A History of Murder

by Lynn Bohart

  “I love the idea,” she said. “Mind if I join you for the meeting?”

  “Of course not. This will be a group effort.”

  “You said Milton Snyder told you that a young woman was murdered here. Did he say anything else?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask.”

  “So you’re not going to interview him?”

  “Not if I can help it. His wife, Mabel, isn’t so bad. But he’s…”

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “He’s not a nice man.”

  April lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “What does that mean? He’s mean-spirited? He tells dirty jokes? He…”

  “He’s a bigot,” I said. “Narrow-minded. A religious zealot. Discriminatory. He’s not a…”

  “Nice man,” she said, finishing my thought. “I get it.”

  “Right. I have trouble being in the same room with him. So interviewing him is out of the question.”

  “Okay. Maybe I should interview him.”

  My head snapped up in surprise. She only laughed.

  “Hey. You said he’s a bigot. Maybe being interviewed by a black woman would rattle his cage.”

  “Actually, that’s something I’d pay to see.”

  “So, what time do we meet tonight?”

  “Seven-thirty,” I said.

  “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “God, no. I’m making sugar-free brownies.”

  She nodded and we finished up. Afterwards, I took the dogs for a short walk around the block, and then stirred up a batch of sugar-free brownies since Blair was a diabetic.

  The sun was setting by the time everyone arrived. We met in the main kitchen. Doe came straight from work with a Subway salad in hand. She was still dressed in her work clothes, but quickly stripped off her suit jacket and grabbed a glass of wine.

  “Well, at least this mystery doesn’t involve anyone getting murdered,” she said, taking the lid off of her salad bowl.

  “Uh…didn’t you hear what Milton Snyder said last night?” Blair said.

  “Yes,” Doe said. “But who listens to him? Anyway, for once I’d like to forego chasing killers and almost getting ourselves killed in the process.”

  “A locked room is enough mystery for me anyway,” I said. “And I think this book idea is wonderful.”

  “And if the book turns out well, you could sell it here and at the museum,” Doe continued.

  “I like that idea,” April said.

  I had brought a couple of small pads of paper and pencils to the table and began to write. “So how do we start?”

  “It would make sense to start at the historical society,” Doe said. “I think you might even get Kris to agree to partner with you.”

  Kris Sargent was Executive Director of the Mercer Island Museum, where Doe was a board member.

  “This might be a dumb idea,” Blair said, “but I’m assuming that you’ll include information about the ghosts, right?” Everyone nodded and murmured their agreement. “Well, then maybe the museum would consider staging an exhibit about ghosts after we’re done with the book, featuring the inn as the centerpiece.”

  Blair glanced at Rudy with a slight raise to her eyebrows. She was waiting for Rudy’s customary snide response. But this time, Blair was rewarded.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Rudy said. “And I bet it would be a popular exhibit.”

  “Especially with the kids,” Doe agreed.

  Blair beamed at the approval.

  “Maybe you and I could go meet with Kris,” I said to Doe. “What’s your schedule look like this week?”

  “I have some time tomorrow afternoon,” she said, taking a bite of her salad.

  “Good. When we first moved here, I developed a tentative timeline for the property. But there are holes in it. I think that’s the first thing to do – fill in who lived here and when.”

  “Right, then we can begin to research if any of those people or their descendants are still around,” Rudy said. “If so, we could call and ask for an interview.”

  “And don’t forget neighbors,” April said. “For instance, Goldie and Ben have lived next door forever. They must know a lot about this property.”

  “Good point,” I said, writing that down. “I’ll go over and talk to them.”

  “And any other people who have lived here a long time,” Doe said. “It’s amazing what people in a neighborhood whisper about. If there was something funny going on over here, I bet other people either knew about it or at least suspected something.”

  “I could start searching newspapers from back then to find out about the island itself,” Rudy said. “It would be nice to put it all in context to the time period.”

  “What a great idea,” I exclaimed. “It could follow some of the historical changes on the island – political and cultural.”

  “But also, once we have the names of whoever lived here, I can check on whether their kids showed up in articles about sports or theater,” Rudy continued. “Maybe dignitaries visited. The old society pages might have even talked about trips people took. In the old days, people were interested in things like that.”

  “Since we don’t really know what we’re looking for in the way of that hidden room, I guess for right now we’re looking for everything,” I said.

  “I think if we’re writing a book about the property, we’ll have to consider anything and everything,” April said. “Then we can pick out the highlights.”

  “We’ll need photos, too,” Rudy said.

  “Hopefully, the museum will have some,” Doe said. “But if we can find living family members, they might have photos as well.”

  “So, the first thing to do is to confirm the names of the families who lived here and when they lived here. From there, we can figure out who might still be around and see if we can talk with them.” I looked around at four nodding heads.

  “Voter rolls would help with that,” Rudy said. “I can check those.”

  “Plus, Island Realty has been here a long time,” Blair added. “I bet Ginger would have information about the property.”

  Ginger Graves was the current owner of Island Realty and had taken over from her mother. Since she was near our age, she would have access to a lot of island history

  “Good point, Blair,” Doe said. “You’re pretty close with her, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, she’s in my Pilates class. I could talk to her,” Blair said.

  “What can I do?” Doe asked.

  “You and I will take the museum,” I said to her. I turned to April. “Any chance you could go through some of those boxes in the attic upstairs? That’s all mostly stuff left over from past owners. I’m sure there are some things up there that might help.”

  “Absolutely,” she said with a nod. “You know there’s a bunch of old furniture up there that may have been original to the house.”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “It wouldn’t hurt to go through everything we have, just in case. Maybe it’s even time to bring some of that stuff down and refurbish it.”

  April rolled her eyes. “Looks like I’ll have to get José to help me.”

  “What do you think about a display of some of the original furniture when we do the book launch?” I asked her.

  “I like it,” she replied with a lift to her eyebrows. “But does that mean we’ll also sell some of the furniture?”

  I smiled. “Yes. I suppose it’s time to get rid of some of that stuff. I’m not attached to any of it.” I fingered the little necklace I’d brought to the table from the box. “I think we should also try to find out who might have made this necklace.”

  “But carefully,” April interjected.

  “Why do you say that?” Doe asked.

  April turned solemn eyes her way. “Because when I was in the attic, I heard someone say they died up there.”

  “And Milton did say someone was murdered,” I reminded her.

  “Sounds like a mystery to be solved,” Blair
said.

  “We are not investigating a murder,” Doe insisted. “There are murders everywhere, every day of every year. We don’t have to be the ones to solve them. Let’s just research the history of the inn.” She looked around the table, encouraging us to agree.

  “Doe’s right,” I said with a sigh. “We have plenty of work ahead of us. I don’t really want to add a murder to the list.”

  I felt my nose grow, and the surprised looks confirmed that my friends didn’t believe me. But Doe seemed satisfied, and so we dropped it.

  We ended the evening discussing our assignments in further detail, and I went to my apartment later thinking about what Milton Snyder had said at the art class. Add to that what April had heard in the attic, namely that someone had died up there, and I went to bed dreaming of mysteries of a more sinister nature than just a locked room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I eased into the next morning by taking a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal onto my deck. It was just 6:00 a.m., and I found both the crisp morning air and the trickling sound of a small rock pond next to the deck refreshing.

  As usual, the dogs bounded into the yard. Minnie ran frantically around the perimeter of the fence several times, as if to burn off pent-up energy; something she did every day. A few minutes later, both dogs had stretched out in the sun, while I sat at my small table eating breakfast and making notes about how we might organize the book.

  After breakfast, I joined April in the kitchen and helped her set out food for the guests. The breakfast room was filled with thirteen people and a baby. Since there were three generations of the same family, you’d think breakfast chatter would be at an all-time high. Instead, the room was nearly silent.

  I glanced over at the kids’ table and was surprised to see them all staring sullenly at their plates. I suspected the Wicked Witch of the West had nothing on the elder Mrs. Welch. After all, even Ahab, our talking African gray parrot, was quiet.

  And then all of a sudden, he wasn’t.

  “C’mon, make my day,” he squawked when he saw me. That elicited sudden laughter from the kids.

  “Children!” the elder Mrs. Welch snapped. “Don’t encourage him. And don’t you dare touch him. Birds carry disease, you know.”

  Really? What an old biddy, I thought.

  I held my tongue and joined Crystal, our daytime manager, at the front desk.

  “They’re here all week, right?” I said under my breath.

  She smiled. “Yes. And I’ve already fielded complaints about the water pressure, the lack of children’s books in the library, and the fact that we only sell brownies and fudge behind the counter here. Nothing healthy. Oh, and she doesn’t like the fact that you let the dogs run loose.”

  By ‘her’ I assumed she meant the elder Mrs. Welch.

  “God,” I said with an exhale. “This is going to be a long week.”

  “You think Elizabeth will make an appearance?”

  Elizabeth St. Claire had died in the same fire that had killed her son and young daughter, Chloe many years before. She made rare appearances around the inn, but often expressed herself by slamming cupboards or drawers. Chloe, on the other hand, liked to play tricks on unsuspecting guests she didn’t like. Often it was children. But occasionally, adults were her target.

  “I’m more worried that Chloe will take a liking to Mrs. Welch,” I said. “So be prepared. I’ll try to keep the dogs in my apartment.”

  I took Mickey and Minnie to my apartment and then joined April fifteen minutes later upstairs in the attic. Unlike the barn attic, the attic in the house didn’t trigger any oppressive feelings, even though there were rumors of a young girl who had jumped to her death back in the 1980s from the faux balcony that hung off the side of the building. Her image had been seen several times gazing out the upstairs window, as if looking for a long lost love.

  “What do you think?” I said, glancing around the room.

  We stood at the door, surveying the hodge-podge of stuff in front of us. There were old upholstered chairs, a glass-topped wooden desk, two old fans, a large chest of drawers, a Cinderella mirror, boxes and boxes of junk, and a large armoire in the corner.

  “I say we do a brief inventory first. Then at least we’ll know what we have,” April replied.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Let me get a pad of paper.”

  I went back downstairs and grabbed a pad and pencil from the office behind the reception desk. I was halfway back down the hallway when a voice stopped me.

  “Is there a lifeguard on duty here?”

  I turned to find the elder Mrs. Welch.

  “Um…no. I’m afraid we don’t have a lifeguard. There’s a sign,” I said, gesturing toward the back deck. “Swim at your own risk.”

  “Do you really think that would hold up in court?” she said, her leathery features twitching with skepticism. “My grandchildren would like to swim. How can they if there isn’t a lifeguard? And there’s no sand. What kind of beach is this if there’s no sand?”

  I stepped toward her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Welch. But it says very clearly in our brochure and on the website that there is no lifeguard.”

  “My daughter made these reservations,” she said with a huff.

  She turned on her heel and left, presumably to chew out her daughter. I returned to the attic.

  I spent the rest of the morning helping April organize and inventory everything. We labeled things by the family they had belonged to, if we could determine that; otherwise, they went into a general pile.

  We took a break for lunch, and then I joined Crystal at the front desk to discuss a supply run to the store. The elder Mrs. Welch appeared again, making my muscles tighten.

  “I thought my daughter would have told you about our food restrictions. But it seems even that has been left up to me.”

  Mrs. Welch, Sr. was a thin, angular woman with sharp edges everywhere. Even though her daughter Rebecca had made the reservations, I had a sneaking suspicion the family reunion had been her mother’s idea.

  “My husband is allergic to onions,” she told me in a restrained voice. “So let’s be sure we don’t have anything for breakfast that includes onions, and frankly, cheese gives him gas. So let’s avoid that. My son’s wife is lactose intolerant, and I can’t have anything with gluten.”

  “Uh, well, okay,” I said. “Good to know. I…uh, I suppose we can make scrambled eggs with water, and fry up some bacon and sausage.”

  “Oh, and my niece is a vegan,” she said.

  “Of course she is,” I said, forgetting to filter my sarcasm. “We’ll just make a giant fruit salad each morning that everyone can enjoy.”

  “I don’t appreciate mockery,” she said quietly and walked away.

  April was out in the bakery, finishing up a couple of cinnamon swirl coffee cakes when I stormed in a few minutes later.

  “What’s the matter? Is Dana Finkle back in town?” she asked, noticing the angry look on my face.

  Dana Finkle had been the one person who could make my blood boil. That is, until we saved her life, and she moved out of town. But the elder Mrs. Welch had taken her place.

  “It’s Mrs. Welch, Sr. isn’t it?” April said.

  “That woman!” I almost shouted.

  Lynette was filling a tray with fig bars and looked up.

  “Okay, calm down,” April said. “What happened?”

  I told April about the list of food restrictions.

  April laughed. “Well, Julia, this is our bed and breakfast. They didn’t inform us of all of this when they made the reservations. And it’s very clear in our promotional materials that we provide a variety of breakfast items each day for our guests. So that’s what I plan to do. I’ll make sure there’s something for everyone. And if they don’t like it, they’re more than welcome to eat downtown.”

  April’s common sense short-circuited my anger.

  “I…uh…okay. But let’s label everything, just so everyone knows what they’re eating. I’d
like to minimize my interaction with that old biddy, if I can. And I’d hate to think of what might happen if her husband should eat your scrambled eggs and cheese by mistake. According to her, I’d have to break out the air freshener.”

  ÷

  It was mid-afternoon when Doe’s big black Mercedes came down the drive. I climbed in and joined her in a ride to the museum, happy to get away from the Welch family.

  Kris Sargent, the director, was in her early forties, with short black hair, big round eyes and a ready smile. She had a sharp mind and had done wonders at the museum, which was nothing more than an old Victorian house that someone had willed to the historical society.

  “So, you’re writing a book about the inn. That’s a terrific idea,” she said from behind an antique writing desk. “How can I help?”

  “We’re wondering how to find information on the property,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “First of all, as part of the New Deal back in the 30s, the Works Progress Administration employed people to go out and document every piece of property in King County. It was a way of giving people jobs back then.”

  “Really?” Doe said, taking notes. “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Yeah, they would sketch a floorplan, take photographs, and document all structures on the property.”

  “So, there should be a record of both the inn and the barn?” I asked. I felt a chill of excitement at the thought that we might find some concrete information about the hidden room.

  “Yes, if the barn existed then.”

  “I was told it was built at the same time the original hotel was built. The hotel burned down, but the barn didn’t,” I said.

  “Then it should be part of the record.”

  “What about changes to the structures themselves?” Doe asked.

  Kris sat back. “The tax assessors’ reports should note any permits obtained for major renovations or additional construction. They’ll also show any demolitions.”

  “Are those available to the public?” Doe asked.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. You can look up anyone who owned the property and then also go to the paper to see if you can find any additional stories. Like when the fire destroyed the St. Claire home, there were probably stories about who bought the property and how they renovated it. There was also a weekly paper back in the 1920s. It was called the Island Chatter.”