by V. M. Burns
Christopher whistled. “Do you have any proof, other than the fact he likes to wear expensive clothes?”
I shook my head.
We talked until Detective Wilson returned. When she returned, Christopher shared our theory with her. Detective Wilson listened, skeptically at first, with her arms folded across her chest and a yeah right expression on her face. As we continued to explain, her facial expression relaxed, as did her body language. Her arms unfolded. Instead of leaning back, she leaned forward. I thought she would dismiss my theory as crazy, especially as we talked about the custom clothes, but surprisingly, she seemed excited. Her eyes sparkled, and she asked questions for clarification, rather than challenges. When she had exhausted her questions, she went to talk to the police chief. When she returned, we were invited into an office just a few steps away from Detective Wilson’s cubicle.
Chief Paul Russell was a large, burly redheaded man with a thick mustache and beard. He had a loud booming voice, but he used it sparingly. He listened to our theory and then picked up the phone and called the district attorney.
The district attorney invited us to come to his office. If I still believed in Santa Claus, I would have sworn Jeffrey Alex Matthews was him. He was a plump, older man with white hair, a white moustache and a long white beard. He was jolly, with dimples and rosy cheeks, and he wore old-fashioned spectacles.
I told my theory for the third—or was it the fourth time. The excitement had worn off, and the lack of sleep had finally caught up with me. My brain was foggy, and I missed some of the details I’d included in the previous two or three run-throughs. Thankfully, Dixie or Christopher were well-acquainted with the details and filled in when I missed anything.
“Wait, you didn’t mention the fancy Savile Row tailors,” Detective Wilson added.
Sleep deprivation and hunger made me blind to some of the unspoken communication between the detectives, but I suddenly woke up and realized there was more going on here than my theories. “What’s the big deal?” I looked from Detective Wilson to Chief Russell and finally to Santa Claus. “As much as I’d like to believe I’m brilliant with all of the deductive abilities of Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie combined, the truth is, I’m not a genius, like Nero Wolf. I’m just a housewife…a widowed former CPA who likes to read mysteries. Now, twenty-four hours ago, you were convinced I’d killed not only my husband, but my neighbor. Something’s up, and I want to know what.”
Dixie’s shock was reflected in her eyes, but she kept her mouth closed and waited. Christopher had to work to keep from smiling.
Detective Wilson and Chief Russell exchanged looks and then he nodded.
Detective Wilson looked as though she would rather eat glass than explain, but eventually she took a deep breath and got to it. “None of what you’re saying would be enough to convince a jury Charles Nelson, attorney and pillar of Lighthouse Dunes, is a drug-trafficking mastermind. Most of this wouldn’t get you anywhere. But…”
“But?” I asked.
She sighed. “There’s one piece of information we’ve been withholding.”
I waited.
Chief Russell took over. “Bradley Hurston was a retired cop. He didn’t go down easy. He put up a fight.”
I looked from the chief to Detective Wilson.
Eventually, she continued. “We found a button under his body. The killer must have lost it in the struggle and didn’t notice.”
“A button?” I asked.
Detective Wilson nodded. “A very distinct button.”
“Let me guess. Henry Poole?” Christopher shook his head. “I should have guessed. That’s why you asked about Henry Poole when you interrogated her?”
Detective Wilson nodded again. “We’ve been looking into it, but one button isn’t much to go on. We can’t get a warrant to check the buttons on every suit for every man in Lighthouse Dunes.”
The district attorney gave a Santa Claus chuckle. “No, but I would feel comfortable asking for a warrant to search Charles Nelson’s suits to see if one of them is missing a distinctive Henry Poole button. We may not be able to get him for the drug trafficking, but your information certainly opens up a couple of other areas for us to investigate.”
“The embezzlement might be something we can use to tie him to the murders. We’ll get our nerds working on those holding companies,” Chief Russell added.
The district attorney sat on the edge of his desk. “There’s bound to be a trace of some kind. Detective Wilson will work on the button.” He looked in her direction.
She nodded.
“It would be great if we could get either Chip or Bambi to turn state’s evidence, but I doubt if Chip will turn on his father.” The district attorney looked sad. “He’s been a very naughty young man.”
Dixie leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Did he just say naughty?”
“Maybe Bambi would prefer to testify against Chip and Charles Nelson in exchange for immunity?” Christopher asked.
“SING,” I shouted.
“Excuse me?” Santa Claus looked puzzled.
“SING, S-I-N-G. Bradley Hurston used to teach self-defense classes to the women in the neighborhood when he was a policeman. He taught us the SING self-defense method.”
Detective Wilson rolled her eyes. “It’s a common technique.”
“That’s what I did when Bambi put a gun to my head and then kicked my dog. I remembered what Bradley Hurston taught me, and I used it to defend myself. SING, minus the groin. I skipped that.”
“That’s great,” Chief Russell said, with a look that implied my elevator didn’t go to the top floor.
“But don’t you see, the injuries Charles Nelson has are the same as Bambi’s. Broken foot, bruised ribs and a broken nose. And when you break your nose, it causes black eyes. I’ll bet when he tried to attack Bradley Hurston, he got more than he bargained for. Instead of a frail old man, he got an ex-policeman who put up a fight.”
“But wasn’t he in a wheelchair?” Dixie asked.
“He was, but he wasn’t paralyzed. He could stand with help. The wheelchair just made it easier to get around. He also had a cane, and I’ll bet he used it to beat the crap out of Charles Nelson.”
Detective Wilson looked from the District Attorney to Chief Russell. Something passed between the three of them and we were ushered out of the room
Normally, I would have been curious and resentful of the dismissal, but I was too tired and too sleepy to care. Dixie and I went through a fast-food drive-thru. I finished a sandwich and fries before I pulled into the garage and went upstairs and crashed. If Charles Nelson entered my thoughts again, I don’t remember. I slept long and hard and woke up only once during the night.
CHAPTER 17
The morning paper was full of news of the arrest of prominent attorney, Charles Nelson, his son, Charles Nelson III, and a stripper from Southwestern Michigan, Bertha Jones.
“Bertha? How do you go from Bertha to Bambi?” Stephanie asked.
“I don’t think too many men would be titillated by a stripper named Bertha.” Dixie took a bite from the pastry she’d picked up earlier.
I looked across at Officer Harrison, who’d stopped by to tell us about the arrests.
“She’s singing like a canary now. She’s rolled over on both of the Nelsons in exchange for immunity.”
“Ah, so Santa Claus took my advice.” I sipped my coffee.
“Santa Claus?” Officer Harrison asked.
“The district attorney.” I heard Aggie whimper and I picked her up from her dog bed and put her in my lap.
He was silent for a moment. “I can see the resemblance.” He smiled. “How does it feel to be a free woman?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know. I feel like so many feelings have gotten mashed together. I’m glad the police no longer believe I killed my husband or poor M
r. Hurston.”
“Is it really over?” Dixie asked.
Stephanie nodded. “All charges have been dropped and Mom is completely in the clear.”
“Bambi…ah, I mean Bertha said Albert discovered her and Chip together in a…um…compromising position. He went irate. He fired Chip and said he wanted him gone. He knew something wasn’t right at the dealership, but he didn’t know what.”
“I’ll bet he suspected something, that’s why he changed his will and left everything to Mom,” Stephanie said.
Officer Harrison looked from Stephanie to me and sipped his coffee. “Chip panicked and shot Albert.”
“But why did they kill Mr. Hurston?” David wandered downstairs and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Chip told his dad what he’d done. So, when Mr. Hurston said, ‘I saw you. I know what you did,’ he panicked. Chip was afraid to kill a second time, so Charles said he’d take care of it.”
“Charles had made a lifetime of cleaning up Chip’s messes,” I stroked Aggie and watched as she laid her head down on my lap.
David joined us at the table. “What’ll you do now?”
“You and Stephanie are going to be leaving soon.” I noticed a look pass between Officer Harrison and Stephanie but ignored it. They were both adults and they would either figure things out, or not. I sighed. “There are too many memories here.” I had gotten up early this morning and watched the sunrise and thought about what I wanted to do with my life. “If neither of you are interested in the dealership…”
Both David and Stephanie shook their heads.
“I thought maybe I’d sell it to your uncle Vinnie.”
David gave a half shrug and a nod. Stephanie merely nodded her approval.
“I’d already decided to sell the house and start over someplace new.” I looked at Dixie.
“I’m glad. I think you’ll like Chattanooga.”
“I hope so.” I thought about Miss Florrie as I stroked Aggie. She looked up at me with her big trusting brown eyes. “But, if I don’t, I’ll move again. and I’ll just keep moving until I find my happy place.”
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V.M. Burns’s
READ HERRING HUNT
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Mystery bookstore owner Samantha Washington is about to find out it’s not so easy to play Monday morning quarterback when it comes to murder…
To the town of North Harbor, Michigan, MISU quarterback Dawson Alexander is a local hero. To Samantha Washington, owner of the Market Street Mysteries Bookstore, Dawson is more than a tenant—he’s like an adopted son. But to the police, he is their prime suspect after his ex-girlfriend is found murdered. It’s more than enough real-life drama for Sam to tackle, but her role as a mystery writer also calls. Returning to the English countryside between the wars, she finds Lady Daphne Marsh in quite the quandary. Someone has tried to murder the scandalous American divorcée Wallis Simpson, for whom Edward VIII so recently abdicated his throne. It seems finding a suspect is no small challenge when most of England has a motive…
While Sam’s lawyer sister Jenna rushes in to build Dawson’s defense, Sam and her lively grandmother, Nana Jo, huddle up to solve the mystery and blow the whistle on the real killer. With the tenacious members of the Sleuthing Senior Book Club eager to come off the sidelines, Sam and her team just might stop a killer from completing another deadly play…
CHAPTER 1
“Did you see the getup that little floozy had on?”
“Shhhh.” I glanced around to make sure the “little floozy” was out of earshot. Tact wasn’t Nana Jo’s strong suit.
“Don’t shush me. I’ve seen Sumo wrestlers wearing more fabric.”
Nana Jo exaggerated, but not by much. Melody Hardwick was a supermodel thin, heavily made-up college senior who had attached herself figuratively and literally to my assistant, Dawson Alexander.
“Surely that boy knows she’s nothing more than a little gold digger.” Nana Jo had taken an instant dislike to Melody.
“You don’t know she’s a gold digger. You just don’t like her.” I locked the door to the bookstore. “Besides, it’s not like Dawson has any money.”
“He may not have a pot to pee in now, but the boy has PEP.” Nana Jo wiped down the counters and bagged the trash.
“What’s PEP?”
“Potential Earning Power. That boy is the best quarterback MISU’s had in at least a decade. They’re undefeated and if things keep going like last week, they have a shot at a bowl game and maybe a championship.”
My grandmother had always been a sports enthusiast, but ever since the Michigan Southwest University, or MISS YOU as the locals called it, quarterback started helping out in my bookstore, she’d become more of a fanatic.
“He was embarrassed. Did you see how she clung to him?”
“Dawson’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions.”
Based on the look she gave me, she wasn’t convinced. Frankly, I wasn’t convinced either. I was concerned about him too. School was a challenge for Dawson. At the end of his freshman year he was placed on academic probation. Thanks to a lot of hard work and tutoring from me and Nana Jo throughout the summer, he’d raised his grades, avoided academic suspension, and turned his life around. He didn’t have to work at the bookstore anymore. His football scholarship covered room and board. I never wanted to charge him for staying in the studio apartment I created in my garage, but student athletes had to pay the going rate for housing and get paid fair market wages for work.
“Girls like that ain’t nothing but trouble. You mark my words. Just like Delilah, she’ll come after him with a pair of scissors first chance she gets. That woman is nothing but trouble.”
Nana Jo’s words broke my reverie and brought back the worry I thought I’d eliminated. I tried to shake it off, but it lingered at the back of my mind.
We cleaned the store and then she hurried off for a date with her boyfriend, Freddie.
I took a quick tour around the store. I looked at the books neatly stacked on each shelf. It was still hard for me to believe I owned my own mystery bookstore. Market Street Mysteries had been a dream my late husband and I shared for years. After his death over a year ago, I was finally living our dream. I walked down each aisle and ran my hands across the solid wood bookshelves that still smelled woodsy and fresh and shined with the oil polish Andrew, my Amish craftsman, gave me. After six months, the store was doing well, and I still got a thrill walking through and realizing it was mine. My four-legged companions on these strolls trailed along behind, toenails clicking on the wood floors. Toy Poodles, Snickers and Oreo, might not share my love of mysteries, but they definitely approved of the baked goods that made their way under tables and counters.
The back of the bookstore was enclosed to provide a yard for privacy and an area for the poodles to chase squirrels and bask in the sunlight. As fall hit the Michigan coastline, the weather had turned cool. The leaves were starting to darken from bright shades of yellowy green to deeper, rich hues of amber, burgundy, and russet. Lake Michigan was also undergoing a change from the deep, blue calm of summer to the pale blue that blended into the horizon and was only discernible from the sky by the choppy white swells that danced across the surface and pounded the shore. Autumn was my favorite time of year, and I lingered outside and enjoyed the sunset until Snickers reminded me she hadn’t been fed by scratching my leg and ruining my tights. I needed to remember to make an appointment with the groomers first thing tomorrow or give up wearing skirts.
When my husband, Leon, and I dreamed of the bookstore, we planned to make the upper level into a rental unit to offset the cost. After his death, I sold the home we’d lived in and turned the upper level into a two-bedroom loft for me and the poodles. Nana Jo moved in after a dead body was found in the back cou
rtyard, but she still had her villa at a retirement village. I never dreamed how much I’d enjoy living in the space.
Next week would be one year since Leon’s death. The pain was less crippling. The bookstore kept me busy during the day. But the nights were still difficult. I started writing to help occupy my time and my mind. Six months ago, I’d finished the first draft of a British cozy mystery and spent the last few months editing. Nana Jo wanted me to send it out to an agent, but that would involve allowing someone besides me and my grandmother, who loved me, to read it. I wasn’t ready for that type of humiliation and rejection yet. Besides, in the unlikely event that a publisher was interested in my book, they’d want to know what else I had. What if one book was all I had in me? The only way to find out would be to try again. So after dinner I made a cup of tea and headed to my laptop.
* * * *
Wickfield Lodge, English country home of Lord William Marsh–November 1938
Thompkins entered the back salon where the Marsh family was having tea and coughed. “I’m sorry, but the Duke of Kingfordshire is on the telephone.”
Lady Daphne was in her favorite seat by the window. She started to rise but was stopped when Thompkins discretely coughed again.
“His grace the duke asked to speak to your Ladyship.” He turned toward Lady Elizabeth.
Lady Elizabeth Marsh glanced at her niece, Daphne, noting the blush that left her cheeks flushed. She placed her teacup down and hurried out of the room. In the library, she picked up the telephone. “Hello James dear is there—”
“Thank goodness you’re home. I’m sorry but I don’t have time for pleasantries. Time is of the essence.” Lord James FitzAndrew Browning, normally calm and composed, had a slight tremor in his voice, which reflected the urgency of his call even more than his words and lack of propriety. The duke took a deep breath and then rushed on. “This is going to sound strange, but I need you to trust me. You’re going to get a call from the Duchess of Windsor asking for permission to move her hunting party to Wickfield Lodge this weekend. It’s vital she be allowed to do so.”