by M K Scott
“Zoned for business.” He echoed her words, reached into his suit coat and retrieved his notebook and pen. “Okay, you obviously looked into this. What were the specific guidelines as far as running a business?”
Before she’d considered houses, she went to the courthouse and looked up all the zoning restrictions. Better locations existed, which she had to abandon since they were residential only. “Well, it was zoned for small businesses employing fewer than five people. The employer would provide parking and bathroom facilities. Initially, I think it was for more home-based businesses such as daycare, accounting, or even alterations. As the neighborhood grew higher in the instep, those home businesses faded away, although there’s probably a few who still work from home.”
Mark’s pen flew across the paper as she spoke, making her wonder if he were even listening. He glanced up feeling her stare. “Yep, some of those folks would be as mad as a wet hen to have an actual business in the neighborhood.”
“Mad enough to kill?” Surprise colored her voice. She could understand someone not wanting a car chassis on cement blocks, but what harm could an inn do? “It will be a classy place, not your budget motel. Folks with money will stay there. I’ll improve the exterior of the building, landscape the yard and even provide an afternoon tea every other Sunday. What’s not to like?”
A snort punctuated her statement. Mark stopped writing and glanced up. “Sorry. It’s change. People don’t like change, even if it’s positive. Probably didn’t like the building standing empty either. Now, they’ll have the discomfort of workmen hogging the best parking spots, then the construction noise and finally strangers entering their neighborhood with nefarious intentions and evil plans.”
Donna lifted the meatloaf pan out of the oven, holding it high in her hot padded hands. “What evil plans?” She placed the meatloaf on a waiting trivet and slipped the cake into the oven. “These are people who come for a romantic getaway. At most, they take in a street festival, do a little antiquing, take advantage of the two wineries right outside of town.”
“Yeah.” Mark’s head bobbed in agreement. “It makes sense when you say it, but we have a dead stranger disproving your theory of everything being safe and ordinary.”
Not this again. She had nothing to do with the man. Why couldn’t he have died somewhere else? Even outside her house on the lawn. The dinner plates rattled as she slapped them on the counter, harder than she intended. “You know, I don’t know the man. I have no clue why he was in my house. The way I see it is one of my neighbors or even the real estate agent could be implicit in this matter.” She faced Mark, whose pen flew across the pad. Was he writing down what she had just said?
“Go on.” His hand, holding the pen, gestured for her to continue.
“Who would know the house was empty, except for someone in the neighborhood? Not like people go cruising through the neighborhoods looking for empty houses for clandestine meetings. It also had to be someone who could get in and out without making a fuss.” An image of a man slipping through the bedraggled backyard formed, a secret smile tugging at his lips as he tried the back door.
“No sign of forced entry. Do you think he came through the window?”
The image of the man continued in her mind, peering up at the windows, which sat a good five feet out of reach due to the foundation. “No, he could have had a key, someone inside had a key, or the agent forgot to lock the door once she took off the lock box. Or better yet—”
Mark interrupted her before she could finish. “Someone took the key from the lockbox.”
Donna slapped her hands together. “Exactly. Whoever took the key knew the house was vacant.”
“The agent should have mentioned a missing key.” He murmured the words as he scratched in his notebook.
“Yes, she should have.” An odd phone call after the finalized sale suddenly made sense to her. “She called me almost immediately after the sale and talked about the importance of changing the locks, especially because of the foreclosure and missing former owner.”
An indecipherable comment that sounded more like a grunt with a few muttered expletives came from the table.
Donna prompted, “What did you say?”
“Real estate agents, the bottom feeders of the construction cycle. They would never tell you outright someone had your key. You could have been killed in your sleep. All she cared about was her commission. What’s her name?”
“Julie Lawless.”
A long whistle rent the air. “Rather appropriate. Think I just might stop in and say, ‘Hello.’”
The agent’s antics had rubbed Donna the wrong way from the very beginning. She got double commission since she also represented the bank as the last owners of the foreclosed home. The woman would have thrown in her own grandmother as a cook and maid if it’d sealed the sale. “If something isn’t disclosed it can invalidate the sale.”
A metallic click indicated the note taking had ended as Mark pocketed the pen. “Oh, I don’t disagree that Ms. Lawless has some serious ethical issues, but the invalidation deals more with wood rot, sinking foundation, not a missing key.”
It would be the easiest way of getting a key. “Yes, it could have been. I agree with that, but someone could have left the door unlocked. I’m assuming whoever it was came in the back door. Herman, the nosy parker neighbor, pointed out where he lived provided an excellent view of the Painted Lady, which meant he would have noticed someone entering through the front door.”
“Painted who?” His furrowed forehead announced his confusion along with his words.
Donna arranged the slices of meatloaf and baked potatoes on the delicate china plates. She had considered a bolder pattern, but didn’t feel it would complement the Victorian architecture. “The Painted Lady, my inn. I mentioned that.” His head bobbed in agreement, but she had her doubts he’d even heard her, or worse yet she may have only thought she had mentioned it. Oh, my stars, another senior moment.
The detective cleared his throat. “Um yeah, the inn. I knew that. So you think a real estate agent left it unlocked?”
“Could be. I insisted on a final walkthrough. Julie was already at the lawyer’s and sent her son, a young man named Oliver. He showed some anxiety about getting me out of the building after the walkthrough.” The tall, slender man with round wire frames had reminded her of a doctoral student. He couldn’t be too old. Certainly didn’t look the real estate type with his Shetland sweater splitting under the arm. An agent would never don such a shabby outfit. Real estate might be about location, but agents had to radiate success through their appearance and their car. The practice didn’t make sense to Donna since it would suggest overcharging.
“Do you think he might have something to do with the murder?” Mark’s hand went inside his sports coat and withdrew the pen once again.
“No, just a kid, really. Probably forced to show me the house. His mother struck me as a real ball buster.” Her eyes cut to Mark, who pondered something in his notebook. “No offense intended.”
“None was taken. Why do you discount the kid? Youngsters kill more than you might think. Usually, it’s an impulsive action, which was probably the case with your uninvited visitor.”
Donna centered a plate in front of Mark and sat the other directly across from him. “Need silverware.” She grabbed two salad forks, knives and two regular forks. “Well, he didn’t have the right feel,” she answered as she slid into a chair.
A throat clearing caught her attention as Mark lifted his glass. Her glass rose to meet his, clinking lightly together. “To a delicious, unexpected dinner.”
His lips tugged up as she touched his glass again. “To an excellent partnership.”
His brows went down as a pained expression crossed his face. “Now don’t go doing that. We’re not some television cop show. I’ll get you in your house as soon as safely possible.” He put the wine glass to his lips.
“You need me.” A choking sound greeted her statement as a sud
den realization of what he may have thought she meant colored her cheeks. “You need my mystery solving skills.”
“Uh, no.” He put down his glass, threw her a warning glance, before picking up his fork. A chunk of meatloaf went into his mouth. An approving murmur punctuated his chewing as his eyes rolled upward. Great. Her own cooking served as her competition.
“Wait. I’m good at this. Solving mysteries. Whenever there is a murder mystery on television I know who the killer is before the police do.”
He continued chewing as if he’d never heard her. “Great meatloaf. Sure to be a hit if you decide to serve anything else besides breakfast.” His potato-laden fork lifted to his mouth, ignoring the daggers her eyes threw in his direction.
“Why can’t I help? You can tell me no, but it won’t stop me from starting my own research mission.”
A chunk of potato flew across the table as Mark coughed. Donna jumped up, ready for the Heimlich maneuver as she worked her way over to his chair, but he held up a restraining hand.
“Don’t. Making wild statements while I’m eating is enough to almost kill me.” His voice sounded strained, making Donna retrieve a water bottle from the fridge. She poured the cold liquid into a glass tumbler. “Here.”
Mark’s fingers wrapped around hers as he took the glass. His bloodshot eyes peered into hers. A question lingered there, one she couldn’t decipher. As a nurse, she wanted to point out he wouldn’t have choked so easily if he didn’t smoke. Not a good time to bring that up. Besides, the broken capillaries could have resulted from choking, an activity he asserted she had caused.
Mark took a large gulp, then a deep breath, before he looked at her. No wink, no twinkle in his eyes, his lips pulled into a grim line. “You do realize one person is dead from whatever went on. You could be next if you got in the way.”
Her fisted hand found purchase on her hip. Her jaw shifted side to side as she digested his words, not liking the taste of them at all. “Okay, a valid point. I’m not going out, guns a-blazing. Just a few questions here and there. I’m a woman, people expect me to be nosey. Might even open up easier to me than you.”
“Might.” He agreed and returned to eating with gusto.
No promises to let her help or anything. Two could play that game. Wielding her fork, she returned to her dinner, chewing methodically, allowing the flavors to register in a less busy part of her brain. How long could he hold out?
A cherry tomato evaded his effort until he finally speared it on the tines of his fork. He gestured with the tomato-topped utensil. “You must be the oldest child. Parents must have given you a great deal of responsibility.”
Just maybe he was considering it. “Yes, yes, they did. I was very responsible.”
“Hmft, I bet you were. Did they ever tell you no, or if they did, was it a word that even registered with you?”
Odd question. Her eyes flicked to his salad plate smeared with the remnants of too much dressing. Almost done, except the praline cheesecake would only extend his time for annoying comments about her childhood, even if some of them were true. “Would you like some coffee with your dessert?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” A broad grin graced his face, signaling he was over his snit, even if she wasn’t.
She made a move to stand, but he grabbed her hand. “Stay seated. Eat your meal. It won’t hurt me to wait.”
“Okay.” Her chin dipped in acknowledgment as her mind suggested delaying tactics, which would allow her a few more minutes of information extraction even if it did include a few slams on her upbringing. The man considered himself a good detective, but it was nothing compared to an emergency room nurse on triage duty. Most people who showed up at the emergency room had no insurance, a condition that worsened past office hours or suspicious injuries that required immediate assistance. Those situations took investigative skills. The patient couldn’t be treated appropriately unless he or she confessed to what combination of drugs they ingested or dangerous activity they had attempted. Occasionally, a friend or relative came along, eager to tell all without any shame or embarrassment. The reticent ones were often victims of abuse. Her duty required her to get a statement before she could document it and contact the proper authorities.
Donna noticed the man staring at his empty plate with a forlorn expression. Eventually, he’d start to suspect her turtle-like pace. What was it he mentioned about her parents? Oh yeah, she remembered now. “I don’t think my parents told me no much because—”
“Ah ha, I knew it.” He slapped the table hard, which was the same reaction Daniel had whenever he bested her at cards.
What did she think was attractive about this man again? “You didn’t let me finish. I never asked my parents for dangerous toys or engaged in questionable activities. Why should they tell me no?” Her parents had stressed how important hard work and diligence were so much that she never spent too much time on childish behavior. With both parents working, she had fallen into the role of being her mother’s helper. Her natural desire to please her parents and practical personality made her the perfect older sister.
Half of a crescent roll worked as a broom, sweeping up any crumbs of meatloaf left before Mark popped it into his mouth. Another appreciative murmur followed the bite. At least the man had excellent taste when it came to food. Wouldn’t hurt to have a travel writer with Mark’s enthusiasm for her cooking. It would be difficult to be mad at a man who appreciated her culinary creations.
“Of course they didn’t tell you no. You were the template of the responsible older sister, probably made five-year plans when you were in your teens.” The man hoisted one eyebrow as an unrepentant smile broke over his face. “So how about that cheesecake?” His hands rubbed together gleefully.
It was as if he had some dossier on her with photos of her painstakingly writing out her junior high expectations in a college-ruled notebook. Graduating with honors, winning a full scholarship, she did that. Went into medicine, she did that too. She had considered being a doctor once, but her school counselor didn’t encourage her. At the time, she expected adults to have all the answers. It never occurred to her that their thwarted dreams would squeeze the life out of her own aspirations.
Her hot pad-encased hand opened the oven door, releasing the subtle scent of cheesecake with the higher sweet note of praline riding along. The pan shouldn’t be hot since the cheesecake had only slightly thawed from the time spent in the off oven, but why take chances? It served as her life motive, especially after her life took a severe right turn when Thomas decided the two of them wouldn’t live happily ever after. Thomas had been her step into unknown territory. Inadvertently, he had taught her a lesson. No one ever accused her of being stupid so one single experience served her well.
“It’s done. All I have to do is plate it.” Ah, she liked the terminology. It made her feel like a cooking show participant or the owner of a celebrated B and B. The knife slipped through the soft contents, creating eight perfect wedges since the cake still had enough firmness from not being totally thawed. All the better, she liked her cheesecake cool. She lifted a wedge with her cake server and centered it on the china dessert plate. Should she add a drizzle of raspberry or caramel syrup? It would give it a fancy look, but the cake itself would already be sweet enough.
The detective’s phone chirped as she debated. His one-sided conversation attracted her attention.
“Really? I’m on my way.”
It didn’t sound like a casual conversation, especially when the kitchen chair skittered backward as Mark stood.
“Hey, work calls. Can I take a rain check on that coffee?” He gave her a forced smile as his gaze dipped to the cheesecake on the counter.
Her pride took a hit since his regret in leaving centered on the cheesecake and not conversing with her. She’d already accepted years ago that her athletic build and no-nonsense nature did not drive men wild with desire. “I could box up the cheesecake for you.”
His car keys in hand, he stopped o
n his way and turned with a delighted expression. “You can?”
He resembled a kid who just found out Christmas wasn’t canceled this year after hearing it was.
“It will only take a second.” Flipping open a cabinet, she reached for a small bakery box she folded into a wedge shape. She had bought a dozen of them as a trial before she had the inn’s name printed on them. Box completed, she inserted a paper doily inside before placing the cake on top of it. Despite Mark’s rush, she gazed at the cheesecake surrounded by the three cardboard walls. Her first official boxed creation if she discounted everything she’d carried to work previously.
Enough. She closed the box and handed it to Mark as a suspicious thought popped into her brain. “Not rushing off to my inn, are you?” Local crime wave consisted more of burglaries, speeding and the occasional trespasser call.
The detective hesitated with his palm on her exterior door. The white edge of the bakery box stuck out of his sports coat pocket. The man had mangled her dessert in his hurry to leave. Her inward cringe almost made her miss his parting sally, but not quite.
“I wouldn’t tell you that because if I did you’d hotfoot it over there and get in the way.”
The door slammed, ending the need to reply before she could.
Chapter Nine
The closed door mocked Donna. It ended the conversation before she even poked at Mark’s pronouncement that he wouldn’t tell her if it were her inn that drew him away. Probably because she’d just go sticking her nose in police matters. Her lips pursed as she considered the possibilities. If the good detective were off duty as he mentioned, then why would he tear off unless whatever happened involved a case? Her case.