Death by Association: The Wellington Cozy Mystery series

by M A Comley

  The older woman, her long blonde hair braided into a coronet upon her head, watched her approach. She gave Lucy a half-hearted wave, but no smile. Lucy realized Marnie was likely to be hyper-vigilant. Anyone coming close to her house, for any reason, would be spotted immediately.

  However, Lucy had come for a particular reason. She waved quickly at Marnie and then her gaze dropped downwards at the snow. She could see a set of deep boot prints and judged them to belong to the deputy by the direction they took. There was, however, a second set of tracks that did, indeed, lead right up to Marnie’s window. The depth of the print was lighter than the deputy’s, but the length was abnormally large.

  Lucy followed the prints around the house and then, as they gradually left the yard, they were spaced further and further as though the man had been running and gaining speed with his stride. There was no sign of blood, so hopefully, that meant Marnie had missed her mark. The prints gradually led into the woods, where they were obscured by blobs of heavy snow that had dropped from the limbs of the trees lining the route, disrupting the smooth white blanket. Lucy walked a bit further, but lost the trail. She headed back, disappointed.

  “What did you see?” Lucy looked up to find Marnie at the window, her face pressed against it.

  “Nothing. I lost the trail.” She came to a stop and then asked, “Marnie, you told the deputy that you raised the window and leaned out to shoot. How did you manage to get both the screen and the window open fast enough to see him run away?”

  Marnie’s mouth opened a bit, and she didn’t answer immediately. After a few seconds, she said, “Uh, the screen was already up, Lucy. All I had to do was raise the window. Then, when he was gone, I lowered the screen again in the hope it would add extra protection.”

  “Don’t you have a glass storm window?”

  “Oh, I suppose, somewhere in the basement. But I’m scared to go down there by myself, so I just sit close to the windows. It seems easier.”

  “But you must get cold.”

  “No, not really. Lots of items in here, sitting around. I guess they more or less insulate me.”

  Lucy nodded. That seemed utterly plausible. “I guess I’ll go back home. Coffee is too cold to drink,” she laughed, holding up her mug as proof.

  “Goodbye, Lucy. Thank you for looking out for me,” Marnie said before slamming the window down and closing the curtains. Lucy wondered what it must feel like to be so timid of the world that one wouldn’t venture out. She decided to read up on Marnie’s disorder to gain more insight into her neighbor’s behavior. Maybe it would allow her to understand and help her neighbor.

  Lucy reached the house and removed her boots as Brendon’s cruiser drew into the drive. She opened her inner door and waved.

  Brendon settled his official hat on his head, climbed out of his squad car and hiked up his pants. “Howdy,” he called when Lucy opened the storm door.

  “I’ve got some hot coffee if you’d like some,” she offered with an inviting smile.

  “Maybe in a little while. Let me check out your neighbor first.”

  Lucy went to her office window and watched as Brendon pretty much followed the same trail she had, just minutes before. He crossed the snowy path to Marnie’s front door, but it was plain that the older woman didn’t want company. He knocked again and then walked into the shrubs below the living room window as though to peek inside.

  Lucy pushed up her office window quickly. “Brendon, no. Don’t do that. Come here, would you?”

  He peered back at the window, shrugged, and began walking toward Lucy’s door. She met him and handed him a steaming mug. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll hang it by the woodstove,” she offered.

  Obligingly, he took it off and handed it to her, giving her a quick kiss as she reached for it. She loved his jacket and the rich leathery smell of it. It jingled with badges, the zipper pull, and whatever was in the pockets. She couldn’t resist leaning her face into its folds for a quick sniff. It smelled like his aftershave and like everything a man should be.

  She turned to find him studying her, a small smile pulling at his lips.

  “You okay?” he said in a teasing voice that she chose to ignore.

  “Sit down and let me tell you about Marnie.”

  Brendon had always been a good listener. Lucy knew it was part of his job, but she liked to think it was also part of his good nature.

  “She lives alone and likes it that way. Well, at least, I should say she prefers it that way. She has a panic disorder and very rarely comes outside. Last night, she let me inside for the first time, and I was more than a little shocked.”

  “Why?” he asked as he rose from the sofa and headed to the nearby coffee pot for a refill.

  “I think she’s a hoarder. I know sometimes the disorders go hand in hand, but it was still a shock.

  “Is her safety compromised?”

  “I really can’t say either way. I’m not anything other than a curious neighbor. I could safely say that I wouldn’t choose to live there if that helps.”

  “I wonder if I should get social services involved?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It would be hard for Marnie to let anyone in, and if they began taking things out… there’s no telling how difficult it could be on her. I am, however, worried somewhat about rodents.”

  “Hmmm… doesn’t sound good. Tell you what. I’ve got my hands full at the moment with the—the case you don’t know about,” he continued, “but when I get a chance, I’ll get you to come with me and take a look for myself.”

  Lucy nodded. “That sounds like a good plan. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on her like I always do. All the neighbors know about her—difficulties. We look out for her. Bring in her mail, pick up groceries when she needs them, and so forth.”

  “She’s lucky she lives in a caring community.”

  Lucy nodded. “People should look out for one another.”

  “Yes, they should,” he said and then drained his mug. He placed his dirty cup in the sink. “Hand me my jacket, would you?”

  Lucy reached for it, unable to resist sniffing it one more time before she handed it back to him.

  He inclined his head and smirked. “You have a thing for my jacket?”

  “I—I just like it. It smells like you and that makes me happy.”

  Brendon shook his head and grinned. “Doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”

  Lucy shrugged and then stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Want a to-go cup? I can let you borrow the mug.”

  “No, that was enough. Listen, I’ll give you a call when I can. This case has got my head spinning.”

  She nodded and opened the door for him. “I understand. Have a safe day.”

  Brendon slid past her and out the door, took one more look at Marnie’s house, and then got into his squad car. The tires crunched in the icy snow as he backed out, and then he was gone.

  Wistfully, Lucy closed the door with a sigh. She returned to the kitchen and rinsed out their cups, then headed for her office. Inspired, if a little distracted still, she got up from her desk and rearranged the furniture to give her a clear view of Marnie’s house through the window.

  Lucy decided to figure out some way to help her neighbor. She just wasn’t sure what that would mean, but she had time to read and understand.

  As it happened, Marnie forced the matter.

  5

  Two days passed, and although Lucy kept a close watch of Marnie’s house, from the outside, everything remained calm.

  Lucy’s wastebasket was overfilled with crumpled sheets of paper on which she had made notes for her book’s premise. Despite her best efforts, she found what she’d penned so far uninspiring to write; and therefore, she knew it would be the same when someone read it.

  She was staring at Marnie’s house when a car pulled into the drive. She recognized Sylvia Bertram, another neighbor, getting out with a large grocery bag in her hands. As Lucy watched, Sylvia set th
e bag on Marnie’s front porch and then reached under the rubber welcome mat, bringing out a white envelope that Lucy assumed contained money. Sylvia knocked on the door once, turned, got back into her car, and then pulled up outside her own house across the street.

  Lucy peeked at the clock, making a note of the time. She sat, sipping a fresh cup of coffee and waiting. Roughly ten minutes later, she saw Marnie’s storm door open and recognized the woman’s blonde coronet braid poking out as she retrieved the bag of groceries and closed the door. In police terms, the drop had been made. In Marnie’s terms, she would eat again for the next week.

  That was when it struck Lucy that the premise for her book lay not only in her imagination, but in combination with what she saw taking place directly outside her window. She would need to be careful, not use real names or locations, of course. Marnie wasn’t the only person who suffered agoraphobia, and Lucy would change enough facts to make her character unrecognizable. Any of her characters could be based on a mixture of people she knew in town. As the saying went, the truth was stranger than fiction, and it felt right to Lucy to write the story.

  This time she didn’t need notes. She opened her laptop’s lid, and the words seem to fall out onto the screen. There was no intermediary thought process — it was purely as though someone was sitting across the desk from her, and she was reporting on the events of the day. She felt more invigorated than she had since the beginning when she finally sat down to write the book.

  Lucy wrote for more than three hours and would’ve kept going too, if it hadn’t been for the grumbling of her stomach. She was just heading into the kitchen when her cell rang. It was Brendon, with an invitation for dinner. “How about if I pick you up in an hour?”

  “You must’ve heard the rumbling from there. I was just looking in the fridge for something to cook.”

  “Just your public servant, my dear. See you in an hour. Wear something casual.”

  Lucy selected a banana from the browning bunch that sat atop her microwave and headed into her bedroom for a quick shower. She pulled on a pair of black slacks and a white blouse and teamed it with a cardigan sweater featuring a black and white geometric design knitted into its pattern. Lucy slipped her feet into some black loafers, judging that she could get away with not wearing boots if she stuck to the pavement as the snow had begun to melt in places. With a touch of lipstick and an enthusiastic brushing of her hair, she was ready to go.

  She went back to her computer to wait for Brendon to arrive, which he did in a matter of minutes. As usual, he tapped on the door and opened it without waiting for her to answer. “It’s me.”

  She smiled, picked up her handbag and snatched her jacket from the hook near the doorway, handing it to him to help her on with it. “Hello, me. It’s good to see you again.”

  Brendon leaned over her shoulder and kissed the soft, tender skin beneath her earlobe. “Mmmm… That tasted like dessert.”

  “I seem to remember being invited for dinner, and I’m starved. Also, there’s something I want to talk to you about over dinner. Dessert will have to wait.”

  “Spoilsport,” he grumbled playfully. “Okay, let’s get going. I left the engine running so it would be warm inside.”

  “Isn’t that breaking the rules?”

  “What rules?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching as a glint found its way into his eyes.

  Brendon drove slowly through town, and they soon found themselves on the highway, heading along the coast. He pulled into a seafood restaurant they frequented since they’d started going out. It was casual and mostly locals, maybe that was what made it so friendly. The waiter seated them at a table near the rear, and Brendon settled into the chair which placed his back to the corner. It was how a cop thought. Lucy made note of these kinds of oddities. She considered it added authenticity to her writing.

  He ordered a bottle of excellent wine to accompany the lobster tails with butter, fresh bread, and a side salad for each of them.

  The conversation flowed easily between them until the waiter brought their food. Lucy looked down at the plate the waiter placed in front of her. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “No, not really. This is me trying to make amends for ignoring you lately. I thought I would make a special night of it for us. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Me? Mind lobster? I don’t think so. I appreciate how hectic your life can be. Here, let me get a few bites inside so my stomach quits growling, and then I want to hear everything.”

  A serious expression descended. “Hmm… I assume you’re talking about our mysterious lady?”

  “Look, Brendon, it doesn’t take much to figure out that the deceased is Mrs. Stiltson. I’m not a moron.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I never even remotely suggested you were. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I could lose my job for releasing facts that have anything to do with an open investigation.”

  She tutted. “I get that. I’m sorry. I don’t blame you. What can you tell me then?”

  “I can begin by confirming that yes, Mrs. Stiltson is the victim.”

  “The victim?”

  He leaned over the table and lowered his voice, “This part needs to stay quiet. I wouldn’t get fired, but it won’t help the investigation if the whole town is gossiping about this particular case.”

  “What did the coroner find?”

  “The victim died of asphyxiation. Although there were no visible marks around her neck, it’s believed that more than likely she was suffocated.”

  “No kidding?” Lucy’s eyes widened and she took a sip of her wine, suddenly wishing she had her notebook with her, but knowing the likelihood of Brendon objecting to such an idea.

  “Who’s your lead suspect?”

  Brendon shook his head. “That is still reserved on a need-to-know basis. To tell you the truth, as far as I know, we don’t have one. The good doctor, her husband, was away on a house call, and his patient and family can verify his alibi. So that leaves us with a sound asleep woman, alone in the house, supposedly, who is somehow suffocated. That doesn’t leave us a lot to go on.”

  “So how will you proceed?”

  “Slowly! Everything we have accumulated thus far will be put into a manila folder and placed on the detective’s desk. Right now, the body has been released to her family for burial, and life will go on. From time to time, when the detective’s bored, he may go out and interview some neighbors or friends — anyone who may have had access to the deceased early that morning.”

  “Wow. So, it just becomes one of those cold cases?”

  Brendon shrugged and she could tell he wanted to drop the conversation. “How’s your lobster?”

  “It’s delicious, and I was hungry. I skipped lunch and only had an apple for breakfast.”

  “What kept you so busy all day?”

  “Promise you won’t get angry?”

  Brendon lay down his fork. “Why do you think I would become angry? Are you doing something illegal?”

  She mimicked him and lay down her fork. To anyone watching, the two looked ready to go into battle. Instead, she lifted her water glass and emptied it; her throat felt suddenly dry. Brendon picked up the wine bottle and attempted to refill her goblet, but she waved him off. “Not right now.”

  “I see. This must be pretty bad. Do you want to let me in on it?”

  “You see, as you know, I’ve always wanted to write a book. To break away from newspaper reports and write something people will be eager to read, day after day, until they reach the end.” Brendon touched her hand in support. “I’ve discovered it’s not that easy. It seems like it when you’re stuck in a nowhere job and wanting the freedom to write about whatever you choose. Then suddenly, there you are. The computer sitting in front of you, a blank screen, and absolutely no inspiration buried in your head. I was too embarrassed to say anything about my dilemma before.”

  “Why embarrassed?”

  She dabbed her mouth with a white l
inen napkin from her lap and then laid it back on the table, carefully folding it in quarters as she assembled her words. “I was too ashamed to admit defeat, to tell you the truth. Up until now, I’ve been bragging to everyone that I’m going to write my first book, and all I seem to do is shift a few sentences around on a piece of paper. I don’t have a storyline; I don’t even know which genre to write in. It’s like I’m just hanging out there, drifting in the wind. Eventually, I’m going to run out of money, and I’ll probably end up at the mini-mart down by the highway, working nights and dreaming once again of the book I’m so desperate to write. It just all feels so fruitless—at least, that’s the best word I can come up with.”

  “You know, Lucy, no one is insisting that you write that book. This has always been your ambition, and you’re an adult. You have the right to change your mind. Sure, people might pick on you a little.” He grinned as he took a sip from his wine glass. “But you’re tough, and I know you’ll be able to get through it. Maybe you’ll write it at some point later in your life. Maybe you haven’t lived long enough yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that I’m guessing, to write a book, much of it has to come from instinct and experience. You’re not that old, and you’ve lived in a small town all your life. Maybe you just haven’t developed the life skills you need to write a book, especially a murder mystery.”

  “But that’s the whole thing. One doesn’t have to have murdered someone to write a book about murder. If I were worth a darn thing as a writer, I could do a little research, perhaps a few interviews, and then my imagination would take over. I just can’t seem to get that engine started.”

  “Is this what is known as writer’s block?”

  “How would I know? As of today, I’m still not a writer.”

  “Point made.”

  They were silent for a few minutes, concentrating on eating the lobster and drinking the wine as both thought through their day and the frustrations they were feeling. She couldn’t understand Brendon’s, with not being in law enforcement, and he couldn’t understand hers, not being a writer. “Futile.”