Deadly Southern Charm

by Mary Burton

  * * * *

  After Nic dropped her off at the hotel, Cayce ordered room service and grabbed a new notebook from her stash. Some people used their phones for reminders. She liked paper lists.

  As Matthew had promised, the laptop contained records of current employees, purchases, and sales for the last twenty years. Reviewing the statements, she quickly determined that he’d been losing money for years. The sample records he’d provided prior to the sale hadn’t told the full story. Now she needed to build her business plan using the facts. Cayce started making lists.

  Room service arrived right as she was getting ready to unwrap the candy bar on her desk. The smell of the holy trinity—onion, green pepper, and celery in the shrimp jambalaya—made her stomach growl. She poured herself a cup of half cocoa and half coffee and went back to her desk.

  An hour later, the food was gone, the pots were empty, and Cayce had pages of questions with no answers. Like, why had Sarah been paid three times more in base salary than any other sales clerk, especially since her actual commissions were few and far between? And who was this Arnold Barnett who had an even larger salary? No wonder Matthew hadn’t been making money. He was drowning in employee costs. Even the most senior salesman back in Seattle hadn’t made half what these people did. She would need to do more research on wages in this area before she put out any help wanted ads.

  She put the cup back on the tray and got ready for bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Cayce went to the lobby for a local newspaper. Spreading the paper out on the bed, she focused on the ads in the back. From what she could tell, salaries here were in line with what she’d expect to pay in a big city. Cheaper than Seattle, but not what Matthew had been shelling out. She folded the paper and put it into her tote. Time to get to work!

  This time, the shop’s door was locked when she arrived. Sarah had been told to stay home. Cayce pushed the door open and re-locked it, noticing the same homeless man standing across the street, watching her. With a friendly wave, she made her way back to the office with the Queen Anne desk. Working in Mr. Goldstein’s office was impossible—the lingering smell from the blood-soaked rug turned her stomach. First project, inventory. She printed off the list she’d been given and found a clipboard in the desk. Then she went to the top floor of the building. She wanted to check out the apartment before she dug into inventory work.

  By noon, she’d cleared only one floor. She’d spent longer in the apartment than she’d expected. The inventory was proving to be a problem. Several items that were listed as being on a particular floor were missing. Probably just moved, but where? She had no clue. Understanding the inventory was going to take longer than she’d planned.

  Stopping at the break room, she grabbed a bottle of water. A noise from the hallway startled her. She held the bottle out like a weapon and made her way to her office. Nic sat at her desk, eating a sandwich and playing on his phone. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. “How did you get in?”

  “You left the door open.” He nodded to the Styrofoam container. “Eat. I brought you lunch.”

  “I didn’t leave the door unlocked.” She glanced down the hallway and heard laughter. “What’s going on here? Harry?”

  “I believe the building spirits are teasing you.” Nic lifted his head listened for an answer from the unseen inhabitants. “Apparently, they unlocked the door to let me inside.”

  Cayce narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t take Sarah’s keys?”

  Nic took a set of keys out of his pocket and slid them across the desk. “Sleight of hand is a family tradition.”

  She examined the lunch. Ham and cheese croissant and a small container of potato salad along with a bag of chips. Her stomach growled. When she had wolfed most of it down, she leaned back and asked, “Really, why are you here?”

  “I’ve been doing some checking around about your business. Goldstein was circling the bankruptcy drain. Email your lawyer and have him get you out of the deal since the guy died before the three-day waiting period was over.”

  “I don’t want out of the deal. I studied the books last night and from what I’ve seen, the financial crisis is solvable. The sales are here. His expenses were just too high.” She opened the bag of chips.

  “Like what?” He threw his lunch into a plastic trash bag. “It couldn’t be from the cleaning staff.”

  “Let’s just say Mr. Goldstein’s employees must have loved working here.” She grabbed the notebook from her bag. “Do you know an Arnold Barnett?”

  “No, should I?” He put his empty lunch container in a plastic bag.

  “Just wondering. I’m going over to his place now. Since Matthew didn’t tell anyone about the sale, I feel like I should reach out to his employees. Especially ones that meant so much that Goldstein overpaid them.” Cayce opened the notebook where she’d noted Arnold Barnett’s address. “It’s just down the street. According to the schedule, he works weekends. I need to tell him he’s unemployed.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” He swept her lunch receptacle into the trash sack. “Dumpster in the back?”

  After showing Nic the dumpster in the alley, they walked two blocks farther into the French Quarter, then turned left down a one-way street. Nic leaned close and glanced behind them, whispering, “We’re being followed.”

  “I know. It’s the homeless guy who sleeps outside the shop. He’s been following us since we left.” Cayce didn’t turn back since she could see the guy’s reflection in the window of the restaurant as they walked past. “I think he’s harmless.”

  “I’ll tell the police that when they’re investigating your murder in that rat trap of a building.” Nic pointed to an iron gate. “This is the address.”

  They stepped into an entryway that led to an interior courtyard where a fountain bubbled over a moss-covered statue. Sarah Stiner sat crying near the fountain. When she heard their footsteps, she stood and hurried past them without a word.

  “Hey, Sarah. What are you doing here?” Cayce started to go after her but stopped at the entry. Then she came back to the bottom of the stairs. “I seem to have this effect on people.”

  Nic nodded to the stairwell. “One problem at a time. Let’s see why she was here.”

  They climbed the narrow stairway and went down the walk to the door marked 201. When she knocked, the door was thrown open revealing a small living room furnished in priceless antiques. Cayce stared at a lion bust and the polished foyer table it sat on. She glanced around the room ticking items off her inventory list.

  “Sarah, I told you to leave me alone. It’s not my fault you didn’t take care of your own future.” A small man in a Nike T-shirt with a gray scruff of beard finally looked up from his phone. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were—”

  “I saw Sarah in the foyer. Why was she here?” The more he said before he realized who she was, the better.

  Arnold Barnett ran a hand through his thinning hair. “She’s upset about what happened to our boss. I can’t blame her. We worked together for over five years. We’re more than just co-workers.”

  “Are you lovers?” Nic leaned against the doorway, looking way more casual than Cayce knew he felt.

  “What? No! We were all friends.” He paused. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, but Sarah was in love with the boss. It was hard to watch, her being so head-over-heels and him, totally oblivious.”

  “So they weren’t a couple? It was all one-sided?” Cayce watched the man’s face for reactions.

  “Who knows? I don’t pry into people’s business.” He glanced back into the small living room. “Look, I’m job hunting, so unless you’re here to tell me I’m one of the ones you’re keeping on, I need to end this conversation.”

  “Glad you know who I am. It makes things faster.” Cayce leaned to the left, trying to see more of the apartment. The rumor mill had been working hard if she was already recognized as the new owner of Goldstein�
�s Antiques. “One question before I deliver the bad news. I’ve been going through the accounting. Can you tell me why you were being paid twice the salary that’s normal for your position?”

  A smile curved Arnold’s lips. “You are into the details, aren’t you?”

  When Cayce didn’t respond, Arnold shrugged. “What can I say, Matthew was generous to a fault. And I’m really, really good at what I do.”

  Exasperated, Cayce knew she wouldn’t get any more out of him. She needed to call Detective Charles and get her property back. She turned to Nic. “Let’s go. There’s nothing here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Arnold curled his fist.

  Nic stepped in between Cayce and Arnold. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

  Cayce could almost see the wheels moving in Arnold’s head before he dropped his arm and uncurled his fingers. He grabbed the door. “Just leave. There’s nothing more I want to say to you.”

  As they made their way out to the street, neither Cayce nor Nic spoke until they had turned the corner. “He’s hiding something,” Nic mumbled.

  “You mean beside the fact that several of my missing antiques are in his apartment?” Cayce paused a minute and grabbed her notebook. “Let me write down what I saw so I can check it against the inventory list.”

  Nic paced on the sidewalk, waiting for her to finish. “I don’t believe Sarah was just there to grieve. She’s part of this.”

  Cayce tucked the notebook back into her tote. “You think she killed Matthew? Or that Sarah and Arnold killed him?”

  “I think either one is a good bet. Of course, there’s no proof.” Nic sighed and leaned up against the wall with Cayce. “I’m not feeling good about this. I would really like you to come stay at the compound.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Cayce didn’t like the fact they were still having this argument.

  A voice interrupted their fight. “Check the video.”

  It was the homeless man standing by the corner, watching them. “Did you say something?”

  “Mr. Goldstein installed cameras. He knew there was something wrong with the store. He hired me to watch at night, but I didn’t see anything.” The man shook his head. “I must have fallen asleep. Stupid, stupid.”

  “There are cameras in the store?” Cayce took a step toward the guy, but he ran out into traffic.

  “Stupid me, stupid me,” he chanted. Car horns blared as he darted between two cars.

  Cayce stared after him. She started powerwalking toward the shop. “Let’s go find these cameras.”

  It took them a while to find the closet where Matthew Goldstein had set up a security system. Four monitors showed the main showroom, the outside, the back door, and Matthew’s office. Nic glanced at the system. “I don’t want to mess with this. Call your detective friend.”

  Later that day, Detective Charles sat in Cayce’s office. “He hit him with one of those statue things. While his back was turned. What a coward.”

  “While you were watching the videos, I matched the list of everything that was supposed to be in inventory that I saw in Barnett’s apartment.” She handed him the list. “Arnold Barnett didn’t just kill Matthew; he was stealing from him. All of these items should be at the shop.”

  “We’ll let you go through the apartment as soon as the crime scene guys get done with it. It might take a while for you to get everything back, but at least you’ll have a full list.” He nodded to the coffeepot. “Mind if I have a cup? I think it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Have a seat, I’ll get it. Black?” Cayce nodded to the other visitor chair.

  “Perfect. Besides the evidence you gathered, I got a call from the station a few minutes ago. Sarah Stiner came in and confessed to cooking the books. Arnold Barnett told her he was going to kill the old man, but she didn’t believe him. Until it happened.”

  “I don’t understand—why would she confess?” Cayce asked the detective as sipped his coffee.

  “She said Harry told her she had to if she wanted to sleep at night.” The detective sat down his cup as Nic and Cayce exchanged glances. “So, who’s Harry?”

  KEEPSAKES, by J.A. Chalkley

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as Lynn Weber hurried up the steps and across the portico to a set of massive double doors. Large white columns coupled with ivy-covered walls gave the mansion an air of Old South charm.

  Lynn half expected Scarlett O’Hara to throw open the doors and greet her with a glass of lemonade. She had no doubt that the brass lion-head door knockers staring down at her were worth more than her car. As tempting as they were, she reached to use the doorbell instead. Beyond the doors, bells chimed her arrival with a piece of classical music she vaguely remembered from a Saturday morning cartoon.

  Lightening flashed, causing the hair on her arms to tingle. She eased closer to the door, counting off the distance until thunder marked the storm’s approach. Two and a half, it was moving fast. Receiving no response to the doorbell, she reached for the ring hanging from one of the lion’s jaws. It moved out of her grasp as the door swung open.

  Before she stood, a small woman with dark eyes that glared out from hawkish features that seemed frozen in a scowl. Her floral perfume hit Lynn with enough force to take her breath away. “Miss Weber?”

  Definitely, not Scarlett. “Yes.” Lynn managed to choke out. “You must be, Ann Harper, Mrs. Anderson’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.” Lynn held out a hand. It was ignored.

  “You’re late.” Ann Harper stepped back holding the door open for her. The woman looked like a matron from an old forties prison movie, complete with a ring of keys jangling from the belt at her waist.

  “Sorry.” Certain any excuse would be rejected Lynn offered none. Once she was clear of the threshold, the heavy door closed with a sharp click. It sent a shudder down her spine.

  “Follow me. Please.” It was clear the please had been tacked on as an afterthought. Not waiting for an answer, Ann spun on the heels of her sensible shoes, and stalked away.

  Lynn hurried to catch up. They entered a dark, wood-paneled study. Paintings, framed newspaper articles, and accolades lined the walls. Overstuffed leather chairs and expensive rugs were scattered about. The room reeked of old money.

  “Wait here. Mrs. Anderson will be with you shortly.” She waited till Lynn had perched in the offered chair before disappearing through the door.

  Releasing a shaky breath, Lynn settled back in the leather chair, only to freeze as a loud noise that could be mistaken for something other than uncomfortable furniture squeaked in the quiet room. Heat flushed her cheeks at the sound.

  Her attention was drawn to a large oil painting hanging over the stone fireplace. Katherine Anderson stared back at her. Judging by her blond hair and smooth skin, Lynn guessed the woman to be in her mid-to-late twenties. She did a quick calculation—the painting had to be over fifty years old. There was nothing more recent in the room. A hint of a smile on the woman’s lips offset the portrait’s formality. It made her seem impish. Maybe it was one of the reasons she’d snagged three rich husbands over the last six decades. And managed to outlive them all.

  Lynn slipped a hand into her backpack, tracing fingertips over a manila envelope. For the hundredth time she wondered if she should have gone to the police first with her suspicions. And give up my chance to break the story? No. This is my baby, and nobody is going to steal it out from under me.

  Ignoring the chair’s protests, she pulled out her phone. With a quick check to assure she was alone, she snapped several photos of the room. They might come in handy for reference later—at least, that was the story she was sticking to.

  Portraits of old men in three-piece suits lined one wall. Three she recognized as Katherine’s deceased husbands. She had no idea who the others were.

  Outside the wind began to pick up, causing the shrubs to tap against the window glass. Lynn’s attention turned to the desk. Various trinkets and an expensive pen set made i
t look more like a store display than a working desk. She snapped another photo.

  Her gaze settled on a glass-dome display of a well-worn wristwatch. The leather band had seen better days, and the face bore small scratches. Lynn was no expert, but it looked vaguely military, maybe from the thirties or forties. Closer inspection revealed a Marine Corps emblem on the leather. There was something familiar about the watch. Whatever it was danced at the back of her mind, just out of reach. Beside the watch sat another display case, this one square and empty. There was no clue as to what it once held. She snapped pictures of both.

  Satisfied, she pulled up her story notes. After two years of intense research she knew the material by heart. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check them once more. A newspaper article popped up.

  Missing Sutherland Girl Found in Shallow Grave at Lake Chesdin.

  The bold headline took up most of the front page. Dated April 14, 1970, the story touched on brief details of the girl’s disappearance two years earlier. Nearly fifty years had passed, but Paige Louise Archer would forever be the seventeen-year-old girl, beaming an angelic smile at the yearbook photographer. Hiding behind that smile, Lynn knew Paige had been a little hellion who had done things that would have made a sailor blush. None of which justified her being beaten to death and abandoned in an unmarked grave.

  She paused at the sound of raised voices. Lightening brightened the room, followed a heartbeat later by thunder. By the time it had faded away, the voices were silent.

  I’m letting this place get to me.

  Lynn shook herself. Another swipe brought up a second article one dated May 10, 1971. Local Brothers Drown During Fishing Tournament. Beneath the headline was a grainy black and white photo of two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders, each holding a large trout.

  The caption below the photo read: Judge Robert Samuels (left) and Sheriff James Samuels, brothers celebrate after logging the largest catches for the first day of the Lake Chesdin 1971 Fishing Tournament. Both men sported well-developed beer guts, though Robert did a better job of hiding his. James looked like he’d pulled a weekend bender. There was a glassy eyed stare even the poor-quality photo couldn’t hide.