Murder Mansion

by M K Scott

  The older man, with Marvin stenciled on his vest front, nodded, not even cracking a smile at the ridiculousness of her explanation. Instead, he gave the cart a censorious glance before turning back to look at the boy who was in the process of soundlessly drifting away.

  “Brent, go get another cart. One that works.” The youth took off on his errand, but not before grimacing first. The thought of having to work while on the job upset him.

  No easy way to vanish, especially when a new cart was on its way. “Thanks.” She almost added there was no need when she caught the man staring at her with a goofy smile. Marvin acted thrilled to see her. A middle-aged woman whose hair had to be ruffled due to the collision.

  Her lips tilted up without any conscious thought. Brent arrived with a rattling cart that she suspected wasn’t much better than her previous one. “Thanks.” The acknowledgment came out soft, making her into a simpering, helpless female who expected men to buzz around her as if they were bees and she was a newly opened flower. Her teeth ground together at the dated image.

  Before she could counter the simple word that evoked such attractive associations, Brent disappeared, demonstrating she wasn’t a fresh flower at all. Not too surprising, she shook off the errant thought and readied herself to move the primer gallons. The primer and painting paraphernalia already filled the new cart that came complete with a grinning Marvin behind it.

  His eyes lit up as he asked, “Need anything else tonight?”

  Her glance dropped to the full cart, then back to the man. “No, not this evening. I’m just getting started. I’ll need more stuff in the future.” His overwhelming brand of customer service was something she’d never encountered before. Part of her wondered if it portended something more than a high rating on a client satisfaction survey. Nonsense.

  The heavy cart moved forward with her helpful paint man behind it. This was weird. “Uhm, I can handle it. Thanks, Marvin.”

  She thought the mention of his name would be the trick that freed her cart from his capable hands. It didn’t. He kept pushing the cart and talking.

  “I usually work every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday evenings from six to closing. I teach construction at a vocational school during the day.”

  Small talk wasn’t her strong point. Think, what response could she make? “That must keep you very busy.”

  “It does.” He nodded his head while his grin slid off his face, turning his expression serious. “I prefer to stay active. It’s much better than roaming around my big house all alone.”

  A too-much-information warning, she recognized the introductory volley. She’d heard enough from her post-op patients, especially those still heavily drugged. They felt the need to confess life regrets to a total stranger. Luckily, most never remembered anything mentioned while under anesthesia.

  “Good thing you have this job to keep you busy.” She matched her steps with his long strides, edging closer in hopes of taking control of her merchandise. The towering gunmetal gray shelves loaded with lights and ceiling fan boxes created an unfortunate tunnel of intimacy. An occasional mumbled request came over the PA system indicating that other potential customers needed help. They’d probably never receive it based on the announcer’s lack of articulation.

  Her outstretched hand reached for the cart handle, brushing against Marvin’s, which resulted in him beaming broadly at her. Oh no, bad move, wrong message. He moved his hand to brush against hers.

  “I can run you through the checkout and use my employee discount.”

  The cart slowed, giving her a chance to walk instead of her awkward trot as she analyzed her next move. Employee discount. How much was it? If it were around forty percent, it would save her almost two hundred dollars. Get a grip, girl. You’re not seriously considering it. She jerked her hand away from Marvin’s.

  “Um, no thank you. That wouldn’t be ethical.” Not a stellar comeback, but the best she could come up with. She’d long since closed the door on romance. Sure, co-workers close to her age were already on marriage two or three. Becca in the phlebotomy unit hit husband four at forty-nine. Work made her privy to all the issues dealing with the current man in Becca’s life from unexpected big-ticket expenditures to leaving the toilet seat up.

  Marvin chuckled at her reply while sending her a slightly lecherous glance. “Ah, a good girl, they’re so much more fun to break.”

  Her eyebrows went up with his last word and her mouth dropped open before she could snap it shut. Fun to break? No one broke Donna Tollhouse. Straightening her spine, she assumed her best steel nurse demeanor. “Get your hands off my cart!”

  Marvin’s hands released the cart, which rolled a few feet on its own. Enough space for Donna to swoop in and take over. She wrestled the awkward buggy into a checkout lane where a bored middle-aged woman stood. The woman glanced past her to where Marvin stood with a dumbfounded expression.

  The cashier picked up her scan gun and ran it over the primer cans. “Looks like Marvin tried to chat you up.”

  Her words made the man’s over-the-top actions seem innocent and playful. Donna grunted her acknowledgment, unwilling to talk about it. Her response didn’t deter the woman from speaking.

  “Yeah, we all feel sorry for him. Married thirty years, then his wife died in a freak accident while they were on vacation. I may have suggested he should try dating since it’s been a year. The only problem is I’m not sure if Marvin was ever good at flirting.”

  Donna felt a twinge of regret at her barked command, not enough, however, to apologize to the man. She watched the cashier bag her drop cloths and painter’s tape, wondering if she could do it any faster and not prolong the conversation. Apparently not, because she continued talking.

  “I think he may have read one of those online advice columns that try to get guys to act like some bad boy from the movies. You’re not the first woman to run up to the counter with Marvin straggling behind.”

  She didn’t need a lonesome hardware man and a chatty clerk. Mental note to self, Daniel would get all the needed construction supplies or she’d have to drive to the next town.

  The cash register finally spit out her receipt, releasing her from the familiar store that had somehow morphed itself into a carnival house of mirrors. Each image spooked her more than the last. The outside parking lot provided more resistance than the inside floors did. A side-to-side glance revealed an almost empty parking lot. No would-be construction-oriented robbers hanging near the edge of the building ready to dash out and grab her cart. Even if they did, they’d need help moving it.

  Grabbing her bag and purse, she jogged to her car with the intention of driving it to the cart. She drove the car back to the buggy, alert to any would-be robbers. No one approached, saving her the need for laying on her horn or accelerating toward the thief. Primer must not hold the same attraction cement mix did. A local news article reported recently that someone’s pickup truck had been relieved of six bags.

  A quick push of her fob popped her trunk as she exited the car. By can number five, she could see the merit of having a man’s help, especially knowing she’d have to do this all again once she reached the inn. The good news was it wouldn’t be tonight. Trunk loaded, she slapped the lid down, anxious to get home to her bubble bath.

  Car lights cut through the dark as she headed through the wooded neighborhood. An occasional porch light created a tiny orb of light and every now and then, a street light would throw out a pool of illumination. Thank goodness, she knew the neighborhood. Otherwise, it would be easy to get lost in the dimly lit rabbit warren of streets.

  Her own outside lights gleamed due to the fact they were light sensor lights. They flickered on at twilight or on stormy days. Their cheery glow made her feel welcome, even expected despite the fact only Jasper waited for her. A four-legged male with a voracious appetite was better than some other options.

  Her mind immediately went back to Marvin’s leer and threat to break her. Before that strange statement, he seemed o
kay, even possibly someone she wouldn’t mind dating. The thought surprised her almost as much as the man’s repulsive comment about breaking her.

  “Forget about it, chick. Romance passed you by a long time ago. Besides, you have a mystery to solve and an inn to refurbish.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Two nurses on vacation had shrunk her normal three days off to two. Donna’s typical reaction would be to grumble about it as she lugged the cans of paint to the back stoop of the old Victorian. A remnant of yellow police tape tied to the back banister fluttered in the frigid wind. Her energy centered on getting her courage up to go back to her house as opposed to her griping about her schedule.

  The fact it was no longer a crime scene should give her some reassurance. It didn’t. It meant the forensic team tabled the case. Detective Taber described it as an impulsive act of passion, which suggested the killer wouldn’t be hiding in her inn’s stairway waiting for his next victim.

  Donna hefted another can onto the porch before she shielded her eyes, looking in the direction of the street. No sign of Daniel, which wasn’t too surprising since promptness wasn’t in her brother’s skill set. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of last week’s entrance into the deserted inn and stumbling across an anonymous man. The victim’s fingerprints had yielded nothing. That no clear identification came from the man’s prints could mean the man had never been fingerprinted, which meant no trouble with the law or jobs in finance, security, or banking since almost all their employees required fingerprinting.

  The last can of primer joined the others with a clunk. After shutting her trunk, Donna decided to sit on the porch and wait.

  Her talkative neighbor slowed down on his morning walk and waved at her. The man wanted to talk. She didn’t. All the same, the man watched the neighborhood better than a paranoid mercenary. She should talk to him. Yeah, yeah, be nice. An excellent chance to work on her friendly small talk skills.

  Herman stood in one place as she ambled across the frozen grass. He greeted her with a hearty, “Howdy, neighbor” and a smile.

  “Howdy yourself.” Donna mumbled the words, wondering if she sounded friendly enough. Technically, Herman was the first person she’d talked to today. Mornings weren’t her best time even though she trained herself to get up at obscenely early times to be ahead of schedule for her twelve-hour shift. Most nurses tolerated the long shifts in favor of the three days off.

  “See you’re back at work, painting the old lady, eh?” He angled his head in the direction of the inn.

  Apparently Herman had noticed the paint cans, which meant it wasn’t worthy of an answer. Why repeat what he already knew? Her pause lengthened into an awkward silence before she remembered her goal to be better at small talk. Small talk consisted of remarking on the ordinary and the known.

  “Yes, I am. My brother, Daniel, is coming to help me primer the walls.”

  “Good deal.” Herman nodded and chafed his arms a bit, chilled from standing. “Guess the police solved the mystery of the dead stranger then. Didn’t see anything in the paper about who it was.”

  The paper. She hadn’t given it any thought. The police must be more successful at circumventing the annoying reporters than she thought. Her shoulders went up with a shrug. “Nothing to report. No name came up with the fingerprints.”

  She didn’t bother to tack on that it had to be a crime of passion. The neighbors were already upset enough at having a dead stranger in their midst. No reason to alert them that one of them might be wearing a mask of respectability that hid the heart of a reactionary killer.

  “Couldn’t find any fingerprints for him, or he didn’t have any fingerprints?”

  Small talk really was redundant. Her first instinct was to assert the man had no fingerprints on file, but her first interaction with her neighbor had determined that he took in more than most. The question probably meant more. She repeated the last part of his question more to herself. “Didn’t have any fingerprints?”

  “That’s right.” Herman’s eyebrows shot up in a speculative fashion. “He probably sanded them off with sandpaper. All the safecrackers do.”

  “Safecrackers?” All she knew about safe cracking she had gleaned from reruns from It Takes a Thief and couldn’t remember if the main character sanded his fingertips. An image of him donning black leather gloves was the best she could recall. “Wouldn’t he be recognizable by his face or dental records?”

  “As for his face, he could have been photographed at one time for a passport or driver’s license. It would also depend on our town running the photo in the right system to even get a hit. Probably just ran his picture through the known offenders’ registry.”

  “There are different registries?” She didn’t mean to ask, but the surprise of a cache of photos, perfect for identifying that an unknown person existed, prompted her response.

  “All sorts. You’re probably in a few yourself such as the BMV since you have a driver’s license. National security can tie into any of them to trace a suspicious person.”

  Her neighbor might even be a better armchair sleuth than she was. A grudging respect grew for the man. Her eyes darted up and down the street, noting the presence of the dog-walking couple who always seemed to be out along with the measuring tape woman. Too far away to overhear anything, but possibly working on getting nearer.

  “Strange. They didn’t come up with an ID then.”

  “Maybe,” Herman replied but somehow managed to sound the opposite of the word’s meaning. It contained doubt and a slight suspicion of accepted order of police protocol.

  Ah, she knew this game. Dr. Lennon played it well enough with her, giving her symptoms and expecting her to diagnose the patient. “Okay. You think the police tabled the case because the person was an unknown and not a local?”

  “I do believe that, but it could also be too hard to ID the man.” He used his bent knuckle to rub at the furrow between his eyes.

  “Couldn’t they use dental records?” They did it all the time in crime shows when the victim was too badly burned to be recognizable.

  Herman shook his head slowly, acting disappointed in her. “Smart gal like you should know better than to believe a television show.”

  Donna hurried to acknowledge she didn’t. Although, most of her forensic knowledge did come from television.

  “That’s only good if you know who the victim is. You also have to know the victim’s dentist, who also has current records. If someone had come forward and mentioned knowledge of the deceased, then dental records could be used.”

  It all depended on knowing the victim. “The man was handsome, mid-thirties and tall. The type most women would remember.”

  Herman’s mouth twisted to one side as he pondered her words. “I’d have to agree with you. He could have had plastic surgery. Something like those makeover shows where the unpopular girl returns as a beauty queen.”

  Plastic surgery, why did everything lead to another trail? “Plastic surgery, why?”

  “Who knows?” Herman shrugged his shoulders this time. A chime on his watch drew his attention. “Time for another pill.”

  Her time with her chatty neighbor was almost at an end and she had more questions than ever.

  Herman glanced at his watch, then back at her. “Change his identity, of course. I hear those in the witness protection program do it all the time.”

  Donna fought back a snort and a retort about his gullibility. Enough books and movies used the plot twist of someone assuming a different identity with the help of a new face. Her neighbor unaware of her doubt, continued with his far-fetched theories.

  “Could be the murderer sandpapered his fingerprints off. If he is local and no one recognizes him, then he altered his features.” Herman turned sharply, reminiscent of a military pivot and headed for his house.

  How many pills did the man take anyhow? She hoped he lived long enough to explain his various theories. Donna swung her head in both directions, looking for Daniel’s
truck. The wind kicked up, pushing a few forgotten leaves across the sidewalk. No sight of her brother, no real excuse for staying outside, except maybe she should pick up the leaves.

  Even though it was the dead of winter, a rather gruesome expression, her neighbors’ manicured lawns waited in a state of dormancy. The evergreen hedges sported clean lines while mulch covered the empty flowerbeds. Even the leafless trees bore more resemblance to impressionistic paintings as opposed to the stark, winter survivors they were. None of the other homes had dead leaves in their yard. She chased after the crumpled emblems of yard maintenance neglect. An eddy caught the leaves, flinging them out of her grasp. A sudden surge of speed had her almost on top of the leaves before the wind teased her again, sending them off in another direction.

  The measuring tape woman stood with her hands on her hips, staring in Donna’s direction. Her scrutiny stopped the leaf-catching game, initiated by the frigid air. Great, the neighborhood critic will think I’m bonkers.

  Donna smiled and waved to her neighbor. Instead of waving back, the woman turned away as if she hadn’t seen. Ah, in Regency novels they’d refer to the action as the cut direct, a simple expression that she didn’t belong. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the woman while her shoulders stiffened.

  She did belong. Donna didn’t need anyone’s approval, certainly not Grandmother Crochety’s. It was a perfect name. She applauded her choice as she marched up to the back stoop. The key fit into the lock without any problem. The inside of the house bore a slight chemical smell along with the odor of disuse. The pine-scented room deodorizers the real estate agent had placed in every room could only do so much.

  A few taps on the thermostat set the furnace humming. A twist of the radio dial located her favorite oldies station, filling the kitchen area with an old ballad about sitting on the dock of the bay. Summer would be here before she knew it and so would the guests. She shook out the first throw cloth while analyzing the difficulty of painting around the cabinets. Rows and rows of cabinets, which was great for storage, but the devil to paint.