tingle.
My foot had barely touched the top landing when my aunt and I collided. She sagged against the papered wall, her neon purple scarf trailing behind her like a psychedelic beacon. One bejeweled hand was clamped over her raspberry-painted lips. Her face was the color of scalded milk.
“Aunt Tressa, are you all right?”
Shaking her head, she grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, nearly wrenching me to the ground. “Oh God, Apple, you will not believe this hideous thing. I swear, it’s a foot long. You’ve got to get it before it—wait a minute, I thought I told you to bring a weapon.”
I resisted an eye-roll. “Don’t worry, I have a whole pack of tissues in my purse.”
“Tissues? You’ll need a bed sheet for this one.”
“Um, miss? Is everything okay?”
Halfway up the staircase, a skinny, bespectacled man with a brush cut stood staring uneasily at us.
“Everything’s fine,” I assured him. I didn’t dare tell him it was only a spider. To Aunt Tressa, only a spider was the equivalent of only an asteroid colliding with the planet and wiping out the entire human race.
He hesitated. “Okay, if you’re sure …”
“I am, but thanks anyway.”
With a shrug, the man retreated down the stairs and I turned back to my aunt, who was clutching her prized designer handbag—a gorgeous creation the color of dark cherries and the size of a grocery cart—as if it were a helicopter cable that was going to airlift her out of there. “First of all, it can’t be a foot long,” I said. “This is an old house. It probably wandered down from the attic.”
“Believe me, if this thing wandered in from anywhere, it was someplace a lot hotter than an attic.” She aimed her upturned nose at one of the doorways about halfway down the hall on the left. “Go ahead. See for yourself.”
The faded oriental runner stretching the length of the hallway softened the clomping of my boots as I headed toward the source of my aunt’s distress. When I peeked through the doorway of the room she’d indicated, I couldn’t stop myself—I let out a miniature squeal.
The thing was huge indeed, and hideous was probably a benevolent term for the creature strolling languidly across the bedspread of the room’s sole bed. About a ninety-four on a creep scale of one to ten, its eight hairy, black-and-orange legs easily spanned the width of my hand. A double shiver raced through me, just as a harsh male voice burst out from the depths of a corner closet.
“Will you people stop making such a racket? You’re gonna scare him.”
I knew that voice, but at the moment I couldn’t place it. A fast glance around the room told me its occupant was preparing to move out. Stacks of sealed cardboard boxes lined one wall. The floor was littered with newspapers that were apparently being used for packing material.
The man belonging to the voice suddenly emerged from the closet, glaring at me from beneath dark bangs that needed cutting a month ago. “Josh Baker,” I said dryly. “What are you doing here?” I’d known Josh since he was a tiny terror and I was his reluctant babysitter.
“I live here. At least until Friday I do,” he groused. Clearly he wasn’t happy about moving out. Or was something else making him so grumpy?
And why was he living here in the first place?
On the bedspread, the monster was on the move, and way too fast for my liking. With an involuntary shudder, I took a step backward. “Uhh … is that a tarantula?”
“A Mexican Red Knee,” Josh confirmed. “His name is Zorba, and he’s very gentle. I was just letting him out of his tank for a while. I didn’t know someone was going to come by and scare the crap out of him.”
Aunt Tressa appeared at the edge of the door frame, hanging far enough to the side to keep the tarantula out of her line of vision. “I scared him? What about the fright he inflicted on my aging heart? I’m not exactly a spring chicken, you know!”
At sixty-one, Aunt Tressa had one of the healthiest hearts I know, as well as one of the most generous. But she wasn’t opposed to a bit of exaggeration when she wanted to slam home a point.
My aunt narrowed her carefully
plucked eyebrows at Josh. “Hey, I remember you. You’re the little kid Apple used to sit for. The one who ripped off an entire row of tulips from my flower bed right when they’d started to bloom.”
A flush colored Josh’s cheeks, but my gaze was drawn to the view outside his bedroom window. Bloated white flakes were floating from the sky at a frightening rate. The first snow of the season was already sticking, promising to make driving treacherous. The plows would be along eventually, but in the meantime the New Hampshire roads would have all the traction of a hockey rink.
In spite of the bad weather, people were still milling about downstairs, eyeing the deceased Edgar Dwardene’s former possessions. Edgar’s nephew and sole heir, and my long-time friend, Blake Dwardene, had opened the once stately home to the residents of Hazleton for the entire afternoon. Everything was for sale, with the exception of Edgar’s treasured dagger collection—the deadly knives had been promised to an antique weapons dealer.
“Everything all right in there?”
I turned to see Celeste Frame, Blake’s fiancée, standing outside the doorway next to my aunt. Looking trim and fit in a navy cashmere sweater and form-hugging beige slacks, her short blond hair fashionably coiffed, she wore an air of concern on her pretty face.
Aunt Tressa jumped right in. “Celeste, did you know that … that thing was living here?”
Celeste gave a wan smile. “Yes, Josh got him a few weeks ago. Strange choice for a pet, but to each his own, I suppose.”
Josh shot her a dark look.
“So that’s why I never saw it when I showed the house,”
Aunt Tressa said. “Thank God.”
As the listing broker, my aunt had dragged at least a dozen potential buyers through the neglected mansion before two doctors from New Jersey, envisioning the possibilities, fell instantly and irrevocably in love with it. With the closing scheduled for this coming Friday, she was already imagining those lovely commission dollars plumping up her bank account. The law firm I worked for, Quinto and Ingle, was handling both the probate and the closing.
“If you ladies don’t mind, I’d like to finish packing,” Josh cut in.
Celeste tilted her head toward the hallway. “Come on, we can chat out there.”
“Bye, Josh,” I called to him.
“Yeah, back at ya.” He closed the door in our faces.
“I didn’t even know he lived here,” Aunt Tressa said. “I knew there was a tenant, but he was always out when I brought people through.” She shook her head. “Who’d have thunk it?”
“Blake’s uncle rented the room to Josh about three years ago,” Celeste explained. “I think he was grateful to have company in this dreary old place. I understand Edgar had grown pretty fond of Josh before he … well, you know.”
Before the poor old man took a fatal tumble, is what she meant to say. Seventy-nine-year-old Edgar Dwardene had died from a fall down the stairs. A younger man might have sustained such a fall with only a broken bone or two, but Edgar landed in an unfortunate position. His neck snapped on impact.
Aunt Tressa’s face was beginning to return to its normal color. “Well, I’m out of here,” she said. “I came up here to look for Lou, which is what I was doing before I ran into that hairy beast. Any idea where I can find him?”
Lou Marshall was the appraiser for Edgar Dwardene’s estate. As of about six weeks ago, he was also Aunt Tressa’s new squeeze.
“Lou’s in Edgar’s study,” Celeste told her, pointing in the opposite direction from which we’d come. “Far end of the hall. You can’t miss it. Ooh, quick caveat, though. Lou and Blake had a bit of a spat earlier, so he might not be in the best of moods.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Where is Blake, by the way?”
“In the cellar, cleaning out the last of the old junk, poor baby. He’s been complaining all day about all the dirt and dust down there.”
My aunt shuddered. “I can only imagine what else is down there.”
“Anyway,” Celeste said, “if you decide to buy anything, stop in afterward and pay Lou. He’s the official cashier.”
Aunt Tressa thanked her and hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder. “How about if I meet you downstairs in twenty, Apple? Snow’s getting bad outside, so we don’t want to hang around too long.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Celeste winked at me as my aunt stalked away. “You’re coming to our holiday open house tomorrow afternoon, aren’t you, Apple?”
Open house. I knew there was something on my agenda for Sunday. Celeste loved to entertain. Since she and Blake were moving to New York as soon as they closed on the mansion, I knew she was looking forward to hosting this one last party.
“Of course,” I told her. “Aunt Tressa and I are both coming. Is there anything I can bring?”
“Absolutely not. All we want from our guests is to show up and enjoy. I have some extra special treats planned. Many of the hors d’oeuvres will be made from my healthy, homemade grain breads.”
I bit off a chuckle. The mere mention of the word “healthy” in relation to any foodstuff automatically drew a scowl from my junk food–loving aunt.
“Sounds enticing,” I said.
“And the next time you’re in the Food Mart, be sure to check out the bread aisle.” Celeste beamed with pride. “I have my own display there now. Celeste-y-al Whole Grain Breads.” She emphasized the word Celeste in the name.
“Hey, that’s a great name! I’ll definitely check it out.”
Downstairs, it felt as if the thermostat had been set on ninety. Dry heat poured out of the ancient radiators in sickening waves. I resisted the temptation to peel off my jacket, which I felt sure was lined with iron.
The entrance door to the library had been propped open with a blue and white pottery spittoon. Filled to the brim with floral-scented potpourri, it made for quite an attractive piece, although I couldn’t help picturing a room full of gin-drinking, tobacco-chewing poker players having used it as a depository for stuff I didn’t want to think about. A few lone browsers were scanning the shelves, no doubt hoping to snag a valuable first edition, or maybe one of the war novels I’d spotted earlier.
I homed in on the shelf where I’d found the books I was interested in—John Jakes’s series based on the American Revolution. A sign resting on a table announced that paperback books were two dollars each. Since I loved American history— I’d been a history major in college—it was a bargain I couldn’t refuse. I gathered up the books, eight in all, and stuffed them inside the tote I’d brought with me.
I was perusing the other books on the shelf when I spied a diminutive figure in a lilac-colored coat standing beside me. “Lillian?”
The elderly woman swung her head toward me. A knitted periwinkle hat sat atop her silvery waves of hair, complementing her coat perfectly. “Why, Apple dear, how are you? How nice to see you here!”
Lillian Bilodeau was a sweet, elderly woman who’d had a cat problem this past spring. As in nineteen cats plus Lillian, all scrunched into a tiny mobile home. Right now she had only one cat—Elliot—a lovable gold tiger.
“I’m great, Lillian.” I peered at the white porcelain cat she was grasping in her small hands. About four inches high, it was exquisitely painted and glazed to a shine, its eyes an appealing shade of moss green. In a mansion filled with such masculine accoutrements as daggers and spittoons, the delicate white cat seemed out of place. “Are you buying that? It’s lovely.”
Lillian nodded. “It’s quite a piece, isn’t it? It’s English bone china, over sixty years old. It’s marked twenty-five dollars, but I’m going to ask Mr. Marshall if he might shave off a bit for an old lady. I understand he sets all the prices.”
“He does, and I hope he gives you a big discount.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Lillian said. “Do you know where I might find him?”
“Someone said he’s upstairs, in Mr. Dwardene’s former study.”
“Thank you. I’ll
toddle up there and plead my case.” She smiled, but this time her eyes held a twinge of anxiety.
“Is everything all right, Lillian?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear, just a little worried about the snowstorm since I have to take the bus home. Do you think they’ll still be running in this terrible weather?”
The bus line that served Hazleton and adjacent towns was normally pretty reliable, but with the roads growing worse by the minute, who knew when or if the next bus might come along? And since it was early December, it would be dark by four-thirty. “My aunt and I will be glad to give you a ride home. You don’t need to stress over catching a bus.”
Her thin shoulders slumped in relief. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. How about if we look for you in the foyer in ten or fifteen minutes?”
“That will be perfect. I appreciate it, Apple.”
Leaving her to seek out Lou Marshall, I turned my attention back to the bookshelves. My chance to scour Edgar Dwardene’s collection was dwindling with every second. I was anxious to see if there were any biographies I might be interested in. I thought I’d spotted one about Benjamin Franklin earlier, and was itching to lay my hands on it.
As I was trying to find the Franklin book, my gaze drifted to a display case that hung on the adjacent wall. Moving a few steps closer, I realized it was one of the myriad antique dagger displays that were distributed throughout the house. This one appeared to be made of solid mahogany, and hand-carved at that. It was impressive, despite the scary-looking knives that hung from its built-in slots.
“I bet you wouldn’t want to trip over one of those babies in the dark, would you?”
The voice came from directly behind me. I swiveled to see a blue jean–clad man with thick white hair and a matching beard, round cheeks, and bright blue eyes peering at the row of daggers. Had he been there a few seconds ago? I didn’t think so. He seemed to have materialized out of the dust particles on the shelves.
“No, I don’t suppose I would,” I said inanely, stepping slightly to one side.
Laughter shook the man’s pink cheeks. He stroked his jaw. “Yessirree, you could slice right through a hog’s neck with one of those little cookie-cutters,” he went on affably. “Take it clean off with one swipe.” He dipped the tip of his rounded nose toward the long steel blade that hung on the slot farthest to the right. “See that one there on the end? That is a bayonet—German to be exact. World War II vintage. Worth a shiny penny or two, my good lady.”
Some Enchanted Murder Page 1