Dead to Begin With (A Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series, Book 1)

by Vivian Conroy

  “What?! That can’t be. Mortimer made a photocopy, right? That sheet looked decidedly newer than the other ones, from the police files.”

  Half in shock, Vicky heard a rustle on the other end of the line and a “Hello? Ms. Simmons?”

  With difficulty she refocused on the phone call. “Yes, hello. Vicky Simmons here, from Glen Cove. This morning I happened to be at Ralph Sellers’ place for some eggs. Yes… So nice to see him again. We got to talking and we also touched upon that old case of Celine Dobbs’ disappearance. Really made waves at the time. Yes… Now too, with the newspaper article. You read it, I assume. Yes, I understand.”

  She tried to explain her interest in such a way that it wouldn’t seem like she was suspecting the likable chicken farmer with his young family of anything serious.

  The retired deputy was forthcoming enough with the information. “No, Perkins didn’t want to use Ralph too much in the investigation because Perkins believed he might be too personally involved, know people who could be suspects, and so he tried to work around him as much as he could. It seems he did take one or two of those witness statements, but I recall he wasn’t participating in anything more substantial. He couldn’t even.”

  The man took a deep breath. “Ralph had been in a waterskiing accident on the day Celine went missing and had a serious concussion. The first few days he could hardly walk straight, couldn’t drive or sit at the computer for long. He did come to the station for an hour or two every day, because he felt kind of self-conscious about reporting himself sick after an accident that had happened in his time off, but most of the time he was in bed getting better. By the time he was fully recovered, Perkins put him on other things.”

  That meant Ralph Sellers had also not been able to kidnap a girl. Even if Celine had been drugged or drunk, as Mortimer’s note suggested, you’d need to be physically fit to move her, especially in a car.

  They could take Ralph Sellers off the list and focus on Deke Rowland and the cousin of the Joneses.

  Vicky thanked the man, asked him to call her if he remembered anything else worthwhile and hung up. They all sat down with cups of fragrant Darjeeling, and the delicious-looking and smelling cake.

  Ms. Tennings looked around. “I’ve carefully mined all of my contacts. But nobody knew of any business relation between Deke Rowland and Mortimer Gill. In fact, I’ve managed to establish with one hundred percent certainty that Mortimer’s mortgage was with another company and he had a savings account at an out of town bank. Moreover, he was certainly not in need of money, because there was plenty in that savings account. Now that we have excluded the obvious, we can focus on the bigger picture. Why was Deke Rowland’s business number on Mortimer’s list? It had to be something personal, between the two of them.”

  Vicky nodded and related what Everett Baker had just told her. “We can safely assume that the call made by Mortimer in the street was to Deke Rowland. It has to be. He has left town to avoid having to tell the police what it was about. If he were to admit Mortimer had threatened to expose some explosive secret about him, people might assume there was indeed a secret to expose. Deke would look very suspect, and his name would suffer.”

  “Regardless of whether he was guilty or not,” Ms. Tennings observed quietly.

  “Right,” Vicky admitted. “And that could very well mean Deke is innocent and ran in blind panic. Or under pressure from what Cash calls ‘his pushy wife’?”

  “I bet Lilian would love to hear that term,” Marge said with a grin. “She would probably consider herself well organized, not pushy. I wonder though if Deke ever went to San Francisco at all. It only buys him a little time and changes nothing about his precarious position. I can imagine what he really wants is to find this evidence that was not destroyed in the fire. Maybe Deke even lit the barn. Can we establish where he was at that time? The fire was the first crime committed, and if we can find the arsonist, we might have the murderer as well.”

  Vicky shot up straight. “Yes! I forgot completely. Someone I ran into at the sheriff’s station was talking about an incendiary device. It could be relevant as it might reveal something about the killer’s background. If those metal elements and the watch crystal found were part of the so-called incendiary device, it might reveal that the arsonist who’s probably also the killer was pretty handy. He could have made that thing himself. Now that cousin of the Joneses has to be pretty good with his hands, repairing all those old ladies’ leaking faucets. He could have made the incendiary device, sooner than Deke. I don’t think Deke ever made anything himself in his entire life. Not the tinkering type, you know, but more the all-brains person. If we say arsonist equals killer, that cousin could be our better bet. Provided of course that he really is the same guy who lived here back then when his folks were in China. I have to run over to my mom’s and dig through my old yearbooks to find his picture and his name.”

  She emptied her cup in a rush and got up. “I’ll also bring back a few props to make some shots for my flyer, OK?”

  “OK. We could use a big break,” Marge said with a sigh. “In an Agatha Christie there is always some clue, a distinctive button lost at the scene of the crime, a lie about the time of things…”

  Time. The word struck a chord inside Vicky. Time, something about time. As if somebody had said or done something she should have noticed. Something that was important for the issues at hand. But she couldn’t remember what or who.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vicky carefully pulled aside a pile of cardboard boxes. Her mother’s attic was awash with them, as everything that had not been used for some time had inevitably been moved up to make room below. She was not quite sure where to locate those old yearbooks.

  Dust swirled up from the covered lids and whirled into her nose. She sneezed and blinked as she pulled open another box with a fading felt-tip designation Vicky.

  Wait a sec. This was certainly from her college time. Books, notebooks, graded exams.

  She smiled over a few Bs, scowled at an F, then forced herself to leave the nostalgia for another time and find the yearbooks. She lifted out a pile of books and saw the edge of something red at the bottom. That could be it.

  With a grunt she extracted the last stack of papers and put them on the floor beside her, then lifted the yearbook and brushed the shiny cover with a smile. She had been yearbook editor that year, so it held extra special memories for her.

  She opened it and flipped through, reading the intro by the dean, several short items by students, then came to the section with pictures. There weren’t just individual head shots, but also group pictures of book clubs, dart clubs, bowling clubs and…science clubs.

  Vicky leaned down to study the faces and read the names underneath. There he was: Bill Jones. The cousin. His face was sunburned, and he squinted as if blinded by the photographer’s flash. Hard to tell if the handsome guy with the distinctive cowboy boots was the same person. But it was telling he had been in a science class. That certainly qualified him to build an incendiary device.

  Vicky turned the page and stared at the next picture. Of the Christmas gala. Celine in an elegant tight dress with a diamond necklace, leaning into Michael, who had his arm around her waist. Their faces happy, almost triumphant.

  Back then Vicky had been jealous of Celine, but she had also known the relationship was serious and Michael might marry her. She tried to picture what would have happened without the disappearance: this same picture, the girl in a wedding dress, the young man in a tuxedo. Smiles all around and well-wishes.

  Now, due to a cold-blooded killer, Celine was dead and Michael in jail.

  Her cell buzzed. She dug it out of her trouser pocket and answered.

  To her surprise it was Michael himself.

  “Have they let you out? I suppose they have, or you wouldn’t be calling me. How are you doing? Where are you?”

  “At the store.”

  Regret already flooded her that she had left. She so needed to see him, grab h
is shoulders and look him over for any harm done during his incarceration. “I’m sorry, I had to do something important.” She clutched the yearbook. “But I’m done now and coming back to the store. I just need to pick up a thing of two for the store. Will you wait for me? I have some new developments to share with you. How about dinner?” Michael would be interested to learn that the whole year of the Glen Cove Gazette from the disappearance’s summer months had vanished from the library’s archives. Maybe he knew of a way to access them anyway. Digitalized archives perhaps?

  “I don’t know.” Michael’s voice was low and dejected. “Mortimer’s evidence must really have been explosive. Diane came to see me this afternoon and told me about the offer Mortimer made her. Five thousand in cash for the evidence. Can you imagine?”

  Wait a minute. Diane had come to the police station to see Michael in his holding cell and Cash had let her in with him?

  While he had refused to grant Vicky access.

  That was a little unfair.

  Michael grunted in frustration. “Mortimer Gill had all the information as to who killed Celine. I just know it. That’s the reason he was killed himself. But I found nothing at his place. The killer must have taken it.”

  “No, he didn’t. I have the evidence Mortimer had,” Vicky admitted in a soft voice. “Mortimer had hidden it in my store. But I’m not sure it’s all of it. That’s why I didn’t tell Diane about it when I met her earlier today. I didn’t want to get her worked up, thinking it might hold answers, while it’s not complete.” What they had now was certainly not enough.

  “What are you saying? You have evidence? How? I don’t follow.”

  Vicky told him in short sentences how they had deduced there might be something hidden in the fireplace and how they had found these rolled-up papers. She then summarized the contents for him, including Mortimer Gill’s suspicions written down on those stick-on notes. “Deke Rowland or Bill Jones. I’m sure it’s either one of them. Do you recall anything that can finger the man Celine was seen with?”

  “No, it could have been anybody. The description was so vague.”

  Michael exhaled in frustration. “Maybe Mortimer was just jumping people to get money fast. First he tried Deke, then Diane. He had me on the list to try last if all else failed. I guess he bet I would be willing to pay for whatever clue he might offer me.”

  The irritation was thick in his voice. “Mortimer was just a scam artist. I knew that, so I should have understood that he never held any decisive clue to that man’s identity. He just wanted a quick score. And I actually searched his home for real evidence and landed myself in jail. Great. Just perfect. I can take a little heat, that’s not it, but…now we will never find who did it. Diane will be devastated. After that call last night she honestly believes there’s something important to be found.”

  Vicky clutched the phone. “All may not be lost yet, Michael. Look at it this way: the killer doesn’t know what Mortimer did or didn’t have. He got scared or he wouldn’t have killed again. That means he is uncertain whether there is some trace left to his identity. Whether new eyes going over the old evidence might see something that nobody noticed before.”

  Michael didn’t protest, so she pushed on. “We just have to determine what it is. Now Mortimer might have split up the evidence for security reasons. To outwit the arsonist? One place the police have never looked, I bet, are the birdcages at his home. Marge’s husband has permission from Cash himself to go there so he should—”

  “I won’t wait for that. I don’t even know that guy. I’ll go to search those cages myself.” Michael sounded ready to disconnect and rush off to the forbidden premises.

  Vicky yelped, “No. Wait. I heard of a falconer once who almost lost an eye when a bird got a scare and attacked him. They have incredibly strong talons and sharp beaks. You can’t just step into their cage!” She drove her nails into the palm of her free hand.

  “I don’t care,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “I have to find the truth about Celine’s disappearance. If I don’t do it now, I will never find peace of mind.”

  She listened to his ragged breathing, then a short, “I’m sorry, Vicky. I have to do this my own way.”

  And Michael disconnected.

  Heart pounding, Vicky climbed down the rickety ladder into her mother’s attic in shock. She had to stop Michael from getting injured by an angry owl or arrested again for trespassing to destroy evidence. Cash already wanted to hang the murder on Michael and if he returned to the scene of the crime right after his arrest, that might be the end of freedom for a long, long time.

  If only she had not told him about the evidence over the phone. If only she had waited until she was face to face with him and could argue better.

  Or outright latch on to him and stop him from doing something incredibly stupid.

  Downstairs Vicky ran into Claire, who told her she could make pizza and they could watch a game show together. “You know that guy from Portland who’s still in the running for the millions? He said that if he won, he’d donate a share to the lighthouse here in Glen Cove. It needs a thorough renovation and…”

  Vicky was already at the front door. Coco circled her, and she took a moment to brush her hand over the doggy’s soft fur. The touch steadied her racing heartbeat. “I’d really love to, Mom, but I can’t right now. Some other time, all right?”

  She sent Coco back to her mother with a hand gesture. The company of the dogs made her feel a little less guilty about declining Claire’s heartfelt invitation. “On the weekend I’ll have more time, I hope. Bye, Mom.”

  Claire called after her that she was too busy with that store and would regret it once she was burned out, but Vicky didn’t listen. She ran all the way to Marge’s house to engage her husband to go out to Mortimer’s with her at once.

  The house was brick with a white porch, large terrace and an herb garden beside it. Little wooden signs stood among the fresh green herbs designating them as parsley, thyme, oregano and rosemary. Huge pots were filled with lavender and even now that the afternoon was waning, bumblebees and butterflies hung around it.

  Panting, Vicky rang the bell. Sweat ran down her back in streams, but she didn’t care. The double carport held two cars, which suggested Marge’s husband was already home from work. They had to leave at once.

  As the doorbell wasn’t answered, Vicky ran round back, finding the back door open and delicious food scents wafting out. A chocolate Lab lounged in a corner of the kitchen, getting up to bark at her as soon as he noticed her in the doorframe.

  Marge calmed him with a short command, and the dog sank back on his rear and studied her with friendly amber eyes.

  “You look terrible,” Marge said, with a worried frown. “What happened?”

  “I need to talk to your husband,” Vicky rushed. “Michael is out of jail, and dead set on going to Mortimer’s to dig up more evidence. I’m rather worried he will get hurt by one of those big owls.”

  Marge’s eyes widened. “That’s more than possible. They are all hand-reared but they stay wild animals inside who attack when provoked. Kevin is upstairs with the boys. I’ll call him right away.”

  She walked into the hall and called up the stairs, “Honey!”

  A muffled voice answered, “What?” Footfalls resounded on the wooden boards, and then a head appeared at the top of the stairs. “Is dinner ready?”

  “Not exactly. Vicky is here and needs your help. Right away.”

  “Let me get my shoes.”

  Grinning, Marge turned to Vicky. “He’s playing with the kids. He’ll be down in a sec. Just needs to get fully dressed again.”

  She squeezed Vicky’s arm. “Don’t worry, it will be all right. You’ll catch up with Michael before he can get hurt and then you can share the latest with him. I’m pretty sure Gwenda is our killer after all.”

  Vicky tried not to fidget with the strap of her purse and concentrate on what Marge said. “How come?”

  “I thi
nk Gwenda cleared out her apartment for good, because she can now afford much better accommodations. She gets…” Marge waited a moment to stretch the suspense “…fifty thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Fifty thousands dollars. Life insurance. Seems Mortimer once made her the beneficiary and never changed it. So…” Marge looked triumphant. “Gwenda always wanted money off him; now she can get it. Plenty too. Best motive for murder. Combine that with her sudden disappearance on the night of the murder. No note left, no message on the answering machine where she was.”

  “But how will Gwenda then touch the money? I bet the insurance won’t pay her as long as they suspect her of having killed her ex herself.”

  Marge frowned. “You’ve got a point there. That’s strange. It would have been better if she’d made sure she was alibied for the time of the murder and had hung around town to act surprised at his death.”

  Vicky nodded. “And Mr. Jones told me Gwenda filled up her car at a gas station around five, to leave town after that. Could she even have had the opportunity to murder Mortimer?”

  Time, something about time…

  Footfalls thundered down, and Marge’s husband stood before them, smiling at Vicky. “All ready. What’s up?”

  He immediately accepted his wife’s urgent plea to go save Michael Danning from the owls, got a pair of thick leather gloves from the garage and the spare keys to Mortimer’s bird sheds and dived into his station wagon. Vicky slipped into the passenger seat beside him. She vaguely heard him say that he hoped the paint had dried up nicely and they liked the color of ocean blue used in the pantry. She said he did a great job, but her mind was on Michael and the stupidity if he got caught at Mortimer’s again. If he got charged with two murders, he might face a long time behind bars.

  Kevin Fisher parked his station wagon in the driveway leading up to Mortimer’s home. He held away the dangling trails of wisteria for her as they moved round back. “Somebody should really cut this back. Too bad to let such a beautiful bush get out of control. Hey…”