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No. 1 in the mavis davis series
Susan p. baker
www.susanpbaker.com
Contents
Title
Books by Susan P. Baker
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Thank you for reading!
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COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Books by Susan P. Baker
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Books by Susan P. Baker
Novels:
My First Murder
No. 1 in the Mavis Davis murder mystery series
The Sweet Scent of Murder
Mavis Davis No. 2, Mavis’s search for a missing teenager turns into a murder investigation in Houston’s Ritzy River Oaks.
Death of a Prince
Mother & daughter criminal defense lawyers defend the alleged murderer of a millionaire plaintiff’s attorney
Ledbetter Street
A mother fights the system for guardianship of her autistic son.
Suggestion of Death
A father who can’t pay his child support investigates the mysterious deaths of other deadbeat dads.
UNAWARE
Attorney Dena Armstrong is about to break out from under the two controlling men in her life, unaware that a stranger has other plans for her.
Nonfiction:
Heart of Divorce
Divorce advice especially for those who are considering representing themselves.
Murdered Judges of the 20th Century
True stories of judges killed in America.
www.susanpbaker.com
CHAPTER ONE
I could almost feel more freckles popping out on my face as I parked my Mustang and walked through the glaring morning sun to my office. It was hot for May. Too hot for me. I stooped down and grabbed the newspaper from where it lay on the steps and glanced at the front page before going inside. THIRD WOMAN FOUND MURDERED the headlines screamed. What a depressing way to start a day. Shoving the paper under my arm, I inserted the key in the lock and went into the cool of the air-conditioning before learning anything more about the deceased.
As usual, I was the first to arrive. So I entered the kitchen and, after piling my things on a chair, put the kettle on to boil. I then spread my morning paper across the kitchen table to read the murder article.
HOUSTON—Police are investigating an apparent murder after the strangled body of 36-year-old Doris Jones was discovered Tuesday morning.
The victim, who failed to show up for work, was found in her apartment just after 6:00 a.m. by her employer, Carl Singleton. Jones lived alone above the cafe where she worked as a waitress for the past year. She was last seen alive on Monday night, Capt. Ronald Milton said.
Evidence found at the scene indicates that a struggle took place.
With Jones being the third woman strangled in less than a year, police now suspect a serial killer. Mary Lou Redmon’s strangled body was found on Thanksgiving morning. The body of Susie Steinberger was found on Valentine’s Day. All three of the women were in their midthirties and lived alone. See Murder, page 26A.
I wasn’t comforted by the last line of the article. There was nothing I could do about my age, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to begin looking for a roommate.
After brewing my cup of tea, I lit a cigarette and sat down at the table to scan the remainder of the news before I could be interrupted either by the arrival of my assistant, Margaret Apple-baum, or, hopefully, by the jingling of the telephone. I should be so lucky. The phone hadn’t rung in days. If the phone did ring, it was usually a wrong number.
All businesses have their ups and downs. Mine was down right now. Except for people dropping in to make Xerox copies, there didn’t seem to be much sense in keeping the office open. I thought about discharging Candy, our little half-day high school helper. I hated to do it right before school got out. I knew she was relying on me for her summer job, but the income from photocopying wasn’t enough to pay the utilities, and serving legal papers for lawyers was barely keeping us afloat—not to mention the lack of what I opened the business for, what was supposed to be our real work: investigations.
Being the eternal optimist that I am, though, I hadn’t made the final decision yet. I just knew that any day now a paying client was going to walk through that front door, take one look at the professional decor of our offices, and hire us to do a difficult, and expensive, job. I was relying heavily on my optimism to get us by.
Admittedly, things were getting me down lately. Thank goodness I’d had enough foresight to have a few sidelines, but even the typing service we offered was off. What was happening?
I scanned Ann Landers and the comics, didn’t find anyone I knew listed in the obituaries, and was putting away the newspaper when Margaret finally showed up.
I heard the clanging of the cowbell that we had attached to the front door last year when a weirdo had silently slipped in on us. (But that’s another story.) And then I heard Margaret call out to me, “Sorry I’m late, Mavis.”
Yep, that’s me. Mavis Davis. My mother had a sense of humor. I’m the owner/operator of Mavis Davis Productions. It says so right on the door in small print under the title, Owned and operated by Mavis Davis. I swear.
“It’s all right, Margaret,” I called back to her. “I was just finishing up with the paper.”
“Anything exciting in the news?” she asked when she came into the kitchen to mix her instant coffee.
“Nothing more than a little murder,” I answered as I turned to look at her.
“Murder, ugh.”
“Wow! When did you do that?” I asked as I shielded my eyes from the glare of Margaret’s freshly bleached-blond hair.
“Last night. Do you like it?” A hopeful expression on her face, Margaret twirled around so that I could get the full effect.
Not being an unkind person by nature, I hesitated to answer Margaret’s query. The hair might have been stunning on someone else. It might even have been stunning on Margaret, but for the fact that Mother Nature had chosen to endow her with dark brown eyes and almost-black eyebrows that were too much of a contrast. I hate to say this, but it looked like a cheap wig. “It’s a lovely shade of blond,” I answered generously. “What made you decide to do it?”
“Well, with you being a redhead and all, and Candy normally having brown hair except when she sprays it green or blue, I thought I should be a blonde and add a little excitement to the office.”
“Candy’s hair is enough excitement for me, thank you very much.”
“Aw, you hate it, don’t you?” Margaret’s lower lip jutted out as if she were about to cry.
“No, now I didn’t say that. I expect it will grow on me, in time. It’s just such a shock. You had a lovely head of black hair—much like I’ve often wished I’d been born with.”
“I didn’t know it would turn out quite this light,” Margaret said a bit anxiously, the tears on the very verge of spilling out.
“I can imagine. Well, not to worry. I’m sure we’ll all get used to it. Drink your coffee now and take your time with the paper. I’m going in to straighten up the office.” I smiled at her encouragingly as I made my exit from the kitchen. I felt a little nauseated.
Not ten minutes later, after I’d emptied the waste baskets and removed the dust covers from the typewriters and our lonely little computer on which many payments were still owed, in came a large, blustering, red-faced man, whose brow was sweaty from the Texas heat.
He was dressed in navy polyester pants and a short-sleeved plaid sports shirt with the edge of a T-shirt peeking out over the top of the highest button he’d done up. He had stained running shoes on his feet, and he clutched a folded newspaper in a hand that was the size of a bear paw. I took one look at his attire, his crew cut, and his sleepy-looking blue eyes, and knew instantly that this was not the client of my dreams.
But, as I found out later, I was wrong.
“Good morning,” I said pleasantly. I always greeted each person who came through that door as if they had an estate worth a million dollars. Let’s face it, you never know.
The man grunted as he pushed the door closed behind him and came up to the counter behind which I stood with my best smile pasted on my face.
“What can I do for you this morning, sir?” I asked, anticipating that he wanted to photocopy an article out of the newspaper. What other logical explanation was there for carrying around the cumbersome Chronicle when it would have been ever so much more convenient to leave it in the car?
“I’m lookin’ for Mavis Davis,” his deep voice rumbled.
I flinched. I often still do when I hear my full name first thing in the morning. I keep thinking that someday I’ll wake up and find that it was all a nightmare—that my mother didn’t christen me so cruelly.
“I’m Miss Davis,” I said radiantly, sticking out my hand for him to shake. “And you are?”
“Carl Singleton,” he said, covering my not small hand with his paw and shaking it firmly. I like a firm handshake. It tells a lot about a person.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Singleton,” I said, withdrawing my hand. His name had a familiar ring to it. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about investigating a murder,” he said as he opened the paper and pointed to the front-page article I’d seen earlier. I wished that I’d read further.
It just goes to show you that you can never tell who may walk through the door. And possibly even that looks can be deceiving. This man was not exactly the client I’d envisioned. I have to tell you. He didn’t look like he could afford to pay. Nevertheless, far be it from me to turn away anyone without hearing them out.
The expression on my face became appropriately serious as I contemplated Mr. Singleton’s purpose in coming. Never before had I been involved with such an investigation. This could be my first murder.
CHAPTER TWO
Anticipation beat wildly in my chest. “Let me get my assistant in here to mind the store, so to speak, and then we’ll go into my office where we can discuss this matter privately,” I said. I hastened from behind the counter and darted into the kitchen to get Margaret who was frittering away precious time with her coffee and the newspaper.
“I’ve possibly got a live one, Margaret,” I whispered fiercely as I passed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Will you get out there and look busy while I talk to him in my office?”
Margaret must have heard the urgency in my voice and, knowing of our present financial plight, scooted out of her chair and followed after me, no questions asked.
“Now, Mr. Singleton,” I said as I re-entered on the second swing of the door, “if you’ll just follow me.” I led the way through our little house-office to the only private room in the building, other than the bathroom and kitchen, that is.
As soon as I had him inside, I closed the door and indicated a chair opposite my desk. “Please have a seat,” I said in my most professional manner as I circled around to my own. Plopping down, I crossed my legs, folded my hands, and said with deepest sincerity, “Now tell me. Exactly what is it that you’d like me to do?”
I peered across my orderly desk at the man, my eyes meeting his, and waited while he took a deep breath before he answered.
“Did you read the article in this morning’s Chronicle?’’
“Yes. About the third woman who was murdered? Yes, I did.” It suddenly came to me why his name rang a bell. He was the employer of the recently departed woman.
“Her name was Doris. She worked for me for about a year—just like it said in the paper. And I want to know who killed her.”
“You want me to try and find out?” I asked in a tone of voice that I hoped wasn’t filled with incredulity.
“Yeah, ’cause I don’t think the cops will find out who did it.”
My adrenaline was pumping. “Mr. Singleton, if I recall the article correctly, the police are investigating the possibility of Miss Jones’s death being the act of a serial killer. Should that prove to be true, the killer would be a person with no real motive, no vendetta, kind of like a random killer.”
“They’re wrong.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I feel it in my gut.”
It was a rather distasteful way of phrasing it, but as good as any.
“You’d have to know Doris. Know the way she was. It couldn’t have been the same guy. She wouldn’t have let just anyone in her apartment.”
“Is that what they’re saying? That she let someone in and whoever it was killed her?”
“Yeah. They think whoever did it has been posing as a repairman or something, but Doris wouldn’t have let ’em in, at least not without checking with me first.”
“There’s no sign of a forced entry?”
“No none. Will you take the case?”
I hesitated while my brain worked ninety-to-nothing on a decision, my judgment clouded with dollar signs. Should I admit my inadequacies to the man? If I told him a little about myself, would he go away? How honest should I be in my hour of need? Real honest, I decided. I couldn’t live with myself if I misled a person. I mean in a major way. I took a deep, regretful breath before answering.
“I don’t know, Mr. Singleton. Actually, you see, I’m really not a real investigator—not that kind anyway. I could do the work, don’t get me wrong, but what I mean is I’m not licensed for that. I mean, I am licensed for it. I have a Class A license, but it’s for my experience in investigating child abuse and stuff.” And I wanted to add, “and I’m really not into serial killings right now, Mr. Singleton, especially when the killer is doing away with women my age,” but I didn’t.
“I know. I checked you out.”
“You did?” Sigh of relief.
“Yeah. I know all about you. And I like what I heard.”
Flattery will get you everywhere. “Then you know my background, that I do home studies for adoptions, and social studies for child custody cases, and things like that.”
“Yeah, and I know you used to be a probation officer, and a social worker, and that you studied criminology in college, and that sometimes you do investigations for lawyers around Houston.”
My curiosity was aroused. I wondered how he knew so much about me. Would he tell me in time? I certainly wasn’t going to exhibit poor taste by inquiring. “Mr. Singleton, what I do for lawyers—it isn’t real investigation stuff. I talk to witnesses and sketch scenes for use in court, and I serve legal papers, but I don’t try to find out who committed an offense. I do the background of a case when a lawyer is preparing for trial and needs information so that he or she ca
n defend a client.”
“It’s the same thing,” he said. “I know you can do it. I got faith in you.”
I was wary of the job. Even if the man did have enough money to pay me a decent wage, he was asking me to look into a case while there was an active police investigation. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I was never one to court trouble. Well not too much trouble anyway.
I shook my head. “I appreciate your comments, Mr. Singleton, but why don’t you let the police do their job first. Then, if they can’t find out after a while who did it, I’ll be glad to look into it for you.” I pushed back my chair and stood up. I hated to end the interview, but I wasn’t sure I was qualified to take on such a serious case. I also didn’t want to tackle with HPD.
“C’mon, Miss Davis. You gotta help me. I know what the cops think, and they’re wrong. I know she wasn’t killed by no serial killer.” His fingers gripped the edge of my desk as he leaned toward my face. “Please.”
My First Murder Page 1