Slay Bells Ring

by Karen Rose Smith

  He looked torn but then answered, “Of course I do. Even if my dad and I didn’t have the best relationship, I didn’t want him dead.”

  “Deanne was with your mom when I talked to her. She seems to think you knew about your dad’s affair. Is that true?”

  “I don’t know why it matters,” he mumbled.

  “I imagine it’s hard to talk about,” Caprice responded, just waiting. Sometimes listening with patience was better than pushing.

  Ryan took a few swallows of coffee and set down his cup with a clink. After blowing out a breath, he said, “I found out about Kim and Trung when I was fifteen. I needed something from my dad’s desk and found photos, the latest ones of Kim and Trung. I cornered Dad, and I found out the truth. I hated him for betraying Mom. And not only that, I hated him because he asked me to keep the secret. It was a no-brainer, and I didn’t do it for him. I did it so my mom and sisters wouldn’t be hurt. But I told him it was stupid to keep the photos around.” Ryan closed his eyes as if seeing the whole thing in his mind. “Dad muttered something about putting them in a storage box.”

  Caprice went on the alert at that. Was there still a storage box someplace? In Chris’s workshop? With his personal effects?

  “I would guess keeping that secret is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Ryan admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It messed with my head. It’s one of the reasons I got into drugs.”

  “Because you wanted to escape?”

  “I guess I knew some day my mom would have to find out. When she did, our family would explode. I didn’t want to be the cause of that. Yet if she found out I knew . . .”

  “You thought she’d be mad at you.”

  “Most likely.”

  “But you got clean and sober.”

  “I did,” he said proudly. “It happened at that wilderness camp. Suddenly being in those mountains, fighting for survival . . . that taught me I could do more than I ever thought I could do. I guess I made my peace with keeping the secret, but not with Dad. There was always a wall between us.”

  Maybe now that Ryan was talking to her about this, he could talk to his mother too. “What about after you moved back here? Did anything change between you and your dad?”

  “No. But a couple of months ago he came to me and he asked me if I’d go to Vietnam to meet Trung.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no. And now I know why he wanted me to do it. He was dying.” Tears glistened in Ryan’s eyes and he looked away.

  Caprice hurt for the father and son who hadn’t been able to find their bond again. “Ryan, I know it’s too late, that you can’t talk to your dad again and you can no longer figure out who you might have been together as father and son. But it’s never too late to make things better. There’s always something you can do.”

  “You mean like staying sober?”

  “Yes. But also . . . you could still take that trip to Vietnam.”

  Ryan looked surprised at that thought.

  After she said good-bye and left, she wondered if he was still thinking about it.

  * * *

  On Saturday, Caprice took the Historic Homes Tour with Roz. Tied up at the community center, Bella had convinced Nikki and Vince, along with their dad, to help her there, preparing for the pageant. Caprice and Roz would join the volunteers after the tour.

  Although touring houses could be boring for some, Caprice enjoyed it. It enabled her to collect ideas for what she might want to do in a staging sometime . . . or in decorating. She happily soaked in the crown molding, the six-inch wide woodwork, the plank floors, the dormers, and the Victorian gingerbread. Yes, it was cold and they walked quickly for most of the tour. But as she spoke with Roz along the way, she hardly noticed the chill or the buffet of wind every now and then. She’d worn a red maxi-coat with faux fur around its sleeves and collar and huge red buttons. It was reminiscent of a seventies style. She’d worn a red felt hat too, similar to a Fedora, but this one had a strap so it didn’t blow off in the wind.

  Roz was her usual, elegant self in a calf-length, camel wool coat, no hat, and emerald earrings. Still well-connected at the Country Squire Golf and Recreation Club, she’d convinced many of the patrons to take the tour. The proceeds would go into the Kismet Chamber of Commerce coffers. At each home, tour goers would pick up coupons to Kismet’s restaurants and stores. It was a win-win situation for everyone. At each home there were cookies, pastries, and hot beverages that encouraged the tour goers to mingle and chat and look around.

  The Merriweather home was by far the best decorated, in Caprice’s estimation. Sara had decided she wouldn’t be present today and had enlisted real estate broker Denise Langford’s help to act as hostess. After all, this tour could very well sell the house. Roz hadn’t been inside the Merriweather home before and was impressed as she wandered from room to room.

  In one of the parlors, they heard sympathetic statements such as, “It’s such a shame what happened to Chris Merriweather” and “I wonder who could have done it?” and “I wonder what Sara will do now? The For Sale sign is still on the house.”

  As Denise came into the parlor, she heard the last comment. She beckoned to Caprice and Roz. They followed the real estate broker into a corner of the living room where no one was sitting.

  With a frown, Denise said, “I had two possible contracts on this house, and they both fell through because of the murder.”

  “But it didn’t happen here,” Roz protested.

  “That doesn’t seem to matter,” Denise claimed with a scowl. “Murder is taboo, and no one wants it affecting their house sale unless they’re ghoulish. I just hope today brings in a new contract. If not, this place might not sell until spring.”

  “I know Sara would like to move into a condo and get settled as soon as she can,” Caprice said.

  “She won’t have to wait for the sale money on this house, from what I hear,” Denise revealed. “Chris had taken out a hefty insurance policy.”

  Caprice and Roz exchanged a look. Would the police look at that as a motive for murder? They always consider the spouse first, then the other family members.

  A group of women bustled in the front door, oohing and aahing over the Christmas decorations. Caprice said to Denise, “I don’t want to be in the way. Is the toy shop in the back open? I’d like to show Roz.”

  “It is,” Denise assured her. “It’s not part of the tour, but in case anyone was interested in buying the house, I wanted them to be able to see all aspects of the property. Go on out. If you see anybody who’s interested, shoo them back in here to me.”

  Nodding that she would indeed do that, Caprice gestured Roz to the kitchen, where they could pick up a couple of hot chocolates to take along and then go out the back kitchen door.

  Twinkle lights blinked from the trees and bushes. Although the winter cold prevented groups from gathering at the chairs and table on the brick patio, it still looked inviting. A miniature pine tree, decorated with what Caprice knew were solar lights, sat in the middle of the table.

  “You did a great job staging this place,” Roz said.

  “You’re prejudiced.”

  Roz laughed. “I suppose I am. But you sold my house with your staging. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Caprice slid open the carriage door and they slipped inside Chris’s workshop. Caprice’s throat tightened when she thought about Chris working in here, making the toys. Many of them were gone now. She imagined Sara had donated them for Christmas. Why let them sit around when they could make a child happy?

  The rocking horse was still there though, and Caprice wondered if Sara was keeping it for her new grandchild.

  “I love that horse,” Roz said. “I wonder if Sara would sell it to me.”

  “You can ask her. She might want to keep it for her new grandbaby. What are you going to do with it?”

  “For now, put it in a corner for decoration. But I do want chil
dren.”

  “Me too,” Caprice agreed. “Grant and I really haven’t talked about that, and we should. I wouldn’t want him ever to feel that a baby of ours would make up for the child he lost. But I think it would take him a long way toward complete healing.”

  “I think Vince is skittish about the idea,” Roz confided. “Every time I bring it up, he runs from the subject.”

  “But you’re happy that you’re moving in together?”

  “I am. A little anxious too about living with someone again. Vince is too. And I imagine living with Grant in college was a far cry from moving in with me now.”

  “Do you feel the house will be big enough? I know Vince is worried about that.”

  “Because in the past I was used to a mansion? We talked about that. The house is plenty big. Just how much room do two people need?”

  “Is your closet big enough?” Caprice teased.

  Roz laughed. “Vince is letting me have the walk-in. I’m also using a closet in a spare room. We’re good. But truthfully, I don’t know how committed Vince is. If he was really committed, wouldn’t he have let me buy into the house too?”

  “Except that would be messy if things don’t work out.”

  “My point exactly. It’s as if he gave himself an out.”

  Suddenly Caprice heard voices just outside the door. It was a man and a woman talking.

  Roz started toward the door and then stopped. She whispered to Caprice, “That’s Fiona Weaver. She’s on the town council.”

  “And I think that’s Warren Shaeffer.” Warren was the president of the Chamber of Commerce and had been involved in Caprice’s last murder case. She and Roz stayed put and listened.

  Fiona said, “Do you really think the vote will go through?”

  Shaeffer responded, “Adler will probably get his way. Since Chris is dead, Adler will be able to develop his new storefronts on Restoration Row. There’s big money for him in that.”

  As Caprice listened, Warren’s answer to Fiona’s question played in her mind. Was there enough motive in that money for murder?

  Chapter Eleven

  Ace Richland knew how to throw a party. Especially at Christmas, he went all out. His daughter, Trista, had a lot to do with that . . . and when Caprice saw Ace with his arm around his ex-wife, Marsha, she wondered if Marsha did too.

  He’d asked Nikki to cater the bash for him, and she’d pulled out all the stops. She’d baked a cake shaped like a Gibson guitar decorated in red and green. Ace had mentioned a few Italian dishes in reference to his background that Nikki had provided, from ravioli to lasagna to caprese salad. Loaves of garlic and Parmesan cheese bread graced the baskets that sat atop the holly-decorated embroidered tablecloth. Other desserts included cannoli and tiramisu. For anyone who wanted lighter fare, there was chocolate gelato.

  Caprice had worn a sixties-style red dress with black trim around its round neck and a black inset lining its long bell sleeves. This dress was short with a full A-line skirt that came just above her knee. Black, strappy pumps completed the outfit.

  Grant looked at her now as if he’d never seen her in red before. “Have I told you how pretty you look tonight?”

  She smoothed her hand down the lapel of his charcoal pin-striped suit. “Have I told you how handsome you look tonight?”

  He dropped his arm around her shoulders and led her into the crowd in Ace’s living room. Caprice recognized Ace’s manager standing near the dais where Ace and his band would perform in a little while. She waved to his parents across the room who reminded her so much of her parents though a bit older. Ace’s brothers and sisters-in-law were there too.

  Marianne Brisbane, a reporter who covered everything from parties like this to murder investigations, sidled up to Caprice. She said, “Not to be a downer at a Christmas party, but we haven’t talked since Chris Merriweather was murdered. Are you involved?”

  Grant just raised an eyebrow.

  Marianne smiled. “Uh oh. I guess you are, and he doesn’t want you to be. Nothing new there.”

  “I’m not involved . . . exactly,” Caprice responded.

  Grant made a sound that told Marianne that he didn’t agree. “She had a conference with Brett Carstead and she gave him information. I’d say that’s involved.”

  “I’ve heard all sorts of rumors swirling around,” Marianne said. “Is it true Chris Merriweather had a son in Ho Chi Min City?”

  “That’s not something you should write about,” Caprice warned.

  “So, it is true.”

  “That’s personal, Marianne, and has nothing to do with the investigation,” Caprice said more forcefully.

  “Are you so sure about that?” Marianne asked. “If anyone knew about it, there could be all types of motives.”

  “Don’t let your imagination run wild,” Grant said, backing up Caprice.

  “It had to be something personal,” Marianne contended. “He certainly didn’t keep cash in the Santa’s cabin, and nobody would want to steal letters to Santa Claus.”

  “Are you sure?” Grant asked.

  Marianne looked determined. “I know for a fact the police went through all the letters. I do stay informed. Someone got really angry with him and hauled off and hit Chris Merriweather with one of those candy cane stakes. No premeditation but lots of passion.”

  “Are you suggesting it was a woman?” Grant inquired, obviously interested in the reporter’s take on the murder.

  “I’m suggesting that if there was one affair, there could have been another, closer to home.”

  Caprice hadn’t even entertained that thought, and she didn’t want to. She’d known Chris Merriweather, hadn’t she? The past history of a young soldier was one thing. Infidelity in the present was another.

  One of Ace’s band members waved to Marianne. She waved back. “I promised Zeke Stoltz that I’d give his sound studio some press. So, I’m going to talk to him while you think about what I’ve said. Just factor it in is all I’m saying.”

  After she’d disappeared into the flow of the crowd, Caprice asked Grant, “Do you think I should factor it in?”

  “Your family knew his. What does your gut tell you?”

  “My gut tells me Chris wasn’t that kind of man. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Vince and Roz should be here. Have you seen them?”

  “Nikki has drinks and snacks in several rooms. They might be somewhere else talking. We could check the parlor that leads to the pool area. I decorated out there for Ace too, along with the trees around the fire pit.” She smiled. “We could return to the scene of your proposal.”

  “Let’s do that before we leave, when we have our coats on. If no one’s there, we can make out and remember.”

  “I’ll never forget your proposal. Not ever.” She fingered her ring and gazed up at him.

  He leaned down and lightly kissed her. “Couldn’t resist,” he said huskily.

  They were almost at the parlor when they heard voices inside. Caprice thought she recognized one of those voices—Boyd Arkoff, Chris Merriweather’s neighbor.

  She laid her hand on Grant’s arm. “Chris’s neighbor is inside,” she said in a low voice. “He’s the one who threatened Chris.”

  “Then we should probably turn around and go the other way.”

  But she shook her head. “I want to listen.”

  “Of course, you do,” Grant muttered, but then he listened with her.

  “We’ll have to practice every day to do well at the audition,” Boyd said.

  “At your place?” one of the band members asked.

  “Yeah, at my place. Where else would we go? At least now we don’t have to worry about our dead neighbor. We can practice all we want as late as we want.”

  “How about his wife?” a band member asked.

  “I heard she’s going to be selling soon,” Boyd responded. “She’s not going to care.”

  “No, but new neighbors will,” another band member reminded him.

&
nbsp; “This New Year’s Eve gig could set us up for the year. We could get lots of bookings from it,” Boyd claimed. Then his voice went a little lower, but Caprice could still hear him. “All good things must come to an end,” he decided. “Even Santa in his workshop. New neighbors will learn I don’t take orders from anyone.”

  Caprice stepped a few feet away from the doorway and asked Grant, “Was that an admission of guilt?”

  “I don’t think Brett or Detective Jones would think so. Do you know if they questioned him?”

  “Sara told Brett about him.” She paused, then said, “I really feel like saying something to them about their attitude, as if a music gig is more important than a human life.” She took a step toward the parlor as if she was going to do just that.

  However, Grant took her arm, placed a hand on the small of her back, and gently guided her away. “This is a Christmas party, Caprice. I know how you feel about their attitude, and Boyd Arkoff is scum for even thinking it. But you don’t want to start something at Ace’s party, do you? A guy like Boyd will have karma catch up with him one way or the other.”

  Caprice just hoped Grant was right.

  * * *

  Caprice had agreed to help Bella at the community center on Monday evening with painting scenery. To her surprise, one of the volunteers there was Harrison Barnhart. Not the neatest painter, Caprice already had managed to smear red paint on her wrist and forearm. She nudged Bella, who was painting next to her, and pointed to the crew getting set up by the stable.

  She asked Bella in a low voice, “Do you know him?”

  Bella looked in the direction that Caprice was jutting her chin. “You mean Harry? Sure, I know him. He comes in on Saturdays to play basketball with the guys. He’s really good with the older teens. Why?”

  “Because he was in Vietnam with Chris Merriweather, and I need to talk to him.”

  Bella screwed up her face. “You’re not getting distracted, are you? We have to get these sets done in time.”

  “I can multitask. If you’re okay here, I’ll go help with the stable.”

  “If Nikki didn’t have so many catering jobs this time of year, she could be helping too. But I’m good. This is like coloring with messy liquids. I’ll get a Christmas stocking out of it yet.”