Crime and Nourishment_A Cozy Mystery Novel

by Miranda Sweet

  “I’m old enough for naps in the late afternoon,” Angie announced.

  “You have no pride.”

  “Nope! But I do hope you feel better.”

  “Thank you.” Aunt Margery worked her way out of the booth and back up the street. From behind, she looked defeated—her shoulders slumped, her head hung down, and her gait was slow and shuffling.

  Angie had a flash of sudden worry: was Aunt Margery worried about something she didn’t know about? Was she having more serious issues that she didn’t want to talk about? Health issues?

  She had seemed to come down with a very serious mood since she had had supper with Dory Jerritt last night. Of course Dory had to be worried about the bakery—but it seemed more than that.

  Angie tried to shake off the feeling that some terrible event was hanging over the heads of the people she knew, just out of sight. She hoped it wasn’t about money. Money was something that could generally be fixed, Business problems, too—with thought and support. But health problems and family problems, those could be swift and tragic. And Aunt Margery was exactly the kind of person who would try to spare Angie that kind of worry, at least until the festival was over.

  That night, just before sunset, she had started packing everything up. Most of the festival goers had headed toward the harbor to get a better view of the fireworks; the few that were left were far more interested in the dregs of the coffee than they were in the books that they squinted at in the long shadows cast along the street.

  She considered whether to set up lights for evening events—but mainly people didn’t want to shop for books along the street at a festival in the evening, they wanted to eat and dance and watch fireworks and listen to music. So she shelved that idea for the time being and closed up the shelves, packing them with their foam-rubber pads and latching them shut. Aunt Margery hadn’t returned; Angie would have to walk back to her trailer and drive it down here on her own, and hope that no one would abscond with her equipment.

  Then Walter appeared. His eyes shone like bright jewels in his tanned face. “I’m here for my bribe,” he said cheerfully.

  He certainly was striking. She wished her feet didn’t hurt, that she hadn’t drunk so much coffee, and that she didn’t need a shower as badly as she did. Food and socializing were the last things on her mind—but she was still glad to see him.

  “I’ll have to bribe you later,” she said. “I have to get the books packed up, and I don’t have Aunt Margery here to watch things while I go get the trailer.”

  “Oh!” he said. “I can watch it for a few minutes, if you need me to.”

  “Would you?”

  In a flash she was off, walking as quickly as she could toward her car and the trailer. The side streets were still officially blocked off, but police officers were waving booth owners in to pack up their wares. Angie spotted Mickey yawning behind the wheel of his SUV and waved at him, then drove slowly around the corner to her booth.

  Walter was gone.

  Angie sighed and parked the trailer in front of the bookshelves. It wasn’t like he was an employee or anything; she couldn’t expect him to hang around and do favors for her all the time. She got out of the car, opened the back of the trailer, pulled out the ramp, and walked over to the booth.

  On the table where she’d been ringing up sales was a note. Sorry, emergency phone call from Mom. I hope everything goes okay! And I’m so sorry—be back ASAP to see if you still need help.

  She sighed again. She couldn’t even be annoyed now. Of course he’d rushed off to help his mother—he was just that sweet. She hoped it wasn’t anything too serious.

  She loaded the bookshelves into the trailer, took down the tent and booth, and loaded those, then dumped out the last of the coffee into the storm drain. She was half asleep on her feet.

  Amateur fireworks had really started to go off. They had been going off all day, but now it was starting to get serious. She thought she could even hear the younger partiers over on the south beaches shooting them off, although with all the buildings around her, she couldn’t see them.

  She yawned and drove the trailer carefully back to the bookstore, leaving it parked in the back parking lot and checking the padlock a half-dozen times before she remembered that she needed to check on Captain Parfait again.

  It was full dark by then, so he’d moved away from the window in order to stalk the mice that he was sure were threatening to damage her books, but he was happy to accept treats and pets. He head-butted her legs as she yawned, pushing her out the back door.

  “Good kitty,” she said.

  He agreed with one of his hoarse-voiced meows and disappeared inside the store. Feeling completely out of it, she stumbled over to her counter and pulled the Peter the Great book out from under the counter. She still had to deliver Snuock’s last book.

  She decided to drive. She was exhausted, grumpy, over-caffeinated, and wanted to be able to breathe, free of the smoke from the fireworks. She rolled up the windows, turned on the a/c, and drove through entire neighborhoods filled with the smoke. Streaks of light shot overhead and exploded as if right next to the car. Even with the windows rolled up, her throat quickly felt sore and rough.

  But finally she was out of town. Down went the windows. She gulped in lungfuls of fresh air, reveling in the relative rarity of crackles, whizzes, and explosions.

  When she finally turned onto the mansion’s driveway, the night was almost peaceful.

  On the way out to the mansion, she had considered for a few moments turning around and going home. Surely Snuock had better things to do tonight than wait up to receive a book. She’d called him before she left. He hadn’t answered the phone; nor had he called or texted her back to tell her not to come.

  She was just tired enough to look forward to arguing with the man over the rent increases again. As she drove, she tried to rehearse her arguments in her head. The increases were too sudden; he was going to get himself a lot of bad press locally; she still had enough friends back in Manhattan who might be able to put pressure on Snuock’s other businesses…no, scratch that last one. She didn’t want to stoop to his level. A delay in the increases so that she and the Jerritts could come up with a brilliant plan to grow their sales…what that brilliant plan might be, she didn’t know yet, but she was sure that it would be brilliant…

  By the time she reached the mansion, she was almost sane again. Getting away from the constant explosions and back into the fresh air had done her a world of good. She’d only passed a few cars along the route; everyone else was at a barbecue or an amateur fireworks show by now…

  The gate was open. She drove around the house to the back door, where deliveries were made. She had a feeling that the front door would be locked and that Snuock wouldn’t answer the bell; if not, she’d just drop the book off inside the back door with a note, which she scribbled quickly onto a piece of notebook paper and tucked between the pages.

  Then she climbed out of the car and walked to the back door.

  She pushed the bell and heard it ring. After half a minute, she pressed it again. Nothing.

  Somewhere out in the dark, she heard the creak of a screen door. The hairs raised on Angie’s neck. She pressed the doorbell again. Still no answer.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” A voice carried through the darkness. Angie turned around to see a flashlight bobbing toward her. She shaded her eyes with her hand, clenched the book with her other hand, and waited.

  Valerie walked across the path from the caretaker’s lodge. Angie felt herself relax a bit. When Valerie reached the circle of light around the main house’s back door, she switched off the flashlight.

  “Is something the matter, Ms. Prouty?”

  Again with the formal tone.

  “I forgot one of the books,” Angie said.

  “And you thought you’d drop it off now?” Valerie asked incredulously.

  Angie didn’t know what to say. She checked her phone—it was just past eleven. “Oh. Stupid
of me.”

  “How did you even get up here?”

  “I drove in.”

  “Past the closed gate?”

  “Of course not. It was open.”

  Valerie’s eyes widened. “Open?” She looked around, as if searching for another car. “He didn’t say he was having visitors. Maybe…”

  The two of them turned toward the back door. Valerie reached for the handle—Angie stopped her. Her gut had gone cold as ice.

  “Don’t touch it,” she said. “There might be fingerprints.”

  “Fingerprints,” Valerie said. “What do you think this is, a crime scene?”

  Well of course, thought Angie, how could Valerie not expect a crime? Angie pulled her sleeve down over her hand, clumsily trying to open the door without disturbing any prints, and failing miserably. Her thumb slipped and rubbed right over the latch.

  The door opened; it hadn’t been locked.

  “I locked that yesterday,” Valerie said. “I locked that. Myself. With my key. I pulled it closed with my own hand and closed it. With my own key.”

  You see, Angie wanted to say. Instead she just pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung on its hinges.

  “Gotta oil that,” Valerie said.

  “It’s probably just all the smoke in the air.”

  They walked inside. A few lights were on, none in the hallway, but one in the kitchen.

  “Don’t touch the switch,” Angie said.

  “If you really think something bad has happened, we shouldn’t be in here. We should be calling the cops.”

  But Valerie didn’t pull out her phone. Neither did Angie. The power of curiosity was just too strong.

  The two of them slowly walked through the rooms, using their phones as flashlights when needed, touching nothing. Nothing seemed unordinary or out of place.

  “Upstairs?”

  They went up, both of them barely making a noise over a whisper. When Valerie called, “Mr. Snuock? Are you all right?” at the top of the stairs, Angie nearly had a heart attack.

  The two of them looked from room to room.

  The lights were off in the bedroom, and the bed hadn’t been made. The bathroom door was open.

  Angie made a face. If he’d had a sudden heart attack, the bathroom would be the most likely place. She didn’t relish the idea of finding him there.

  But if he’d had a heart attack, why would the gate be open?

  They stopped at the room at the end of the hall. The study.

  The door was shut and a light shone underneath it.

  “Mr. Snuock?” Valerie called. “Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  Valerie reached toward the handle, but stopped herself. She glanced into one of the side rooms, spotted a scarf on a side table, and picked it up to use it to open the door.

  Which creaked as it opened.

  Great, every door has to creak tonight, Angie thought.

  Valerie gasped and froze.

  With her hand still wrapped up in her sleeve, Angie reached forward and pushed at the door, opening it the rest of the way.

  At the far end of the room, Alexander Snuock lay on the floor. Blood soaked into the carpet. His new Russian presentation pistol lay next to him. It was unbelievable. A crime scene, thought Angie. A mix of horror and excitement shot through her.

  The blood wasn’t bright red and fresh, but other than that…Angie had no way of knowing how long he had been there.

  She could see his waxen, pale face. He looked surprised, even…embarrassed.

  Angie and Valerie both pulled out their phones at the same time. Angie quickly switched her phone from flashlight to photo mode and snapped some pictures. It was imperative, she reasoned, to get crime scene photos before any evidence be sullied by the elements or negligent detectives.

  Valerie, who was clearly the better human being, called 911.

  “Hello?” Her voice was shaky. “Hello? I need to report a murder. It’s on Polpis Road…it’s Mr. Snuock. He’s dead.”

  Chapter 5

  Cui bono? Who benefits?

  It had been a long night with absolutely zero sleep, and Angie had to face at least half a day’s worth of work at the bookstore. Had to, because today was likely to be a day filled with huge sales, at least for her. After all the work she’d done during the festival to raise awareness of her bookstore, she couldn’t just close the shop.

  The rent increases might not go through…but then again, they might.

  The police had questioned her and Valerie for hours, and then Angie had dragged herself back to the bookstore to unpack the rental trailer so she could deliver it back that morning.

  Jo had reacted with shock when she had seen the look on Angie’s face. “What happened?”

  Angie told her. Jo whistled. “Wow…So we’re in the clear for rent?”

  It was a heartless thing to say, but Angie understood. Snuock had been threatening Jo’s livelihood, her lifelong dream. It had to be on the top of her mind.

  “Maybe, maybe not. It depends on whether he set up the next billing cycle already or not.”

  “But we didn’t sign anything agreeing to a new rental rate. Doesn’t he have to get a signature or something?”

  “I would think so, but…you know what he was like. He might have found some kind of loophole.”

  “True.” Jo chewed on a thumbnail. “It would be just like him, to find a way to screw us over, even after death. When is Aunt Margery coming in to take over for you? You look dead on your feet.”

  Angie paused in the middle of her third shot of espresso. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you called her yet?”

  “I haven’t even been home yet.”

  “I’ll call her.” Jo whipped out her phone and dialed.

  “Don’t wake her up!”

  “She can wake up for this,” Jo said grimly. “Hello? Aunt Margery? Have you heard about Alexander Snuock?” She paused. “Yeah, well, it was Angie who found him, and she hasn’t had a wink of sleep all night, and now she’s arguing with me about calling you to come in early, because she’s an idiot. Yeah, I’ll stay put for as long as I can and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. You can get the details when you get here.”

  She hung up.

  Someone knocked at the front door. Jo shouted, “We’re not open yet!” and turned back to Angie. Angie stuck her head out of the back room and spotted someone at the door, holding up a police badge.

  “I’ll be right there!”

  She trotted over and unlocked the door. “Yes? Is something wrong? Did I forget something at the festival yesterday? I’ll move the trailer in a few minutes, I promise.”

  Her mind had gone completely blank.

  “I know you’ve already answered a lot of questions, ma’am, but I have some more for you. About Mr. Snuock’s death.”

  She blinked and swayed on her feet. For a moment, she had completely forgotten. She was going to fall asleep standing on her feet.

  “Of course. Come in—would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  Jo had melted out of sight and was probably recording the officer on her phone.

  Angie tried not to think about that. The officer, who was dressed in a suit rather than a uniform, had dark hair and a five o’clock shadow—cute, if a little a scruffy around the edges. She poured him a cup of coffee and tracked down the last of the cream. She’d have to send Aunt Margery out for more when she arrived. She hoped the officer didn’t keep her tied up until she had to open.

  “Can you tell me where you were last night at nine-thirty?” he asked.

  “I was still here at the festival, packing up. I didn’t leave here until about ten-twenty.”

  “And then you drove to the Snuock home?”

  “Yes…”

  He ran through a lot of questions that she’d already been asked at the station the previous night. Then he doubled back and started asking her questions about earlier in the day. She was defini
tely not going to finish up before the shop opened for the morning.

  She gave the officer—she knew she should know his name, but couldn’t put her finger on it—the details of the previous day: when she’d arrived, set up, gone to lunch, returned, sent Aunt Margery home, met with Walter Snuock and—

  “You met with Walter Snuock?”

  Because the officer asked her to, she backed up and told him about their meeting at the bookstore the previous day, and also their errand-running date over lunch. “We were in middle school together,” she said lamely. “And it was taking a while to catch up on old times.”

  The officer wrote a few notes down, then said, “Go on.”

  She finished her story—Walter missing from the booth when she returned with the trailer, the note he’d left behind—

  “Do you still have the note?” the officer asked.

  Goosebumps rose along her arms. “Is he all right?” But of course she knew the officer didn’t care if Walter was all right, he was just making a list of suspects. A feeling of dread spread through her: Walter wasn’t a murderer…was he? She shook the thought out of her head.

  “The note?”

  “It’s probably in my cash bag.” She vaguely remembered shoving it inside. She retrieved the bag, opened it, and held it out to the officer without touching the rumpled note shoved inside.

  The officer pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a plastic freezer bag. Her heart sank. He gingerly pulled the note out of her cash bag and spread it out in front of him, skimming the note. “I’ll have to take this,” he said, and placed the note inside the bag, jotting a code on it in permanent marker—then gave her a receipt.

  “Please, officer. Tell me what happened. Is Walter all right? Has he been hurt, too?”

  He gave her a calm, assessing look. “It’s Detective Bailey, ma’am. Please finish your story first.”

  From a corner of the room, Captain Parfait gave a questioning meow and walked toward her until he was standing at her ankle, butting her in the leg. She picked him up; he glared at Detective Bailey but didn’t hiss.