The Club (Anna Denning Mystery Book 4)

by Karin Kaufman

  Liz flipped two pages in the will and scanned the third. “It says all the contents. Quote, ‘without exception, all the contents of the house.’” She directed an apologetic gaze toward Melinda. “Legally, all means all.”

  “The will doesn’t list anything specific?” Anna asked.

  “No, it just says ‘all the contents.’ Melinda, why don’t you ask the club if you can keep some things?”

  “Beg them for what belongs to me?” Melinda stood abruptly, taking her cup with her. She dumped her coffee into the sink and let the cup fall from her hands, breaking it to pieces on other dishes, judging by the sound. Her head snapped around. “They want all the contents of the house? Then I’ll have to make sure some things are no longer contents, won’t I?”

  “Be careful,” Anna said. “They may know what you have in the house.”

  “I’ll have my attorney friend look at the will,” Liz said. “Don’t give up yet.”

  “They’re reading the will tomorrow,” Melinda said. She paced the kitchen, walking up and down the narrow space, chewing on the inside of her lower lip. “The police haven’t even released his body yet. I can’t believe Price can just swoop in here. You’d think he’d have a sense of shame.”

  “Your father left you the house,” Anna said, hoping to soothe Melinda’s growing anger and resentment.

  Melinda halted in place. Exhaling loudly, she ran a hand through her blonde hair and swung back to Anna. “I don’t want this house. I can’t tell you all the horrible memories here. I want to go home, and Iowa is my home.”

  “I understand, I’m just—”

  “There’s no way I’d live here, Anna.”

  “I know, but you’ll make money selling it. That’s something.”

  “Are you staying here tonight?” Liz asked. As she reached down for her purse, she shot a look at Anna. It was time to go.

  “Yes, tonight I will. I need to pack what I want to take and find a place to stash it. And if Dean Price doesn’t find something he’s seen before, tough. I know nothing about it. I haven’t been here for years, so how would I know what’s supposed to be in the house?” Melinda spoke gleefully and with determination. She would find a way to take what she wanted.

  “Well . . . ,” Anna said, getting up from her chair. What else could she say that she hadn’t already said? Be careful? Don’t get into legal trouble? Melinda knew all that. Anna couldn’t blame her for wanting mementos, especially ones that might bring back happy memories—if there were such things in the house. She imagined Melinda alone tonight, in her nightmare house, and hated the thought. “Do you know anyone in town who could stay with you?”

  “Not a soul.” Melinda’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “I cut off all contact with everyone in Colorado when I left. Just like my dad did when he left Wyoming.”

  “I’d stay, but I promised my fiancé I’d make it home tonight.” Anna forced herself to speak in a flat, even tone without a hint of the joy she felt at the thought of Gene waiting for her, making dinner for her in her home—what would be their home once they were married. Would she ever get used to saying “fiancé”? The word still had a fairytale air of unreality about it.

  “I had a fiancé until a month ago,” Melinda said, leading Anna and Liz to the front door.

  Anna shot Liz a sideways look.

  “A month ago?” Anna said.

  With a backward glance, Melinda said, “We were going to be married in May.”

  The words hit Anna hard. Gene had called off his first wedding exactly one month before it was to take place. In what she liked to consider her irrational moments, she wondered if such a fate could befall her. Sure, he’d been all of twenty-two back then, and his fiancée even younger, but wasn’t a called-off wedding a sign of immaturity and desperation?

  At the front door, Melinda rested a hand on the doorknob and her words came out in a rush. “It was out of the blue, and he never gave me a reason. I remember the look he gave me when he told me the wedding was off. He looked at me like it was my fault, like I’d done something wrong and I ought to know what it was.” She gave a long, heavy sigh and opened the door. “I should be in Iowa now, planning a wedding. Instead I’m here, trying to steal my dad’s things.”

  Anna and Liz commiserated briefly with Melinda and told her they would be in touch—Liz about the will, Anna about the Maxwell family tree. They didn’t speak again until they were in Liz’s SUV, backing out of the driveway.

  “She looks downtrodden,” Liz said. “She shouldn’t be alone, but what can we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Someone shoveled her drive, I see.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Liz shifted gears and headed downtown.

  “Johannes Sorg,” Anna said, wrapping her arms about her chest. The high-altitude sun, which warmed car interiors on even the bitterest of days, was low on the horizon, making the SUV an icebox.

  “The January Club’s founder and high master.”

  “Just now I remembered something Rose Price said about Beverly Goff when she saw her body. ‘She was our only contact.’ What did she mean? Contact to what, Johannes Sorg?”

  “She may have meant contact to the world of the dead. Beverly was going to conduct a séance. What did they call her? The medium?”

  “The Messenger. But who was the message that night supposed to be from? It was intended for Henry Maxwell, but who was going to speak through Beverly? Melinda thought it might be her mother since the invitation said a loved one had a message.”

  Liz eased up on the accelerator and navigated the icy turn onto Russell Street. “Do you think Melinda could have killed her father?”

  On instinct, Anna started to protest, but Liz’s question had to be addressed logically. Melinda loathed her father and had been far from crushed by his death. She said Henry had written her, asking her to come home, and she had agreed in hopes he would finally tell her about her extended family, but after eleven years of silence, how likely was it that he would get in touch with her? And if Henry really had asked Melinda to come home, why now? According to Melinda, in four days he’d said nothing to her about her family.

  “There’s a problem with that,” Anna said. “The Hetrick and Maxwell murders are connected—”

  “But how are they—”

  “You have to trust me on that—they are. And Melinda was in Iowa when Hetrick was killed.”

  “So she says.”

  Anna shook her head. “Why would she kill her father after all this time? It sure wasn’t for his money.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know about the will. She assumed everything would be left to her and her brother.”

  “Wouldn’t a murderer find out before taking the trouble to kill someone? I can’t picture Melinda traveling to Colorado just to kill the father she hasn’t seen in eleven years. Besides, the January Club benefited from Maxwell’s death, not Melinda.”

  Liz made a right onto Summit and drove toward the Buffalo Café. “She got the house, didn’t she? She was at that meeting, and one of the people there killed Beverly Goff. I don’t think you should ignore evidence that points to her.”

  “So when Melinda was supposed to be in Iowa she was really here, killing Jordan Hetrick, a man who just moved here from California. Then she killed her father for good measure.”

  “Maybe her father killed Jordan Hetrick.”

  Anna groaned.

  “All right, so I haven’t thought it through completely,” Liz said with a laugh. “Just leave yourself open to the possibility. Look, a spot!” She cut hard to the right and pulled front end first into a vacant space at the curb two parking spots back from Anna’s Jimmy.

  Anna dug her car keys from her purse and yanked the strap onto her shoulder. Questions and half-baked theories were running themselves over in her mind. Liz was right. She needed to leave herself open to all kinds of possibilities, not just the obvious ones. “Why does it have to be someone at the meeting wh
o killed Beverly?” she said. “Someone could have entered the house while the lights were out.”

  Liz leaned back on the headrest, considering the question. “If that’s true, that person also made the lights go out. How did they do that?”

  “An accomplice in the house?”

  “Where were you when the lights went out? Where was Melinda?”

  “Melinda was with me, Tanner, and Rose in a back bedroom.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know—they all scattered. It was pitch black and I was left hugging the wall, trying to make my way toward the living room. I heard voices and noises, but I don’t have any idea who was where or doing what.” Anna popped open the door, slid down from the seat, and turned back to Liz. “How would you like to go with me to the January Club about eight o’clock tonight?”

  Liz’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking. Will they let me in?”

  “Curtis said January is open-house month, seven to ten every night.”

  “Will Gene mind you leaving?”

  “Mind?” The question rubbed Anna the wrong way. Would Gene mind? The man worked late, really late, almost every night at Buckhorn’s. True, tonight he was taking off early to cook them both dinner, and he would expect her to be home after they ate dinner—glasses of wine by the woodstove, a Netflix movie—but her job was as unpredictable as his, and he had to make allowances for broken dinner dates just as she did. “He can’t mind, it’s my job. I don’t mind when he works late. Pick me up about a quarter of?”

  On the drive home, Anna wondered how she would break the news to Gene. Their first night together in days, and soon after dinner she was going to traipse off with Liz. At least that’s how he would see it. As his money problems with Buckhorn’s grew, his patience with her extra-genealogical adventures seemed to wear thinner and thinner. Wasn’t that backward? They needed more money, and she was trying to make it. He should support her.

  But it wasn’t just a bigger payday she was after. Working for the Elk Park PD gave her a sense of satisfaction she had never felt before. She loved genealogical research, hunting for pieces of a family puzzle, but in the end most of her jobs were ordinary and ungratifying. Her clients themselves were seldom moved by her discoveries—why should she be? But the police appreciated her work. They even needed it.

  At the indoor garage entrance to her house, Anna was met by Jackson and Riley, Gene’s golden retriever, as well as what smelled like buffalo stew and apple pie—the latter of which she dearly hoped was store-bought and not homemade. “Gene?” She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, gave the dogs scratches behind their ears, and straightened, looking across the open floor to the living room, where Gene was stoking the woodstove.

  “You made it,” he said. He latched the stove’s door, stood, and rubbed his hands together, relishing the moment. “Fire going, food ready in twenty minutes. Prepare yourself for a relaxing night.”

  Oh boy. She believed bad news should be delivered the same way bandages were removed. Fast. “Unfortunately, Liz will be here about a quarter to eight to pick me up. We’re doing research at the January Club.”

  Gene’s smile vanished, and Jackson and Riley, who seemed to sense a sudden change in mood, stopped playfully nipping at each other and ran for their beds by the woodstove. “Can’t it wait? I made an apple pie. Okay, I bought the crust, but I made everything else.”

  Oh cripes. “Gene, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” He held up a hand. “I’ve stood you up enough lately. I guess it’s your turn.”

  “I’m not standing you up. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “For what, two hours?” He shrugged and dropped to the couch. “Forget it. I said it’s fine.”

  “And we both know what that means.”

  “Do we? Translate for me.”

  “It means I’m supposed to drop everything as soon as you’re finally available, and if I don’t, I’m the villain.”

  Gene’s jaw dropped. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Into me? You’ve been on edge for weeks.” Feeling a surge of anger, Anna strode into the living room and stopped six feet from where Gene sat. “I know you’ve got problems with Buckhorn’s, but you won’t tell me how bad the problems are. No details whatsoever. You’re talking about having to let Jazmin go, but you won’t say how much money you need to keep her on, or how much you need to keep the doors open. We’re supposed to get married in a few months. You need to tell me these things and stop trying to carry them by yourself!”

  A sullen silence followed Anna’s words. Then Gene rose from the couch. “I’ll set the table.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Anna followed him as he headed into the kitchen. She stood next to him, glaring at the side of his face as he began to pull silverware from a drawer next to the stove.

  “Do you want me to watch Jackson tonight?” he asked, pushing the drawer closed. “No problem, I can stay.”

  “I’m going to wash up,” Anna replied. Two could play at this game. She turned and started for the hall, but before reaching it, she spun back. “If you can’t handle the idea of this marriage, of it being the two of us doing life together, let me know now. Don’t wait for June.”

  9

  Curt MacKenzie hadn’t batted an eye when Anna showed up at his house with Liz, and for that Anna was grateful. If he had argued with her or denied Liz entrance, she would have done one of two things: argued back—hard—or burst into tears. Tears, probably. Of course Anna had told Liz about her argument with Gene, and Liz, of course, had pointed out that they were both feeling stressed and butting heads like that was bound to happen.

  But Anna knew this latest argument was different, and unlike the aftermaths of past arguments, this time neither one of them had rushed to apologize. Gene had barely said a word to her when she left the house to get into Liz’s car. Just a quick “’Bye” before he called the dogs from the door.

  Anna thought she heard Liz say something to Dean Price about his galleries on Summit, about how she didn’t realize he ran them but had liked them for many years and had often wished she could decorate her house with some of their cowboy paintings in particular.

  “Jacket?” Curt said. He was holding out his hands, waiting for her.

  “Sorry, my mind is elsewhere.” Anna slipped off her fleece jacket and handed it to Curt, who hung it on a coat rack near the front door.

  “We can’t have that,” he said. “Seat yourselves right here, young ladies, and let me get you both a glass of wine. Rose, more wine?”

  “I’m still working on this one,” Rose said.

  “None for me,” Liz said, taking a seat on the same couch where Anna had sat with Melinda only the night before. Her eyes, Anna noticed, strayed over the furniture, the shelves stuffed with bric-a-brac, the paintings on the wall.

  “No thank you,” Anna said. She wandered about the living room and shot a glance at the breaker box in the kitchen, noting with curiosity that it was next to the side door. Could someone have entered the house through the door and turned out the lights? It was possible. The kitchen wasn’t an open one like hers, it was its own room. Simply crack open the door, reach a hand around.

  “No again with the wine?” Curt said, slumping into his armchair. “Come sit down, Anna. We’ve got a fire tonight.” When she turned to look at him, he tossed his head in the direction of the fireplace. “If the electrics go out, we won’t bump into each other in the dark.”

  The stone fireplace and hearty fire within it, lovely and warm as it was, only reminded Anna of her woodstove and where she should be tonight. “It’s cozy,” she said. “Nothing like a fire on a winter night. Did you ever find out what happened to the lights?”

  “An overloaded circuit is my guess,” Curt said. “It’s happened before, though usually when I have the washer and dryer going at the same time.”

  Dean, who hadn’t moved from his place beside Rose on the couch, crossed his long, lanky legs and took a quic
k sip from his teacup. “Mrs. Halvorsen—it’s Mrs., is it?—you’ve been to our galleries then?”

  “It’s Liz, and I’ve been to all four of them. I love Indian antiques and cowboy paintings. I can’t afford them, but I like to window shop.”

  “That’s always great fun,” Rose said, grinning wildly. “Such fun to imagine this or that in your home, dream about a future look or style, even if it’s five years in the future—even if it’s in a house you don’t own yet.”

  Her effusiveness all out of proportion to the conversation, Rose reminded Anna of a perky kindergarten teacher trying to entertain children whose attentions were wandering. Dean, on the other hand, was calm to the point of sedation. Yet they seemed to like each other. They didn’t shoot each other wounded looks or roll their eyes when the other was speaking.

  “Have you heard anything on Beverly Goff?” Anna asked, not taking her eyes from Rose.

  Rose recoiled at the mention of Goff’s name. “Beverly,” she said, almost groaning the word. “The police haven’t told us anything. Not a word.”

  “It’s only been twenty-four hours,” Curt said.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d have open house tonight,” Anna said. “I mean, after her death.”

  “People are disappointed if we don’t keep our promise to have open house,” Curt said.

  What people? Anna wondered. There were only three members in Curt’s living room. Even Tanner was absent.

  “I can’t imagine what we’re going to do without our Messenger,” Rose said, contemplating her wine glass.

  Dean set his teacup on the end table. “Open house ends in February, so”—he waved a hand in an authoritative manner—“we have thirty-one days in January. Closing isn’t an option.”